ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END

 

ON PUMPKIN WAY, WASCANA CENTRE

Hallowe’en is over and so is my busking. I am not a brutto-tempo busker. When those Canadian winds blow cold, my guitar busking is fini until springtime.

Sad? Yes and no.

“All good things must come to an end” (Geoffrey Chaucer, 1374). Like reading the last page of a good book, or like watching the very last episode in a popular television series, good things do end. This I know from personal experience.

In my efflorescence, my academic youth, I was a member of the Time-Life Book Club. Each month a little-known work by a great author, or a great work by a little-known author, arrived in my mailbox. This was the norm for a few years until one day the books just quitting coming. Was I a delinquent account? Nope. Was there a mailing glitch? Nope. Factoid: I had completed the series. Time-Life had run out of books (for me). I had run and read the course. I was stunned.

My wife and I had a weekly ritual of watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show. We did this for years. And then one week, it was gone. The Mary Tyler Moore Show was fini, and we were stunned.

Personally, these examples are cheesy. On a universal scale, too, all good things must come to an end. Things such as relationships in love and life stages come to an end.

All relationships from puppy love ‘til death do us part end. Love is a powerful emotion, and when it ends, figuratively and literally, it is heart breaking. And what becomes of the broken hearted? All the people I know who have had broken hearts move on to break other hearts. Alas, my puppy-love heart ached when it was sayonara to Saffron, sayonara to Fronteen, sayonara to Maria, sayonara to Suzanne et al et al et al. And these are just puppy loves, but even the most loving and endearing and relationships end. All of us succumb, and this includes lifelong lovers. Sad but true, but such is life (and death).   

I wish I had a time machine. There are days when I pine for when my kids were little. I remember being a much younger parent, traipsing about with my kids in outdoor minus 30-degree weather, trudging through the snowbanks helping them to deliver their flyers. I remember the walking along the beaches in plus 30-degree summertime weather, just beachcombing and looking for shells. I remember our endless summers together. And then it ended.

MY TIME MACHINE WOULD TAKE ME BACK TO MOMENTS SUCH AS THIS!

My kids are now grown and gone. My two oldest live in British Columbia. My third oldest lives in my city, Regina. And my youngest lives in Asia. Still we gather in summer, though not nearly as for long as those days gone by. I feel lucky to get just a week together to hike, and even luckier, too, to get together for a couple days of beachcombing.

Naturally, at my age existential dread is commonplace. Now, in the winter of my life, I am very aware that I’ve more years behind me than in front, and I worry about that. But my existential dread goes beyond that of egoism. Murmuring, sotto voce, I worry about my adult children. I worry, I worry, I worry. I worry about their relationships. I worry about their physical health. And I even worry about their financial health.

To live is to suffer is the skinny of Zen. Zen suffering means that every moment that one is breathing is an opportunity to suffer, to fret or to worry about something. Suffering ends only upon death.

To specifically suffer over my children is the product of evolutionary psychology, that goes along with loving my children. Evolutionary psychology, our creative design, is oblique. Evolutionary psychology dictates that our only reason for being, is to procreate and continue the species. Suffering over children is an evolutionary safeguard to help keep them safe, so that they, too, can procreate and continue the species.

Yes, my existential dread becomes more conspicuous as I age. Hmmm. Though this does not feel like a good thing for me, I suppose it ought to be catalogued as a good thing for my offspring. Like all things related, this dread will end when I end.

Yes. All good things come to an end. But all good things need a beginning. Hallowe’en is over; my summer busking is over. But my wintertime passion, downhill skiing, will begin (again)!

COME CHRISTMASTIME!

 

 

 

 

THE CRAZIES: AND NOT JUST ON HALLOWE'EN!

 

DANCING BOB

Walking to work on the north shore of Wascana Lake this morning, for ten or so minutes I was in lockstep alongside this huffing heavyweight adult woman who was puffing a lit cigarette held in her right hand, whilst guzzling a Big Gulp held in her left.

“Really?!” I thought to myself. But is it any of my business that she smokes? Only if I am puffing second-hand smoke, I suppose, but this was not the case. We were outdoors in the wind. And who am I to be commenting on that giant 300 calorie fountain drink she was quaffing? Just because I never indulge, does not mean Big Gulps are not good (for her).

