'Lo and Behold: An Essay on Curb Appeal

Any buskologist worth his salt ‘n pepper hair will tell you that Curb Appeal equals Sex Appeal, and that, as Sophia Loren said, is 50% what you’ve got and 50% what people think you’ve got. If indeed, this is the case, then one ought to be cognizant of showing potential consumers what we’ve got. And then of course having those potential consumers imagine what else we’ve got.

Think about this. On each of our buskingdoms, generally, the first thing people notice is audible, the strums of our instrument, be it a banjitar, a guitar, mandolin or whatever. The second thing, people notice is our physical frock, be it formal, informal, a suit, a jacket, a t-shirt. Based upon these two things, sound and attire, potential buyers passing by will make a split decision whether or not to contribute to our wares. Practice, practice, practice makes for perfect instrumentation, but one needs no practice for perfect dress.

Our apparel must be appealing to attract customers. To determine what we wear means simply to decide what image we want to project. If we want to attract children, we ought to be campy, sing children’s songs and dress in outlandish fashion, donning our clown and duck costumes. If we want to attract an older customer, we need to button-down, sing covers, dress crisply, and behave conservatively.

Of course, the best image a busker can project is the one with which the busker is most comfortable. For me, my alter ego busking persona is not too distant from my regular other self. In the non-busking segments of my life I tend to wear black long-sleeved collared gothic western shirts (purchased from Madame Yes), blue jeans, and shiny polished work boots, while my busking self is frocked with white long-sleeved collared designer shirts (purchased from Colin O'Brian Man's Shoppe), blue jeans, and shiny polished work boots.

Lately I’ve just decided to change my busking costume to accommodate the cold. (After all, there is no bad weather; there is only bad dress.) I’ve been wearing a thick grey tam, a knee length black split leather coat, lined blue jeans, and warm boots. Attempting to keep my fingers warm for frailing, I’ve cut out with scissors, the fingers and thumbs of some ordinary red cotton gloves. I can only describe this Autumn attired look as a 60’s British invader who is forever asking with outstretched strums, Please, sir, I want some more. I’ve been on a half dozen outings dressed in this garb and so far it has proved buskworthy.

I am told that my summer busking attire projects the image of a seasoned folk singer, one who is breezy but articulate, someone who enjoys freedom rather than a fancy office, someone who has decided upon a life of simplicity instead of one that is corporate and complicated. I suppose that I could be considered to those passersby as the main protagonist in the literary Bildungstroman tradition. (None of this is necessarily true, but nonetheless such projected charisma has proved prosperous for me.)

I am thinking what Sophia Loren was describing in her famous 50% what you’ve got and 50% what people think you’ve got is being labeled lately as Erotic Capital (see Sociologist, Catherine Hakim). Others would refer to this projected adventure as being honey money. We buskers, rather than stroll down that projected that sexy lane of seduction and solicitation, ought to assay our alter egos as projections of our Psychological Capital. To me, capital that is psychological sounds not as tawdry, and connotes not as much sleaze as that referred to as erotic.

Those marching in my Chaucerian Parade for this week:

• And yet again … another person parks her shopping cart beside me and smokingly insists that if I really want the money, I ought to return her cart for the coin deposit.

• A very wasted pan-handler with slurred speech insists that I give him and his pan-handling staggering partner a couple bucks for a coffee. Feeling somewhat generous, I had him a toonie. Within minutes he’s back and in my face demanding five or six dollars. Attempting to ignore him, I keep strumming my banjitar. Eventually he leaves giving me a farewell scowl and the finger.

• And they’re back! Just when I am packing it in, the friendly father of last week’s dancing daughter, tosses four dollars into my buskpot. Last week when he did this, I decided to play until his taxi came. Today is different. My hands are really cold.

• My competition is fifty feet across the way, right in front of the liquor store, playing sweet tunes on his guitar. Approximately thirty minutes into my busk, he closes his case, hops on his bicycle, and rides over to visit me. He throws five dollars into my banjitar case. I’m stunned. It is Dillon, a former student of mine, who became a busker because I was a busker!

'Lo and behold, fellow buskers, because we are synchronously the masters and servants of our buskingdoms, we need to be cognizant in projecting both our wordrobes ... and our wardrobes.

