Last night started with two small beers accompanying my veggie platter at a nearby Turkish restaurant. The food was great and the company too; arriving only minutes after me, Roscoe and Mitch invited me to their table. After dinner we walked back to the hotel and there I joined a few UHTC faces at the bar while Mitch and Roscoe called it a night. Nearing a finish to my cider, Dan and Pat showed up and the three of us went to a pub. Following a few jars there, Pat and Dan called it a night, but Steve and I had better ideas.
To make a lengthy tale bite-sized, here’s the email I sent my wife Elaine at 2.40am:
If that raw source of amusement tickled your interest, here follows one memorable excerpt of the night.
In the hotel bar, lights dimmed, and conversing with the staff, there came a sudden a dull whisper, carrying itself in the still air; a voiceless utterance so distinct causing hairs to stand. I foolishly looked with open eyes to the entrance and before the fear reacted my globes shut, his vision tarred my mind; the rascal has returned. When last we met, the scene was Barcelona, rising from a fountain. In the opening hours of this day, he wears the same tatty black cloak he did back then. His prosthetic finger shot a quick orange flare, settling into a blue-and-yellow flame with which he lit his French cigarette. Smiling, crooked and yellowed teeth clamping down on its filter, I could not tear my eyes from his. Once in the grip of the silent stare, his victims are trapped, like a fawn watching the distancing eyes of its machinated killer. As I blinked, he spoke through me, the words from my mouth stuttered and misshapen. From the convoluted array of language aimed at the man behind the bar came little glasses of sweet liquor, one for all; and all for this one, maddening spirit, the Ghost of the Golden Hops: Dupuis.
I’m not going to lie to you Geppetto: Pinocchio got himself a little messed up last night.
Sleeping until an incredible 1130am, I woke to a messy room. Clothes strewn around the floor, my luggage overturned; what in the devil’s name was I looking for in the wee drunken hours? Scratching my head, I had to simply get on with my day. I was due to meet Mickey at midday to show him the ropes of photoshop. In truth, it’s this meeting that dragged me out of bed, because I didn’t want to get up at all. Arguably still drunk, albeit quietly, I met him at 1159 in the lobby and we went for a tea. A shell of myself, I wasn’t much help, but I think Mickey at least picked up a few basics to get him going.
Next, it was time to perform the rites of laundry. I found the Bluenose Laundromat on Windsor Street. While my dainties soaked I visited that Canuckian shopping institution Canadian Tire, procuring a pair of knee pads. You see, on show days, muggins himself has to crawl around on his knees to tidy and ‘dress’ forty-odd feet of messy lighting and audio cables, and my forty year old knees are not diggin’ the work. Plus, my lovely work trousers are getting faded at the knees, so screw that. Anyway, after my shopping and laundering were done, I stopped just down the street from the Bluenose at the Gracious Indian for some chick pea thing with rice, and the hole in my hungover stomach was filled for a time.
That brings me to the moment of writing, feeling very uninspired to continue with any flamboyant exuberance. It’s enough to finish with a hopeful chant: I must not drink I must not drink I must not drink I must not drink I must not drink I must not drink.