THE FREENESS WEEKEND PART ONE: Hypothesis Confirmed
FRIDAY
The August long weekend was the last one before work started and also the last weekend before Nig 400 and St. Pat flew back to the land of sticky rice and untrimmed pubic hair. Friday was graduation day at the ESL school for this current crop of students. I stopped in to get better acquainted with faculty and pupils. All my future colleagues seem affably pleasant (especially the cat we call ‘Basil’, but we’ll return to him later).
Some students and now ex-teachers Themba and Pat headed to the Red Room for drinking and dancing. Which has to be one of the fucking most whack clubs I’ve been to. But, there were 20 of us and beer was cheap so it was also the most fun. It was Latin night so all the Mexican/Spanish/South American ESL students loved it. Mad respect for not trying to emulate this Western culture and throwing down like they do back home (the Asians have a nasty habit of wanting to be Americans). I had a great time, just drinking and dancing and swearing and falling over laughing at Basil. My man creepily, and without any hint of self-consciousness, crossed the line, danced too close and generally hit on any female students present.
Stephen Tite Pants, the bringer of adventure, showed up later in his pimp station wagon and took us to house party. Stephen’s effin’ hilarious. Say what you want about the happy affordability confidence allows, but the man doesn’t give a fuck and I feel richer for it. He rolls up in the crowded bungalow; heads straight for the stranger’s fridge, grabs a beer and starts chatting up some people right away. If you haven’t headed over to his My Space page yet, please do so – I dig his music and he deserves some props.
When we first arrived, I felt giddy. I felt like I was where I belonged. There was amazing art on the wall done (if I overheard correctly) by one of the tenants, lots of people in thick glasses and rad sneakers and scarves. It was, superficially, my indie Arcadia. So, yeah, I see this girl. Pretty as a bug’s ear. Ribbon in her hair. Cancer Bats t-shirt. All right. I dig Cancer Bats and I dig girls. The hunt for cunt is on. I just thought of that…and I am incredibly ashamed.
Themba offers: “Why don’t you talk to her, son?”
I retort: “I dunno. She’s talking to some dude.” God bless that kid. With a “c’mon, son” Themba, the best wingman in the business, heads over to her. Keep in mind, Themba breathes hip-hop and could give a fuck about some spastic Canadian rocker band.
THEMBA: [passing by GIRL] What? Cancer Bats? Yeah, right on!
GIRL: [skeptically] Yeah. Cancer Bats. You like them?
THEMBA: Shit yeah, of course. Who doesn’t?
GIRL: [growing more suspicious] How’d you know about them?
ME: [catching my cue] Alexisonfire. They played a show in Edmonton, where I’m from, and one of the guys was doing a local radio show and talked about them and played a few of their songs.
GIRL: [shoulders dropping and eyebrows raising at the realization we know what were talking about and this might be a more adroitly planned offensive than she assumed] Oh yeah? Cool.
THEMBA: Yeah, what up now?
Got to love that guy. So we talk, this lass and I. She went to the same high school as one of the guys from Alexisonfire, she’s an art student at Emily Carr, she likes Vancouver better than Southern Ontario, but the rain gets to her sometimes. Sadly, after a few minutes, as to the best calibration my social barometer achieves, I discover she’s kind of dumb. And, moreover, not remotely interested. Then I find out her name’s Jess and I get the fuck out of there faster than you can say ‘Ambisol’.
So we slink our separate ways and are quickly annexed by all the mingling and all people's random importance. This exchange gave me some insight, however. I think I’m a little quick to judge. I can equate style with intelligence or, worse, kindness. And that should stop. This isn’t some maudlin apology for my shallowness in talking to the woman I thought was the coolest looking, because everyone does that – I just think I could use a smidgen more neutrality in my interpersonal dealings and more prying of a, at times, only ajar mind.
EPILOGUE: a boisterous cheer to The Mongoose, who shirked all petty, bourgeoisie notions of fiduciary responsibility and gave us a squeaking bed frame to laugh over at three in the morning and an opportunity to dust off Mary Kay Letourneau jokes. You’re a gentlemen and a scholar.