Wascana Lake is the spectacular heartbeat of my city, Regina, in Saskatchewan, Canada. Factoid: I am a thrice-daily consumer of the paved path surrounding the lake, which is also shared by cyclists, runners, skateboarders, and even dancers. In summertime I run ‘round the lake on the path in the morning, I cycle ‘round the lake on the path over the noon hour, and I walk ‘round the lake on the path every evening. My point in this essay will not be how much exercise I get on that path, but rather, how many familiar strangers I meet and judge on these exploits. And I shall write how they physically appear, and what I imagine them to be thinking. Pathetic huh (pun intended)!

Could it be that my inductive slice-of-life thumbnail sketches represent anything substantial? Or will they just simply project some of my shallow biases? With the latter notion being the more likely, I shall even attach subjectively corny nicknames to add to such superficiality! Notez bien, dear readers, that all the undermentioned peoples acknowledged in this essay are real, and any likeness to any of them is by design, and not by coincidence.

Practically every occasion I am at the lake, a Paul Bunyan look-a-like rides by on his ten-speed. I am thinking he must ride this circuit a hundred times a day. He is a giant of a man, riding full-out on his Tour de Wascana, donning ‘neath his flashy helmet and over-size goggles, a colorful garb of a cycle jersey, bib, shorts, long socks, and clip-in shoes. Bunyan’s riding costume girdles and yet at the same time draws direct attention to his broad bulge bursting through his tight-fitting attire. What I see is a blur of obesity swooshing by on his skinny ten-speed, frantically pedaling in a hope to lose a very large number of belly pounds.  

And there is Eric Von Zipper, of ‘60s beach party movies fame, on his green electric bike. Eric has that hog-rider look, a Nazi helmet on his noggin, while donning a black leather biker jacket, cut-off blue jeans, and leather work boots. Von Zipper, having always a lit cigarette hanging on his lower lip, hence the nickname, is quite the auditory spectacle as he glides around in the country music blast emitting from a boombox attached to the back fender of his bike. Whenever I see Eric Von Zipper, I imagine him to be a delusional Easy Rider cosplay. By his dress and demeanor, I do believe that Von Zipper cannot afford a Harley, but despite this economic deficiency, fancies himself to be this hell-on-wheels, electrifying badass.

The Dingalings on their fat bikes are frequent riders of the park. With their matching bicycles and matching costumes, prompt me to believe they are a married couple. But coupled or not, this middle-aged hard-to-like duo is truly a couple of dingle-bells, literally. They ring their bicycle bells continually when they are pedaling behind pedestrians strolling along the path. Rather than ride around people, they ding-a-ling-a-ling until those in front step off the path to let them pass. Decked out in their gaudy garments, these Dingalings treadle about with unbound entitlement.   

Immortan Joe, the inline skater, is straight out of a Mad Max movie! Cap-a-pie, he sports a Mohawk hairdo, shirtless with a tattooed upper torso, and wears only bikini briefs. In zig-zag fashion, he towers over everyone on the path. This skeletal Immortan Joe is well over six feet tall, and on his roller blades, he is close to seven feet. Immortan Joe never slows down. Every time he passes by is like a brush with death. When I see Immortan Joe I see an exhibitionist plying and crying for attention.

Most everyone in Regina is familiar with Dancing Bob, who is pictured atop this blog entry. A celebrity in his own right, Dancing Bob has run (and lost) for Mayor in the civic election four years ago and is running again for the mayors this year. (Dancing Bob’s main platform was that Wi-Fi was the product of an international deep-state collusion of distress created to profit pharmaceuticals everywhere on the planet.) Wherever there is a crowd, there will be Dancing Bob. Bob and his entourage of conspiracy-theory rounders are a summer evening constant, an ever entertainment party, grooving and jiving and banging to the many passers-by. But belie the clamorous beats of canned music is Dancing Bob’s group-think propaganda of fake news, solar geoengineering, weather modification, poison jabs, chemtrails, and a host of other conspiracy theories.

