Sep. 21, 2005 - Issue #518: Superstud
Dispatch
9/21/05, Lookin' out my front door
“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
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