The August long weekend was the last one before work started and also the last weekend before Nig 400 and St. Pat flew back to the land of sticky rice and untrimmed pubic hair. Friday was graduation day at the ESL school for this current crop of students. I stopped in to get better acquainted with faculty and pupils. All my future colleagues seem affably pleasant (especially the cat we call ‘Basil’, but we’ll return to him later).
Some students and now ex-teachers Themba and Pat headed to the Red Room for drinking and dancing. Which has to be one of the fucking most whack clubs I’ve been to. But, there were 20 of us and beer was cheap so it was also the most fun. It was Latin night so all the Mexican/Spanish/South American ESL students loved it. Mad respect for not trying to emulate this Western culture and throwing down like they do back home (the Asians have a nasty habit of wanting to be Americans). I had a great time, just drinking and dancing and swearing and falling over laughing at Basil. My man creepily, and without any hint of self-consciousness, crossed the line, danced too close and generally hit on any female students present.
Stephen Tite Pants, the bringer of adventure, showed up later in his pimp station wagon and took us to house party. Stephen’s effin’ hilarious. Say what you want about the happy affordability confidence allows, but the man doesn’t give a fuck and I feel richer for it. He rolls up in the crowded bungalow; heads straight for the stranger’s fridge, grabs a beer and starts chatting up some people right away. If you haven’t headed over to his My Space page yet, please do so – I dig his music and he deserves some props.
When we first arrived, I felt giddy. I felt like I was where I belonged. There was amazing art on the wall done (if I overheard correctly) by one of the tenants, lots of people in thick glasses and rad sneakers and scarves. It was, superficially, my indie Arcadia. So, yeah, I see this girl. Pretty as a bug’s ear. Ribbon in her hair. Cancer Bats t-shirt. All right. I dig Cancer Bats and I dig girls. The hunt for cunt is on. I just thought of that…and I am incredibly ashamed.
Themba offers: “Why don’t you talk to her, son?”
I retort: “I dunno. She’s talking to some dude.” God bless that kid. With a “c’mon, son” Themba, the best wingman in the business, heads over to her. Keep in mind, Themba breathes hip-hop and could give a fuck about some spastic Canadian rocker band.
THEMBA: [passing by GIRL] What? Cancer Bats? Yeah, right on!
GIRL: [skeptically] Yeah. Cancer Bats. You like them?
THEMBA: Shit yeah, of course. Who doesn’t?
GIRL: [growing more suspicious] How’d you know about them?
ME: [catching my cue] Alexisonfire. They played a show in Edmonton, where I’m from, and one of the guys was doing a local radio show and talked about them and played a few of their songs.
GIRL: [shoulders dropping and eyebrows raising at the realization we know what were talking about and this might be a more adroitly planned offensive than she assumed] Oh yeah? Cool.
THEMBA: Yeah, what up now?
Got to love that guy. So we talk, this lass and I. She went to the same high school as one of the guys from Alexisonfire, she’s an art student at Emily Carr, she likes Vancouver better than Southern Ontario, but the rain gets to her sometimes. Sadly, after a few minutes, as to the best calibration my social barometer achieves, I discover she’s kind of dumb. And, moreover, not remotely interested. Then I find out her name’s Jess and I get the fuck out of there faster than you can say ‘Ambisol’.
So we slink our separate ways and are quickly annexed by all the mingling and all people's random importance. This exchange gave me some insight, however. I think I’m a little quick to judge. I can equate style with intelligence or, worse, kindness. And that should stop. This isn’t some maudlin apology for my shallowness in talking to the woman I thought was the coolest looking, because everyone does that – I just think I could use a smidgen more neutrality in my interpersonal dealings and more prying of a, at times, only ajar mind.
EPILOGUE: a boisterous cheer to The Mongoose, who shirked all petty, bourgeoisie notions of fiduciary responsibility and gave us a squeaking bed frame to laugh over at three in the morning and an opportunity to dust off Mary Kay Letourneau jokes. You’re a gentlemen and a scholar.
posted by Jag at 6:15 PM
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