On the north side of East Hastings, between Main and Carral, Dave and I were chased by a syringe wilding, drugged addled manic street preacher. At first, we quickened our pace to put some distance between the needler, and us, the possible needled. Then we ran. He fucked off after a second, leaving us safer, seemingly, and with adrenaline coursing through our veins. This sprint took us to an intersection, where we had to stop for cars, though we both wanted to keep on running. Kitty corner from us stood a glassed wall, with light streaming out from the interior, illuminating the street, attracting us.
A curious scene inside. Were all in attendance there for moral support of the artists? What portion simply walked in from the street, like us, out of curiosity, or out of the cold? Being the child of an artist, I’ve been to a fair number of openings, so I’m used to the art gallery routine; look, mingle/talk, look quick again, and then drink (when your over 17 and it’s your dads show), but this one was different. In a space that was maybe 3000 square feet, with the majority of the space taken up not by art, I was, and still am interested in the numbers. This is no art review, as I haven’t taken the prerequisite art history class 100 level, so I don’t actually know what’s good. I do know what I like, though what does that count for anymore, and this wasn’t really it. Neat colour use though. That’s the extent of my review. We left, back from the illusory safety that the art and crowds gave us for the sharp glass comfort of Hastings again.
Just a half block to Funkys, where I got the door for Dave, and hopped in and down to another world of scuzz. The piss stench was stronger at the bars main doors then in the bathroom itself; it found its way up our nostrils and stuck there, only to leave with drink. Much drink.
The dive has two mics. Grab tha’ mic and sing to your choice, limited choice, or hits from the 70’s to 90’s, as well as a few two year old top 40 hits. Sweet. The magic happens when you grab the cold steel casing of the microphone, look out into your crowd, and making eye contact with the degenerates. Sing to guiltless products of the environment. Dave, Tracy and I sang a soul swabbing rendition of “Hungry Heart”, a life-lusting song that made me reach to the bottom of my innards and bring it back up to give the words the right inflection. The notes that came up from the bottom were just as wet, doomed to fall with gravity, as the vomit that comes up in the same drunken state. Eww. The two explorers, Dave, Me, stayed up as a promise to Tracy, to dance while she sang “Locomotion”. Sometime during, our gang arrived, bombing the seminar.
These cats were rolling all over the place, to, fro, high fives, mics in hands. The singing got worse, and the pitchers emptied.
Skip ahead an hour, skip the part of the night spent walking to the Van art gallery to find Morgans sexy cousin and her sexy friend, both in town from the interior to see a country music man perform; skip the walk with these prissy women, old by the age of twenty, the rain that fell and the alleys that scared them; skip the directions that we didn’t have. Skip to arriving at The Columbia, hopping in and taking my coat off. First cover, then coat, beer, and dance floor. The first thing I noticed in the bar was the smell. Unlike the overwhelming stench of urine that floated all through Funky Winkerbeans, a clean and domestic smell found my nasal cavity. Was it the smell of women? Sex? I pinned it to Shampoo. The odor was quite lovely, and I found myself comfortable, as I had shampooed earlier in the day. The feeling one gets when one knows that, all is clean, safe and oil free. I felt like an actor in a new target-market seeking advertisement, aimed at hip twenty-somethings. Then someone farted. That happened three times, and each time, I had to leave the dance floor.
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