for Joe Pera
My second return to Canada from Covid exile was to Windsor, mainly to see Matthew Good do a solo set.
I went through the tunnel, and spent less than five minutes talking to Canadian border patrol, because I have long mastered the art of pretending to be a happy-go-lucky Michigan yokel who is just there for a weekend getaway in an exotic land who they cannot stand talking to so much so that, most of the time, they just wave you through in less than five minutes of chatting.
To get the full experience of this poem, three things must be noted:
1) Covid, and 2020 overall, had black pilled me to such an extent that I can't possibly imagine anything getting significantly better in the future. This isn't meant to bash or discourage efforts to do so—I wish more than ANYTHING to be proven wrong—but this is one of the things you get when you begin a new decade by getting slammed daily with the most awful, most jack-shit insane stuff you can imagine.
2) I got into a couple of new things in 2020—most notably hiking—but I also noticed that my threshold for reflection, nostalgia, and even feeling "spiritual", had gotten cranked up big time. I've always been this way, but holy shit, something about living through a plague did something to my core that basically made me even more into longing and reminiscing than I was pre-Covid.
I check into the Quality Inn that’s right downtown, and as I wait behind someone, I look over at the television, and see news coverage of the Chinese weather balloon that had entered American airspace that everyone in my country was freaking the fuck out about.
“Oh, my fucking God,” I mumbled, embarrassed by it all.
My turn comes, and I walk up, begging the various forces that run the universe that the clerk doesn’t start cracking dumb American jokes at my expense.
I AGREE with the jokes, but Jesus Christ, this shit is so fucking stupid, and I feel so embarrassed and awkward by the entire Spectacle, that I almost wish I was back over the border.
Thankfully, check-in goes normally, and I head to my room, not even looking back at the television as I hear Biden start yet another inane press conference.
***
First stop was Dr. Disc Records, on Ouellette Avenue, where I went mainly to see if there were any Matthew Good or Matthew Good Band albums I have yet to own.
The store is still in the same, eccentric vibe as it did before the pandemic.
As I’m looking around, some guy just comes up to me, and starts telling me about his favorite bands.
A staff member walks over, and gently requests that he stop badgering customers.
He agrees, and walks off to stare at a wall of posters.
The staff member apologies, and explains that the guy wasn't quite homeless, but he has his personal and mental issues, which he dealt with by hanging out in the store all day, getting into excitable, sincere conversations with customers about bands and albums he adores.
And they just don't have the heart to permanently ban him.
Much to my shock, a copy of MGB's first album, THE LAST OF THE GHETTO ASTRONAUTS, was available on CD for a reasonable price.
I checked out, and the clerk and I talk about his solo show going down this weekend.
I bring up the fact that, while I have this album on mp3, my previous searches for this album on Amazon only brought up used versions going for two-three hundred bucks.
The clerk is surprised, then thinks it over, and says, "Yeah, I could see that being done to a middle-aged alternative rocker."
***
I've seen Beer Store’s numerous times throughout my travels in Ontario, but I've never set foot in one before.
From my understanding—which will probably be corrected by the time this poem has been published, read, and performed—Canadians don't have the sweet, delicious liberty that we Americans do to get soul-numbing alcohol anywhere we wish.
Instead, they simply get the Orwellian-sounding entity called THE BEER STORE.
And the one I went to certainly lived up to that name.
It was basically a one large freezer.
You had the entrance area, with the cashier and a few beer related items for sale—shirts, cozies—, and the freezer itself, which contained only what it said it had:
BEER
No snacks, no mags, no tobacco, no toys, no tools, some signs, some labels, no violence, and no extravagance like American party stores.
I got some cans of Old Style Pilsner—which I first tried during the earlier NYE 2022 Toronto trip, thinking it was the Chicago swill I love so very much.
For the most part though, I would say it's slightly richer in taste.
It does bear better artwork on its can, which includes a rabbit.
I filled up a ten pack(!) with five of those creamy Pilsner, along with Tiger Beer, a pleasure I haven't had since the last time I was at the Subterranean in Chicago ages ago.
