One Friday afternoon we were busking on the south east corner of the luxuriant Victoria Park in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, situated right across the street from the Saskatchewan Hotel (the Sask). This is the corner for the celebrity watch, where the frenzied residents of Regina have been known to gather for hours in the hope of catching a glimpse, and better yet, a polaroid snap of persons such as Queen Elizabeth, George W. Bush, Bob Dylan, all of which who stay at the Sask whenever they're scheduled for events in Regina. Baron, on his cajon box, and I, on my Alabama banjitar, were there to catch some coins. It was sunny; it was windy; it was busy. The Rolling Stones were in town, though not yet a sign of Mick or Keith.
Victoria Park was a buzz of people. Aside from those who were hoping to gaze at some stardom, others there were picnicking, feeding bread crumbs to the pigeons, minding their children at the playground. On the diagonal paths there were troops of gentlemen in business suits marching briskly while gesticulating to one another, and at the same time singular ladies dressed to the nines, ambling by in their clomping heels, while discreet couples cuddled and whispering to one another on the benches not quite hidden amongst the chaparral.
And then along came Eric, chuckling as he grabbed one of our shakers from my banjitar case, and giving it a joggle while he did a very funny bump and grind.
I'm just a movin' and shakin'. I'm seventy years old and am reflecting life as it comes. I'm embracing new experiences, not shying away from anything, I'm grabbing new moments and I'm staying alive! he said.
Seventy. That is the age when the hair is thin and gray, the skin wrinkled and saggy, the arteries stiff, and the libido soft. Eric did not look nor act his age. Rather, he looked to be closer to middle -aged, with his sun bleached hair, white Whistler t-shirt, and olive green hiking shorts, doing a dance and jam in his sand colored sandals with a couple of buskers. The process of aging happens and Eric, so far, had seemed to escape it. What was his anti-aging secret? An elixir he found? A drink from the Fountain of Youth?
After our busk Eric joined me for a coffee. I had my usual Americano Decaf and Eric had an espresso.
Liquids ought to be enjoyed in drams, he said. While sipping our javas, Eric shared the secrets he employed to optimize his natural longevity. He began by stating that Old Age never did affright him, but losing his mind and mobility always did. Eric, at one point, realized that his life had been asunder, his misspent youth being an Augean stable of too much drink and too little dance. It took a Spartan attitude, but from that point of release, Eric denied himself of alcohol forever after.
A beatific smile spread across his face as he reminisced. Before he spent thirty years as a college counselor he used to travel everywhere as an elite player on elite hockey teams, shooting pucks in practically every big rink the Prairie landscape had to offer – Winnipeg, Flin Flon, Brandon, Regina, Saskatoon, and Swift Current. And he used to travel west to ski Fernie, Big White, Silver Star, Apex Alpine, Sunshine, and Lake Louise. No longer the scoring iceman, Eric said he still skied the mountains a couple times each winter, and had lately taken up to being a skip on a curling team.
It pays to be fastidious, he said. I pay particular attention to everything I do. I am developing an ability to focus, and that, my friend, is what I believe to be the key to happiness. I used to spend hours fossicking my dresser drawers for stuff I thought I'd had, but had long ago given away or tossed away or might have even just misplaced. Now I know exactly what I have and where it's at. And that has proved to make my life just so much more enjoyable.
Gimracks I toss away. Since the kids have left I've really little use for them. I guess I used to keep those baubles and knicknacks for the kids until I realized they had absolutely no value to them. I used to imagine them saying after I had passed on, I wonder why he kept this junk and after saying this I imagined they, too, just tossing them away.
I work part-time contracts. I have a half-dozen or so clients from the Mental Health Clinic. I do my best to help keep them out of trouble. Without care and compassion and guidance, all my clients have a tendency to run afoul of the law or get themselves committed to the Psych ward. These guys keep me on my toes.
According to Freud, love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness. I'm still working but I must be looking for love in all the wrong places, he stated. And with an exiting giggle, Eric was gone, off to meet some clients I supposed.
I thought it funny that he mentioned Freud. You can take the boy out of the counseling, but you can't take the counseling out of the boy, I guess. And I also guess that I'd like to be like Eric, in the faint hope of staying my infirm until my very last gasp.
To anti-age is to understand that youth and middle-age and old age are all an interlace, a paralleled blur along our continuums of life. So as not to distinguish the states of age, one must always be malleable, having the constant capacity to adapt and find enjoyment in a never ending adaption. Being a medico of music, I can accommodate myself in this regard. I shall stay as long as possible in our seven member community service band (Grand Trunk Troubadours), our coffee house trio (Friday Harbor), and our busking duo (Seahorse).
In none of these bands do any of the members navel – gaze. Perhaps if any of us had the time, we would indulge, but as it stands, performing is always a rush and we are always on zoom time.
Moving to the right along the life continuum (we in the West tend to measure our days and years from left to right on a horizontal plane) one should never be purblind to the facts of sometimes escaping into adventures far from the status quo. If busking is to be the quarry of my life adventure, then taking every opportunity to busk should be the object of my pursuit, should indeed be my pursuit of happiness.
To live is to suffer is the skinny of Zen. To live and not suffer is to be torpor. And to be torpor is deadening – and to be making a sea change is staying alive.
Here is a song that I wrote in a Walter Mitty moment:
JUST SHOOT MY TROUBLES AWAY
[Am]Some days I wanna [D]do like [Am]Dangerman
[Am]Fun in the [D]sun on the [Am]Riviera, man
[Am]Suave and debon[D]air, [Am]undercover [D]ladies man
[Mute]And just [Am]shoot my [Em]troubles [Am]away.
[CHORUS]
[Em]I sometimes [D]think [C]my imagin[Em]ation
[Em]I sometimes [D]think [C]my imagin[Em]ation
[Em]I sometimes [D]think [C]my imagin[Em]ation
[G]Is the [Am]model, the [C]model for the [Em]nation (for complete annihilation)
Am D Am
Some days I wanna do like Steve McQueen
Am D Am
Cool and cruel on that movie screen
Am D Am D
Ride shotgun with Yul, blaze to Boot Hill
Mute Am Em Am
And just shoot my troubles away.
[CHORUS]
Am D Am
Some days I wanna do like the President
Am D Am
Cruise the clear blue sky in Air Force One
Am D Am D
Protect the planet, police everyone
Mute Am Em Am
And just shoot my troubles away.
[CHORUS]
A mand, according to psychologist B.F. Skinner, is a form of verbal behavior that is controlled by deprivation. Example #1: Asking for water when you are thirsty. Example #2: Opening the door when you hear a loud knock. Example #3: Playing yet another song when someone in your audience gives you the thumbs up. 
