Archive for July, 2008

28
Jul
08

Pemberton babies

By shawnster Leave a Comment
Categories: Shawn
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The tents were so close together that the campground looked like a refugee camp, which caused more than one person to remark that, nine months from now, a lot of babies were going to be making appearances. Specifically, Pemberton Festival babies. 

All of which brings me to think about, to consider, hookups at music festivals. Looking back on my past, I can’t recall ever having gotten esp. lucky at festivals. Oh sure, there was that time I found my contact lenses when I thought for sure I’d lost them, and the acid was just kicking in, but you know what I mean. 

Actually there was this one Winnipeg Folk Festival, back in the days when I would actually CAMP at one of these things, where I found myself sleeping in tent with a bunch of people from Regina, including this pretty cute redhead named Erin. Sigh. Erin. Although, the memory is hazy, and I can’t recall the association moving much further than that one tent night. 

Truth is, though, I haven’t been to a whole lot festivals, certainly not where I’ve camped. I’m not much of a camper, for one thing, so unless someone’s got a tent and a Coleman stove and an extra sleeping bag, not to mention copious amounts of bourbon, I won’t be going off into the woods anytime soon. I’m certainly glad I didn’t camp at Pemberton, knowing the problems campers faced (traffic, getting to and from camp-sites, baggy shorts). Yet my imagination runs wild at the idea of all that irresponsible, ill-informed, and probably sloppy attempts at coitus. The only two good stories I heard, though, was from a camper who claimed she’d gone to look for a place to pee while waiting for the shuttle to take her back to her site and stumbled across a couple doing it behind a parked bus. Another camper added he’d seen a girl, in last night’s dress and mussed-up hair, emerge from a tent, look around like “Where the hell am I?” and then bolt away like a startled deer. Okay, I added the “startled dear” part myself. 

Meanwhile, my imagination ran amok as well at the prospect of the stagette party going on in Whistler, the town near Pemberton where I stayed during the festival. The thing is, the Texas Twister (my “girlfriend-type thing,” as her friend referred to her) was at this stagette, which prompted my fevered imagination to imagine all kinds of scenarios, many including vibrating toys, pillow fights, and lingerie. (And who says porn is affecting the way we view sex?) Apparently the closest they came was when the Texas Twister, who was sleeping with Amelie, the French girl whose stagette it was, reached across and groped her–mistaking her for me (or so she says). In fact, the Twisterindulged overmuch in the afternoon and passed out, missing the whole nightclub scene that included an impromptu striptease by a dude at the bar. Which just goes to show, if you want the inside story on a stagette, you have to go in and get it yourself.

(Clockwise from left) Edmonton girl shows off her mad skillz on the hoop. Kathleen Edwards cuts loose on her rocker “Back to Me.” Dirty foot. Mate of State Kory Gardner. Janine J. at the Bacardi B-Live lounge. One of the costumed dancers onstage during the Flaming Lips was a sun…

26
Jul
08

Live from Pemberton

By shawnster 1 Comment
Categories: Shawn
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Hey all you hep-cats and -girls, the first (and maybe last) Pemberton Music Festival is underway here in beautiful B.C. People started arriving Thursday, got stranded by the side of the road overnight, and continued to arrive in droves yesterday. Pemberton is located half an hour north of Whistler, the playground of the rich and the snowboarding, but traffic was so slow yesterday (Friday) that the drive took about two hours. Naturally, with the first edition of a festival of this kind and size (40,000 expected each day), there are going to be some growing pains. Yet for all the disorganization, overpriced beer ($7 for a Coors Light? Gimme a break!), and dust, the vibe was positive on the festival grounds. I’m sure this was due a great deal to the natural beauty of the surroundings–mountains on all sides. The grounds are located in a valley, though maybe dustbowl would be more accurate, making it hard to watch, say, top-hatted bore Serj Tankian (of the Armenian-American political hard-rock band System of a Down) or angry man Trent Reznor and his Nine Inch Nails when you could be looking at the gorgeous scenery.

