’Twas a Friday the 13th, and where to begin?
Ah yes, I remember, it started with gin…
I arrived drunk: to begin with. Having emptied a bottle of Tanqueray, which I had just purchased but a day prior, my eyes twirled in their sockets: a feeble attempt to focus. I held up the bottle and stared at the label, squinting. Had there always been a picture of Houdini on it? The man – not Houdini, I saw; an old man, thin greasy hair, as if wet, clothes in tatters, perpetually shivering – was bound in heavy chains. An odd choice for a bottle of gin, I remember thinking. And the more I looked at it, the more it started to resemble my father.
And then it spoke: “Schmolaris! You will be haunted! By three spirits. Your miserliness, your craven, singular-focus on wealth and money – your greed – will be your ruin. If you do not change your immoral ways, your demise – your death – will be nigh. Look at me! Look at the burden I must carry! Mine is a fate best avoided.”
Me? A miser? What was this ghost of my father saying? Was he unaware that I, Steve Schmolaris, am one of Winnipeg’s most generous patron of the arts? So what if I drink half a bottle of gin on an empty stomach? Who is he to judge? Why, shouldn’t I use my – his – enormous wealth as I see fit?
Or is my father simply jealous? Unable to come to terms that I am using his fortune in a way he would not understand? Was this some kind of pitiful revenge for what he sees as a waste of a life?
I threw the bottle of gin on the ground, smashing it into thick shards. Enough of the gin. Enough of my father. I had a show to attend: OH HOLY NIGHT!
The West End Cultural Centre was like a stuffed stocking, and I stumbled to the merch table, threw down several bills, and left with a Show Pony T-shirt. Perhaps it was the speed at which I did all of this, but I was hit as if by a wave (of gin), and my stomach flexed, as if it was starved for air and needed to breathe. I could hear the first rumblings of Tired Cossack, and as I swam through the crowd – a beer somehow in my hands: where I had got it from, who had given it to me, I don’t know – I was again struck by something like an otherworldly presence: the ghostly hand of my father had gripped my stomach, and clenched. Nausea, a feeling of vertigo, my mouth watered.
I pushed my way back through the crowd and all but ran into the gender-neutral washroom, wherein I rushed into one of the stalls, slammed the door shut, and, breathed slowly, in and out, in and out, with the hope that this feeling of being turned inside out would pass. Bad Gardeners, I regret to say it did not, and I hurled a slurry of sour juniper juice and unidentifiable chunks of maybe meat into the toilet.
Tired Cossack played on. Muffled though it was, the music hit my ears with intensity. It rattled me.
“Hey, you OK in there?” said someone in the adjacent stall. Oh jeez, I thought. My father’s ghost was right, after all. Here was the first ghost: the Ghost of Christmas Past. Here it was to remind me of the shameful life I have lived. To take me back to my childhood in East Schmelkirk, when my mother was still alive, with her bright kindness, opening presents by a roaring fire, all smiles and cheer.
“No! No! No!” I shouted at the ghost. “Get away!” Nostalgia seeped out of the corners of my mouth, and I spat on the toilet seat between my legs. This seemed to work, and I heard the person flush and exit the stall.
I felt a sweet relief, and I sat there for some time, concentrating on my breath. The air was hardly fresh, as one could imagine, but it stabilized me. I may have missed Tired Cossack, but I felt confident that I would not miss Show Pony.
Still sitting, I turned around and saw two full cups of red wine on the tank. Were they mine? I searched my mind, and rationalized that, yes, they were mine. I must have brought them in with me, because who would just leave two cups of wine in the washroom?
I was not yet ready to leave the stall, yet I also needed something with which to wash out my mouth. Red wine would work. And, before I knew it, both glasses were empty.
People came and went. Pissing, only some washing their hands, crushing paper towels.
And just as Show Pony was about to begin, I heard a knock at the door. Dear God – it was the second ghost: the Ghost of Christmas Present!
“Occupied!” I yelled, panicking slightly. Who knew, perhaps the Ghost of Christmas Present had a key to the stall, could barge in even if I protested. Would it show me all of the Christmas parties taking place right now? All of the other concerts and events going on in Winnipeg? Would it show me Times Changed? Sidestage? Park Alley? But I didn’t want to see those other parties, those other concerts. I wanted to see Show Pony! I want to see Holy Void! I refused to be transported elsewhere!
And so I held up my feet to the stall door to prevent it from opening. The Ghost of Christmas Present tried to push its way in, but I held it steady.
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To read the rest of this review — and more by Steve Schmolaris — visit his website Bad Gardening Advice.
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Steve Schmolaris is the founder of the Schmolaris Prize, “the most prestigious prize in all of Manitoba,” which he first awarded in 1977. Each year, he awards the prize to the best album of the year. He does not have a profession but, having come from money (his father, “the Millionaire of East Schmelkirk,” left him his fortune when he died in 1977), Steve is a patron of the arts. Inspired by the exquisite detail of a holotype, the collective intelligence of slime mold, the natural world and the suffering inherent within it — and also music (fuck, he loves music!) — Steve has long been writing reviews of Winnipeg artists’ songs and albums at his website Bad Gardening Advice, leading to the publication of a book of the same name.
