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!

EXISTENTIAL DREAD AND EVOLUTIONARY PSYCHOLOGY: MY NOT-SO-SECRET IDENTITIES

HIKING WAKAMOW VALLEY, SASKATCHEWAN

"All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts."

(WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE’S “As You Like It”)

Throughout my adult years I have auditioned for a potpourri of roles on the real-world stage. Toiling on pipelines, I tramped through Manitoba and Saskatchewan grasslands, Alberta foothills, British Columbia forests, and North West Territories tundra. Busking on street corners, I strummed my tunes and drew my pencil portraits in Canada, the Netherlands, Ireland, and Morocco. And betwixt these pipelines and busks, I was a swimming instructor, a high school English teacher, and a university psychology professor.

During my lifetime to date, the fates have been exceedingly kind. Nowadays I am a professional hypnotherapist, a ski instructor, and a writer. My hypnotherapy practice is thriving, I have been offered employment at my local ski hill, and my last book, QUEST FOR BLACK BEACH, has been nominated for the ARLENE BARLIN AWARD.

‘Tis now in the autumn of my life I have come to really realize that my time left to strut on the world stage is definitely finite. In anecdotal fashion, it seems I am attending age-old friends’ funerals much more frequent than in years past. Until now, I have been delusional, thinking I have had infinite time to accomplish anything and everything, with nary of thought on my exit stage left. Like the last of my vampire friends told me, “Without death, nothing is urgent.”

FACTOID: Whether I win the ARLENE BARLIN AWARD, my immediate plan is to be a full-time professional writer. To put into play, I need to write and write and write and write and write and write to make it work -- pun intended! As far back as high school I have dreamed to be a writer, but fear and common sense have kept my writing as a vocation rather than an occupation.

I shall explain. I live a blend of existentialism and evolutionary psychology. I have the free will to determine the course of my life (existentialism), and my sole purpose for being is to procreate and continue my species (evolutionary psychology). Exercising my free will, I have chosen a life of middle-class misadventure, surrendering to my innate urge to create more of me. I chose to have children I chose to provide for them a decidedly normative lifestyle. Instead of living the solitary life of a starving artist, I landed jobs as a high school English teacher and part-time university psychology professor. I chose not to write; I chose to teach. Such employment prompted me to keep in academia, significantly enhancing my socioeconomic status throughout my adulthood.

In furtherance thereof, my existential dread is still bringing out the best in me. Starting in my undergraduate university days, I had ofttimes dreamed about being a ski instructor. This past Christmastime I enrolled in a downhill ski instructor course, and now when I don my ski boots I do so as a certified ski instructor. Yes, my existential dread is still bringing out the best in me. Existential dread, in the autumn of my life, has sea-changed my winters.

Alas, my progenies have grown and gone which offers me considerable time to suffer existential dread. Even though I am 73 years old I am still working, moiling daily in my employs. Serving contracts for two provincial ministries, the Ministry of Education, and the Ministry of Corrections, my job is to vet 18-year-old high-risk young offenders, both socially and academically, as they are released from custody and returning to the community. (Each evening I am still at the helm of my private hypnotherapy practice.)

My work keeps death from knocking on my door. It has been well documented that more people die in their retirement years than in their work years. I am just betting on the odds that the longer I stave off retirement, the longer I stave off death.

Even though I am 73 years old, five days a week I am still recreationally sweating in two different gyms, one for weight training, one for martial arts. With regard to my weight training, I am a staunch proponent of the overload system; with regard to my martial arts training, I am a staunch proponent of Muay Thai.

Going to the gym helps me to stay hale and hardy. Going to the gym allows me to continue hiking and diving and busking and skiing. And, maybe even more important, I know I go to the gym to look good!

Hmmm. At 73 years of age, I am still innately manifesting evolutionary psychology. As stated previously, according to evolutionary psychology, my only purpose for being is to propagate and continue the species. To attract a partner to propagate, it helps to look good!

And there you have it, my not-so-secret identity of all work and all play. I go to work to stay alive; I go to the gym to look good. For certain am at once, an aficionado for my work and my play, and thaumaturgy, performing for an audience of me, myself, and I.