And, as usual with these kinds of things, you never know who you’re going to run into–although it’s a safe bet you’re going to run into some music industry types, recognizable by their search for free booze. I ran into Robin Esrock, who hosts a travel show on OTN I believe, backstage at the Bacardi B-Live tent, and who I haven’t seen since the infamous Global Warming pool party in March. (Overheard just now in the Fairmont Whistler Hotel lounge: “We came all the way from Chicago to see bears. What is the best way to do it?”) Also hanging out–actually lying recumbent on one of the canopied beds set up outside–was Janine Jankowski, she of the nice stems, while her DJ boyfriend Jesse James did the rounds. Nearby, the B-Live tent, devoted to electronica and dancebeats, was a frenzied, sweaty barn-dance the couple of times I looked in on it. The musical highlight of the day was easily Kathleen Edwards rocking out (in a black evening dress, no less) on her great, funny, killer post-revenge track “Back to Me.” This lady can rock, no doubt.

Meanwhile, the girlfriend-type-thing (a phrase coined by her own friend Rachel!) is also in Whistler, where I’m staying when not at the festival. But she’s with five other girls as part of a stagette party. I’m hoping, so I have something interesting to report next time, for stories of decadence and debauchery with lingerie and battery-operated toys.

25
Jul
08

A Singles Rant Against the Soon-to-be-Hitched

By lenatic 1 Comment
Categories: Lena
Tags: , , , , ,

Some book I read recently had a phrase along the lines of, “Everyone loves someone who’s about to be married.”

Make that, everyone but me.

Perhaps that character in the book should have said: Everyone’s willing to do extra things and go along with all kinds of madness for engaged people, since they’re going to be forced into it whether they like it or not, so why not give in gracefully…

I know this is not just me. I have read advice columns on the topic… in business columns, even in an in-flight mag I think. One of the people writing in for advice was a GUY. He couldn’t take the bride-zilla-ness of a colleague. If guys are writing in to agony aunt columns, you know it’s bad.

I’m writing 3 books over the summer, and my first deadline is next Wednesday. (Hence the silence.) Actually it was supposed to be last Monday, but I begged 10 more days for myself. It’s been the busiest month of my life. And yet, I’ve found time to throw a bridal shower and a bachelorette party, to plan a trip to Hawaii (that’s where the wedding is), and to write up a marketing plan for my soon-to-be-brother-in-law’s new business…because “don’t you care what happens to our future and the family we will soon have?” (Yes I care. I am the kind of sucker who cares so much that I took my Fourth of July morning to write the damn thing.)

But damned if I care enough about this wedding, or if I have gone through enough hoops in its honor…because I left my dog at the soon-to-be-hitched folks’ house in SF for three days so I could run all over Northern California doing last-minute research. And I got a midnight phone call last nite telling me how inconsiderate I am.

“Don’t you care that this is the busiest week of our lives?” said the soon-to-be in-law.

“Don’t you care that it’s the busiest month of mine, and I’ve been working 19 hours a day?” I asked.

“Forget that. It’s the busiest week of ours.” he responds.

Ooookay. Question answered.

How is it that spending far too much money to put on fancy clothes and walk down an aisle is so much more difficult than writing an entire book?

Or wait. Could it be (and I know this is a very controversial statement) that IT’S NOT!?! It’s just that, thanks to American commercial notions, we are all supposed to kow-tow to that ridiculous notion on the part of the bride and groom. Hence the parties, the presents, the time commitments, the 6 months of saying “yes” to every request, with a smile? And in the end, it’s still not enough.

I am an easygoing single, and I have not snapped yet (except on the Internet…ahahah). But I promise you this: While I may someday marry, I will NEVER put my family, or my friends, or myself, through this nonsense. Sheesh. It’s about vows, commitment and a friggin’ cake. Everything else is just a pain in the ass gravy.

18
Jul
08

Quadrophonic Malloy

By shawnster 1 Comment
Categories: Shawn
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Left: the basement artistry of Malloy. Right: the man, the myth..

It strikes me, a week after arriving back home in Vancouver, that I haven’t wrapped up my story of my trip back to my hometown. The 10-day non-vacation (at least half the time was spent working or with relations) was a chance to reacquaint myself with the family and friends and, as is my wont, to consider all the ways my life has gone wrong since I left the warmth of the family hearth, if not the womb.

