What Could Be vs What Is

Gay Pride, Dykes on Bikes, lazy beers at Zeitgeist on a sunny afternoon—I skipped the lot. The weekend is always marked at the beginning by the list of things one wants to do and ultimately modulated at the end by the list of things one wound up doing. The differential is often enough to draw a tear.

Check the past weekend...

What I Wanted to Do

• Get a few beers at Zeitgeist on a sunny afternoon, either Saturday or Sunday; I'm not fussy.
• Head downtown and do some shopping
• Check out some of the Pride festivities
• Play plenty of Oblivion
• Catch a movie
• Wash my car

What I Wound Up Doing

• Separated the cats from one another and gradually reintroduced them, many times over
• Went to Trader Joe's and bought food for the week
• Rented a wet vacuum and cleaned the couch and arm chairs
• Played a modest amount of Oblivion
• Stripped those wretched doors of more paint
• Lamented the differential between the list of things I wanted to do and what was now looking realistic as of Sunday afternoon

On the plus side The Great Organiser and I made our way to the LAB gallery for a performance of 10 Lanes Pizza Bowl. It's a bizarre and wildly experimental chunk of theatre that's probably best enjoyed after a healthy tug on the bong. As an added bonus, a group of four presumptively Italian tourists decided to make their presence felt in the crowd. One was a sweat pants-wearing dood of around 19 years of age who'd forgone the bongs in favour of a lot of liquor. He made for a restless drunk, and after a painful twenty or so minutes of interruptions he vacated for the restrooms, perhaps to evacuate his belly. His two companions of about equal age and their older "chaperon" remained. Time wore on and when he didn't return the venue staff played a short game of Hunt the Drunk. It was over quickly. After discovering a slumped body in the men's restroom the erstwhile chaperon was called upon to cart the incapacitated body out of the venue. The chaperon didn't exactly rate highly on the responsibility scale. Good looks, curly locks and a gives-the-girls-a-moisty Italian accent can't substitute for a dose of resolute action, but to his misplaced credit the chaperon tried. After dumping the drunken teenager out on the sidewalk with all the other bums who inhabit the 16th and Capp crack zone, the Italian Stallion attempted to smooth-talk his way back inside. He had the misfortune of attempting to charm The Great Organiser. Her shields were up.

"You can let me back in, of course. You are an American woman, yes?"

His tone implied that there was some kind of difference between them, him being Italian and all, that would allow him to grease his tongue with a slick layer of persuasive misogyny that his experience in female conquest had told him no American woman could resist.

"Yes, and you're an asshole. You need to leave."

The Great Organiser, when confronted with a situation that demands corrective action, can be ferocious. Without further remonstrations the Stallion was unceremoniously manhandled out of the venue by a burly female member of the staff while another one got to work on calling the police dispatch.

The rest of the performance concluded without incident.