EDMONTON EXISTENTIAL
Of Aphorisms, Euphemisms and Bullshit
There was during the 90s a line of
skater-punk clothing called No Fear.
My friend Paul who’s generally miserable unless he’s listening to the
Stranglers, riding his Harley or watching Man U on the pitch envisioned a more
realistic competing brand designed exclusively for the vast majority of people:
Scared Shitless.
Yesterday was the day of many errands.
Though January in central Alberta
has been alarmingly tropical, winter is still the time for interior projects as
summer’s lease hath all too short a date.
I’ve big plans for a portion of our basement, plans so big that someone who
knew what they were doing might spend a couple of days seeing them through to
fruition. But me, I have to gird to even over-think the job at hand and that
process can take up to a week. I’m as plodding and potentially as useless as a
Royal Commission. Still, I’d stood around in the basement doing little more
than sipping a beer long enough to know that we had to hit the marketplace for
crucial supplies.
The hardware department clerk, pardon me, retail associate, at Canadian Tire is
unsure of her inventory. And tools on sale and advertised in the weekly flyer?
Ain’t that peculiar. No, she herself doesn’t have a copy of the flyer, doesn’t
know what’s in it, but we can get one ourselves somewhere, a pixie hand waves,
over there. Lady, it’s a big fucking store; where is there? Appreciate your
help. Thanks.
Our cashier does not exhibit any obvious passion for celebrating life in Canada. In
fact, he may be the most morose member of the Canadian Tire family. Pardon me, this item’s on sale, it’s
advertised in the circular. No, it’s not. It’s displayed on your centre power
aisle. Go get me the sign. Dude, you sullen, mealy-mouthed little shit, we’re
the customers here.
If our two engaged CT souls were employed
by Target, they would be doomed team
members. How the fuck did Target fuck up against fucking inbred competition
like this!? I mean, the insane Soviet utilitarian hell of Costco is a warmer,
more satisfying shopping experience. And I fucking hate Costco the way Ahab
hated the whale or Khan hated Kirk or Dave Davies of the Kinks hates his
brother and band leader Ray. Fuck.
I hate painting too. I have recently
learned however that good quality house paint is worth paying for. Its
application is easier and if you do a decent job, you won’t have to do it again
for a long, long while. Painting requires planning and girding. We require a
fresh gallon of Benjamin Moore Prairie
Lily, a muted red I’d describe as ‘brick’ but I’m neither a designer nor an
interior decorator. The guys and girl working the counter and mixing the paint
know their product and they don’t seem to have Human Resources titles imposed
upon them; I search happily in vain for an Eggshell Colour Expert Team Member
Sales Associate.
But. The paint store just doesn’t sell
paint, brushes, rollers and drop sheets. No, it also sells lifestyle. This means ceramic or stone do-dads or framed signs that
read Family Friendship Love Happiness
in various uplifting fonts. Are we so detached and self-absorbed that we must
decorate our homes with trite reminders of fundamental human values? Don’t follow your dreams, chase them!
Fuck me, there’s probably an app for this Lululemon-like motivational,
inspirational bullshit.
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