All in all, I’d say the trip was a success. True, I didn’t manage to talk my way out of staying at my parents’ (the food is questionable, the service worse, and I have no fondness for my old room, a small dank basement unit with wood-panelling where I spent my troubled teenage years and which is now full of my nephew’s sports equipment). And true, the mosquitoes were bad (as always this time of year–but not as bad as Hellboy II. And the weather was not great, especially the last few days, when I actually had to wear long pants and a hoodie.

But I did reconnect with my friend Dennis and his lovely wife Sandra. In fact, my one venture out into Winnipeg nightlife–not counting hipster karaoke on the Wednesday night–was with Dennis, Sandra, and Sandra’s cousin Steiny (short for Thorstein–he’s Icelandic). Steiny was down from the Pas, a northern Manitoba (meaning: colder than an icebox in winter) settlement of about 6,000. I’m not sure what, exactly, he made of Alive, the nightclub we went to last Friday. Sandra had asked around to find out where to go, and when to get there to avoid a lineup. We avoided a lineup, all right. We also avoided any other patrons, at least until half an hour later. That’s when the Badabing party bus rolled up outside the club. A red carpet was unfurled, and a couple of dozen 20somethings in various states of inebriation tumbled out. We moved from a window seat to a table overlooking the dancefloor, which was suddenly semi-populated. Then the Miller Genuine Draft girls appeared, and set up a tub full of beer. As the evening wore on, the zippers on their jumpers got lower. Around 11 the evening’s entertainment, a cover band called the Boom, hit the stage. Let’s just say, it takes some nerve on the part of management to post a dress code that specifies “no white shoes”, and then employs a band that covers Bryan Adams songs.

One disappointment of the trip was that my high school drinking partner, Malloy, never called back about a visit. This is too bad because he’s always good for a story. A great big bloke, black hair, uni-brow, the youngest of a big Irish family, he has the sickest imagination and sense of humour of anyone I know. If you’ve seen the movie Superbad, specifically the end credits–which play over drawing after drawing of cocks, an obsession of one of the main (male) characters–you’ll have some idea of the kind of drawings that found their way onto Malloy’s notebook paper in high school. Strangely enough, for such a twisted individual, he has gone on to marry and breed–two daughters at last count. The last time I was there was typical of a visit to his suburban house; he ushered me downstairs, poured me a rye-and-Coke, and gave me a tour of his domain, i.e. the basement he has made into a shrine to his fave pop culture icons. Then, amidst the models (a Monkees car, a Starship Enterprise), Beatles paraphernalia, and a ’70s pinball machine, he treated me to a classic Malloy performance. He popped in a videocassette of footage of him playing guitar on a picket line from when he and his fellow casino workers were on strike, and pressed “play” on a cassette mix of classic rock tunes and his own 4-track originals. He handed me a scrapbook, which featured all his appearances in the local print media, from high school basketball photos to news stories about his picket line serenading . Then, while his voice warbled out of the speakers and he appeared on TV and I flipped through the clips of long-ago exploits, he talked about himself. Quadrophonic Malloy.

BUT, on the plus side of the trip, I finally wore down my niece Delaney. The five-year-old used to hide behind her mom, my sister Corall, whenever she saw me. But on this trip, I let her no in no uncertain terms that I was coming over to her house for lunch, and that she’d better have a tuna sandwich ready for me–just the way I like it, with little pieces of dill pickle mixed with the tuna. My heavyhanded approach worked–when the fateful lunch date arrived, she actually did help her mom make some sandwiches.

There were other highlights–dinner at Dennis and Sandra’s, my uncle’s gift of a bottle of Crown Royal, taking my nephew to a rock show, E. parking four blocks away from a (free) concert so he wouldn’t have to pay for parking. But, I’m glad to be back in Vancouver. At least you can get a decent mojito in this town.

14
Jul
08

An ode to my overly dramatic ex

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
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I’m still good friends with my ex from 12 years ago, even though (or maybe because) we only see each other about twice a year. When I was 20 I thought that if he and I still knew each other at this age, we’d be married, having worked through our personality differences and volatile communication patterns. Instead, having worked through them, we’re more like brother and sister. We swap dating stories and provide career support and maintain a loving but detached relationship that requires only 1-2 hours phone time per month. When I was 21, I thought this guy was my other half. Now he’s more like an extremity. Always there, never requiring much thought, and usually (barring some massive universal shakeup) completely predictable.

