“D”-day! “D”-Day!! (Culture on hiatus)

Ok, so I spent the whole weekend drunk and hungover, often simultaneously. Not proud of it, and it was far from any cultural redemption my city was serving up over the weekend. Actually, to be fair, one could call the bar at the W hotel a museum of sorts: A wax museum (you know, of fake people)? a museum of JAPpery?? a museum of doucbebaggery??? all of the above, perhaps? Hard to say, really. Truthfully, it wasn’t half bad. I’m not a regular there, and it was a fun departure from the so-called hipster hangouts I tend to populate. 2 for 1 mooseheads were replaced by 1-for-3 martinis. Fashionably dingy t-shirts were replaced by popped collars all around. The Strokes were replaced by 4-on-the-floor dance beats (you know, awesome eurotrash club anthems with lyrics like “I feel the love in the beat tonight!”, or “I love to hear the beat in the night!”, or perhaps “Beat the shit out of me with your love tonight!”) Most notably, hipster Betties were replaced by incredibly well-groomed Barbie dolls. Both very hot, I must admit.

Earlier that night my boy Christopher celebrated his 28th birthday in high Greek style (“SUCCESS!”) at Mythos, a place where both succulent lamb and desperate cougars were in high supply. Admittedly, the cougars were only visible as we passed through the bar on the way up to the restaurant – but their Chanel # 5 and heavy, tart-like make-up made their presence felt throughout the establishment.

But on to the big news of the week: D-day! As in Door Day! As in: I’m finally getting a muthafuckin’ door up in my lair. Ladies, take a number indeed. My door, or lack of one thereof, has been a subject of both folly and contention amongst my friends and family. To them, it is a constant reminder that I am lazy - to a fault. I’ve lived in my shared apartment for 1.5 years - doorless years. How was I able to do it? Curtains and shamelessness, my friends. Shamelessness when I was changing, shamelessness playing lousy guitar, and shamelessness when I was entertaining some lady-company. I wonder what life will be like with a door? Will I read more, because the previously inescapable din of the living room TV will now be inaudible? Will I take less pride in the appearance of my room, because I will now have a door to hide my messiness? Follow-up question: is it even possible for my room to be any messier than it is already? With my newfound privacy, will I be more inclined to "rough up the suspect"? Follow-up question: Is it physiologically possible to "rough up the suspect" more than I already do? Forgive this juvenile digression...I will catch you guys on the other side…OF MY DOOR!


FS


PS: happy holidays y’all.

Culture-fest continues: Music!!

Specifically, Salsa and Merengue music. Specifically, the kind that played at our company Chrismtas party while we were dining on veal, chicken or fish (I chose the veal. It was delicious.) But you can go ahead and put down dance music playing while I’m trying to eat my goddamn meal as one of my all-time pet peeves. Slot it right before motorists who fail to signal and right after people who whistle in public. Actually, sorry, public whistling is still the worst. But blasting dance music while i eat is pretty awful. I mean, you have two choices: you either pretend that the dance music is not playing and you try to enjoy your meal with a nice sprinkling of shouted conversation amongst your fellow table-mates. Or, you try to chew and swallow in sync with the rhythm of the music, which is absolute jack-ass behaviour. It's a lose/ lose situation, no question.

Company Christmas parties are great. You have all the clichés that people love to laugh at: the formulaic thank-you speeches from the upper management, who would, clearly, rather be repeatedly beaning themselves in the testicles (sorry, I just saw Casino Royale and that scene where 007 gets repeatedly rocked in the nuts is still fresh in my mind) than be at the party. And then you have your drunken co-workers: Drunken co-workers dancing impossibly, drunken co-workers coming on to you, drunken co-workers spilling booze everywhere, and drunken co-workers telling you how much they "love you, man."

But on to the after party! It was at a bar called Rouge, which is, apparently, the French word for “Cock Festival”. Bonus pet peeve: going to a bar where there are way more dudes than ladies. And not just men, but “Dudes” in particular. You know, guys who dress the same, wear a shitload of cologne, and all Rock Out the same way to “Livin’ On a Prayer”. This is all obvious, I know, and the obvious retort is “hey buddy, why are you sweating the dudes so much in the first place? Why don’t you focus your attention on the lovely ladies of the establishment?” And my answer is this: I was too self-conscious on account of the gi-normous cold sore that had recently opened for business on my upper lip. But we move on, right? Not so much, actually, because it’s been over a week and my cold sore has not yet cleared up. I hate winter.

Viva la cultura!!