"You won't drink all that", my inner voice said, "you're not sad and bored enough!"
I told it that we'll see how the rest of the weekend goes.
Then I remembered how my homeland was currently freaking out on television and social media over a wayward Chinese weather balloon.
I thanked Odin for this 10 pack.
***
Dollarama really only has its cool name to go on.
Otherwise it's no different than Family Dollar or Dollar General—a store that portrays itself as selling shit for a buck, but most products, at their cheapest, are like three-five dollars.
I still go inside at least one of them whenever I visit Canada, just to see if I can find anything particularly unique.
It happened the last time I was here, pre-pandemic, but no luck upon my triumphant return.
I was surprised by seeing a Dollar Tree in a shopping center across the street from the center containing the Dollarama.
"All right, this I gotta see," I say as I drive over, excited because Dollar Tree, compared to all the other faux-dollar stores, tends to actually have unique stuff—my favorite being the ramshackle selection of movies (most of the time you get garbage that was seemingly made straight for the bargain bin, but occasionally you come across an indie treasure, or a straight up cinematic classic).
Much to my disappointment, this Dollar Tree was exactly like the ones in America—same products, same price, and even the same layout as American stores.
A few doors down from it was a FreshCo.
My heart leapt.
I already planned on getting some snacks to chow down on after my late night adventures concluded, but then I remembered something else I tried on my pre-pandemic visit, and wanted to try again:
Bagged Milk.
It was already somewhat there, but again, the first of the pandemic increased it: my interest in the local, every day, mundane stuff that residents never get excited about, and that travelers will never give a thought about unless they just happen to come across it, or it becomes part of a social media trend.
The local park
The local grocery store
The local farmers markets
The local street fairs
The local holiday celebrations
And certain items that can only be found in a particular town, area, or country.
Like milk that comes in a goddamn bag.
FreshCo, from what I can see, is basically the Save-A-Lot of Canada, meaning it looks slightly grungy, and you have to pack your own groceries in your own bags, or in discarded boxes provided by the store.
I got some snacks, two Lean Cuisines, and made a beeline to the dairy aisle.
I finally came upon the everyday item that I'm sure your average Canuck would find weird that I think it's fascinating enough to take the time to see.
There it was, in all its soft, chunky glory: Bagged milk
I got bagged milk for the first time at a Shop Rite in summer 2019 on my way back from Sand Point Beach as a goof.
What I didn't know though is that you need a pitcher to go along with the bag in order to drink it properly.
To solve this dilemma, I put my American ingenuity to work by using one of the hotel room free plastic cups instead, carefully poured the liquid in, and enjoyed my Canadian milk.
As fascinating as I find it, as someone who has utilized gallon jugs his entire life, I can see why this wouldn't probably catch on in the U.S.: it's too much work to handle, and we wouldn't be too keen on buying other components to enjoy it.
Why carry around a bag that could burst like a water balloon when I have a sturdy, reliable, ocean-killing hard plastic jug to take epic swigs from when I'm feeling hungover?
So I compromised, and just got the Nielsen half carton, though I was tempted to purchase a pitcher, which were appropriately positioned nearby, just so I could brag to about owning this exotic oddity when I nerd out to confounded American friends, family, and acquaintances the wonders of bagged milk.
I get back to the Quality Inn, and I see on the lobby television that the Chinese Weather Balloon had been shot down.
***
In the shadow of the United States freaking out over a wayward weather balloon, it was the one year anniversary of the Canadian trucker convoy.
This was celebrated by people driving various vehicles that weren't semi's around Windsor honking horns, blasting classic rock and metal, and yelling at people who either heckled them, flip them off, or who looked like someone they don't like (homeless people, folks who dressed in a way they deemed Middle Eastern, etc.)