Which is why I’m writing this blog. Of all the men I’ve known and dished about, G (which is actually his nickname) is the only one to threaten bodily harm to me if I ever wrote about him. “You’ll wake up with your toes missing the week after you publish it,” I believe were his actual words.

“Do you really think you’re important enough for me to bother writing about?” I asked him. “Anything juicy between us happened too long ago for me to even remember.”

G is such a drama queen. He’s prone to vast exaggeration, sudden emotional thunderstorms, and passionate pronouncements swiftly forgotten.  The above gory threat falls into the latter category. Seriously, who else in the world would think my  dating rants worthy of such retaliation? Or consideration, even?

In order for a dating column to warrant any kind of retaliation on the part of the subject, it would have to be explicit, incriminating and personally damaging. It would probably have to name the subject outright. And then, of course, the subject would have to find it.

There have been a few instances where my subjects have stumbled across columns written about them, but none have ever done anything more than send a brief email like: “Hey, saw that thing you wrote about me, how u doing?”  This is because, while I might poke fun or point out stupid behavior, I steer clear of the incriminating/damaging/outright-naming racket.  Even for those who might deserve it.

The fact that G, who hasn’t done anything to piss me off in several years and hasn’t slept with me in–hm, I think 7 or 8 years? memory fails–would think I’d publish a character-besmirching tell-all about him, speaks volumes about his own particular brand of paranoia. It also brings out the bratty side in me, which is what’s driving me to write this blog.

In the old days, maybe he’d have found it and we’d have gotten in a rip-roaring fight (I told you not to write about me!/ I don’t care, I do what I want! / You disrespectful little…little… etc etc.) Now? No way. G is the last person who’d ever Google my writing. He has zero interest. As for eavesdropping on my personal life…well, he’d probably get more of a thrill watching 2007 Women’s National Bowling League reruns.

And I know this not only because I know him (know him as well as the very toes he threatened to remove), but because I have already written about him several times–even on this very blog, within the past two months–and he’s never mentioned it. Never ever. NEVER.

G, for the record and for posterity–though not for your eyes, because you’ll never friggin’ read this–you are the world’s biggest exaggerator. You are not in the Mafia, and shouldn’t talk as though you are. I suspect you will never grow out of it, and this makes me sigh a big sigh.

You are also one of the funniest people I’ve ever met–totally a blast on road-trips, as we rediscovered last week, and great for shocking people at Hollywood parties. While you may be Skinnybones Jones, you look damn good in ripped-up blue jeans and nothing else. Oh, and even though we haven’t had sex in ages, I remember and am happy to go on record confirming that you are OUTSTANDING in the kip.

See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

11
Jul
08

Winnipeg dispatch #3

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Categories: Shawn
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Ah, the Winnipeg Folk Festival. One of this city’s true claims to fame, along with the Guess Who, Monty Hall, and mosquitos. I missed last year’s, which was a shame because pasties caught on like wildfire. Perhaps that’s not an apt metaphor. But the big news at last year’s four-day event was the number of ladies (girls, women, probably a few guys too) stripping down to their waists and donning the non-garment favoured by burlesque dancers to cover their nipples. This year however there is a general ban on pasties, or at least the people selling them weren’t invited back. My friend Linda, whom I found pouring beer in the beer tent, was there last year, and said that the first day, when it was mostly young nubiles, was fine. But by the third day when all the older granola-eaters were also letting it all hang out, things were starting to, er, get out of hand. Hey, she said it.

I must be out of touch with the Winnipeg scene since, among the thousands attending yesterday’s opening night festivities (including a soul-stirring, night-ending set by Michael Franti and his band), the only person I recognized was Linda–and even she I might not have seen were it not for my thirst for beer. Of course, I also knew E., whom I came with, and who true to form danced like a madman. With the end of his 12-year marriage he is back on the scene, going out nearly every night and dancing to any and all bands coming through town. He’s getting quite a reputation for his manic moves, to the point where I half-expected to see a picture of him in this morning’s daily rag’s coverage of the festival. At one point, a whole bunch of kids wearing these butterfly-antennae headbands were imitating his St. Vitus dance, so he came over and got them into the spirit of the thing, like a real Pied Piper. They were soon dancing with, not at him.

