StreetRag ::: An Urban Notebook http://textpattern.com/?v=4.0.6 http://www.streetrag.com An Urban Weblog and Podcast About Edmonton, Authored by Michael Gravel Tue, 13 May 2008 09:05:54 -0700 StreetRag ::: An Urban Notebook http://www.streetrag.com/images/2007design/banner-11.jpg http://www.streetrag.com About StreetRag StreetRag was a 28-month long writing project authored by Edmonton based poet Michael Gravel. It was launched in December 2005 and concluded in April 2008. The work was an ongoing account of the author’s experiences on the streets of Edmonton. People were the main focus of the blog, but recurring subjects included public transit, nighttime city denziens, Edmonton’s always troublesome weather, the grit and humor of urban life, and the beauty of the every day. The writing was fluid and often poetic. From the about page:

StreetRag is an urban weblog and podcast about the city of Edmonton – a rusty ‘ol socket of a town that wants to be a big city but can’t figure out how. Edmonton is located in Alberta, which makes it the de-facto capital of industry in Canada. StreetRag is updated frequently with written urban vignettes, photographs of suspect quality, deuteronomously abstract vocal ramblings, barely coherent musings and specious ecumenical treatises. StreetRag is a love letter to Edmonton and its people.

In all, 259 vignettes were published. 600 visitor comments were left, and the site enjoyed a small but loyal online following. StreetRag is no longer updated but all material remains intact as originally published. You can visit the archives as a starting point if you wish. Here’s the first StreetRag article, if you’re up to starting at the beginning.

The article Edmonton Slang Terms has been the most popular post on the site, receiving upwards of 10,000 views and counting. Five Stabbings, No Tomorrow, a piece about street violence in Edmonton published in November 2006, has endured for its subject matter and still sees daily traffic.

A podcast was added to the site in September 2007. Only 13 episodes were produced, but the audio recordings offered a unique dimension by introducing the author’s voice to the readership. Podcast episodes can be found here, for your listening enjoyment.

Author Michael Gravel still lives in Edmonton and is currently involved in other writing projects.

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/289/about-streetrag-front-page http://www.streetrag.com/article/289/about-streetrag-front-page Tue, 13 May 2008 09:05:54 -0700 Avenue 6am 6am on the avenue. Early for everyone except the school goers and the early work arrivers. It’s fucking cold. Isn’t it about time March escorted her shivering, bony ass out of here and made way for April’s daffodil kisses? The coffee wranglers just opened. Lucky for me, ‘cause a day isn’t a day without a shot of the oil first thing. Large, 2 and 2 up. Nary a nod from the coffee kid behind the counter. Bowie on the stereo and I step outside. Wind hits like a cheek-bound papercut. The orange “don’t walk” hands and whiteman “do walks” seem frozen in their incandescent utility. Tripe-like Dodge 1 ton dually clobbers past and throws stones up everywhere, one of them barely misses my skull and hits the cafe window. Motherfuckers and their trucks.

Whispery. Lack of voices out here. Just caught a glimpse of a shitbox Toyota dead in a back alley. Cobraheads are curved and throwing off the light; sun’s coming up. Exhaust in the air. Tap my foot at the corner. Guy walks up beside me. His cellphone rings. Innocent maybe. The prick busted my dawn.

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/288/avenue-6am http://www.streetrag.com/article/288/avenue-6am Wed, 02 Apr 2008 12:04:56 -0700 Overheard on the 4 Westbound “Bitch took my smokes last night.”

“Really? What a cow.”

“Yeah, no shit. ‘Course that don’t matter ‘cause I stole her car last week.”

“When did your car die?”

“Last week, plucked and fucked. Tie rods shot, needs a new water pump. Cocksucker.”

“My uncle fixes shit. Maybe he could take a look at it.”

“Maybe…”

“Wanna drink tonight?”

“Only if you’re payin’, douchebag.”

“I paid last time, bitch.”

“Kidding, llama face.”

“Llama face? What the hell?”

“Yeah, you know, face like a fucking pack animal.”

“Dude, you’re fucking weird.”

“Hey, I ain’t the one tryin’ to skip out on buyin’ the booze.”

“I ain’t buyin’ this time.”

