I know what you’re thinking, “My God, they finally broke him. How will we ever know what’s really going on?”
But please allow me to put your fears to rest, neither have they broken me, nor will I cease providing you with the truth about this festival.
I was merely attending “Me Sexy” in an investigative capacity. I needed to find out why the writer’s festival deemed it necessary to turn the main stage into a wanton display of sexuality. It takes place at Manitoba Theatre for Young People for crying out loud. There were delicate ears in the building. Have these people no decency? Oh, wait, they’re drugging us, they have no decency.
Anyway, I was there to figure out why.
At first I thought this reckless presentation of human carnality was for shock value. As any celebrity can tell you, the best way to increase interest in you is to do something controversial. But was the festival really playing the Paris Hilton of the local arts community? After careful consideration, I thought no.
If there is one thing I’ve learned about these people, it’s that the easy answer is never the truth. There was something underhanded going on and I was going find out what it was.
As always, the evening began with Charlene. She went on and on with her writer’s fest propaganda as usual. It was writer’s fest this, and books are good that, and do you like my shoes and so on and so forth. While I tried to ignore most of it, some things did catch my ear.
Near the end of her speech, Charlene began to rant and rave about how if people checked out the blog they shouldn’t believe any of it. She said it was called Hot Air for a reason. She said everyone should just consider it irreverent commentary.
Irreverent my butt. Every word I have written has been carefully researched. I’m not one of those writers who goes around making stuff up. I only deal in the truth (or possibly shades thereof).
Anyway, once Charlene had finished her blathering, the writers began to read. That’s when something strange began to happen.
All of a sudden, somewhere between Drew Hayden Taylor’s harlequinian introduction (wasn’t he in that wine tasting movie) and Rosanna Deerchild’s saucy new shoes (now those were nice shoes), I noticed a TWITTER in my stomach and an aching in my loins. All I could think about was getting home to my wife. I couldn’t help myself. So as soon as intermission came, I hit the road.
The drive was excruciating. I don’t live all that far from the Forks, but I’ll tell you it felt like I was coming back from Headingly. I think I hit 80 down St. Mary Avenue. I needed to get to my wife; the Spanish in me was awakened.
I must have made it home in five minutes flat. Within seconds I was in the house and had my arms wrapped around my wife. I leaned her back and kissed her like the war was over.
She slapped me.
“What are you doing, it’s not Saturday.”
She was right. It wasn’t Saturday. I don’t have sex on Thursdays. It’s only for Saturdays and every second Wednesday. How could I lose my head?
Then, it hit me (the reason why, not my wife). It was the festival. They read me dirty poems so I’d get all wound up and try to have sex. Why? Because if I have sex, I could make a baby. And why does the festival want me to make a baby? Because babies of addicts are addicts too. The festival would have a self-replicating fan base. This madness could go on forever.
So there you have it. That’s why they had erotica on the main stage. It’s just a ploy to get you to have sex and make festival-addicted babies. I was lucky my wife helped me stop before it was too late. I implore you, don’t count on luck.
Do the only responsible thing; don’t ever have sex again (please disregard if you have a same sex partner, you guys are fine).
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Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and bookstore employee. His poems and prose have been previously published in dark leisure magazine. He was interviewed for the Uniter once and is probably the only blogger here licensed to drive forklift. He doesn’t have any books coming out, but would most likely write one if asked.
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