As I sit to write this weekend update I realize I have no idea what I did on Friday. Seriously. Not because I was too drunk, or out of control in general, but because it blended in. When I talk to the people I grew up with who still live in the suburbs - I'm always hearing about quiet nights in, movie nights, glass of wine and some cuddling kinda evenings. To this I say - 'Well, what did you do on the weekend?' Completely oblivious to the fact that that was their weekend. I think I might be able to count the amount of Fridays and Saturdays I have stayed in (and done nothing) post high school on two hands... And I don't count going to the movies - you can go to a movie on a weekday and be fine for work in the morning. No skill involved there. Just the ability to sit and stare.
The fact that I cannot remember Friday (even though precisely at this moment I DO remember what I did) might mean that I either need to scale back the night outs... in an effort to make each one more memorable OR I could find new places to go. This seems more productive. I will explore my city further, make new friends, destroy my liver and soul in new venues. Any suggestions?
Saturday... I remember. Vividly. Well, vividly might be pushing it; however, it was quite memorable. The night started out like any other, consuming a magnum of wine to myself and then heading out to meet the boys. The bar was pretty much like any other night (Woody's in this case)... until the last 20 minutes. We were sitting at a table talking amongst ourselves when we finally noticed that there was a table of similar aged, good looking men right next to us. After some yell flirting we decided to push the tables together. 20 minutes later the lights came on (which is one of the worst feelings in the world), affirming that we were all reasonably attractive individuals. Time to go home? I think not.
Illegal after hours clubs! First we headed to one on Queen West - though they wouldn't open the door for us b/c some drunken frat dorks were standing outside and making a scene. So DJ suggested we hit a different one - in Kensington Market (Capital of Hipster of Douchebaggery in my opinion... and it's my blog, so piss off). This place was in the middle of the city, but felt completely isolated... Situated down a dark alley, it's door was covered with graffitti. After we knocked on the door, a very tough-looking woman answered and informed us (in a very surly manner) that we shouldn't fu*kin knock and there is a camera mounted so they can see we need to be let in.
This place was dirty. DIRTY. Not only were they illegally serving alcohol after hours, but there was also illegal gambling and I'm pretty sure prostitution going on. The only girl I saw there aside from the bartender (who looked kinda like a younger Grace Jones... but less majestic... and more used) was a tranny prostitute who took a liking to me - see she was Turkish and sells her body, and I'm the whitest arabic person you've ever seen and collect comics... that makes us the same? According to her, yes. After she regaled me with a story about how she offered a guy a bj, and he refused calling her disgusting, then later when he was in the washroom she accosted him and he let her (straight guys, please stop playing coy... it's embarassing) she said goodbye to me and tried to kiss me... I gave her the cheek (thank god my reflexes weren't too impaired). Still - I had to leave shortly after because I was sure I had Turkish Prostitute herpes all over my face and the couch I was sitting on looked like it might have had Hepatitis C.
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