And then we have Karaoke Elvis, my last character to mock. Every evening Karaoke Elvis parks his creamy Chrysler 300 at Legislative Landing, right in front of the Queen’s Gardens, at Wascana Lake. Seemingly to match his creamy colored Chrysler, Elvis wears a puffy cream shirt, bell-bottomed cream pants, and cream-colored cowboy boots. On his head he wraps a cream-colored bandana, and atop that, a cream-color cowboy hat. Karaoke Elvis attempts to emulate the real king of rock and roll via his megaphone broadcast, complete with curbside vocals and Elvis the Pelvis dance routines. As extroverted as this seems, Karaoke Elvis talks to no one. In fact, whenever people do approach him, as they often do, Karaoke Elvis clams up, jumps into his creamy Chrysler, and rolls up the windows until they go away. I believe Elvis to be truly disturbed egomaniac.     

“Comparison is the thief of joy” (Teddy Roosevelt). But not in my case. When I compare myself to those I caricaturize, rather than to those I commend, I do experience some personal joy, if even for a nanosecond. Yikes! Which mental disorder am I suffering?! (I cannot find this malady in my DSM.)

In this concatenation of “crazies,” I have besmirched regular consumers of my favorite lake. This is so uncool, and yet I could not help myself. To express some remorse, I feel compelled to offer this retraction: These crazies I have chronicled are not peerless.

IN THE WIND AND THE SUN ON THAT WASCANA PATH, I AM ONE OF THEM!

Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE today is my all-time favorite neighbor’s daughter and her doggo.

After my martial arts class last night, I took a couple of pictures in the same neighborhood where my gym is located (ASCENDANT MARTIAL ARTS).

HAPPY HALLOWE'EN, FELLOW CRAZIES!

  

 

TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER -- SO LET'S MAKE IT LAST!

 

HIKING BUFFALO POUND, SASKATCHEWAN

TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER, begat in the 5^th Century BC teachings of an Indian religious teacher, Siddhartha Gautama. TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER was reiterated by the English playwright, William Shakespeare, who wrote, “Count no mortal fortunate till he has departed from this life free from pain.” TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER surfaced yet again in the “1800s” with German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, who wrote that “All life is suffering,” and with another 1800s German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, who wrote verbatim, “To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.”

TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER is the skinny of Zen. If we are breathing, we are to some degree, suffering. From the time of our birthdates, the very essentials of our existence are fraught with sorrows from disease and despair, old age, and death.

Yes, indeed. The nature of human beings is finite and always on the way to death, and yet we labor endlessly to make our lives last as long we can! Why is this so?!

I am guessing we are never quite ready to die, or at least, not ready to die ugly. The anti-aging market has consumers collectively spending trillions each year on facial products and skincare, but staying young is much more than simply buying sunscreen. Big dollar spending also includes the anti-aging regimens in the physical and mental exercise markets.

And yes. I am one of those consumers.

Nowadays, for little old and delusional me, to stay young and look good demands a personal accountability in all things physical, mental, and even metaphysical.

Moonlighting as a vampire has become my official vocation. For years I have taken my physical and mental health seriously, but as of late, I am taking my heart and mind very seriously too. Is it because I have achieved septuagenarian status, making sense of my existential dread sufferings? Maybe. Or maybe I have finally bumped my head to the realization that my personal health, is beneficial, not only to myself, but also to those others who feel they are close to me. Whatever the reason, I know my being here counts, and I do not want to suffer the rest of my days counting my days.

But moonlighting as a vampire takes it toll (pun intended) with considerable effort. Daily, I continually and vigorously attempt to do the right things in almost every regard to stay among the living.

For my physical health I am a man for all seasons. In summertime I spend considerable days guitar busking and free-diving or swimming. In autumn I spend the weekends hiking and the weekdays playing disc-golf. Ski, ski, ski is my wintertime mantra, and in springtime I hit the gym hard in anticipation for my beach body summer.

CANADIAN PRAIRIE AUTUMN 

To enhance my mental and metaphysical health, I am a four-season inkhorn. This blog and my latest novel are always on my mind and my thoughts accordingly are extended through my writings. Because I am an avid libertine reader of anything philosophic and Zen-to-go, it is precisely from these readings that I am prompted to offer these precis: TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER and NIETZSCHE IS PIETZSCHE, BUT SARTRE IS SMARTRE.  

All these behaviors that I exercise (pun intended again) are internally agonistic. Attempts to extend my life strongly suggests that I AM AFRAID TO DIE. And yet in the meanwhile, ironically, I am ever ready to pack up and hike or play anywhere at anytime, suggesting that I AM NOT AFRAID TO LIVE! 'Tis quite the demarcation, I know!

