4.3.07

Waiting to Exhale

Famous Wait Times:

•Maple Leafs Stanley Cup victory: Infinity+40 years.
•For Godot: Infinite.
•Jesus' return: 2007 years and counting.
•Red Sox World Series victory: 87 years.
•Rangers Stanley Cup victory: 54 years.
•Canadian Men's hockey Olympic gold: 50 years.
•Chinese Democracy by Guns n' Roses: 6 years.
•Lung: 4 years.
•Heart: 2 years.
•Kidney: 18 months.
•Angioplasty/hip replacement: 12 months.
•Rolling Stones tickets: 3 days.
•Nose bleed in ER: 6 hours.
•Free Nuit Blanche Omelette: 2 hours 10 minutes.
Waiting to Exhale: 2 hours 7 minutes.
•Jurassic Park Ride--Universal Studios, California: 1 hour 45 minutes.
•Indiana Jones Ride--Disney Land, California: 1 hour 35 minutes.
•Back to the Future Ride--Universal Studios, California: 1 hour 15 minutes.
•Bus--wondering how many things drunkard with baseball bat will try to smash before he gets to your face: 24 minutes.
•Roller Coaster--Calaway Park, Calgary, Alberta: 13 minutes.
•Waiting for a Nickleback song to end: 3 minutes 49 seconds.
•Bucking stock: 8 seconds.
•For the taste of 10,000 egg omelette to cause the taste of vomit to well up in the back of your throat after it first touches your tongue: 0.7 seconds.
The lengths cheapskates are willing to go for free food is staggering. 2 hours for a one egg omelette made amongst 10,000 other eggs for 10,000 others. 2 hours for a one egg omelette plucked from amongst 10,000 other eggs simmering in a giant 10,000 egg sized pile of 10,000 vomit-looking egg slime. This won't be appetizing. Eggs rarely are.

10,000 close friends, in close, varying degrees of drunkenness, hungoverness, tired and bitchiness. 10,000 close friends waiting 2 hours or better for a one egg omelette plucked from 10,000 eggs of vomit-looking omelette slime. This wasn't appetizing. Eggs rarely are.

Who thought that an all-night festival in Montreal in early March, three days removed from February's final 37cm farewell, would be a good idea? Rio...bravo. New Orleans in drier times...bravo. Paris in the spring...bravo. Montreal in the winter...

The buses were supposed to be free. But the driver on the bus I waited 24 minutes for asked me and the drunkard with the baseball bat smashing the phone booth for passes. Mine passed. With some quick drunken thinking and sleight of hand between drunkard friends duped the driver into carrying on. "Iwunnafucksoomebudddyuppppp..." He wailed into the night as the bus filled with party goers and festive folks of all sorts of toque design. Blue, black, blank, blah, blah, blah. Onwards, "Iwunnafucksoomebudddyupppp..."

Arriving late, but on time because we are all late. Baffling bilingual booklets. Abandoning booklets. Wandering aimlessly. To no avail.

Girl knitting her own white wedding gown without knitting needles or yarn.

Dance Dance Revolution: Boring Edition/Doormat Edition. Unwelcome.

Dance, dance, dance the night away. Theatre. Seats. Sitting. Watching. Unknowing. Never knowing. It's dancing. I think. It is a man with out a shirt doing push-ups. Wearing silent shoes. Sneaky sneakers. Funky jive before the big screen. Like the funky jive the unknowing kid in blue sweat pants placed in an Animal Farm essay by mistake. All comes crashing about my head and shoulders. All at once. Phone rings. Time to leave.
Straight faces. Blank faces. Blank stares in dark rooms. In light rooms. In broom rooms. In room rooms. In rooms that aren't really rooms. In rooms with no room. In the same room the entire time. Giving up. Giving in. Moving on.

Lying on my back on the plush blue theatre carpeting in Salle Wilfred Pelletier staring at the pot lights in the ceiling. Wondering when it would be time to leave. Wondering why I was lying on my back on the plush blue theatre carpeting in Salle Wilfred Pelletier staring at the pot lights in the ceiling. Wondering all sorts of junk that has been crashing about my head and shoulders these days. Wondering about shutter speeds and the number 6. Shuddering in the dark with the lights on and music playing, falling on deaf ears. Giving up. Giving in. Moving on.
Now the moment we have all been waiting for. Now for the moment I lay awake on my back on the plush blue theatre carpeting in Salle Wilfred Pelletier staring at the pot lights in the ceiling wondering what the echo is, and the echo wandering back. Now for the 10,000 egg vomlette. 10,000 sweating, pissing, shitting, bitching, moaning, puking, drunken, angry mouths to feed. This isn't appetizing. Eggs never are.

Pale faced anticipation. Blank stares. Blanker thoughts. Building named for banks. Architectural quirks as advertising campaigns for low interest rates. No interest rates. At any rate. 3 words shrugged through a crowd. Blank, blank, blank. Blah, blah, blah.

2 hours, 10 minutes. 3 more than Waiting to Exhale. Both utterly disappointing. Crushingly so.

Crass. Clouded. Crosswalks. Friends pissing Soviet gasoline in the middle of busy intersections. Back on the 80. Wailing "Iwunnafucksoomebudddyuppppp..." into the brisk morning air. It just doesn't have the same ring tone.
Photos taken the night of and since have been Flickred.

1 comment:

Glenford said...

This post, for me, has been a roller coaster of emotions and experiences.