Speaking of Pied Pipers, I’m wearing my niece down. The 4-year-old Delaney (or Duh-Laney as I call her) has agreed, after much insistence on my part, to make lunch for me today–a tuna salad sandwich with, as I specified, little bits of dill pickle mixed in with the tuna. I consider this a personal triumph since, on my last visit, she would hide behind the nearest parental figure’s leg the moment I walked in the room. We’ll see how this goes.

But back to the Folk Fest. It was the 35th annual, and of those I’ve been to maybe half a dozen. The last time I went I shared a tent with my friend R., who got so tanked she threw up–outside the tent, sure, but still, not the first sight you want to come across in the morning. This time, no camping for this guy.

Last night was special for another reason–hometown heroes the Weakerthans played. One of the few local bands to get international recognition, their appearance at the Folk Festival was a bridging of generations, and genres, since their music is more rock than folk. Anyway, my point being, that lead singer John K. Samson came out for an encore of the tune “I Hate Winnipeg”, a love-hate letter to the city, that got everyone singing along. It was almost more inspiring than a field full of pasties-wearing folkies.

09
Jul
08

Winnipeg dispatch #2: Old friends

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Categories: Shawn
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It was good seeing Dennis the other night. It’s been years since the last time our paths crossed, but he was looking no different–still boyish, still the same smark-alecky grin. Back in my prowling days, well my early prowling days, we would haunt the highways and byways of the city, actually just one byway , a nightclub called Broadway’s, where the peanuts were free and the Prairie new wave bands played. We were too-frequent regulars there, as well as at Carlos & Murphy’s, a Mexican-ish drinking joint not far from where we lived. It was Dennis’s idea to reconvene at C&M’s for a beer for old time’s sake. Everything had changed except the bathrooms–the menus were laminate, the staff surlier, the wider-assed.

He’s back in the city he swore he’d never return to, at least to live–but that’s what maturity, and ill relatives, will do to you. He’s still happily married, to Sandra, his wife of many years–15? 16? how long ago was it I gave that drunken speech at their wedding?–and they still don’t have kids. That hasn’t changed–they’re still deadset against it, something I found refreshing to hear. “Did you know there are twice as many people on the planet now than when we were born?” he said. “I don’t want to add to that problem.” He has a point.

That was Monday night; yesterday I went for lunch with mom. I should know better, because each time we do something like this I hear more terrible family secrets that I wish I hadn’t. This one is so big, weird and TV movie-of-the-week-ish I’m not even able to divulge it. Suffice it to say it doesn’t involve anyone in my immediate family, thank Odin.

Speaking of my mom, she gets ideas into her head. I suppose it was my mistake in the first place for mentioning I’d been hacking around on the drums with the band I’m in. Ever since she heard that she’s had it in mind that I should take a drum lesson with my 11-year-old nephew’s instructor. I’ve found it’s just easier to agree to these kinds of things than fight them, and so there I was yesterday afternoon getting a drum lesson. “I can see we’re not going to work any miracles here, on the evidence,” says Greg, the drum teacher. He’s thin, shaven-headed, manic, and very loud–a hazard of the job, I guess.

Later today: lunch with my crazy friend Shannon, who never fails to say something offensive, and dinner at my sister’s. Big laughs ahead.

07
Jul
08

Dispatch from Winnipeg #1

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Categories: Shawn

It’s four days into my annual summer trip back to my hometown, and the weather is holding true to form. I should know by now to come later in July, or even August. I seem to remember there used to be a couple of weeks before it got too hot and mosquito-filled, but I never seem to hit the sweet spot.

Besides bad weather (below average temperatures, heavy winds, overcast skies and occasional rain), there are other things i can count on when I come back. Like the annual exchange between my friend Ed (early 40s) and my 75-year-old bachelor uncle. Typically, it takes place in the kitchen of my parents’ house, and goes something like this:

“Hi, Ed. Long time no see. So, when are you getting married?”

“Just as soon as you do, Morley.”

This year, there was a variation: “Hi, Ed. Long time no see. I hear you’re close to getting married.”

“Just as close as you are, Morley.”

As usual, a good part of the trip is spent catching up on family gossip. For instance, the cousin whose doctor husband left her is now the bad guy. First it was the doctor but now it’s emerged that the cousin has more than her share of the blame, and that she’s also been keeping a secret, hidden stash of… horses. I’m not at liberty to say anymore.