Yep. To live is to suffer, and I WANT TO LIVE AND SUFFER FOREVER.

VAMPIRES

And, as for appearances and for the record, I would rather moonlight as vampire than as a zombie!

Hmmm.

ZOMBIE WALK IN WASCANA PARK

 

 

CURE-AS-FOLK

PLAYING AT THE CURE

My snappy title, CURE-AS-FOLK, shamelessly mimics, the title, QUEER AS FOLK, an American television series (2000-2005). QUEER AS FOLK, the television series, celebrated the lives and passions of a group of gay friends. CURE-AS-FOLK, my brand title for gathering a group of guitar-slingers on THE CURE stage, serves as a fundraiser for those victims of disasters that have reached international attention. (THE CURE is the coolest and most inclusive bar in downtown Regina!)

To date I have organized CURE-AS-FOLK fundraisers for the war victims in UKRAINE resulting from the Russian invasion, for the flood victims in PAKISTAN, for those victims of the earthquakes in SYRIA and TURKEY, and now the PALESTINE war victims in GAZA.

Every CURE-AS-FOLK fundraiser follows my signature modus operandi.

First, I garner a gig-date from THE CURE KITCHEN + BAR, in downtown Regina. As soon as the date is confirmed, I begin my recruitment of ten or so other FOLKSTERS, who also write and perform their original folk songs. For each of these gigs I set upon the stage two tall barstools (two performers hit the stage at the same time, then take turns singing their original songs, copying an Elvis Costello television show format), two direct inputs (each performer must have an acoustic guitar with a pickup), two microphones on microphone stands (one for each performer). 

In Andy Warhol fashion, each performer has an opportunity for close to fifteen minutes of fame, under which time to enter the stage, sing four three-minute original songs, then exit the stage

Gig time, I worship the clock. I cannot control the clock, but I can control every performer’s time on the stage. Because I am over fastidious in this regard (my clock control), every guitar-slinger that I recruit must agree to all of my authoritarian commands before accepting my gig invitation:

• MUST HAVE GUITAR TUNED BEFORE HITTING THE STAGE. Nobody is paying to watch someone tune a guitar.
• MUST NOT PUMP UP THE CROWD. For example, “Are you ready to rock, Regina?!”
• MUST NOT PUMP UP YOURSELF. For example, “You can catch more of me on my livestream … blah blah.”
• MUST NOT MENTION ANOTHER VENUE. It is uncool to be advertising for other venues – the stage you are on is the only one that counts.
• MUST SING ONLY ORIGINAL SONGS. Original songs are, precisely, my raison d’etre for such gigs. It beseems my CURE-AS-FOLK brand, to offer quality originals, rather than commonplace covers.  
• WHEN I GIVE THE TIME-OUT HAND SIGNAL, IT IS TIME TO EXIT THE STAGE. Finish the song and be gone.

NOTE: This particular format has certainly evolved and has proven positively effective for me these past 16 years. I know this to be true simply because I keep getting more offers for more of these gigs.

Factoid: Any performer who chooses not to comply with any of these above-mentioned edicts during their performance on stage, will be expunged from joining any future gig tickets of mine. Hmmm. So far over the years and performing alongside a hundred gig-mates, I have expunged only six. And of those six, four were for cause and two for getting drunk and unruly both on and off the stage.

Up until this last gig, our take has always been $300.00, give or take a fin or two. This last CURE-AS-FOLK fundraiser for PALESTINIANS IN GAZA, brought in close to $600, pretty much double that in past fundraisers.

AS PUBLISHED ON INSTAGRAM AND FACEBOOK AND IN THE CURE WINDOW

Factoid: Be it a three hundred dollar take, or a six hundred dollar take, it is but a dram in the bucket. But in the terms of our saving-the-world perspective, NO DRAM OF KINDNESS, HOWEVER SMALL, IS EVER WASTED (AESOP modified).

THE CURE OWNERS: L-R KELLY, JAKE, MORGAN, JOSH

Meanwhile, back in the BUSKERHOOD, I have had several people and even a couple of books march in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week:

BARON AND SELF BUSKING AT THE QUEEN CITY MARATHON

AND HERE COME THE RUNNERS!

