thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- DEBAUCHERY AT LAST! Salt Lake City operates on a "grid system". Bear this in mind, gentle Master. It will become important later. Here is last night, in sequential order: Practise guitar until I'm ordered to stop by Mum, who is convinced I'll have blisters in the morning. Work on "The Lines You Amend" and create a rendition that would have made the subject even more suicidal. Watch Oly coverage for a time. Discover attention span is even shorter than previously thought. Hop online. Receive telephone call from Accomplice A. (All Accomplices' identities will be protected.) Accomplices A, B, and C (all female) are congregated at Cafe X. (Cafe's identity will also be protected.) They've been to some concert or other at the Medals Plaza and stopped at said cafe, Accomplice A's employer, where Accomplice A testifies that they have collected a bunch of "cute Canadian boys" and I really must come by immediately wearing my old, browbeaten Roots sweatshirt with a maple leaf flag on the left bicep. I thank them anyway and stick a wadded-up ten-spot in Dad's hand so that he can pick them up, but they say they're not ready to be picked up. Eating or whatever. Okay. I'm IMing Heidi. I'm teasing her mercilessly about her crush on a younger man. I call him a "fetus" and she replies that the "fetus" has a goatee, and I've just asked if his voice has finished changing (smugly) when I'm phoned again. It's Accomplice B this time, insisting that I, and not my father, be the one to stop by Cafe X. Rolling my eyes, I trudge out the door. Dad tells me to make Accomplice A's boyfriend pump gas when I refuel the badly-starved Hamilton on my way back. I discover by the time I'm at 1300 South that there just won't be enough fumes to get me that far, and break that solemn vow I made not to touch my Mastercard so I can pay at the pump. I arrive at Cafe X in the requested uniform. Accomplice A points me to the table where, indeed, Accomplices B and C have staked out some relatively impressive Saskatoon turf. I braved Olympic traffic for SASKIES?! And here's the thought that immediately follows the above specimen of incredulity: I didn't shave my legs. They offer me a beer. I accept graciously. ~~ Everybody appears to be having a jolly old time: watching the rebroadcast of Sale and Pelletier's medal ceremony; giving the finger to the even-drunkener Olympicgoers who moon us through the cafe window (with impunity); exchanging contact info (heh ... someone thought it'd be a good idea to give them my URL! Crap!) and drinking water and ... near-water. Accomplice B asserts that Saskie #4 looks "kind of like Dave Foley." Before beer I didn't see it, but now we are after beer, and I do! But I deny it. I admit only that I had forgotten how much more attractive Canadian men are, and how much nicer, and how much beer would really help the social climate here in SLC. Saskie #4 has a Canadian flag draped over his shoulders and a big, eleven-point maple leaf painted on his face. (These too will become more important later.) It should be obvious but it is not yet obvious that he will be my downfall. It happens in the car. Indeed, Accomplice C (the only other person among us who is registered to drive Hamilton) is piloting herself, Accomplice A, Accomplice B, and Saskie #2. I ride shotgun with the other three Saskies. All are inaebriated except for our teetotaling driver, Saskie #3. He's mocking Accomplice C's driving as we caravan out to the south side. I know by some unseen force that Accomplice C is criticising Saskie #3 right back. And that's when the shoulder rub (with, um, benefits) takes off. While our drivers trade unheard barbs, I sink into the massage and watch with great amusement as Accomplice B and Saskie #2 steam up Hamilton's rear window. ~~ They are Saskies. They don't know the village. They don't know the grid system. And what they have pretty much just done is given us transposed coordinates -- X-hundred south and Y-hundred west when in fact their temporary residence is Y-hundred south and X-hundred west. The difference is massive. We end up spending about 90 minutes on the road, stopping only to refuel the Saskmobile. Somewhere along the way I cross second base with NotDave Foley. I'm liberated by the thought that he's only in town for a couple days. The Saskie at the wheel is cursing up a storm, and the other Saskie is "freestyling" nonsense ass-rap, and I could really care less that all this groping is going on in their plain view because (a) Assrap is so wasted by this point he won't remember and (b) like I said, they'll be back in Saskatoon before I'm even back at work. We finally find the house of whoever's aunt it is, at which they're staying. (I'm more coherent most other times also.) We've logged about ... gah, I mentioned that already. Before I know it I'm wrapped up in a great big Canadian flag (I'm not making this up) with an a considerably aroused NotDave who has an increasingly-harder-to-interpret mass of red grease paint his face. When we tiptoe, barefoot, into Auntie's Place for washroom purposes (oddly enough not all of us are Canadian but we all say "washroom"!) I barely allow my face so much as a once-over. But I see handprints all over me, and it is at this time I start praying I won't be greeted at the door when I arrive home. Back outside so everyone can socialise. I'm immediately reinitiated into the NotDave-and-mapleflag burrito. Finally, after several minutes of shivering in our upright burrito formation, Accomplice A (of all people!) convinces me to log a little Hamilton time with him while Accomplices B and C entertain Saskies 2 and 3 (and Assrap just kind of amuses himself, because we all know he's the one the other guys appointed "designated asshole" to make the rest of them look more appealing for the night; it's okay, boys; you don't have to lie about this practise; we know it, and we exploit it). I will not quantify NotDave's circumstantial behaviour, save for noting that he is drunk and horny enough to call me beautiful but polite enough to prioritize warming my hands over standard-issue groping. We talk about Saskatchewan and my poor circulation and not really minding all those wrong turns taken because, heh, we got some! Dude. Woo! And then the men pile back into their car to debate whether or not they can get away with sneaking into Auntie's Place TWICE. And we pile into Hamilton. We have just rounded the corner when Accomplice B points out to me that I've red greasepaint all over my face. We have just come to the first stoplight when I ask aloud if anybody remembers what NotDave's name was. ~ETK 07:56 - 18 February, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||