Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Straight into the waiting arms of hippies

So our Monday night trivia team—Banana Stand—finally won. That’s right, folks: celebrate good times—come on! We took first place by only half a point, but a win is a win and that’s all that matters. At the end of the day, The Wirecrats couldn’t stop us, E. Jack Layton couldn’t stop us, and Stephen Hawking’s Football Shoes couldn’t stop us. W00T! as the kids say.

In other news, I’m in Vancouver right now, hanging out at Beth’s place, which is wicked. We’ve been here less than a day, so we haven’t really explored the city yet, but Beth tells me that it’ll be my kind of place navigation-wise. In one direction you’ve got big-ass mountains, and in another there’s the big-ass Pacific. Beth, like me, requires mammoth landmarks to get her bearings.

Whenever I travel, I always do the same thing: I always promise that this time I’ll read up on whatever city/country/democratic-republic-of we’re headed to before we get there. I’ll learn all the landmarks, the history, maybe a few colourful phrases in the local dialect (i.e. “Can I join in your game of hacky-sack?” Or, “Does this bong come in orange?”) But every time it’s always the same: work and my own laziness get in the way, and I never get around to reading a thing in advance. So, like usual, I’ve grabbed a fistful of Sarah’s coattail and I’m hanging on for dear life.

I’ve gone on and on (ad nauseum, some might say) about hippies, and my feelings towards this man-beast hybrid. So, upon arrival in Vancouver, what’s the first thing we did? Went for dinner at The Naam, a restaurant in Kitsalano staffed almost entirely by persistently stoned long-haired freaky people. Disappointingly, our waiter was more George Stromboloupolous doppelganger than hippie (although the guy who brought our drinks looked liked he’d burned one down on the way to our table). The food was fantastic, though. And I’m also ashamed to mention that after flying all this way, the first beer I ordered was one that’s brewed in Guelph. To make up for this, and to immerse myself in the local culture, I bought a pair of devil sticks immediately afterward and have been practicing ever since.


Jorge said...

You are the man about town. The jet-set man of mystery, who lets everyone know where he is at all times.


Courtney-O said...

Here's what I'd like to know - when are you guys bringing your asses to Arkansas?

Incest, cow tipping, the birthplace of Wal-Mart - what else could you ask for?


(Just so you know, I am not personally involved with any of the above. Nor have I ever been. Oh wait - I forgot about that one time with the cows. And I used to work for Wal-Mart. Damn it.)

Jorge said...

Did you notice how she said asses?

I'm thinkin' when we get off the plane there will be some guys hanging out at a gas station and some kid playing a banjo.

As soon as anyone starts making pig noises, I am so fucking outtathere!

Courtney-O said...

Seriously, the only things to do around here are drink alcohol, make meth, and have sex.

Which is why I was pregnant at 18.

We did it at a gas station once.

(Just kidding. Although, we both worked at Dairy Queen, and it's amazing what can happen in the back freezer.)


Tien said...

No pun intended in "hanging out" I'm sure....right Jorge?

Dave, we could have a devil stick show down next time we get together.


Jorge said...

Tien: Indeed. Hanging out is the thing to do. ;)

As for Devil Sticks, we all can get together and have a devil stick jam session.

Dave said...

Courtney: Our world tour, four-vacations-a-year schedule (plus our love of Clinton) will one day get us to Arkansas. (Sarah's already been and liked it a lot.)

Tien: Tajyozoa? Get outta hear with your crazy hippie speak.

Jorge: Sup? Miss you, lover.

Bill 'le gourmand' Snowden said...

Dave! Dinner at Vij's, 1480 W 11th Street. Do it, man, do it. They open at 5:30 and don't take reservations; either go early or be prepared to hang out and wait for a table. It's worth it either way. Ask for and accept wine recommendations. The place is dy-no-fucking-mite.