Aug
12
2008
The Story Within The Story
Xavier. I once knew a man named Xavier who owned a blue Porsche with a red thunderbolt sticker on the driver’s side door. I often think of him in these dog days of summer. Last time I saw him, and the one time that I drove in the vehicle, we were waiting to get into the Twin Two just off 137th, two dames in the back, DuMaurier girls both. Summer’s rolling along quite nicely, yes? I just came off the Folk Festival and it was a riot as usual. Tons of great acts and a big quaff of sunshine and heat. It could’ve been a bit cooler. This heat shit doesn’t sit well with me. Food-wise, I managed to limit my indulgences to one hot dog, one order of cactus fries, and one double scoop of tiger tiger. Didn’t touch the green onion cakes this year, and the elephant ears, tempting as they were, didn’t quite make it past my mental barrier of acceptability. Notable acts included Luke Doucet, Brett Dennen, and Serena Rider. Great acts all, and you’d do well to check them out. The Folk Fest is all about love and harmony, but I have to confess that I almost got into a fist fight on Sunday night. I got an ice cream cone and then joined my latecoming wife at the back of the line so that she could get hers. A woman behind me, uppity and entitled as all hell, asked me to step out of line, seeing as how I already had an ice cream cone. Voices were raised and tempers got into the high yellows. It all cooled off before cracking but I’ll admit that I was a bit of a prick.
I haven’t mowed the lawn in a few weeks and now I might have to rent an industrial mower to chew down the shitstorm of weeds and thistle that have industriously furthered themselves in the yard. Truthfully, I’d love to say fuck the grass and pave the lot of it. But that wouldn’t sit well with the missus, or the neighbours who steadfastly maintain their yard in an effort to make me look like the neighbourhood asshole – the guy who doesn’t give a shit about his yard and tanks everyone else’s property value. That’s me. I’ll take my medal now.
I just bought a new machine. No Mac for this cat. Asus board, Core 2 Quad @ 2.4, 4GB Crucial ram, 750GB Seagate, e-GeForce superclocked 9600 card. XP Pro, no Vista bullshit. Are computers the new cars? Do guys sit around the 7-11 inhaling Pall Malls and talking the shit that I just wrote? Instead of dually heads do guys brag about video cards? Is it just the love of jargon and the need to impress? Are gear heads as insane as they seem? Is that extra n-th of performance really worth having when all you do with the thing is use Google Docs? Do you need slicks for tooling around St Albert on a Sunday afternoon? The answer to that question might be yes.
The Edmonton Poetry Festival has been chewing up a fair amount of my time. If you want to participate, there’s still time to get in on the action: Event signup closes on Friday, August 15, 2008. We’ve got some solid acts booked and the thing is coming together quite nicely. I feel decent about this year’s fest, and feel confident that the EPF and The Roar can somehow co-exist. Not sure how that would look or what flavour it would be, but it could work. I see a medium-sized festival with teeth. We don’t need no boring bullshit readings in this town. I see outdoor events (a-la Trofimuk’s long wished for “circus tent lit festival”), inclusive events, featured events with hot readers. I also, foolishly perhaps, cling to the idea of a single unifying literary festival around which the whole community can rally. Litfest, Roar, EPF rolled into one and repacked as a single flashbomb of literary coolness. Could be done.
Xavier was a bit of an ass. Too big for his own good and a loudmouth to boot. Big puff of hair on his thin head, about 6’2. We went to school together and were never that close. We had a mutual admiration for Pink Floyd, although we disagreed as to which material was seminal (Me: Wish You Were Here. Him: The Final Cut). Funny. I can’t remember his face as much as his voice. Him talking over the BoDeans on the Pioneer tape deck (the old pull-out kind), amplifer taped to the underside of the dash. Him waving a cigarette around and over emphasizing all the wrong words. Him prodding the girls to drink more.