“I’ll buy. Dozen?”

“Make it 18. Long week.”

“Smokes. We need smokes. Grab some smokes, too. Pay you back later.”

“Whatever.”

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/287/overheard-on-the-4-westbound http://www.streetrag.com/article/287/overheard-on-the-4-westbound Mon, 31 Mar 2008 12:03:10 -0700 Cigarettes and Aspirin She’s wearing a white knee-length jacket that somehow looks out of place. On the corner with cracked white hands and a weathered face. She’s crossing the same street that I am. A touch below zero out here and she’s 50 maybe. The little white man appears and we cross the street, me trailing slightly behind. Down the street, while walking, she fishes a bottle of aspirin out of her pocket. Gracefully places one in her mouth and then throws the bottle back into her pocket. Reaches into the other pocket, pulls out a pack of smokes. Yanks a zippo, lights up, snaps the lighter back into her pocket. I get the impression that I am witnessing a set of refined and practiced movements, honed over years. She continues to walk gracefully down the block, white coat trailing and cigarette dangling casual-like from the left hand. Every 20 seconds or so, hand reaches for mouth and a drag is pulled in. Exhale up and to the left. She makes it look effortless, as if she was born with a DuMaurier in her hand.

We get to the end of the block and she’s crossing again. So am I. She gives a quick glance back to me, as if to say, I know you’re watching. Butts out the cigarette with her heel. We wait for a few seconds and the walk light turns white. She walks on unconcerned, another aspirin (or whatever) down the hatch. That white coat almost looks tragic in the whiskerbreeze. I contemplate a left turn. I go.

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/286/cigarettes-and-aspirin http://www.streetrag.com/article/286/cigarettes-and-aspirin Fri, 28 Mar 2008 12:03:23 -0700 The Pain of Millgate Millgate’s all about the dew rags (do rags?) today. Guy who just stepped off the 60 has one. Dude over there in the shadows is sporting one as well. Tough guys everywhere in this shithole. Brisk spring day, but more like late winter with the visible breath and chattering teeth. Smashed-up can of Coke on the ground, dewrag #1 kicks it across the bus runway. Pulls a pack of menthols from his jacket and lights one. Smoke hangs from his lip as he adjusts his shades and pulls up his baggy-assed pants. I check my watch and realize that the 8 is late for the 3rd day in a row. That bastard toque-wearing driver must be on glue or something. Maybe it’s not his fault but I think it is. Dewrag #2 maintains his cool, leans against a concrete pile. White earbuds dangle; taps his foot almost imperceptibly. I find a dime on the ground and lament the days when a phone call could be made for a quarter, and then I contemplate the dearth of phone booths.

The 8 finally hauls its stinky ass into the station and docks. Grizzled grin from the driver. Give him a nod and find a seat at the back. Both dewrags get on and sit nearby. #1 whips out a cellphone and #2 starts chewing gum. I cue up Dylan and go back to what I was doing.

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/285/the-pain-of-millgate http://www.streetrag.com/article/285/the-pain-of-millgate Wed, 26 Mar 2008 12:03:23 -0700 Mitchell Industrial Park The wife and I took a little jaunt a few days back to shoot some night time photos of one of my favorite areas of the city: The west end industrial parks. They are fascinating places to me. Don't ask me why. It's weird. Anyways, here's a slideshow. Enjoy.

Some Saturday night dates we are, huh?

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/284/mitchell-industrial-park http://www.streetrag.com/article/284/mitchell-industrial-park Sun, 23 Mar 2008 06:03:12 -0700 Dumped and Freezing Fucking March and her white panties. Saturday: two inches of the frigid white on the ground when I wake up. Who ordered this shit? Then there’s the -17° freeze-out and 200 feet of concrete to clear front and back. Up and out of bed, shake off the Friday sleep, shot of tea, toast; rattle into the denims and watchcap. Saturday morning walk around the neighbourhood and all’s good. Sun’s showing early these days and I’m not the only early riser out here. Fog coughs from post-breakfast mouths and the pom-pom toques and aluminum shovels are out in full force. Shovels sound like a chokehouse rhythm section: Scape. Pause. Scrape. Pause. The time between scrapes is what counts. White flurries get pushed into streets and front yards get covered in uneven stacks of packed white with ditches carved out for walkways. Bootprints are frozen into ice.

