G: Take my hand and let me do the rest

I'm relaxing on this St. Patrick's day with a tall cool beer, a Kilkenny I bummed off my brother in exchange for two of the inferior Holstens. The weekend was pretty thick in beer and the fact that I've not written about it (I really did mean to do a Sunday morning post) is unfortunate. This weekend will live on for a while but not for all the right reasons (such as the first weekends of November and February, to name a few of my better weekends. Sad that some of my better weekends are other peoples' less memorable.)

At the time of my last entry I was on my way out, anticipating a night of unknown proportions. Indeed I was partway out the door, with my wallet, iPod, game face and sense of adventure. I went out to the bus stop around 8 to catch the 27. I figured on meeting up with Ryan on the bus.

It was his birthday. Specifically, Saturday was his 19th birthday but on Friday he hatched a plan for a little early celebration. He wanted to be drunk headed into midnight and had come across a good opportunity; some random pub night at Ryerson. With everyone else working or otherwise engaged it seemed we were a two-man crew, as I was down for anything. Besides, with both of our commuter credentials, it cost us nothing to get to Toronto anyway. The only hitch is that the last Westbound GO train is at 12:43, cutting short the night of partying inherently. We would just have to get twice as drunk.

So I was at the bus stop waiting. After a moment I figured I must've missed the bus going the one way, so I crossed the road. Moments passed and I stared intently. Nothing, nothing, nothing but cars and SUVs. I began to cry out in frustration; "Fuck! Fucking hell! What the fuck!"

Sometime after 8:20, a vaguely-familiar SUV pulled up and a familiar voice called my name "Scott! Get it!" It was Ryan, riding shotgun in his mom's car. As we sped off into the night, Ryan explained what I already suspected. The bus, nonsensically, was a voice between the hours of 8 and 9. It was not a reduced service; it was no service. So we rushed off, Ryan's mother driving faster than any Asian woman ever has, (to coin a stereotype), as the two of them discussed the qualifications of George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord" as an "old song."

As we were pulling into the station's parking lot (I was thinking Mrs. Lai should just do what my mom does and kiss-and-ride at the corner across from the bus lane) Ryan even opened his door and did a premature escape and we ran up the platform just in time to see the train leave the station. Groan. The night was not off to a good start.

After some hemming and hawing about how we were going to fill in the extra hour delay before the next train, Ryan recalled there was a hotel nearby, and hotels typically have bars. So we rolled out.

There was some speculation as to what would happen when Ryan asked for a drink, given he was still 18 for a few hours. We walked in and hailed the bartender. I asked for a G&T and Ryan ordered a draught. The barkeep asked for our IDs. I handed over my health card, Ryan handed over his G1. The guy shrugged and poured the beer. We shrugged and took a seat in the very comfortable yet very empty lounge. The highlight (other than a Futurama episode on the TV) was a couple random hotel patrons walking by in bikinis on their way to the pool; fine young lasses.

We caught the 9:30 Eastbound train to Toronto and, after one of those lengthy sprawling train conversations that was basically the foundation for our interaction, we got to Union shortly after 10. We were both hungry; Ryan got some McD's, and I opted not to get anything because I couldn't figure on what would go with the copious drinking I intended to do. So I went hungry.

Ryan led me through a shopping complex he navigates on a daily basis on our way to the Ryerson campus. Except after about 10 minutes of walking we got to a set of locked doors. So we had to find our way outside. That put us on a detour that was inconvenient but ultimately irrelevant.

We got to this place. There was a crack squad of University dudes at the door checking ID's. He looked at Ryan's ID and noted, "We have the same birthday." Ryan replied, "Yep." The guy says, "...tomorrow." Ryan corrects him, "In an hour and a half." Then there was this weird moment of seeming approval and the guy gave Ryan his wristband. I was up next. I give him my health card and the guy looks all mock-concerned for a moment and just tells me, "Oh uh, I can't accept this." They can take drivers licenses, passports, immigrant cards, army cards... but not health cards. I've heard of this rule but it has heretofore been a myth to me. Occasionally one of us will get a hard time at the LCBO but I have never once in my life been denied a drink. I wanted to punch the guy out. I took Ryan, who had already paid his cover charge, aside and told him things were going badly. We formulated a plan; Ryan would buy the beers and we would drink until someone kicked me out. I let the guy slap the green "non-drinkin'" wristband on me, totally neutered of my actual age.

I'd like to reiterate the arbitrary nature of this ID regulation; in that it's bullshit. It takes a certain level of proof of identity to obtain a photo health card. It can't be counterfieted any more easily than a driver's license. It has my picture, date of birth and address on it. There's not a single goddamn reason I shouldn't be able to use it as ID. But on this night I swallowed my pride. Ultimately, I learned that the reason I have the pride I do is so that I don't have to swallow it.

We went with the plan, wristband in place, and began to browse the place. It was actually looking kinda lame, but it was still relatively early. The vast majority of patrons had green "non-drinking" wristbands on. And then suddenly it dawned on us; Ryan did, too. I scoffed and we stormed out. Those fuckers got our $3 cover charge, but I didn't schlep my ass all the way to Toronto to sip Cokes all night.

