I’m a real sourpuss today and I hate everyone. (Except you. How could I hate you? C’mere, you!) This is due to lack of sleep caused by my husband doing his ‘shark attack victim’ impression in bed all night. There is no encompassing in mere words what I would give for a king-sized bed. Someday!
The weekend was also a mostly-unmitigated disaster from which I am still recovering. Our good friends Godfather came down on Friday to play a gig at the Good Ship. I’d designed a boss flyer and spent the week diligently flyering the neighbourhood. Alas, the crowd that turned up was worse than pathetic: the saddest bunch of badly-dressed losers that ever got picked last in gym class. “Christ!” I said. “These people couldn’t get laid at a blind retard convention. Come to think of it, hang on a minute…I think this is a blind retard convention!” They seemed almost entirely to be friends of the opening bands, who were crap. Seriously crap. True, the guitarist in the second band had a freakish facial deformity, which was cool, but the band was the crappest crap that ever crapped. And to top everything off, TB from Godfather came down with a stomach bug and spent the whole night vomiting in a very non-rock-and-roll sort of way.
The single highlight of the evening (besides Godfather’s performance, which was awesome as usual despite TB being a disturbing shade of green) was an Irish bloke I met at the bar who refused to believe I wasn’t Irish. “Really, I’m Canadian,” I told him.
“Fuck off, you’re not!” he said. “That’s the worst Canadian accent I’ve ever heard.” Ha!
Despite the evening being generally shit, I managed to keep it going until seven the next morning. I think I’m still hung over. If I keep repeating ‘I’m getting too old for this’, maybe someday it’ll actually sink in.