I have the camera with me, but the sky is gray. It’s hard to tell if the sky is actually on. The ceiling could be 1000 feet, could be 10,000. Can’t create an image with no contrast. Guy over there running his dog in the school field. Beautiful black mutt, looks like a Lab cross – strong and temporarily free in the snow. Dog comes up to me for a quick sniff. I give her a head pat then she leaves, tongue everywhere. Owner gives me a cheerful hello and wave, I throw him a nod. The soccer field’s cleared off and the snow is stacked in neat windrows bordering the playing field. This strikes me as odd and it’s something that you would only see in Canada, I’m sure.

Schoolhouse windows look hopeful. No light behind them but there’s grade five art pasted: Snowflakes, easter eggs, bunnies, dogs. One window has a group of different-colored hand cutouts taped on it. Small hands waving to the gray and white. Plenty of time for that later in life.

Across the street an old man is shoveling. Looks too old to be doing it, but he’s going at a good clip. He alternates between a scraper and a shovel. Corn broom against the house. Wipes his nose into his mitted hand. His wife lingers in the window. He sees me across the street and stops for a moment. Leans against the handle of his shovel. His breath is visible and heavy. Throws me a half-salute and dives back into the labour. That’s the second person today who has acknowledged me. I give him a wave.

Damned monotone day. It could be noon. Could be 5pm. I run my mitts along the schoolyard chainlink as I make my way.

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/281/dumped-and-freezing http://www.streetrag.com/article/281/dumped-and-freezing Mon, 17 Mar 2008 10:03:02 -0700 The Guy With Slippery Eyes (2) The front of the bus is always a crapshoot. Might sit with someone halfways normal, might get stuck beside a crackpot who won’t stop spewing. This is especially true when you’re on the 8 northbound from Mill Woods. I like getting a good look at everyone, so the back seat (curbside) is my spot of choice. Today the rig is rammed and I’m forced to take a seat at the very front, just behind the driver. I almost never sit up here. I consider these seats reserved, and I’d rather stand than sit in one. Someone always needs them more than I do. A man sits across from me with his hat bowed down, like he’s trying to hide his face. Dark skin with some tats on his forearms; shot of a beard. By the body language, he appears to be traveling with someone but the two exchange no words. Near Lakewood transit center he lifts his head up and I finally get a good look at him. Cataracts. Glossy eyes that slide across his sockets. Creepy, but they look kind of cool. Can’t tell for sure, but I think he’s casting a few glances my way. His eyes slide from side to side with a strange hypnotic motion. Can he see? He carries no cane. Perhaps the other person is his navigator.

He stays on the bus at Millgate and continues the journey north. His attention seems to shift down the bus. The squawking girls near the back. Maybe the overly-loud, tough talking b-boy by the door. Then again, it could be the quiet middle-aged man with the simple hair and Tuesday razor burn. Someone yanks the cord. A short, older woman makes her way from the back seat to the door. The guy with the slippery eyes nudges his companion. Time to go he says. Bus grinds into 76th avenue and 83rd, curbs. Glassy eyes holds the arm of his friend and they all get off. I think I hear the guy call out to the older woman. Maybe his mother. Or sister. Warm out there today. Sludge in the gutter and faint ice on the sidewalks. I’m off a minute later. Don’t need the mitts, but the sun’s a killer. Good thing I brought the Wayfarers.