EXISTENTIALISM and EVOLUTIONARY PSYCHOLOGY. 

Life could be a dream ... sh-boom ... but the burden of accountability to oneself can be a bitch .. sh-boom sh-boom! 

TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER (the skinny of Zen).  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

SCRIBBLES

SCRIBBLES

MORE SCRIBBLES

A client of mine, who has schizophrenia, handed me, unsolicited, his latest “scribbles.” Yikes. He had drawn these during his episodic drink-and-weed consumption a couple evenings ago. Yikes again. According to my client, these sketches offered up rich symbolism and insight, directed from his “super brain.”

Hmm. As I look at these, I see a creative quality akin to kindergarten art. And to be analytical, in the first drawing I see a checkmark, and a question mark, and a number sign within a light circle of dots. In the second drawing, top left to right, I see, simply, a percentage sign, a filled dot, a plus sign, and some arrows. Middle left to right I see a filled dot, more arrows suspended in a rectangle, and yet another filled dot. From the bottom left to right I see a circle with a plus sign and a scribbled treble clef, and another filled dot. Yes. I see Kindergarten art.  

But my client said he sees his scribbles as significant and meaningful. When I asked him for his interpretations, he said that in the first set of sketches he drew a checkmark, a question mark, and a number sign within a light circle of dots. His interpretation seemed no different than mine. As for his second set of drawings, he confirmed that he drew a percentage sign, a few dots and filled them in, some arrows, and last, a treble clef. Strangely, or maybe not-so-strangely, his interpretation of these drawings seemed no different than mine.

Save for the arrows. He went on and on and on about those arrows, and how he has perfected them. He stated that he draws these oftentimes in his free time, and I know he has plenty of that! His only obligation for the day is his self-mand, to every day at 1:30 walk downtown to the local gym and lift weights for approximately one hour. He has had this routine for close to a decade, and he looks the part. My client has a ripped and shredded body and he is as strong as an ox. My client has been lifting weights daily for over 20 years. My client has followed his exact self-manded regimen for over 20 years.  

Regarding his scribbles, I figured there would be bits of insight revealed by my client in this kind of projective psychology conclave. Being a psych guy, I could have contributed some pseudo- scholastic wit in my interpretations of his sketches. I could have projected some intellectual efflorescence, interpreting the checkmark as the point of his unconscious desire to create a checklist and check items off his to-do list accordingly. I could have easily interpreted his question mark as representing his inquisitive nature, his enquiring mind ever seeking universal truths regarding the universe and his station therein the universe accordingly. And the number sign I could have easily offered that he really knows life is but a game of Xs and Os, and this number sign replicates the grid for the game. The circle of dots is a simple one, representing the never-ending circle of life.  The percentage sign is a reckoning of the odds of being, and the treble clef most certainly symbolizes his eclectic love of any type of music.  I could've rescripted his art, but nope I did not. Nothing to see here, folks – was all there really was for me, and that’s okay by me.

SNOW SCRIBBLES (COURTESY OF "ALAMY") 

Scribbles. Truth be that I like to scribble too.  I like to scribble in the snow with my skis on the slopes. In any serious nonversation (talking to myself vs conversation of talking to someone), my scribbles project nothing.  They are neither symbolic nor insightful. My snow scribbles project only that I LOVE SKIING. Nothing to see here, folks -- save that I am a humble-bragging ski instructor.

SADLY, THIS SKI SEASON FOR ME IS FINIS.

Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week:

THE FELINE OF A FRIEND

Here is my last MISSION for the season (pun intended) - Another ski picture, of course!

LIFTIE PROJECTIONS AT MISSION RIDGE SKI RESORT -- SEE THE SNOW SCULPTURES!

FACTOID: My client's scribbles came on the same day as my last day on the slopes -- the very day Mission Ridge Ski Resort closed for the season. Call it what you will -- I call such coincidences, PHENOMENOLOGY, the psychology of being able to make sense of coincidence! 

My client's scribbles were the nidus I needed to write yet another entry about downhill skiing. And to put scribbles and such into perspective ...

SKIING FIXES EVERYTHING!