All The Leaves Are Brown And Golden And Crimson: An Essay On Summertime Moments To Remember

Psychologist, Daniel Kahneman describes our lives as a string of moments. He stated that each of these moments lasting up to three seconds, and each of us experiencing 20,000 or so moments in every waking day.

I suppose if one were to analyze any of these particular days from the cockcrow until sundown, one could determine in mundane detail 19,999 insignificant and uneventful moments. Waking up and looking at the clock, for example, becomes rather perfunctory 365 mornings a year. And so do the habits of waddling to the washroom, running cold water for the coffee, and reading the morning news become rather unremarkable. Most of us routinely move through such necessary actions without having to occupy much of our minds. This is called automaticity. Automaticity occurs with practice, practice, practice.

For example, there finally does come a time when you can drive home without having to think about it. Your vehicle seems to know its way home without any effort on your part, especially after you’ve so directed it there hundred times. When busking and playing my banjitar, I can strum through my set list in a daydream. In fact, when consumers stop to chat, I can visit without missing a beat. Automaticity is the magic of the mundane. We can get through most of our days without having to concentrate, without having to measure, without having to determine the input and output of every tedious and mandatory task.

Saying this, one need not have to be a Zen master to appreciate that all days do bring about moments that are stirring, moments of bliss and misery, moments of fervor and frost, moments of imagination and contemplation. But, being a busker in October, having to wear those mini cotton gloves in order to warm my fingers enough to strum my banjitar, I can certainly reflect on certain dog day moments that have warmed my soul. Learning to linger on certain moments is never easy – at least not while busking. However, appreciating these moments after the events is often requisite for introspection and amelioration.

From the string of yesterday summer moments: the sizzling scents of the foot-longs and farmer sausage wafting off the sidewalk grills; little children laughing as they bounce up and down to the beats of my banjitar; the jostle and the bumping through the throng while searching for that perfect busk spot; that quiet and shady thrumming place in the corner of the park; phatic and philosophic chit-chats and how-do-you-do nods of the people passing by; sitting curbside sipping Americano decafs; and of course, the clinks of coins being tossed into my instrument case.

Alas, all the leaves are brown and golden and crimson and the sky is getting greyer by the day. A busker’s Autumn ought to be a final explosion of buskapades, the last sidewalk strums whilst the sun still shines on the dry walks. Autumn is a time to find an eternity in every busking moment. Tom Stoppard said that every exit is an entry to somewhere else. Especially for buskers, Summer exits, Autumn enters, Autumn exits, Winter arrives.

With Winter comes the opportunity to tackle new finger actions on my banjitar, thrum new riffs on my twelve-string, practice on my pennywhistle, write new lines. To every season turn, turn, turn. A busker’s songs of Winter shall be tried in Spring and sold in Summer.

My cast of characters from the Chaucerian Parade this week:

• A thirty-something man and his five year old daughter keep dancing after we’ve stopped playing. Baron and I are packing it up because my fingers are frozen. He walks over and tosses a fin into our buskpot. Because of this gesture we decide to play until their taxi arrives. Giving us thumbs up when his cab arrives, the driver jumps out, and tosses us a toonie.

• A reptilian skinned guy wearing a black leather cowboy hat sits beside Baron on the curb. He asks Baron if he can pound the bongos, to which Baron obliges. Within one minute the leather guy yells that these are the very bongos he had given his brother and then were stolen and then were bought by Baron for a couple dollars. He continues to yell and threaten us by stating he is going to follow us and kill us. I took out my cell and gave him ten seconds to exit or I’d be dialing 911. Surprisingly, he got up and left.

• Three little boys drop several cents into my banjitar case. Thrice more, they do the same thing.

• A fellow stops and asks me where I bought my black snap button shirt. He states that he’s going directly to Madame Yes to look at the clothing line.

Buskers, no matter the season, of the 20,000 offered each day …

Whenever your fancy, this is your moment.

The Devil Made Me Do It: An Essay On The Seven Delicious Sins Of Busking

Today I shall present a buskologist's argy-bargy on the delights of busking by unwrapping the seven delicious lifestyle sins that successful buskers learn to love on a daily basis.

1. Exercise.

   Busking demands daily physical activity. Every two hours or so one has to roll up the mat and move down the street. The art of busking means to be on sidewalk patrol all day long. Whether you run a mile or walk a mile you burn the same amount of calories. If you're a busker who is continually on the move, walking three to five miles a day, you're likely physically fit.