They were also protesting Matthew Good's show at the Olde Walkerville Theatre, since Good said some shit online about how convoy fascists should be sent to the Congo, and shot by 14-year-old child soldiers with AK-47’s
As I stood in the corner, trying to light my pre-roll as the wind prevented my complimentary lighter from working, here were the same people, who themselves have screeched about how certain people should be forced out of the country, waving Canadian flags, American flags, Trump flags, some flags that I didn't recognize but that I'm sure have some far-right meaning to them, and shoving signs into the faces of anyone passing by.
A long-haired fascist runs out into the street, and waves a sign that says "MATTHEW GOOD IS A TOTALITARIAN" as cars swerve towards the middle so they don't hit him.
I get a few puffs in, and I start walking over.
I notice that the group are in a huddle, talking among themselves.
Seeing that they're too busy to yell at me, I power walk up to the entrance, flash my ticket to the row of security guards who were blocking the way, and they let me inside.
***
Matthew Good was not at the top of his game that night.
First, he was doing a solo acoustic tour, and based on a previous solo acoustic tour I attended a couple years back, I figured this one wouldn't be that good either (in comparison to when he has a backing band).
Second, this was him performing for the first time since label and talent agency dropped him for abuse allegations back in 2021.
And there I was, put into the particular position that I'm positive that anyone who admires someone, or is part of fandom, goes through at least once in their lives: how do you feel about it?
Matt didn't even look good that night.
He looked tired, and acted sluggish.
He played the hits from both himself and Matthew Good Band, which got us all excited—but the energy would dissipate almost immediately as Matt jumbled lyrics, cords, and sometimes even ended songs halfway.
He tried to lighten up the atmosphere with tour stories, and jokes about the protesters outside.
He even made some cracks about America freaking out about the Chinese spy/weather balloon.
Then he would trudge on, song after song after song.
Since I couldn't really immerse myself into the music like I can when he has a full band, my mind drifted through the saga of the abuse scandal, and the usual justification that comes up in my mind whenever someone who I admire to some extent either does, or is accused of, something horrible, or whose life and stardom takes a spectacular fall:
Don't do what they did.
Don't be like them.
It depends on the person and situation, but for the most part I'll still like them.
I may take a break from their work, but I'll return to it eventually, and find the same magic and meaning that I did pre-fall from grace.
But I've always tried to view my heroes with a near-equal amounts of empathy and criticism, and I've found the best way to do this is, in the end, is to usually conclude, "Yeah, I'm not gonna do that—I'm not gonna end up that way."
The best way to honor your heroes overall legacies is to be better than them, artistically and personally.
(Oh, and if you’re still gonna listen to their music, buy it second-hand, or pirate it, or something.)
***
The truck convoy protesters were long gone by the time the show ended.
It was starting to rain.
The Chinese weather balloon had been shot down, and the moral panic over it was starting to enter a newer, stupider stage that was awaiting me back in America.
I walked towards downtown, since during the show I suddenly remembered something I forgot to do: get a slice of pizza at Pizza Pizza (or, as I creatively nicknamed it, Canadian Sbarro).
The rain slowly continues to ratchet up as I make the thirty minute walk.
I get into Ouellette Avenue, and it was completely dead, the rain and street lights making it glitter.
Shouldn't be a surprise, being Sunday night and raining and all, but for some reason, it jarred me.
I get into Pizza Pizza, and it's only the clerk and I.
I request two slices of cheese pizza.
The clerk looks over at the display, then back at the ovens, and says they're out for the night.
I thank him, and leave.
The rain is coming down slightly harder now.
A few cars pass by, and I see a homeless person curling up in the entrance of a long-closed store.
I looked the other way down Oullette, and I can see some of Detroit.
I take a deep breath, zip up my jacket, and start the walk back to the Quality Inn to have some Old Style Pilsner.
/
Garret Schuelke is a writer, podcaster, and musician that currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), Anamakee (Riot Forge Studios, 2016), Whup Jamboree: Stories (Elmblad Media Group, 2017), and three ebooks. He is also the host of The Garret Schuelke Podcast, The Cheeseburger Blues: An Exploration into Dad Blues Rock, and A Riot of my Own. He makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory.
To learn more, visit Garret Schuelke’s official website: garretschuelke.tumblr.com.
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