In Memory Yet Greenwoods'

For over a decade, I made two stops every Wednesday: I went to Warp One on 81st avenue to pick up my comics, and then walked through the back alley and went through the back door of Greenwoods' to shop for books. Both stores are gone or relocated now, but the memories of browsing through those strangely dark aisles remain. 

A Princess Out of Focus

Photograph, 1998.

Earl's On Whyte!

...and acting like a goof, for some reason. I believe Tony Longworth shot these photos sometime during the early 1990s. 

Consider Banks

Sometime during my first year of study at the University of Alberta, during one of my regular trips to Greenwoods' on Whyte Avenue, I purchased a copy of Consider Phlebas, by Iain M. Banks. In this novel Banks introduced the Culture, a magnificent post-scarcity utopia comprised of humans and Artificial Intelligences known as Minds. I loved the book, particularly its stunning coda - a dry recitation of statistics showing the cost of the war depicted in the book.

And yet, for whatever reason, I didn't read another Banks novel until picking up Transition a couple of years ago, and only this spring did I read two of Banks' early mainstream novels, The Wasp Factory and The Bridge. All three are thought-provoking, richly textured works, and online reviews tell me that his Culture novels get even better. I have most of them on my bookshelf already, waiting to be savoured. But there is only one more Banks novel to come, to be published just a couple of weeks from now.

Today Banks died, stolen away too soon by cancer, denied the utopia he imagined because we haven't yet built it. During the past few months several great writers of science fiction have passed, but Banks' strikes me as particularly sad because of his relative youth and the vitality of his imagined worlds. In the Culture, Banks could have enjoyed centuries of life in a world of plenty and justice. Instead, living as he did in our imperfect world, he had to create something better, a target for human aspiration.

Banks was no starry-eyed idealist. His works are laced with arch satire and self-awareness; The Wasp Factory in particular is not for the faint of heart. But despite this dark mien, Banks has left us with a hopeful vision of the future that challenges us to work toward something better than the fatally flawed civilization dancing on the edge of catastrophe we endure today.

And who knows? Perhaps a Mind from the distant future or some parallel universe brought into being by the power of Banks' imagination has already breached the barriers of time and space and saved the author's consciousness, ferrying it to some brighter, better place, a world of wonders. I hope so.

Rescue on 81st Avenue

Summer, 1992. I pulled into the parking lot on 81st avenue and 105th street, just a couple of blocks away from Warp One. I had my day planned out: pick up some comic books, walk across the back alley to Greenwoods' to browse for novels, cross Whyte Avenue to spend a couple of hours at the Wee Book Inn, and then break for lunch somewhere along the avenue. It was going to be a good day, I thought as I shut the car off and then swung myself out into the summer heat, making sure to push the lock down and hold the handle up as I when I closed the door; otherwise, the lock wouldn't engage. 

I shut the door firmly, released the handle. And then through the window I saw my keys, still dangling innocently from the ignition. I'd locked myself out of my little silver Corolla station wagon.

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and stared at the keys for a minute, as if I could step backwards in time and get myself out of this through sheer force of will. There were no cell phones back then, and I had no change for payphones; I was on my own.

Or so I thought. For down the sidewalk came two imposing figures, rough-looking bearded men in jeans and leather jackets.

"You lock yourself out?" asked the burlier one.

"Uh huh," I said shamefaced.

"No problem," he said, and reached into his jacket, unfurling an unwound coat hanger. With balletic grace, he stepped past me and wormed the long, stiff wire inside the door frame, wriggling it around until a catch popped and the lock popped up. The entire process took only a second.

"Thanks!" I exclaimed, opening the door to retrieve my keys. But my benefactors were already halfway down the block, their hands raised briefly in offhand acknowledgement of my gratitude.

With my keys safely tucked away in my pocket, my thumb hovered over the lock once more...and then retreated without pushing it down. I casually flipped the door shut and headed east down the sidewalk. On that day, at least, locks had caused nothing but trouble. Why encourage them?

Last Trip to Greenwoods'

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. According to rumour, there's a rough beast slouching toward Whyte Avenue's Greenwoods' Bookshoppe - permanent closure.

I was a regular customer at Greenwood's from 1987 until 1999 or so, but my visits grew less and less frequent over the years. It wasn't a conscious choice; I simply moved out of the neighbourhood. I shopped more frequently at Audrey's for a while, and then, after a few months' resistance, I found myself at Chapters more and more often. A few more years have passed and I've found that I purchase books online about 25 percent of the time, especially when I know what I'm looking for and physical bookstores can't or won't carry the often obscure titles I desire.