So we stormed out. "My balls hurt from how badly they've been kicked tonight," I exclaimed as soon as we were out.

We ended up going down the block a bit to a nice-but-kinda-sketchy sports pub/lounge populated at first mostly by older people with a few Ryerson kids wandering in after we did. We went up to the bar and the amply curvacious barmaid asked us what we'd be hanging. I ordered a Stella, Ryan a Heinekin. There was no question of ID. We drank a cheers to the way things ought to be, drinking without hassles.

Kinda down from the way things had gone, we decided to call it a night early and catch the 11:43. If I'd been in the proper headspace I might've exercised my perogative to hit on random girls and try to liven up Ryan's birthday a bit, but there are some things you just can't do in a bad mood.

So after admiring the various tattoos of both the rotund barmaid and her skinny co-worker (who was sporting a Biohazard symbol on her upper back) we cooled out and went to the subway.

Once we got to Unino I decided now was the time for comfort food and got in line at McDonald's. Of course, there's a reason certain people work at McDonald's at Unino Station at 11:30 on a friday night; they're fucking slow. So the line was dead and by the time I got my order straightened out and processed, we had exactly one minute to catch our train.

We sprinted, breathless and, as we landed on the inside of the doorway, laughing our asses off at what a close call. "We are not missing our second train in one night!" I laughed. What a mess.

As Ryan celebrated midnight while we rolled past Long Branch station, we invented a counting system to determine how good or bad the night was; for every good thing that happened we add, for every bad, we subtract. Particularly good or bad things are +/- 2 or even 3. I forget the exact figures, but it came out as a minus eight, which is a total write-off. We decided to reconvene the next night to shoot for a plus three, but it would take something like a plus six to salvage the weekend. The truth is, in telling the story, it doesn't seem so bad, but if you were there you'd have been bitching along with us.

In the meantime the next morning I paid off my tuition (and fired off an e-mail about my scholarship) and purchased the Guitar Hero 1+2 dualpack. So that's where the bulk of Saturday went. Saturday night we got to arranging things; matters like transportation, who was available, what the activity was, were paid close attention.

We ended up going bowling with some friends of Ryan's and Chris', all of whom I've met and drank with, some of whom I've even bought for. They're nice people, but facing facts they aren't my friends, just decent folk to spend a night drinking with. The driver (Jer) pulled up in his Chrysler Neon with Ryan riding shotgun, and Chris, BK and Karlyn in the back. Being the last one picked up, I was left with the uncomfortable inevitability of occupying the real estate between Chris and the door. I prayed we didn't get pulled over or in an accident.

No, we did arrive at Classic Bowl in one piece, and got our number, reservation #144. They were up to something like 135 so it wasn't going to be a terribly long wait. I explained how I used to work there approximately five times to less and less interest. I take pride in the fact that basically every job I've had was either a) cool (if overly laborious) or b) I got a good story out of it. Or both.

They got a pitcher, I was feeling like G&T again. Chris and I grabbed the shoes when our number was called. Chris, like a trooper (or a guy who works 48 hours a week) paid for the evening. I'd slip him a couple bucks reimbursement, but I'm thinking I need it more than he does. Call me selfish but I just think of myself as an unemployed student.

We began to bowl. Chris proved himself impressive early, and I bowled the way I normally do when I'm out with friends - inconsistent and below average. I haven't actually rolled a ball in nearly a year and was without my own ball but it's not like I was a wreck out there. Slowly I build myself back up until I was neck and neck with Chris, eventually overtaking him by one pin in the 9th. Everyone else was far behind. I think we (107 and 108 by then) were the only onese to break 100.

"This next frame," I told Chris, "is for honour... and our place in the car." The loser would be the guy cramped in on the end. Chris agreed and we shook. He bowled; he missed a spare. I bowled, and I too missed a spare... but got the nine pins necessary to bit him by one single point. I celebrated by drinking more beer and bowling the remaining 15 minutes (like three frames) granny-style and picking up at least one spare in that way.

It seemed like a threat but with me in the middle the back of the Neon was far more comfortable. Well, aside from being sandwiched between Chris and Karlyn and BK's arm.

We went back to Ryan's place where he had a Kershaw-style basement, complete with ping pong table, bar, and entertainment center. Ryan put on some CCR and served Ice Cream Cake. After a squeaker between he and Chris on the ping pong table (I think Chris won) the three of us drank and played Smash Bros. while the othe three... well who knows.

Chris and I walked home sometime shortly before 2, leaving Jer to stay the night. On the way home we talked haircuts and school and other junk.

Sunday I hung out with Amanda and just relaxed. Today was similarly lightweight.

I thought I had something else to say, but I don't really, unless you count my dream. One character on that great show "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" sums it up thusly: Other peoples' dreams are like photos. If I'm not in them and nobody's having sex, they're boring. I had this dream that I was reuniting with all these Sheridan people. When this one guy (you can imagine who) showed up (uninvited) he shook Jess' hand and she threw up. That was not surprising; this individual nauseated many people, particularly the females.

My fingers are tired and it's late. I've given you plenty and I intend to take my due. Something's been on my mind for days; I'll look after it shortly.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto