Paul Quarrington's death today has hit the Canadian literary community -- and, I imagine, the musical one - hard. He was so central to its reality that he seemed eternal, indestructible. But, of course, that's a fancy, for none of us is.
My own relationship to Paul was trivial, or at least began trivially. In the 1990s, we were members of rival teams in an ultra-competitive Monday night trivia league. Not bitter rivals, for there was nothing bitter about Paul. But he, and his musician brother Tony, were formidably erudite. The team I played with, the Times Squares, usually lost to Paul's team, All Over Twisted (which I'm told still exists). But one season we beat them in the finals, an especially delicious moment. Paul was sarcastically graceful in defeat -- there was a lot of banter in these games, most of it friendly, some of it even witty.
Oddly, years later we locked trivia-stocked minds in the annual charity event sponsored by Toronto's firefighters. This time, Paul was part of a team of savvy freelancers; I was on one of The Globe and Mail teams. And again we edged them out.
"We kicked your ass," I mocked with false braggadoccio (at least I hope it was false).
"And we'll kick yours next time." Thus Paul. And meaning it.
But next time never came, and today I'm regretting not having my ass kicked by Paul, at least trivially.