2. Laughter.

   If you cannot laugh at your consumers, then what fun are they? On thickly traveled sidewalks, busking provides a laugh a minute. And whether you're laughing with them or at them, the therapeutic effects are the same.

3. Intellectual Curiosity.

   Busking cannot ever be described as a vanilla vocation. All busks are adventures in new surroundings, all of which being sensory carpe diem grist for a song writer's mill. Though most of our sidewalk ditties are simply ear candy, the art and science of busking still provides a very copacetic and intellectually creative lifestyle.

4. Interpersonal Relationships.

   Wherever you busk there is always a random array of Chaucerian characters, most of whom wanting to chat. According to Sam Keen, we are all of us, featherless storytelling, gregarious creatures. To be a great busker means to develop your charisma, then enjoy holding the daily court conversations in your buskingdoms.

5. Balance.

   Busking offers the perfect opportunity to balance your work day. Rise with the cockcrow and make your day! You can play instrumentals. You can strum and sing. You can even just play around if you want. Your busking day can an asunder of any fashion desired. I must caution, however, that I am not so struthious to think that playing devil-may-care each day could eventually result in becoming one of those tin-pot busking profanations who dutifully performs in drunken fashion in the fronts of liquor outlets.

6. Simplicity.

   Buskers are not representative of the button-down American corporate culture. Being a busker means living a life of voluntary simplicity. As for me, I could be content living in a broom closet, as long it had a shower and a cupboard big enough to boil my Adam's Ale for tea.

7. Love.

   We buskers are all accursed, for we shall of our livelong days be on that road less traveled by, having polygamous flirtations with random participants in a variety of settings. In order to survive, we buskers, especially, must learn to love all the consumer imperfections that humanity has offer.

And on this very note, my favorite character for this week marching in the Chaucerian Parade is that juicy and flaxen jeune fille who directly addressed to me,

I think I'm in love with you!

Busking really ought to be a sin!

Why Hide It: Methinks 'Tis Time For An Essay On Groupthink

It was the perfect Autumn evening for a busk. The temperature was 85 degrees and my buskingdom was windless. A thin crowd of shoppers sauntered in and out of the Safeway grocery store on 13^th Avenue in Regina, Saskatchewan. Among them was Kevin McKenzie, an extraordinary keynote speaker and storyteller. Evan was one of those strangers kind enough to toss a couple toonies into my open banjitar case. He was sporting a red Superman t-shirt.

You really are Superman! I remarked at his coin toss.

Ya, I used to wear the horn-rimmed glasses and plain gray sports jacket but now I say, 'Why hide it?' he replied.

After his grocery purchase, Kevin proceeded to eat his freshly bought supper right beside me on the parking lot curb. And we chatted. Kevin had, just an hour previous, returned from the Yukon, where he was the keynote at a teachers' conference. He used to be an elementary school teacher in Vancouver, British Columbia, but decided to follow his dream, and has been a story-telling adventurist across Canada for the past decade. Evan is obviously not a participating member of Groupthink.

Groupthink, coined by Irving Janis, is a psychological phenomenon that occurs when peoples' desire for group harmony exceeds and overrides any realistic decision making. Roundtable Groupthink participants, when striving for consensus, often minimize the real conflicts, and operate without critical evaluation. Typically, being an active or passive member of any groupthink leads to the loss of independent thinking and individual creativity.

Methinks, the notions of groupthink go beyond the general accepted round-table [non]discussions. Groupthink dances into our dress codes. Check out the clothing choices of high school and university students. Check out the fashions and styles of business people. Such checking will verify cloning-to-go in practically any people industry.

Groupthink is what keeps our fingers snapping the beat to most of our music tastes. From shop owners to pop artists, The American Top 40 With Ryan Seacrest literally keeps millions of people in the music industry employed. And country music has been galloping across the nations of North America for the past 75 years.

Groupthink definitely has built suburbia. Go for a Sunday drive in any suburb in any Western city and all those little boxes in all those little new neighborhoods look exactly the same.

Groupthink even works itself into our occupational choices. How many adolescents and emerging adults aspire to be doctors and lawyers and teachers and counselors compare to those aspiring to be road workers and trench diggers and cleaners and service industry personnel.