No one except the Greenwoods knows for sure, but it's easy to surmise that Amazon and other online vendors have contributed to the bookshoppe's pending closure. So this morning, burdened by guilt, I parked at the west end of Whyte Avenue today and took a long penitent walk east to Greenwoods'. There were only two people in the store when I arrived - both staff - and scarcely greater numbers of books. Most of the shelves have been laid bare, and posters declare "All books 50% off - All sales final."

I took a moment to wander up and down the aisles, but there wasn't much to see; just row upon row of empty wooden shelves, shelves that were once crammed to bursting with all manner of literary riches. I remembered all the happy hours I'd spent in the original location next to the Princess Theatre, times when I'd accompany university buddies to catch a show and then pick up some books, or vice versa. After graduation I struggled to find a job in my chosen field and wound up driving a parts truck around the city. I was depressed by the rote nature of the work and the abuse I often endured from a number of my customers, but every Wednesday afternoon I had one escape: I stopped at Warp One to pick up my week's supply of comic books, then crossed the back alley to the back door of Greenwoods' to browse for books. That weekly pleasure never failed to reinvigorate me.

Despite my ability to find all the books I've ever wanted online, I still lament the loss of Greenwoods'. Amazon and other online vendors are wonderful if and only if you already know what you're looking for. But they can't replicate the experience of browsing through the shelves and finding something new and wonderful via serendipity. I estimate fully half the books in my collection were discovered this way.

Now there's one last place to browse, and Edmonton is poorer for the loss. All these thoughts flashed through my mind as I handed over the one book remaining at Greenwoods' to catch my interest: Under the Moons of Mars: New Adventures on Barsoom. I'd never heard of the book before the lurid cover caught my eye on one of those near-empty shelves. One last escape, courtesy of a business that's been a portal to wonder for over thirty years.

Thanks, Greenwoods'. I won't forget you.

U2 Will Enjoy Concerts, Earl

I have a funny relationship with concerts; generally I prefer the sound of studio albums over live performances. I've only been to a handful, always at the request of a friend or significant other, and yet I've enjoyed myself each time despite my initial reluctance.

In 1991, I saw the Crash Test Dummies play at the Edmonton Fringe Festival. I don't remember much about the music, but I do recall what a beautfiul night it was, and getting an enthusiatic holler from across a crowded street from an old high school friend who spotted me with a real, live girl on my arm.

In 2006, Sylvia and I attended Canada Day celebrations at Commonwealth Stadium. The Barenaked Ladies put on a fine performance laced with humour.

Earl tries to get into the headbanging spirit.

Earlier this year, I accompanied a group of friends to see German metal rockers Rammstein. While the music isn't my cup of tea, I did enjoy the pyrotechnics.

And tonight Sylvia and I will join 65,000 people at Commonwealth to enjoy U2 - not one of my favourite bands, but they've crafted a few tunes I enjoy. According to sources in the know, that would make it the largest outdoor concert event ever held in Edmonton. If nothing else, it'll be something to be a part of that!

Albertan Graffiti

I snapped this passionate but futile snippet of graffiti back in the early 90s. The provocateur's call was ignored by all but a few. Amazing to think that that was only about halfway through the era of Tory rule in Alberta so far. Heck, for all we know one day the 90s will be considered the early years of Alberta's never-ending Tory dynasty...

"Jug-eared buffoon" seems pretty unkind nowadays, especially considering the former premier's progressive dementia. I'm sure even the person that scrawled this, however justified his or her anger, probably wouldn't want any political foe to suffer what Klein is suffering now.

A Night at the Improv

Last night Tanara, Kim and Andrew (seen here next to Sylvia) insisted that we accompany them to see a night of improv at the Varscona Theatre, just off Edmonton's Whyte Avenue. I'm glad they did, because not only are Sylvia and I struggling against our natural tendencies to become homebodies, it also happened to be a really fun show.

Improvisation is a hit-or-miss art form. Depending on the nature of the necessary audience interaction and the talent of the performers, the results can range from brilliant to painful. There was a little of each last night, but the best moment happened when one performers managed to construct a hilarious rap song about his dead mother.

The nature of improv leads to absurd situations that would never occur in real life, so naturally I'm a fan of the form. In fact, Sylvia and I have even talked about pursuing improv as a hobby in the past, and the director's announcement that Rapid Fire Theatre holds improv workshops is certainly tempting. I used to be pretty good at it in junior high school...