On my first day and night back, I reunited with Ed and another high school buddy, whom I’ll just call Y for now. Anyway, Y told us a story over dinner about this girl he’s hung up on, and how even though it’s been ages since she returned one of his calls he sent over a present for her birthday. “Is that pathetic?” he asked. Now, I don’t pretend to be a dating expert, but…

Saturday, my sister Corrall hosted a backyard party/barbecue in honour of the 40th anniversary of her in-laws’ marriage. That’s right, folks; 40 years. Didn’t know people still stayed together that long, didya? What’s more, my sister’s husband had a 6-ft long rectangular banner made up with a wedding pic of the lucky couple and a more recent one. And damned if their smiles weren’t as bright and shining in the recent one as it was in the one from 40 years ago. Congrats, Larry and Janice. I couldn’t have done it. And also, does this mean you’ve only ever had sex with each other? Whoops, sorry, I had to ask.

A few years back my mom decided what our white-trash, bargain-hunting family needed was a trailer. Actually, her sister Vilma (nickname: Doll) was selling hers. So mom “talked” dad into it (“bully” is such a harsh word) and now we have a trailer in a park near Lake Winnipeg, just north of Gimli (dubbed “the New Iceland” because of all the Icelanders living there*).

So that’s what my uncle, my dad, and I did on Sunday–drove 90 miles north of the city to a trailer park north of Gimli. “Take the garbage to the dump!” barked mom in way of greeting (long story, but basically she wasn’t too happy that we’d wanted to stay at the party the night before and she’d come out last night and already had done a bunch of things around the trailer). The big news was that another cousin of mine, Darlene, was bringing her new boyfriend by. Turns out Owen is a bit of a dud, or so we agreed–he didn’t say much, and what he did say wasn’t memorable. Darlene did most of the talking, actually, as we sat outside, swatting at and cursing the mosquitos.

07
Jul
08

Love is indeed fleeting

By lenatic Leave a Comment
Categories: Lena
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People say that women “of a marriageable age” see a cute guy and immediately imagine ourselves shacked up with him, and having his babies.  I’ve even read chick lit novels that confirm it. Apparently this is “too much, too fast,” even when it’s purely in our own minds.

In that case, I have the following question: What’s the deal with men who start quizzing you about future plans (and your whereabouts last Friday night) before you’ve ever properly met them, and a half-hour into your first date, they’re already deciding where the two of you are going to live?

Jesus Crikey on a popsicle! Talk about moving too fast!

In those situations, I can’t ever figure out if it’s pure 100% meaningless blather, if they think they’re saying what the woman wants to hear, if they’re sort of kidding (but not completely, b/c men never joke about that stuff unless they kinda mean it); or if they’re just on an obsessive nutty hunt for a wife and any woman will do. It baffles me. I just sit there looking confused and trying to figure out a polite way of saying, “SHUT UP!! YOU FREAK, I DON’T KNOW YOU, WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE WE’RE ENGAGED?”

Maybe they’re trying to make me comfortable by being decisive? In that case, time for a different strategy.

But on the positive side, these hyper-activated one-sided relationship trajectories tend to burst into full flame and then wither and die within about 72 hours. Seriously. A couple weeks ago, I was talking to a guy who already was concerned whether I’d quit working to raise the kids before he and I had ever MET. We got in a tiff while trying to plan the third date: it came to light that I enjoy restaurants, and consider dining to be more of a pleasure than a chore.  He, on the other hand, might as well be eating from a feed bag for all he cares. What’s more, he told me, ALL MEN feel that way. I disagreed. In a dolorous voice, he said, “I don’t know if this is going to work out.”

Gee. You think?

Then, last Thursday, I met the mystery man from three years ago. Before I left the house, I told him I couldn’t spend too long out, because I am moving out of my apartment over the weekend. He said, “Not to sound weird, but I have a spare room, and you can stay there for a couple weeks.”

Um, yeah, that sounds weird.

We met, we recognized each other, we went to have a drink, and within a few minutes I remembered why I didn’t talk to this guy for years: HE’S ONE OF THOSE ONES.

Our conversation revolved around his work–which is poker–and my work. I hate poker, and I usually don’t like the people who play it. I told him this before I ever agreed to meet him. Nonetheless, I was treated to a lengthy monologue detailing the career highlights and comparative skill levels of a half-dozen random players I don’t give a hellshite about.

