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imperfectmedium--I miss you most on long weekends, I think.
Thursday begins like any other weekend night (Thursday being de facto Friday due to Remembrance Day, but having kind of a Saturday feel to it due to the imminent shop closures and slow buses). I arrive at Jamie's prepared to spend a comfortable evening involving sweatpants and Tetris. However, at the convenient hour of 11 p.m., Jamie suddenly "remembers" that his friend Kenny owes him money, and that he promised to meet Kenny at everyone's favourite watering hole, the Chocolate Shop. Convenient, because karaoke has just started at the Shop, and if there's one thing Jamie loves, it's the chance to sing in public without resorting to perching on a fence while cartoon boots sail past his head.
So we go to karaoke.
I, as has been previously stated, am in my sweatpants. Because I live two blocks away, and because I was not expecting to go out, I haven't brought any other clothes. Jamie assures me that hardly anyone will be at the bar; however, we arrive to discover approximately 30 Americans clogging up the place, all twenty-one or under, all immaculately dressed. Brilliant. Additionally, they cannot sing. Now, modesty dictates that most people, when polled about their singing abilities, respond with the time-honoured reply, "No, I can't sing--not really." However, I will vouch for the fact that these particular Americans, in spite of their swanky duds and freshly-scrubbed American Idol-esque teenage faces, could not, in fact, carry a tune with a bucket.
Also, Kenny has decided that he and Jamie should arm-wrestle for the money. Yes, you read that correctly. No, I don't understand--in fact, I suspect that in order to understand, I would have to be the proud owner of a pair of testicles. I believe the phrase "not for all the tea in China" would be a propos in this situation.
Kenny endears himself to the Americans by belting out "Like a Virgin" (a song that reached its height of popularity before any of these apple-cheeked urchins were born).
Jamie sings a U2 song.
Jamie's friend Sam and I have a long and intense discussion about art while he melts plastic bits onto his lighter to illustrate the finer points of modern sculpture. Sam is young, blond and fair, tall, phlegmatic. He drinks tea and does a mean Johnny Cash impresson.
When Jamie returns, he thumbs through a discarded newspaper, to find that Sam has drawn a grotesquely large penis emerging from the mouth of the recently-fired coach of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. "That's just rude," he remarks.
"It's art," I reply, and, to Jamie's vast bemusement, much laughter ensues.
The Americans sing--and I'm being generous in my use of the term--some country.
Jamie arm-wrestles Kenny for the money.
Kenny, drunk and belligerent, demands a rematch.
I sing "Brian Wilson".
Jamie's friend Chris floats in on some kind of chemical-induced Cloud Nine. Imagine a skinny, raw-boned boy, dark, barely-controlled mania in straight-leg jeans and a leather jacket, and you will have Chris. His energetic rendition of "Highway to Hell," which culminates in his humping the leg of the Shop's resident Tarot reader, results in a mass exodus of the less-than-tuneful Americans. Alas.
Chris sits down across from me and informs me that he is now the front man in an Alice Cooper tribute band, which will be performing in two weeks. It is a foregone conclusion that I will be attending this historic event. Chris is a man forever on the verge of greatness. But something is different.
Chris has met a girl.
"I never really thought about hooking up with her--I mean, I saw that she would date all these weird guys that were all wrong for her, and I thought, I could be a better boyfriend than that, right? But I never--and then this one night--and now we just click, you know? She's good for me--like, she challenges me and shit?" He leans in confidentially. "You know, you and Jamie--you guys are tight. And I dig that, I respect it, like--and I want that for me, you know? I never really did, but now... man, you gotta meet her, you gotta see her play in the band. She's awesome."
On the way home from the Shop, Jamie is skeptical. Chris is always excited about something. Once it was physics. Another time, he was going to start his own restaurant. I don't disagree, but I cross my fingers for him. I hope that this time, he really has found what he is looking for.
We go to sleep late; I'm exhausted, I've been up since 7 a.m. But Jamie rubs my back, and the next morning, I will sleep in while he makes his world-famous sourdough French toast (his secret ingredient is vanilla--shhh, don't tell).
imperfectmedium--I miss you most on long weekends, I think.Thursday begins like any other weekend night (Thursday being de facto Friday due to Remembrance Day, but having kind of a Saturday feel to it due to the imminent shop closures and slow buses). I arrive at Jamie's prepared to spend a comfortable evening involving sweatpants and Tetris. However, at the convenient hour of 11 p.m., Jamie suddenly "remembers" that his friend Kenny owes him money, and that he promised to meet Kenny at everyone's favourite watering hole, the Chocolate Shop. Convenient, because karaoke has just started at the Shop, and if there's one thing Jamie loves, it's the chance to sing in public without resorting to perching on a fence while cartoon boots sail past his head.
