Sometimes, It’s Bad

Folks, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I love attention. I used to say that all attention is good attention. Now and then, though, The Universe tries to teach you a lesson. Most recently, It tried to teach me that some attention is bad. Namely, the kind that results from a freight train of drunken mayhem can be particularly bad. Thankfully, I’m a slow learner.

Several weekends ago I went to Windsor, Ontario to watch my buddy Mick get married. The texture of the weekend was introduced by a sleepless red eye flight from Calgary to Toronto on Thursday night. After a tedious, highly caffeinated layover in T.O. I hopped onto the world's smallest commercial plane (I had to enter the plane in reverse and back into my seat as it was too small for all but the wee-ist of lasses to turn around) for a nightmarish 45 minutes of turbulent nausea. Around 10am I arrived in Windsor, cranky, tired and somewhat ill.

It took me about 37 seconds to decide that the place was a total shithole and should be sold to the US for a pack of camels.

After a short cab ride through the White Trash capital of Canada I arrived at my hotel. I was obviously ecstatic to discover that I couldn’t check in until 2pm.

They agreed to hold on to my luggage until I could check in that afternoon. I grabbed a book, my wallet, a Walkman and hit the streets of Windsor. After several hours of swilling coffee, reading Stephen King, listening to my walkman, and mistakenly consuming the worst tomato and onion sandwich known to the modern world I finally managed to get in touch with Mick (I had left several messages on his answering machine, updating him on my ever-changing Present Location). He came and picked me up and we drove around as he did pre-wedding chores. Soon enough it was about 5pm and all I wanted to do was shower, sleep and maybe, just maybe, drink a little beer.

Sensing this he took me back to his apartment (though I would have preferred checking into my hotel, but hey, who am I to argue) and threw a Labatt’s Blue at me. Normally I would rather drink urine than Blue. But, since I was a guest in his house and drinking urine is generally discouraged I reluctantly accepted the beer.

Frankly folks, that’s the last thing that I remember clearly. The Immaculate Beer Buzz thudded against my exhausted brain, and the many beer that followed could not be stopped. Rampant drunken sleepless insanity dominated the remainder of the weekend. I’ve loosely pieced together most of it, but some gaps remain.

This was, by far, the posh-est weekend I have ever endured. Both Mick and his wife are fortunate to be from families that are comfortably well off. As such there was a certain degree of protocol and decorum surrounding the formal events of the weekend. It was, unfortunately, something to which I’m not very accustomed. I had to pretty much wing it.

I set these simple rules for myself, and I followed them diligently