This Could Be a Novel

[shanmonster]

The succinct version: my weekend fucking rocked.

The not-so-succinct version in point form:

• Went to the bus terminal with schwartzung at 4:30 to catch the 5:00 bus. Bus didn't leave until 5:20. We were supposed to arrive in Toronto a bit after 6. Traffic is truly brutal, and we don't get there until 7:30. By this point, Schwartzung's jonesing for nicotine so bad I'm afraid he's going to murder everyone. I'm the closest in proximity, and I realize this means I'll be the first to go. Crisis is averted when we evacuate the bus and he lights up.
  
• I grab us a couple of bagels at a Tim Horton's manned by the utterly incompetent, and we book it up to Convocation Hall at the University of Toronto. We meet up with Ivor, the singer for Schwartzung's band 8 Digital, then take our seats to listen to the educated rantings of Henry Rollins. Although the guys' seats have a much better view than I with my seat in the nosebleed section, I am the luckier. They sit directly behind someone whose arse is constantly emitting mustard gas.
  
• Henry fucking rocks. He regales us with fabulous tales for three hours without break. He doesn't even need to take a single sip of water the whole time. I don't know how he does it. He rambles about everything from The Ruts to travelling in Syria to the linguistic peculiarities of George W. Bush and Christopher Walken, leaving us all very happy campers indeed.
  
• We leave U of T and head down to Queen St. West and Savage Garden. Ivor and I are hungry, so he takes me in to a Jamaican restaurant while Schwartzung boogies on down to Savage. One chicken patty later, I arrive, too, only to discover I've just missed Glenn Love's performance. Damn. I apologize to Glenn for missing his show (I'd really wanted to see him), and he says no matter, because he'll be doing another show in the very near future. And because he's a big ol' sweetie, hugs fly like shrapnel.
  
• I am surrounded by gothlings.
  
• Ward from H-427 sees me and attacks me with a giant hug. Shortly afterwards, he takes the stage and the show begins.
  
• Most of the gothlings stand around with a carefully cultivated jaded look. H-427 are acting like utter maniacs on stage. Finally, despite themselves, the gothlings are drawn into the vortex of rivethead energy, and they dance around like maniacs, too, cheering vociferously at the end of every song.
  
• The bloodbath begins. The mostly naked Kevin looks like he fell into the waste bin at an abattoir. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Schwartzung chugging fake blood, adding a few swigs of beer, and gargling. Moments later he spews the concoction all over Ward.
  
• Ward dives off the stage and onto the dance floor, writhing around like there's a buzzer up his ass. Keyboards go flying. Gothlings dance like electrocuted cats. The music blares onward.
  
• Back when I was taking grad-level creative writing at the University of New Brunswick, I didn't fit in too well to academe. Neither did Chris. We were the bad girls of the English department. Anyhow, she strolls by me, and I yoink her as she walks by.
  
• Too hot in my all-leather ensemble, I've stripped down to leather pants and a sports bra. Ward makes a beeline for me and slathers my sweaty exposed flesh with blood. It's revolting and hilarious. I try not to think about the chemical blood/saliva/beer cocktail and imagine it's real blood, because somehow that's much less disgusting.
  
• I take lots of pictures.
  
• Chris gets blood mauled, too.
  
• The show ends, and as the stage is being cleaned up and the blood spills mopped, Chris and I keep on dancing. More pictures are taken with H-427 and Schwartzung, and we decide to go out for food together.
  
• Roaming around Chinatown at 3 in the morning, we finally find a suitable place and go in. I'm not really hungry, and end up giving my tasty hot and sour soup away.
  
• After Kevin the vegetarian turns rather green when he discovers he's been eating pork, I get ready to dodge the forthcoming stream of vomit. He manages to keep it down.
  
• Crossing the street, I demonstrate my dancer's grace by stumbling off a curb. I manage not to fall. Moments later, Schwartzung demonstrates his gentlemanly nature by distracting everyone from my bumbling when he takes a spectacular nosedive onto the street. Luckily for him, he never falls, so it must have been someone else who took the tumble. Yeah...
  
• Schwartzung and I go back to Chris's place and shoot the shit for a few more hours. Despite being completely wired and manic, I make myself go to bed around 5:30 am.
  
• I wake up, still completely wired, at 8:30 am. WTF?
  
• Eventually the others stumble out of bed, and we have a cup of tea while listening to Slayer.
  
• The day is spent shopping along Queen St. Note: I don't like going to the Eaton Centre at the best of times. I never want to go the the Eaton Centre again when it's busy. Weekends and Boxing Day are definitely out. I get filled with The Rage.
  
• Schwartzung and I decide to stay one more night, and we booze it up at Chris's. She offers us some rum. I take a tiny sip and furrow my brow. I take another tiny sip, then yell, "That's not rum!" Despite 3/4s of the bottle already being drunk by Chris, she'd somehow failed to notice this was actually 100% agave tequila. Soooo not rum.
  
• We buy more hooch at the liquor store, and while under the influence of rum tequila and hard cider, I pen out the skeleton for the Great Canadian Novel, which when I complete it shall win the Governor General's Award, because it's being crafted specifically to that end. I'm calling it Bad Sex in Toronto. We talk about bad sex. I laugh more, and become more and more inebriated.
  
• Schwartzung and Chris are chatting in the dining room, and I wander over to the kitchen. I stand with my sock-encased feet a bit wide on the tile floor. My feet begin to slide apart on the floor. I look down in astonishment. I see Schwartzung looking at me with a raise eyebrow. My feet keep drifting further and further apart. I fall down. I get up again. Schwartzung and I laugh. Chris missed the whole thing.
  
• We watch Orgazmo. We watch Jesus is Magic. My three hours of sleep catches up to me. I can barely move. Barely think. I drink plenty of water and stumble to bed.
  
• Eight hours later I get up. The other two are still asleep, so I spend a couple of hours reading Camille Paglia.
  
• The others get up. We drink tea and listen to Meshugga, and then head out to Nicky Z's for a really late breakfast where I eat the best omelet I've ever had in my entire life.
  
• Goodbyes all around, and Schwartzung and I hop the 5:30 bus back home to Kitchener.

And how was your weekend?

Comments

[ltmurnau.livejournal.com]

Henry Rollins is a fantastic storyteller. I don't know how he does it either; you just wind him up and put him on the stage, and the stories roll out....

[shanmonster.livejournal.com]

I don't know. He must spend the rest of his time gagged.

[cryduchat.livejournal.com]

Awesome! Somehow my weekend of Robotech does not seem as exciting anymore ... *pout*

[zombienought.livejournal.com]

Once again, you offer proof that Coffee Time >
Tim Horton's.

I have pretty much stopped eating at Chinese
restaurants unless they're specifically vege-
tarian or marketing directly toward vegetari-
ans with separate selections. Because THEY
LIE!

One good thing about the Eaton Centre was that
there was a magical place in the basement that
was an entire store devoted to Cadbury chocolate.
Is it still there?

[real-bethy.livejournal.com]

Sounds like a great weekend (except for the Camille Paglia part!)

[shanmonster.livejournal.com]

I think she's entertaining!

[stuffguy.livejournal.com]

You win!

Greetings!

[jadedeath.livejournal.com]

Tis I the videographer of doom.

Logan