Week of September 22, 2005, Issue #518
FRONT
Dispatch
“He can go crazy or stay sane, if he can do it on six feet of chain”—Lee
Hazlewood, Six Feet of Chain
Guess it’s that time again, time for the “seasonal column”...
a free pass to just sort of meander and talk about the weather, four times a
year—even more, if we get faked out by a false spring, fake summer, ersatz
autumn or sham winter. This, though is pretty much real fall, right on schedule.
Yep. You want to know why the green-and-gold livery of the Eskies and the U
of A teams should bring tears of joy and pride to your Edmontonian eyes? Go
have a beer in RATT in the Students’ Union Building. Crammy, shitty-logo
sports-bar transformation or no, that’s still the best damn drinkin’
view in town, and the carpet of seasonal interface foliage rolling east under
the sun all the way to WEM’s ad-bearing beige rollercoaster shed has just
enough beauty to fuel your soul through the dreary months of Browntown.
Beauty’s everywhere you care to cast your eyes these days, actually; you
don’t need to ride an elevator to see it. Like, out here on my front porch,
Lee Hazlewood’s Trouble is a Lonesome Town strumming out through the screen
door, a cup of my roommate’s good coffee in my hand, the smell of frying
onions just barely making it up from the kitchen to mingle with that first breath
of honest leaf-decay... damn. Even the vehicle-storage alley that allows my
west-facing front window the most suntime anyone can expect in the dark months
looks kinda majestic in this clear September light. Lots of fun party times
out here on these steps this summer, shooting the shit and filling the unplanted
planter with beercans and butts, watching the pretty people go by... as it gets
colder that action subsides until it’s only smokers briefly huddling there
in the Christmas-light glow with whoever’s joined them out of sympathy
or desire for private words—but that scene’s got its own magic,
too.
The best part about fall is the return of fall fashion. Basically, I’d
be happy to live in a place where the temperature never went above 18 and never
went below, say, 10. I might have to journey to another planet to find such
a climate. Or perhaps my descendants, having gone through generations aboard
their gargantuan starship over the decades-long journey across the wastes of
space, would be the ones to step out onto this alien world. Either way, humanity
would have founded a paradise free from the grotesque excesses of summertime
clothing, free from the pinched-off midriff rolls, the peeking thongs in unnatural
synthetic hues and the scuzzy wifebeaters, the boob tubes and the socks-with-sandals.
A paradise, I tell you! Cuddly sweaters and well-cut jeans, casual slacks and
tweed jackets, cool hoodies and warm flannel, suede sneakers and conservative
Docs, this shall be the uniform of the Star People! And woe betide she who sullies
the harmony of our extraplanetary streets with the sight of sweat-pants with
words stamped across the ass! Banished shall they be, to the wilds where the
pod-tigers and vampire moss lurk, while we in our earthtoned comfy-casual apparel
turn the thermostats of our living-domes down to energy-conserving levels and
snuggle up with the Mr. Show DVDs we’ve carried with us from Mother Earth.
Ah, dreams. This is the beauty a change in the seasons brings. Not just the
beauty of watching the world move in its cycles, but the beauty of watching
your mind and the minds of your friends (and enemies) move into the new idea-spaces
created by shifting times and temperatures. For me, it’s a dream of voyaging
through outer space to a planet where all the girls wear wholesome knit sweaters
and curve-hugging Levis and all the boys dress like psychology TAs from the
’60s... what’s your dream, Edmontonian? V