Admittedly I, writing rosey-colored with embarrassment, am an active member of Groupthink. I have repeatedly stated and written that I am but a faux busker. And not ashamedly, I am one who employs a certain artifice, both in thrumming skill and in cap-a-pie dress to present an adventuresome persona in my neverending quest to attract coins.

However, most other practictioners who reside in Buskerville are not members of anything, never mind Groupthink.

The following people who marched in my Chaucerian Parade this week, too, are most certainly not Groupthink members.

• I've already introduced Kevin McKenzie, the inspiration for this blog topic. Kevin is the first person, ever, to sit, sup, and chat with me whilst I busk.

• Meet Mark Jones. I was busking in front of the Copper Kettle Gourmet Pizza restaurant, managed and operated by my best pizza making friend, Terry Miller, who always welcomes me, providing light and and pizza whenever I busk there. A couple nights ago, while strumming my twelve string in front of Terry's, a busker from Kamloops, British Columbia happened by. He pulled out an Irish Tin Whistle (a pennywhistle) and played harmony to my tunes for a half hour. On his exit, he tossed me a fin.

• And I must mention and say a special thank-you to the elderly lady who provided my Oral Roberts moment, when she pushed her walker aside and began to dance to my banjitar songs.

Give him all our money! I love this guy and his banjo! she yelled to her younger assistant.

To close:

Groupthink is the safe and sorry stay in the status quo.

Groupthink is the vanilla choice of flavors on the ice cream menu.

Methinks, membership in Groupthink shall forever be reserved for the sycophants and claque, and shall never be high-octane enough for real thinktank performers.

The Bigger the System, the Bigger the Trust: An Essay on the Convenience of Complacency

When our kids were little and we were on holidays we always ate at Smitty’s restaurants. We ate at Smitty’s restaurants because the food was great, the prices were reasonable, and there was always a big parking lot. Very rarely did we eat elsewhere when driving down some summer holiday highway.

We, the hoi polloi, tend to trust big systems, and I’m referring to the macedoine of big systems of anything. We trust the school systems, the police systems, the sports and leisure systems, the service systems; we trust in our churches and we trust in our governments. Generally, all these big systems are predictable, easy to orbulate and therefore easy tolerate.

When our little ones march off to kindergarten we trust they will be safe. And when these same offspring strut across the graduation stage, we trust that they are prepared for more school, work, or whatever. Generally, when we take our children to hockey rinks and soccer pitches and baseball diamonds, we trust they’ll be safe there, too. When we have our children participate in church activities, we trust they’ll be safe. When we eat in restaurants we trust the food will be nourishing. When we go to a medical facility we trust in method and technology. We trust our municipalities to maintain our sidewalks and roads and water systems. We trust our provincial governments to maintain and produce jobs. And we trust our federal governments to do the right thing with regard to the globalization of the economy and international countryships. And especially, we trust the world governors to keep our planet safe.

Bigger systems have a gloze of being better, but certainly are not better.
Specifically, when anything goes awry, and anyone familiar to us is affected in a negative manner, we lose our faith and prescience patience and realize all of our big systemic beliefs really are just a rash of lies.

This is our archetypal epiphany. We eventually become cognizant that our tolerance for big systems is simply due to our complacency. We know what absolute power can do. We know teachers who are incompetent. We know coaches and clergy who are predators. We wait in line at medical facilities. We tip for food poisonings. We hit bumps in the roads. We go to war. Our planet is at risk.

Still, in spite of being aware of these counterpatterns, the more familiar the system, the safer we feel; the more unfamiliar the system, the more we are skeptic. If we choose to follow such agreed upon big thinking, then big symphonies and big choirs are certainly trustworthy; whereas we ne’er-do-wells, we sidewalk string playing pan-handlers of the infra dig simply cannot be trusted.

From my fellowship of the untrusted ruck, here is my Chaucerian Parade of characters for this week:

• Two male adolescents, fifteen or so years of age want me to pull some beer for them at the nearby liquor store.
We’ll pay you ten dollars, one of them says.
Take a hike and have a nice day, I reply. (Had I not been a busker and just some guy climbing out of a car to shop, I doubt I’d been asked.)

• Johnny, a real liquor store 70's looking denim busker, comes by to listen to my playing the banjitar.
I wish I could play like you, he says. (Though I’m but a strummer and thrummer, Johnny thinks I’m a virtuoso. I’m thinking he’s a novice.)

