A One Man Woodstock

Yep. There he sits. Busker-Boy. He craves attention so much, he claimed the corner across the street from my place, tapped into the electrical outlet from one of the street lights and started mutilating everything from ‘Freebird’ to ‘Stairway to Heaven’. Oh how talented his noodling is. He wears his sunglasses at night as a tribute to Corey Hart and has been sitting there for three hours. As I write, he launches into another wanna-be-musician classic; “Wild Thing”. Now he is singing it at top volume.

Luckily, I’ve looked into the noise statutes and as I prepare to call the police on this rock n’ roll cretin, his pick flies across the street. Ah, a small moment of silence while he tunes his guitar. I’m trying to understand why Busker-Boy is sitting there. Did his girlfriend leave him? Did his dog die? Did he lose his job and get thrown out of his musician-shared living space?

No matter, because once the cruiser pulls up and tells Busker-Boy to move it along, he’ll have another sad moment in his life to write about.

Poor, sad Busker-Boy. How he must yearn. How his artistic, nova heart must call out to him. Well, for today, I must quash Busker-Boy’s muse.

The strains of ‘House of the Rising Sun’ waft into my apartment as I begin to dial.

4-1-6-8-0-8…

Busker-Boy tries to find just the right chord.