— Michael Gravel

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]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/279/the-guy-with-slippery-eyes http://www.streetrag.com/article/279/the-guy-with-slippery-eyes Sat, 08 Mar 2008 12:03:29 -0800 Coffee Monk Sub zero, sunglasses donned. Cafe, 2pm. New York State Of Mind on the speakers. Order my black & tip the barrista well (I don’t normally tip for a simple pour). Scan the place for a seat. One comfy chair in the corner. Drop my jacket and notebook: round table for two minus one, leather-backed chair. Cream and sugar down the hatch, everything good and right. I spot an unusual in the far corner. A monk in flowing orange robes. Cueball skull, olive skin, no rings, two super large dead soldiers in front of him. I watch him for a minute or two. He’s beautiful and graceful. He’s writing longhand, scribbling page after page, scarcely looking up. I break open my notebook. It’s almost done – few day’s worth of pages at best. I get lost in my own scribblings and enjoy the buzz of sweetened black. I see the monk turn over another page. And another. Time goes by and his pencil goes down. He gets up with a becoming grace…looks downright holy in this place. Walks up to the counter, orders another big one: Double latte. Moves to the side of the till and strikes a patient pose. Slight smirk on his face. What is a monk doing here? I ask myself. a good a place as any, I guess. A moment later he grabs his black, gives it a quick stir, sits back down. Yellow pencil with red eraser churning the air. He cranks out 2 more pages with a focused restraint I can’t help but admire. He appears steadfast in his scribbling, but he packs it in soon thereafter. Gathers his papers and his leather bag, heads out into the sub-zero E-Town crunch, long orange robes flowing behind him. Billy Joel still on the sound system. I also write with a pencil. This 2B lead is too soft. At the end of my cafe sit I am unimpressed with my half page of near-truths and ducked honesty.

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/278/coffee-monk http://www.streetrag.com/article/278/coffee-monk Thu, 28 Feb 2008 12:02:47 -0800 Southgate #28 Food court’s filled with grazers. Plates of salad, fries and chicken everywhere, uniformed table-clearers cleaning up. Place is rammed, -20 outside, lineup for ice cream is long; Orange Julius slinging demented orange juice, lotsa single sitters at tables for four. Woman eating fish & chips beside me, hood covering face, chewing loudly. She gets up with no ceremony or pause, leaves in a huff. Guy over there tearing up a plate of KFC and a poutine; he’ll be lucky to make it out of here alive. Guys behind the sneeze guard at the Japanese grill make it happen quick with no bullshit, no niceties, order or get out of the way. New girl on the till at New York Fries. Lineup’s longer than it should be.

Department stores smell of plastic and perfume. Ruined shoe leather beating the 12×12 tiles, rattling of wallets. Shoe department and underwear dept are canon-fire dead, save one man thumbing through the wifebeaters. Picks up a three pack of the whiteys, makes his way around. Escalators scaling, taking people to lampless furniture floors and reams of chromium egg beaters. Young bright-eyed couples running around choosing wedding gifts – spending other people’s money, start off on the right foot – in debt but horny. Down the moving stairs: Jewelry, lingerie, dresses, eau de toilette. Watch repair at the bottom of the stairs – lonely guy with glasses.

Mall proper-flat, wide, single floor. 12×12 tiles and they’ve removed some of the slumped couches from the halls. Too many bums maybe, altho this neighbourhood is homeless-free. Blockhouse shoe stores filled with dames and stubble boys, latest fashions, two-toned flatpack sneakers, black leather covering thighs, maybe a heel for accentuating circumstances, maybe a pair of hikers just in case a crop of mountains appears in our ‘lil prairie town. Clothing and more clothing. Didn’t we solve the north American clothing crisis a hundred years ago? Duds for coffee-carrying car coaters; smug book-lookers sipping white-cupped cappuccino and browsing skinny magazines. Everything’s a ploy, a blurprinted attempt at fleecing anyone who walks by (I mean advertising – both the magazines and the people). Store selling fancy radios – what was the world like before high-capacity portable music boxes? No demand 20 years back, but now there’s so much coming down the pipe, too much dither, too many sad dollars being slung.

Out back in the moneyhalls jewelers beating 3 months salary for a hunk of lead and a stone, earrings made with mirrors, tennis extreme bracelets, some value, nice shine nice cash. Music store kicking out the hits and back catalogs, big beats, cheap tunes, movies and TV – disposable. Kiosks hot with hawkers, cellphone bullshit accessories, hairpieces, tasteless t-shirts. Drug store tucked in the corner. Pharmacy busy and sad. One chocolate bar – buck 25. Fish a toonie from the denims. Watch says 3pm. Thanks exchanged. Woman walks by with a leather bag. Drops it on her way to the bank machine.

— Michael Gravel

]]> http://www.streetrag.com/article/277/southgate-28 http://www.streetrag.com/article/277/southgate-28 Mon, 25 Feb 2008 10:02:21 -0800