Then I treated him to a lengthy monologue about book publishing vs. magazines…and I think he may have fallen asleep for a few minutes. Then he woke up and asked me what we were doing the next night. THE FOURTH OF JULY, mind you. I said I had plans. He said, “Fine the next night. ” I said, I’m moving. He said, “No no, I’m going to help you move, we’re going to go pick up some day laborers from Home Depot, so on Saturday you’re free to share a bottle of wine with me.”

Gentlemen: This would be such sweet music, coming from someone I’d dated for a couple months. But on the FIRST DATE? It is completely and utterly insane. And presumptuous.

“I really am not sure I’ll be able to,” I said.

But he wasn’t having it. Till Saturday afternoon, when he texted me and I responded that I couldn’t make it…whereupon he texted me back huffily, telling me he was getting on a plane to Vegas to hang out with a bunch of girls I don’t know.

I guess I’ve been dumped. Good thing I didn’t take him up on the spare room offer.

05
Jul
08

Meeting the friends

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Categories: Shawn
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So last weekend I went down to Portland with N. It was an opportunity to meet her friends, i.e. get sized up by strangers in a different city.

So far she’s met only two of mine. She encountered Wingy for the first time at 5 a.m. when she picked us up at the Vancouver International Airport arriving back from Toronto. No one was at their best, although Wingy was still networking like a madman. (This is true. He is a machine; we’re walking towards our respective cars with a local musician, Dan Mangan, and his girlfriend, and Wingy’s trying to find out what friends she and he share. He’s a walking Facebook.) And before launching ourselves across the border and onto the I-5 we went for dinner at my former wingman’s, which was pleasant and notable mostly for the top-notch quality of the prawns and wine. 

Meanwhile, I’ve met N.’s roommate, a nice enough guy but a drummer, and also friends of hers from work (i.e. scientists!) at a dinner party at her place a couple Saturdays ago. They were nice, if French, and the girl whose birthday it was has a gap in her front teeth, so she’s alright people.

But Portland was another matter; here I would be among friends she knew in another life, and under scrutiny by her own Homeland Security Department.

I think I acquited myself well enough. I was thrown for a loop almost immediately when the first friend, comic-book artist Craigy T., immediately asked a) if we’re dating and b) how we met. When I told him how I started chatting N. up at the post office he asked, “How do you do that without coming off as creepy? Maybe you could give me some tips”, a backhanded compliment if ever there was one. Who knows, maybe I did come across as creepy (N. says I didn’t, but I probably have since). Anyway, I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering, “Am I creepy?”

This happened shortly after our arrival in Portland, outside in a park on a beautiful and hot late June afternoon. The occasion was a wedding reception for N.’s friends Cassie and Bryan, whom I got to know a little better later that night at Valentine’s, a downtown drinking establishment, and then again at brunch the next day at Meriwether’s (if memory serves). The two are about to embark on a two-and-a-half month road trip across this glorious country of theirs, and then resume their studies and restaurant jobs. Both are nice people, as are Randy and Rorie, who also came to brunch.

As for the impression I made, I can only guess; N. assures me her inbox was full of rave reviews for me following our trip, but I wonder. I was pretty drunk Sunday night, at our last dinner before leaving. For instance, although I was “on” (or so I believed at the time) when meeting N.’s friend Rachel for drinks at the hotel lounge, by the time the three of us staggered over to the Farm (local produce, cooked in spectacularly tasty ways) to meet up with N.’s other friend Jeff and his girlfriend Erin I was at least three shots of bourbon to the wind. Still, that didn’t stop me from thinking I was the funniest drunk at the table, which was probably not true but prompted me to ramble on about whatever popped into my head, little of which I can remember though I think, the hypocrisy of Hollywood movies was one of my soapbox subjects. (I do remember thinking, “Someone tell me to shut up, please.”)

Anyway, that was one gauntlet passed through with more or less flying colours, and now N. just has to meet some more of my rogues gallery of acquaintances. But before that happens, I’ll be turning this blog into a series of dispatches from Winnipeg, my hometown, where I’m currently visiting family and old friends–including the dreaded Malloy. Stay tuned.

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