We just had a pretty dope long weekend. Stroke of genius styles - I took Friday off to make it four days off. That's a lot of days in a row where I showered late in the afternoon. Aka heaven.
On Sunday night, instead of hibernating with a makeshift couch bed and HBO, we went out to celebrate a buddy's birthday. Step one - bowling. I love you Commodore Lanes because, well, you're the closest lanes to us and you provide not only beer, coolers and Lysol-soaked socks, but also a half-fridge full of cream. (Aaaand a website from 1984. Yahmazing.)
So, turns out when you want to throw down some competitive jive talk over the crash of a ball dispenser (WATCH YOUR GODDAMN HANDS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD - getting them pinched between two balls is a recurring nightmare of mine and I mean bowling balls), someone needs to keep score. Manually. With a pencil. And math.
If you happened to look at my high school transcripts, I believe the Grade 11 Math class I C+'d in was called Sweet Child I Pray You Have a Calculator Watch For All Your Days 101. But if it's a matter of determining a winner, winning, triumphing or dominating, I will step up to the addition challenge, time and time again.
Mostly because if you do not win, it is hard to concoct a "I didn't care anyways, right?" face.
So, I lead the charge of figuring out what the f-ck to do when someone strikes twice in a row, and did my best to not spit out a gnashed tooth every time I turned around to walk back to the bench as the ball lightning skidoo'd down the gutter behind me. It pleases me to report that I did quite well, coming in second. It's kind of like first, but with a twist.
Step two - find an 80s night and get mega sh-tty on the dance floor. Here's how my brain works (while soaked in a few drinks anyways.) If a dance floor is empty, I will go to there. If it is full, I'm more intimidated and will do the chick dancing heavily in her chair move. The night was wet and grey so The Charles Bar was just getting warmed up when I dragged twin boys out onto the dance floor to many many different 80s songs. (As an aside, Nuv will tell you I hate 80s music. I did not in fact ever say that. I said I would never choose to listen to 80s music. Evidently I should also add I will always dance to 80s music. And always love a guy who gets this excited about 80s music.)
So, if you happened to see video surveillance footage of me that night, you could break down my sick moves into 3 different categories.
The Aggro - up close flipping of birds, voracious arm flapping and chest thrusting and dramatic flying up close to someone and then retreating.
The Jumps - basically jumping instead of dancing. Often combined with a spin and both arms alternately pointing to the sky. Used only sporadically because jumping is f-cking really hard after a while and the next day your calves are kind of f-cking pissed at you.
Finally, the Nonsense: the dancing slow while the music is fast, the sudden leaving of the dance floor for no reason, the inexplicable pausing for a part of a song you don't know, and the random small kicks while staring at your feet and laughing.
Essentially it was a show for the ages, only surpassed by a) the white chick who came in, took off her coat and within 15 seconds glommed onto a black dude like a panther cobra, and b) the invisible double dutch ropes my twin buddies busted out. It made a bunch of too cool for school Gastown-ers jump like they were 11 years old, high on fruit roll ups and new Keds.
The only lame part of the whole weekend came courtesy of the kid on Monday. Visiting great friends who she knows and adores, roused from a nap, she would not stop crying. After doing the appropriate Mama move and calling her a loser to her drooling sad face, I called it a day, packed up her stuff and left the suburbs for the long ride home to the city. Guess what bad babies get? They get full throttle garbage rap - listening to Black Rob's Like Whoa at 16-year-old-boy-in-his-first-car volume. Twice. With Mama doing the one arm worm. I think we can call it even.