Pop-Folk

by Nic Olson

I got a copy of ‘John Denver’s Greatest Hits’ on vinyl in the mail today from a friend. The artwork is composed of a portrait of John in a forest somewhere, shoulders up, huge dope-induced smile, Huckleberry Finn style haircut, old leather hat held on his head by his hand, sunshine on his shoulders making him happy. The backside’s layout is similar, although the photo was taken from further away, John is sitting, and there is an aged dog next to him. He actually looks like Kurtis a little bit.

In the kitchen, five steps from my desk, my roommate is planning his wedding with his fiancée. They aren’t speaking English, and they haven’t told me that they are planning their wedding, but it is evident. The annoyed tones, the procreative tension, the debates about money. That’s love, baby.

And I wonder how I always end up living with these people.

Walking to school yesterday I found a rubber popper toy. I don’t know their actual name, but it is a half-sphere with a tiny hole in the middle. You flip it inside-out, set it on a hard surface, and wait for it to turn inside-in, shooting up in the air a few feet of absolute ecstasy. One of my favourite childhood toys, next to the Magnetic Gyro Wheel. Only gravity defying toys impressed me. I picked it out of the gutter encrusted in dirt, washed it off with water from my water bottle, and brought it home for personal enjoyment.  My roommates talk about a day that means nothing, while I try to time the photography of the rubber popper. It’s not easy. Timing the rubber popper, I mean.

I am in the middle of my second laundry day of my two month Montreal existence. I am washing my sheets myself, for the first time in my entire life. Washing sheets is like changing underwear; everyone but me does it all too often. I spilt my bottle of hot sauce on my bed after Pizza City the other night while streaming some episodes. I also spilt half a beer on my bed last week while on a two hour Skype adventure. I still wouldn’t have washed them, but March is a month of guests and sharing beds, so I figured I’d be kind enough to make my room smell less like crotch rot.

To John Denver, and the sender of his goods.

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