(no subject)
fucking birds. hould really look up the species. they start singing at 3:30am, just so you know that you've stayed out much too late. two nghts in a row.
let's get ths in wrtng before I sober up. There's some crap under my "i" key. deal with it.
last night: george thorogood at the metropolis, a christmas present to dad. too much fun. book it out to lachine at 11, play poker and swig Jameson's until 3:30. in bed by 5.
up at 9 to meet uncle brian. slow walk back home for a half-hour nap. not enough. Then sushi with bike shop people. see, Jules is leaving for a job as sustainab le development coordinator at Rona, of all things. And itsd benjamin`s birthday.
Then... karaoke!!! at il motore. with a live coiver band backing. holy fuck. I sang some clash and some billy idol. and danced a bunch. the MC is the boyfriend of my sister`s best friend, back from 6 months in paris. she sees me on stage, texts my sister, who texts me, then shows up. she just got a place on Parc between bernard and st-viateur, across the street from where i work. I PREVISIONED that shit.
a kiss gracefully deflected by melissa. but this one is worth working on. no, really. also rob - marie-eve - jules love triangle. I couldn`t make this shit up.
we killed white wedding, you have no idea. mark slutsky sang too. he interviewed me for the Mirror when the mile-end bike garage was being shut down by the city. there was also a customer from my days at les co`pains.
riding home, full of whisky and jager bombs. last weekend was irish car bombs. are we back in high school? SOBRIETY NOT BOMBS. ha ha. stopped at a red light, car next to me. a macdonald's bag and its contents strewn across the intersection. I gamely collect the mess, the girls in the car offer to take it to throw it out, and give me a half-smoked cigarette for my trouble. "ch'te jure j'ai pas de bibittes". I'll take your word for it.
Feeling altogether too social. "yo Hop, you ain't got no, uh, seat, on your motherfuckin bicycle."
and drop a street lyric, like
that's a neat trick
maybe not.
tomorrow I gotta wrench at one of the checkpoints of the tour de l'ile. I have it on good authority that it's a job best performed while hungover - so, go me, I suppose.
sometimes it only takes a few hours to fall utterly back in love with a city. god bless us, every one.
let's get ths in wrtng before I sober up. There's some crap under my "i" key. deal with it.
last night: george thorogood at the metropolis, a christmas present to dad. too much fun. book it out to lachine at 11, play poker and swig Jameson's until 3:30. in bed by 5.
up at 9 to meet uncle brian. slow walk back home for a half-hour nap. not enough. Then sushi with bike shop people. see, Jules is leaving for a job as sustainab le development coordinator at Rona, of all things. And itsd benjamin`s birthday.
Then... karaoke!!! at il motore. with a live coiver band backing. holy fuck. I sang some clash and some billy idol. and danced a bunch. the MC is the boyfriend of my sister`s best friend, back from 6 months in paris. she sees me on stage, texts my sister, who texts me, then shows up. she just got a place on Parc between bernard and st-viateur, across the street from where i work. I PREVISIONED that shit.
a kiss gracefully deflected by melissa. but this one is worth working on. no, really. also rob - marie-eve - jules love triangle. I couldn`t make this shit up.
we killed white wedding, you have no idea. mark slutsky sang too. he interviewed me for the Mirror when the mile-end bike garage was being shut down by the city. there was also a customer from my days at les co`pains.
riding home, full of whisky and jager bombs. last weekend was irish car bombs. are we back in high school? SOBRIETY NOT BOMBS. ha ha. stopped at a red light, car next to me. a macdonald's bag and its contents strewn across the intersection. I gamely collect the mess, the girls in the car offer to take it to throw it out, and give me a half-smoked cigarette for my trouble. "ch'te jure j'ai pas de bibittes". I'll take your word for it.
Feeling altogether too social. "yo Hop, you ain't got no, uh, seat, on your motherfuckin bicycle."
and drop a street lyric, like
that's a neat trick
maybe not.
tomorrow I gotta wrench at one of the checkpoints of the tour de l'ile. I have it on good authority that it's a job best performed while hungover - so, go me, I suppose.
sometimes it only takes a few hours to fall utterly back in love with a city. god bless us, every one.