Some part of me is still surprised when I hang out with a couple who really works together. Granted, this might be me speaking from the twisted lump of scar tissue where my heart should be, but I find it's a rare thing. Every now again again, though, even I have to admit that a certain couple is just smashing. They think the other person is just the coolest. They genuinely try not to hurt each other. And while I might not have ever put them together in my mind had I met or known them separately, once I see them together it makes perfect sense.

Chris and Sandy are one of those couples. They're endlessly patient with one another. Both of them want the other to succeed as an artist. They're also two hilarious, tough, one-of-a-kind people who haven't lost a shred of their identities in sharing their lives with each other. They've always been a pleasure to know and a hoot to hang out with.

This past weekend I was honoured to attend their wedding. It took place in Vancouver, and the Calgary people poured in to town to celebrate with them. Local friends had their couches and floors and spare rooms filled with friends. We barbecued and and danced, argued and drank. The feeling of goodwill, of vicarious joy, was absolutely overwhelming. There was not a cynic unmoved. We all agreed that someone should get married every year out West, if only so we can have a smashing reunion.

There was sushi at night and delightfully greasy breakfast at noon. There was hiking and catching crabs and falling into a blackberry patch at Lighthouse Park. There was beer and wine and beer again, and pitchers and pitchers of mojitos. There was exquisite weather and a view of the mountains. There was even some metal.

Thank you Jordan and Summer for letting me (and GoVo and Jill and Paul) crash at your place. Thank you to all my friends from afar and before for reminding me that my time in Calgary was pretty fucking awesome. And thank you most of all to Chris and Sandy, for being wonderful together. Nostrovia.

Labels: Family and Friends, Travelling

Dear Douchebags on the Patio,

I give up. I have absolutely no idea what attracts you anymore.

On this particular Sunday, I was suffering from both a slight hangover and a headbangover, and was certainly not at my best. Walking down Bloor, on my way to water a friend's plants while he was out of town, I felt pretty invisible. Apparently not. Who knew that the combination of metal t-shirt, floor-length skirt, x-tra large coffee in hand, and makeup-less face would be such a draw to you?

I am not sure what exactly you said to me -- it sounded a lot like "GrrrAUWwwwAHHH TITS RAWrgggg." All I could do in response was throw my hands over my head in defeat. If there was something about the dark circles under my eyes that made you think I would in any way respond favourably to your overtures, there is really nothing more I can do.

Labels: Anger Management, Open Letters to Late Capitalist Society

This weekend kicked ass. Here are some highlights:

-- Meeting a group of excellent friends at C'est What.

-- Discovering the scotch menu at C'est What (Laphroaig!)

-- Watching Julie Wilson's sunburn develop, like a polaroid, over the period of a couple of hours.

-- Attending a secret "Skullfist" show and hanging out in the parking lot, drinking beer from Mark Coatsworth's Enormous Messenger Bag of Awesome

-- Mishearing the band's name and referring to them as "Skullfish" in front of some very cool metal dudes that I totally just met.

-- Attending a Metal BBQ (I didn't even know they had Metal BBQs) and watching an huge Iranian man grill lamb while smoking a cigar.

-- Playing badminton with a bunch of metal dudes, who all talked excellent trash and made fun of each other when their wrist spikes got caught in the net.

-- Seeing "Moon" and the Carleton, and then sitting around drinking coffee at the Golden Griddle so we could talk about claustrophobia, hallucinations and Windsor, Ontario.

-- Eating my very first roti from Ghandi Roti. My life (and relationship to mutter paneer) will never be the same.

-- Watching the Bruce MacDonald opus Hard Core Logo. "So don't tell us that Bucky Haight wasn't shot, 'cause we were there. We touched his stump."

-- 2:30pm breakfast at Fran's.

Labels: Booze, Family and Friends, Metal