• And surprise! Devon, an unofficial member of a buskship from three years ago on the mean streets of Victoria, British Columbia stopped for a chat. On that particular Victoria buskation, each day I’d chat with Christian, who played a sitar, Christina, the bag lady, and Devon, who played guitar and harmonica. There were others in the busking community, but it was these three specifically who I focused on when writing my song, The Minstrel Street.
Devon is now employed at Street Culture (a safety net for wayward youth) in Regina, Saskatchewan.

I’ve just read that a NASA rogue satellite shall be soon hurled upon this side of our planet, the odds of the debris striking one of us being one in 21 trillion. Heads up, fellow street buskers, and keep your fingers crossed ... Kerplunk!

The Sweet Spot: An Essay on the Perfect, Perfect Busk

First off, the BUSKOLOGIST stop sign presented on the left is the latest addition for my banjitar case when I'm on a busk. Just this week it was created by my colleague, Chris, an avid reader of this blog, who unwittingly delivered it in the nick of time! (And it shall be placed right alongside my usual two signs on display, one being the stickman logo of the Canadian Mental Health Association, and the other, a replication of my blog header --both of which created by one of my very favorite people, Lynn Hill.)

It was to be a perfect busking day. The air was windless and a plus 25 (80 degrees), and, the sun was shining brightly. Trent (from Trent’s Guitar Studio in Regina, Sk), Daussen (the adolescent fiddle phenom), and myself (an ordinary strummer & buskologist) were to form a busking trio at the annual Dragon Boat Festival.

Trent drove up to my apartment at exactly twelve o’clock as planned. He had packed his guitarlele and I tossed my banjitar and twelve-string next to it in the trunk of his car. The guitarlele and guitar strings in combo with Daussen’s fiddle, we’d decided, would make for some very sweet sounds.

Trent and I scouted the boardwalk and promenade along the north shore of Wascana Lake in search of the best busking spot. Back and forth we walked from west to east, from east to west along the mercantile line, to no avail.

On the grassy swards just above the boardwalk a constellation of merchants were selling their wares. Include in that line was an outdoor beer gardens complete with live music. Right next to the beer gardens was a bandshell. It, too, was producing live music. Half a dozen electronic speakers hung all along the walkways, piping out the live music and also the megaphone results of the dragon boat races.

Within ten minutes we exited. We sought greener busking pastures in downtown Victoria Park. There, we played a bit, made a bit, then ventured over to the Fred Hill Centre, just a three minute walk from the park. Dustin Ritter (a guitar student of Trent’s and a university student of mine) was playing the live stage. Good for him and bad for us. Dustin dedicated a song to us whilst we vamoosed to our next busk spot.

We drove to the South Albert Liquor Store. Neither Trent nor I had ever busked in front of a liquor store. Alas, it, too, was occupied with what appeared to be a high school girls’ group soliciting funds (via panhandling) for their European band trip.

Our last destination was the Extra Foods shopping mall on Broadway Avenue. (By this time, Daussen had been long delayed due to a broken fiddle string and by the time he found another to replace it, he decided to jettison his busking for the day.) In the middle of the mall lot, we set up, Trent with his guitarlele, and I with my twelve-string.

This is our sweet spot, said Trent after we'd performed for approximately five minutes.

This plummy parking lot was, indeed, our sweet spot for that day, as we enjoyed lots of smiles and coins from our customers, and lots of laughs between ourselves.

In the sports world the sweet spot connotes some aspect of a player’s technique, the perfect swing for example. Golfers and batters and tennis players are always striving for that perfect straight elbow, eye on the ball perfect swing, a sweet spot so to speak.

In the busker world, the sweet spot refers to much more than a technical sports swing, which could be likened to performance. The sweet spot for buskers refers more to a lifestyle, including the tactical aspect of being in a certain place, and the serious theoretical aspect of having a purpose.

In a line, a busker’s sweet spot is dependent upon all three: performance, place, and purpose.

Performance is based on mastery of your musical skills. When you have practiced, practiced, practiced enough to be comfortable and confident to play some tunes that are recognizable, you are ready for busking. I’ve settled on about a dozen songs for banjitar busking. My not-so-secret formula is to play mostly original tunes and a few familiar tunes, at a very fast cadence, seemingly more suited for banjo-like presentation. This works for me. When I’ve a buskmate, I thrum on my twelve-string.

Place is based on experience. After you’ve been busking a hundred or so times you’ll know the times and places of your preferred crowds. On buskations in Victoria, British Columbia, I simply follow the cruise ships schedules. Approximately an hour after the ship’s arrival and its passengers pass through customs is the time to hit the streets strumming. Also, I've varied buskingdoms right in Regina, Saskatchewan: the new downtown Plaza, the Extra Foods parking lot, and the 13th Avenue Safeway store.

The main purpose for busking is income; cause and enjoyment are but ancillary components. Generally, busking can bring in a few bucks, fifty or so dollars a day, on a three to four hour work schedule. If more money is needed, then more busking hours are necessary. In the right crowd upwards of sixty dollars an hour is within strum reach. In sparse crowds, the same amounts of monies can be made, but it just takes longer.

My sweetness for busking comes from income, cause, and enjoyment. By my design, in Summer I’ve rarely any counseling or teaching contracts. I love busking enough, it seems, to do without a regular paycheque July through September. The more money tossed into my banjitar case allows me more luxurious days of Americano Decaf. I gig a few select times, but busking is my main source of sustenance in Summer.

Also I busk for cause. These past couple months I’ve done some busking for the Canadian Mental Health Association, Amnesty International, and SEARCH (Student Energy in Action for Regina Community Health).

And of course, I busk for enjoyment. Before strumming my banjitar for the SEARCH barbeque this afternoon, I was, in fact, this morning busking on the street corner.

And this week a couple of characters marching in my Chaucerian Parade:

• the grumpy old man who insisted that I ought to park his shopping cart for the quarter return
• the smiling lady who handed me a fin just for encouraging her to keep up with her piano lessons
  

Busking seems to satisfy my wanderlust nature -- even if I stay in the neighborhood!

Are We There Yet: An Essay On Great Expectations and the Everending Paradigm

It seems at all social developmental points in our lives we are oxymoronically optimistic and accursed; we are forever looking forward, wishing for our imaginary archetypal futures to arrive, most of us living a lifetime of yearnings.

Here are some of our lifetime asterisks, so to speak:

*When we are small tykes, wading and playing in puddles, we look forward to being bigger tykes. Bigger tykes get to go to school and learn stuff.

*When we are bigger tykes we look forward to recess and being teenagers. Teenagers are cool and can drive.

*When we are teenagers we look forward to being kidults. Kidults can live away from home and party and drink.

*When we are kidults we look forward to being career adults. After all, career adults become important and get rich.

*When we are career adults we look forward to better pension and health benefits so we can retire by age sixty. Having the life of a retiree means having the life of Riley and doing whatever we want and in style.

*And when we acquiesce into our old age and become sexagenarians we look forward to becoming octogenarians. We've still things to do and desire to live yet another day.

Generally, while living such asterisks we imagine that the fates shall be kind and not deal us too many unexpected hardships in our destinies. Generally in our optimistic yearnings, we tend not to include any shattering specifics such as breakdowns in families, finances, and friendships.

In our youth we are auspicious, our lives ever so promising. As emerging adults we are full of endeavor and emprise. In middle-age we can be both banausic and fructuous; banausic in the sense of realistic, fructuous in the sense of rationalizing our individual accomplishments as being positive to date. Come old-age we must be somewhat austere, oftentimes necessary for the giving to others. This, too, is the time for reflection and the realization that for the most part, our lives have been a middle-class membership in the working class peloton.

I am thinking we aspire to expire. We imagine our lives to be exciting, yet stick with safety and comfort. The riskiest behavior for most of us will be driving our cars. (In fact, just check facts and stats on our human road kill.)

As we age we are forced into change. Accepting change becomes necessary because of our psychological and physical limitations. The longer we live the more positives (and negatives) we experience. Accepting change, especially negative change demands a certain courage. And courage, by the way, exists only because we are finite. If we could live forever, there would be no need for such a concept as courage.

No matter. Whether we are puppets or paupers, pirates or poets, pawns or kings, bankers or buskers, our lives are transitory, mere fillips.

Our yens end when we end.

Finis.

Enough of this! Outside it is sunny and I am going busking!