A MURAL BEING CREATED RIGHT BEHIND OUR BUSKSPOT

MURAL ARTISTS, ANDREW AND MIKE

Andrew (Robertson) is a contemporary and famous Canadian oil painter and muralist. With him in this picture, was his acolyte, Mike.

THINK. Yikes. How could I not read a book with such a title, especially when catalogued in the Philosophy section of the bookstore😊

ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE, published in 1974, has become an American classic. I read it in 1974 and have read it several times since. I used to be a motorcycle guy, riding a Suzuki 80 cc Sport when I was fifteen, and later a 1974 CB750 Honda when I was in my ‘20s. This is my favorite book ever. Read it and you will know why!

 

 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER: A PHOTO ESSAY

WASCANA POOL LAPS

 People are always asking me, “So, Neil, are you thinking of retirement anytime soon?”

Factoid: The stats show that significantly more people die during their retirement years than during their years as a working stiff (pun intended)! Immortally armed with this awareness, I have decided that if I never retire, I might never die, or at the very least, delay my dying.

And so, to answer the retirement question, I shall continue with my well-rehearsed broken-record response:

“I WILL CELEBRATE MY RETIREMENT AT MY CELEBRATION OF LIFE!”

Enough existential dread. For my blog entry today, I shall reproduce and sketch my so-far endless SUMMER of 2024!

DIVING WITH BARON AT ELKWATER LAKE, ALBERTA

SWIMMING WITH FAMILY AT OKANAGAN LAKE, BRITISH COLUMBIA

HIKING AT PASQUA LAKE, SASKATCHEWAN

HIKING THE ROCKIES

And busking this summer, marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE, I have met lots of characters (with my NEW FOUND GUITAR)!

MY ALLEY GUITAR

My neighbor found this guitar in the alley behind our downtown high-rise. It was thick with acrylic paint and mud. I scraped off the paint (hence the unusual design from the stains), attached new strings, and voila! This acoustic Yamaha is now my busking guitar! 

ACCORDION BUSKER, JOHN, JUST HAD TO STRUM MY GUITAR
DURING THE CHANGING OF THE GUARD!

OFTENTIMES GIG-MATE, DEVON, AND DAUGHTER, IRIS

FORMER COLLEAGUE, BRIAN, AND SON

FORMER GIG-MATES, JAY AND BOND

MEETING NEW FRIENDS WHILE BUSKING

EVERYONE LOVES MY NEW FOUND GUITAR!

MY FRIEND, AMAR

Also this summer, I just had to get the lead out!

ANGELS FROM TORONTO!

MAY 31ST: STILL STANDIN' TALL!

SELF-PORTRAIT

Birthdays are ubiquitous, and this Friday, May 31^st will mark just another narcissistic excuse to surround myself with family and maybe a couple of close friends to celebrate my birthday. But at long last, I finally know not to celebrate too loud, because the attention is undeserved. Being on public display when I have accomplished something is fun -- garnering attention just because 73 years ago this last day in May I was born to die, is certainly not worthy of public applause!

May 31^st marks the beginning of my life on Earth. Expressing this, I do not mean to exclude any humanoids having past lives elsewhere, or any Martians or other extra-terrestrials who happen to be reading this blog entry! (Everyone, please note that for literary style and clarity, I shall consider “birthday” and “birthday celebration” to be synonymous whenever mentioned in this essay.)

May 31^st is an acknowledgement that I am still hale and hardy and still standing! Factoid: A significant number of my peers, with whom I have been very close over the years, are not doing so hot. Fortunately, I am still weightlifting and long-distance running and hiking and downhill skiing and practicing martial arts.

May 31^st seems a fitting time for reflection (regarding my self-improvement) and introspection (regarding my self-understanding).

Reflection: I have certainly cavernous space in my behavior for self-improvement, though just maintaining my personal status quo seems a constant struggle. Even so, if given the opportunity for a life rescript, I would probably pass. Currently, I am clinging to the notion that “It’s never too late to be what you might have been” (George Elliot).  Birthdays beget change, and I’ve still lots of time to become what I might have been – a WRITER!

Introspection: Each year brings more philosophical insight about my being, and my being here is certainly no fault of my own. Birthdays beget change, but for me at my age, birthdays also beget existential dread. YES, I am delighted to exist, but NO, I do not know where I am from, nor where I am going.