So we go to karaoke.
I, as has been previously stated, am in my sweatpants. Because I live two blocks away, and because I was not expecting to go out, I haven't brought any other clothes. Jamie assures me that hardly anyone will be at the bar; however, we arrive to discover approximately 30 Americans clogging up the place, all twenty-one or under, all immaculately dressed. Brilliant. Additionally, they cannot sing. Now, modesty dictates that most people, when polled about their singing abilities, respond with the time-honoured reply, "No, I can't sing--not really." However, I will vouch for the fact that these particular Americans, in spite of their swanky duds and freshly-scrubbed American Idol-esque teenage faces, could not, in fact, carry a tune with a bucket.
Also, Kenny has decided that he and Jamie should arm-wrestle for the money. Yes, you read that correctly. No, I don't understand--in fact, I suspect that in order to understand, I would have to be the proud owner of a pair of testicles. I believe the phrase "not for all the tea in China" would be a propos in this situation.
Kenny endears himself to the Americans by belting out "Like a Virgin" (a song that reached its height of popularity before any of these apple-cheeked urchins were born).
Jamie sings a U2 song.
Jamie's friend Sam and I have a long and intense discussion about art while he melts plastic bits onto his lighter to illustrate the finer points of modern sculpture. Sam is young, blond and fair, tall, phlegmatic. He drinks tea and does a mean Johnny Cash impresson.
When Jamie returns, he thumbs through a discarded newspaper, to find that Sam has drawn a grotesquely large penis emerging from the mouth of the recently-fired coach of the Winnipeg Blue Bombers. "That's just rude," he remarks.
"It's art," I reply, and, to Jamie's vast bemusement, much laughter ensues.
The Americans sing--and I'm being generous in my use of the term--some country.
Jamie arm-wrestles Kenny for the money.
Kenny, drunk and belligerent, demands a rematch.
I sing "Brian Wilson".
Jamie's friend Chris floats in on some kind of chemical-induced Cloud Nine. Imagine a skinny, raw-boned boy, dark, barely-controlled mania in straight-leg jeans and a leather jacket, and you will have Chris. His energetic rendition of "Highway to Hell," which culminates in his humping the leg of the Shop's resident Tarot reader, results in a mass exodus of the less-than-tuneful Americans. Alas.
Chris sits down across from me and informs me that he is now the front man in an Alice Cooper tribute band, which will be performing in two weeks. It is a foregone conclusion that I will be attending this historic event. Chris is a man forever on the verge of greatness. But something is different.
Chris has met a girl.
"I never really thought about hooking up with her--I mean, I saw that she would date all these weird guys that were all wrong for her, and I thought, I could be a better boyfriend than that, right? But I never--and then this one night--and now we just click, you know? She's good for me--like, she challenges me and shit?" He leans in confidentially. "You know, you and Jamie--you guys are tight. And I dig that, I respect it, like--and I want that for me, you know? I never really did, but now... man, you gotta meet her, you gotta see her play in the band. She's awesome."
On the way home from the Shop, Jamie is skeptical. Chris is always excited about something. Once it was physics. Another time, he was going to start his own restaurant. I don't disagree, but I cross my fingers for him. I hope that this time, he really has found what he is looking for.
We go to sleep late; I'm exhausted, I've been up since 7 a.m. But Jamie rubs my back, and the next morning, I will sleep in while he makes his world-famous sourdough French toast (his secret ingredient is vanilla--shhh, don't tell).
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-14 05:40 am (UTC)!! :)
no subject
Date: 2005-11-14 05:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-14 02:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-14 03:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-14 07:38 am (UTC)The Chocolate Shop is awesome.
Canadians do some mean karaoke.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-14 02:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-16 11:20 am (UTC)damn, wish i'd been there. so glad you wrote this, so i can feel like i was.
have i met sam? i feel like i *should* have met sam.
there was a total dearth of BNL at the noraebang. v. disappointing, as they are always singable, even when totally wasted.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-16 03:45 pm (UTC)