Dear Future Leslee,
This will be a quick, not-very-organized or particularly well thought-out post because I’m off to MONTREAL this weekend and I’m pretty much as excited as I can physically get without peeing myself all the time. That being said, it’s been a while since I’ve dropped by to visit (You look fabulous! ) and I thought it would only be appropriate to give you a little somthing-something *wink-wink* before I go.
Firstly, we put my dog of eleven years down about a week ago and it has been very sad. We keep reminiscing about all of the cute or evil or heroic stuff he did, and just generally about how he was the best dog ever. He used to eat twenties. He once saved a girl from drowning (fact). He used to get really, really offended if you stopped petting him for any reason. He was a hundred pounds of awesome, and I miss him to death.
His name was Wylie (As in Wyle E. Coyote) but I always just called him ‘baby’ or ‘puppy’, because I am lazy about proper nouns. When we first got him, I used to carry him around in my arms all the time. He liked eating yogurt, but only off a spoon, probably because of that one time that he got his whole head stuck in a yogurt container and I had to rescue him. He made me feel invincible.
Best. Dog. Ever.
Besides horribly depressing things, though, I have also been having awesome adventures. I saw a friend of mine perform in a park, and I went to my first ever honest to goodness real swing dancing class, and I had a lady stop me downtown to take a picture of my shoes. Incidentally, no matter how many times someone stops you for shoes, it never gets old.
I’ve also been doing my usual Wednesday nights at Maxwell’s, watching Johnny Vegas and his All-Star Band perform the classics, along with my Beaki! She is a mad vocalist, that is a fact *wink-wink…?* However, I recently went there on a Saturday and the place was different and strange and I didn’t like it AT ALL. Twenty-something hipsters? Club music? Crowds?! What. The. Hell.
Johnny Vegas is a lounge singer, and his crowd is of the mature persuasion. They do a little dancing, a little drinking, a little making fun of that one guy who always shows up in a cowboy hat.
That’s my Wednesday night, and frankly, I like it that way. I hardly get hit on. Nobody tries to grind me (they haven’t broken in the new hip yet). The bartenders have time to chat. You can dance like a lemur on ‘shrooms to ‘These Boots We’re Made for Walking’ and nobody says anything. It’s safe.
But on Saturday night, it becomes a smelly, cover-charging, packed-to-the-brim Dans Cluub.
Not that I have anything against hipsters, except that I do, and not that I have anything against packed Daenc Kloobs, but it is not my Maxwell’s. I didn’t see any of the regulars, although I did see my favourite bartender, who I’m pretty sure has been pouring me doubles the last couple of weeks. I waved as I got up to the bar.
Bartender: WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?
Bartender: THIS ISN’T YOUR NIGHT.
Me: PLEASE, I NEED AN ADULT. I’M SO AFRAID.
Bartender: RUM AND COKE?
Me: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
The worst part was, Maxwell’s was a pretty great bar that night. The music was super predictable but really fun, and everybody was having a good time and we ended up closing the bar, which I have never done on a Wednesday, mostly because I am maintaining the fiction that I do not have a drinking problem. Although the bartender did say “See you on Wednesday” as I was leaving, which isn’t a good sign.
Anyway, after Maxwell’s the crowd of us went to Dunn’s on Elgin and I ran into Maxx Nitro of themeltingsky.com (check in out in my blogroll – I know, I have a blogroll, I’m scared too) and then a random guy came out of the restaurant and was all like “I know you!” and Maxx (trying to protect me from skeeeeve) was all like “Uhh, no, you don’t” except that after a second I realized that yes, he did, which just goes to show you that you can’t protect me from myself.
In other news, I saw Kenny Chesney at the Capital Hoedown last night and he is a dork. A DORK. He kept waving his one hand at us in a kind of a rapper-looking way and flicking his hat and pumping his microphone and he couldn’t goddamn finish an entire line of the song without leaning back to make faces at his band. Kenny, you perform the way my very un-cool sixty year-old uncle would perform, if he was trying to look cool. Bad. Scene.
Listen, I’m not trying to be mean, but what was that? WHAT WAS THAT?! Doc Walker was way better. At least they know where the microphone is, and can reliably sing into it. Goddamn.
Anyway, all that is to say that I love you, and I’m sorry I stay away so long, but I’ll be back soon, covered in French. All over my damn self.
Yours with love and music,