E: This is where our understanding ends

Scotto: Pathetic or awesome? Some days I have no idea.

It's been a busy weekend, and one that has me wondering, to some degree, whether I suck. I don't think I do, but part of me still doubts it. Still, there's been some good stuff.

For instance, Saturday morning, rather than meeting Manda (for she had wedding-related stuff) I went out to get comics only to find there were none to get. Not even Amazing Spider-Man. So I went home and actually got caught up my reviews. I may be turning over a new leaf - or just engaging in a one-time catchup for the sake of procrastinating. Hrm.

So in the process of all this, Cary shoots me a text saying it's official, something I had assumed was all but concrete: Half-Past Eight PM will live again, this time on the Hamilton stage. Reactions from the governing parties had apparently been very, very positive, but he wanted me to keep it on the dl until it was all sorted out. And now, apparently it is. So of course, basically everyone I know is obligated to come see this show. I'm psyched about it. Score one for "Scott does not suck."

When I saw RyLai on Wednesday night he mentioned people were all coming out to Toronto for his birthday a few days later (Sat night of course) would I please come. Now, I have a policy that I show up anywhere I am asked, especially if it seems like I'm wanted, which is what led to me going to a somewhat awkward apartment-warming party before second year at Sheridan. So although I had some misgivings - despite some overlap, RyLai's friends are not mostly mine - I was glad to come along. I made arrangement to meet Chris Ferg on the train in the accessibility car. We caught up on stuff.

At Union we stopped off at the LCBO, and then McDonald's for some food for Chris. He saw someone he knew, who mentioned that he was going to a show at Sneaky Dee's (made famous in Scott Pilgrim.) The fellow in front of us in line, a "Hipster Doofus" (Chris' words, quoting Seinfeld,) with shoulder-length scraggly hair and tiny John Lennon glasses, turns and says, "Sneaky Dee's? Man, I had my first drink there 25 years ago!" He mentions he's a musician living in LA, in town for music week, and we should fuck wherever we were going, because going up to the Royal York was like "a license to print pretty girls," and guys who looked like him even were getting serious action. I told him I'd rather meet pretty girls than print them, but to each his own. He managed to say an awful lot while waiting for a cheeseburger.

We walked up Yonge. In the Yonge-Dundas area, we were accosted by a guy who claimed to be from up Northm having just arrived and unable to pay the deposit for his hotel, and hey, would we wanna buy some weed? I politely declined, but he was persistent. Somehow we managed to shut him down. I didn't even really have any cash on me anyway.

It seems to be the week for random meetings in Toronto. A few days ago... Tuesday or Monday I guess... I was waiting for my train when I noticed this dude in a gaudy pink jacket talking to this girl... but they weren't standing close enough to look like they were acquaintances. He comes over, and I pause my iPod to eavesdrop as he brags to a nearby dude (also not an acquaintance of his) about how Union Station is the perfect place to meet women - outlining his incredibly unlikely, Barney Stinson-esque plan, wherein he claims his cell was dead, and asks a girl to borrow one. So as he fake-calls someone, he inputs his number into their contacts under something cryptic (like "Go Train" or something equally unappealing) and when they call him, quote, "Instant date." I dunno. It seems to me to be missing the step where, you know, you can't actually trick a girl into going out with you? Assuming this random enigmatic number doesn't already raise red flags, in my experience (which I'll be honest, is perhaps not nearly enough to judge) you need the girl to actually be interested in you before she'll go out with you. But hey, who am I to disbelieve this Axe-smelling fella and his magenta wondercoat?

Sketchbomb.

So Chris and I arrived at Neill-Wycek, the first to do so. We hung around while people filed in. The usual suspects, who are all nice people, but not really my friends, and Lauren, who is my friend. And one of them, dating some girl from York who knows Conorton.

It wasn't all that long before I became the Odd Man Out of conversations, hanging in the corner quietly observing, feeling ever more awkward. Briefly, this was defrayed by Ryan's roommate Rebecca (whom I've met briefly once or twice, including before karaoke.) I mentioned my tenuous connections, and she sympathized, noting, after all, the only person she knew was Ryan, whereas everyone else in the room had lifelong friendships.

Well, of course, eventually the Ryerson people showed up, so then I became doubly awkward. So it really wasn't the same at all. Oh, and her boyfriend.

Luckily, I did have an out. Given the limited sleeping space in the place, I volunteered to leave early, catching the last train at 12:43, since fuck, I can't sleep on a hardwood floor, and why put others out? I doubt I was missed anyhow.

Anyway, before I left (which I delayed until the party was due to move to a bar/club) Ryan, drunk as I've ever seen him, delivered a very straightforward speech about how much he fucking loves everyone in this room. Man, I remember turning 20. It was a fuckin' bummer. He said if, when he gets older, he could be as cool as me. I told him he was already cooler, so why worry? (Objectively, I would say, he is. He's probably never had to spend the bulk of a party in the corner with the mops.)

It was just... it was not a good situation. I didn't hate anyone there, I just felt like a total clod, couldn't make any socialization happen, went home feeling sorry for myself, woke up in the same state. Did, however, manage to budget my time so I could get to Tim Hortons in time to catch my train. I really wanted a cheese croissant.

So I woke up this morning and met up with Manda. It was the usual hangout, but by the end I think we were both very reflective. I was obviously in self-pity mode, given what'd happened the night before, and she wondering if this was it for her, as far as social interaction was, due to other reasons. I don't have any answers, for either of our situations.

Although karaoke and involvement with Half-Past Eight PM seem to be the best options right now for me. I should probably try to keep from being morose.

She also told me the thrilling story of her fiance's friend, who is apparently somewhat shallow and picky when it comes to girls. So he gets set up on this blind date, with a girl who is apparently a nurse, who lives with her mom to make ends meet. When he comes back, he reports he's not that into it, because the girl is apparently a bit of a chubbster. Well, whatever, right? Not the end of the story.

The next night - the next night - this nurse is awakened by back pains. Her mom takes her to the hospital, where the doctor tell her, a nurse, "Yeah... you're going into labour." She was fuckin' preggers, and had no idea. Go figure! And she was a nurse! Sounds improbable, but my sources don't lie.

Beyond that, I can hardly even remember what I did today, just let it slip away like I have a habit of doing. Procrastination, let's sing it together. A few more points in the "Scotto sucks" column. I ain't got much to say for myself. I've got problems. I am a problem.

Well, at least I know I'm not pregnant.

Keep on rockin'
-Scotto