Factoid: Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this coming Friday are a few of my birthday bros who, too, had no say in the matter. Another factoid: All these men on parade know of one another, but nary a one knows of me. The only time I will ever appear alongside any of these guys, is when I am the author!

This Friday, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to CLINT EASTWOOD 93 years old, 6’4”. Loved you as Rowdy in RAWHIDE but BRONCO BILLY is still my favorite Clint movie.

 

This Friday, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to JOE NAMATH, 80 years old, 6’2”.

BROADWAY JOE! You and your white cleats!

This Friday, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to TOM BERENGER 74 years old, 5’11”.

Thomas Beckett was is the toughest character in any movie I have seen. He was great in EDDY AND THE CRUISERS, but in that SNIPER movie?! Wow!

This Friday, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to COLIN FARRELL, 47 years old, 5’10”.

John Sugar is the most baronial and coolest private eye since Efrem Zimbalist Jr. in 77 Sunset Strip. I must retract: John Sugar was the coolest, until he turned out to be an alien! Ouch!

YES. I know these birthday bros I have listed are perceived tough guys. Yes. I know their lives and my life are incommensurable. Yes. I know that bracketing these men with me in my blog entry today and comparing our physical statures was rather madcap.

But coming this Friday, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO INSECURE ME, 73 years old, 6’1”.

Seventy-three years ago this last day in May, I was born to die. Not as of late, have I decided to become immortal. So far so good!

MADCAP INDEED!

 

ESSENTIALS FOR THE QUINTESSENTIAL GUITAR BUSKER

 

SUMMERTIME BUSKING THUNDER BAY, ONTARIO

‘Tis summertime and my prime season for guitar busking. And for any other wannabe street minstrel, if your mission this summer is to be a solitary busker strumming guitar on street corners, then keep reading!

WINTERTIME BUSKING AT VALUE VILLAGE, REGINA SK

Busking is an art; busking is a science. The art of busking demands theater and stagecraft; the science of busking demands space and efficiency. To accommodate both the art and science of busking, based upon my personal empirical evidence, I shall comment on the essential elements for you to become the quintessential guitar busker.    

• YOUR PROFICIENCY

Your proficiency with your up-and-down guitar strums is in direct alignment to your self-confidence. The higher the proficiency, the higher the confidence. And the higher the confidence, the better the busker.

To be a successful busker, you need a fingering mastery of musicianship. You must be perceived as being able to play your guitar with a high degree of efficiency to be recognized as a quintessential busker. You must be able to strum with facile. Whether you are thrumming cowboy chords or fingerpicking complicated frailings, you must learn to play with proficiency, at least all the songs you have chosen for your playlist.

Factoid: Faux buskers with neither the vocal chops nor the finger savvies are just beggars with guitars. Allow me right now to decry those tyros who blemish and blot and stigmatize the real guitar buskers!

• YOUR PLAYLIST

Your playlist. For what it is worth, I play only original songs. And I play only original songs for good reasons. First, nobody can compare my songs to any other songs. Nobody can criticize my covers because my songs are never cover songs. My second reason for delivering only originals is that I can busk it and improvise, strumming off-the-cuff at random and anytime I want during any of my songs. I can do this because who is going to know? Nobody knows my songs but me.

Regarding the number of songs on your playlist, twenty is suffice. Once you are through thrumming your twenty songs, it is time to move on to another buskspot, and begin again. I like changing buskspots every hour. In municipalities where busking is regulated, there is usually a two-hour maximum stay at any station. Where busking is not regulated, you will cross paths with those beggars with guitars, who will literally keep the same spot all day long, or until the vendor shoos them away. (They will certainly not vacate upon a fellow busker’s request.)

Factoid: Your playlist ought to be out of sight and in your mind, not on a music stand. Keep it short, yet stretchable. Keep it cheery. Keep it whippy.

• YOUR APPAREL

You garb is important for guitar busking. Unless you are a virtuoso on your instrument, it is probably not good if people are staring at what you are wearing. Glam threads are typically reserved for the other types of buskers, jugglers, and mime artists et al.

Cap-a-pie, my signature go-to is a long-sleeved, crisp white shirt with a collar, faded blue jeans, and either work boots or sandals. Rarely do I wear a hat, and ofttimes I don sunglasses. The long-sleeved shirts and blue jeans and sunglasses are strictly for my sun protection. In years of yore, I was a swimming instructor at outdoor pools for a couple decades, which no doubt contributed to my developing skin cancer (basal cell carcinoma) in my later years. I am cancer free now, but I mainly strum in the shadows whenever I am guitar busking.

STILL LOVIN' OUTDOOR POOLS

Factoid: Dress matters. Comfort trumps costume when guitar busking. Busking, I dress as a ‘60s Bobby Dylan wannabe.

ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER BUSK

• YOUR BUSKSPOT

Proficiency and garb are of no concern if you have no customers. When busking, location is everything. Busking is best when you secure a space packed with consumer traffic. Anywhere on a busy sidewalk, somewhere near a mall entry, any spot in a public park; these are the places I choose to go busking.

BUSKING THE CATHEDRAL ARTS FESTIVAL CIRCA 2012

In my home city, I busk mainly at two venues, the Value Village Mall, or the Shoppers Drug Mart situated just two blocks from my residence. Sometimes I strum at the local farmer’s market, but there I am charged a ten-dollar busking fee.

SELF AND AMANDA AT THE FARMER'S MARKET CIRCA 2016

When I am outside my home city, I usually pick the most popular public square for my buskspot. The Temple Bar in Dublin, the Dam in Amsterdam, and the Jemma el-Finaa in Marrakech are some of the places of where passers-by have tossed money into my empty guitar case.

Factoid: Location, location, location! The more pedestrian traffic, the more coin in your case! Setting up where you have a captive audience, for example movie theatre line-ups or outdoor bar patios are just plain intrusive. Being intrusive is bush-league and boorish!

                                                BUSKING IN DUBLIN (THE TEMPLE BAR) 2014

BUSKING IN AMSTERDAM (THE DAM) 2014 

                                                           

BUSKING IN MARRAKECH (JEMAA EL-FNAA) 2017

• YOUR SETUP

Clean and crisp is my motto. I do remember ponderous days, lugging my gear up and down the blocks, buskspot to buskspot. As a neophyte, in my setup I would have song sheets pinned to my music stands. My busking cheat sheets were not the answer, for they were forever blowin’ in the wind back in those days. These days I slip to and fro in stealth fashion. I pack only myself and my guitar and my harp (I do not own a dirty red bandana). Some days I have my PSYCHOLOGYBUSKING A LA WORDSWORDS cardboard sign as a sort of shibboleth in my guitar case, even though to date after hundreds of busks, only one person has ever inquired about its meaning.

Force of habit, I always set my guitar case down on the sidewalk, adjacent to my right-hand side. I do not really know why, except that is the overall look that I like to present. My consumers are simply those people just passing by, with nary a stop even when they toss their coins into my guitar case. My guitar case is always directly in my vision. This is my strategy to deter coin and bill thieves. So far so good.

Factoid: I personally know a busker who left his guitar, never mind his guitar case, unattended while he dipped into the Value Village Mall to buy a soft drink. On his return, all was gone. I have had people, mostly panners, stand and stare into my guitar case. When this happens, I offer them some coins for their coffee, for which they usually take and retreat. However, if they stay put, then I retreat. Every stranger is a wild card. My many years of martial arts training have taught me one thing for certain: A fight over some coin in a guitar case is never worth the cost of losing an eye or (yikes) my life!

• YOUR BEHAVIOUR

I am a martinet regarding behavior. Keep in mind that everybody near is a potential consumer. Give every passer-by a short glance and a smile. For serious kick-back you must be in kick back mode. Be serious about your craft but do ply your craft without seeming officious. Unsmiling buskers offer no joy to the world. No trifling here. Customer etiquette is everything. And when someone contributes to your cause, be sure to state clearly, a sincere THANK YOU.

Factoid: If you adhere to some of my sophic and manic busking suggestions, then you are on the road to become the quintessential busker you are longing to be. On that road that I love in my alterity, I often refer to myself as the planetary busker -- and in this blog entry I have posted some pics to prove my creds for being so.  

And to close, from a psychology perspective, ALL the above-mentioned essentials are bracketed as behaviors, and so remember ...

Busking is a privilege, so behave accordingly!