PSYCHOLOGY BUSKING a la wordswords: 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.