My brother and I made a last minute decision to go see Jack Johnson at Cityfolk last Thursday. I didn’t care what anyone said at work, I had been listening to his music since before they were born (impossible…maybe). It was the soundtrack to a time that was the most fun anyone could ever have had – being a nomadic, adventurous teen on the other side of the ocean, learning everything life had to offer while on the fly and mainly drunk. So yes, it hadn’t occurred to me that Jack Johnson was old people music, because I of course, associated it with my late teens. It wasn’t until the show that I realized just how “old People” music it was. Firstly, the crowd was terrible. They were not dancing, most people were talking through it and no one seemed to be excited. The couple in front of us were. They had left the kids at home and were out having a date night. They were talking to us about how their small children were jealous they were going to see Jack sing, the man who sang kid’s songs as well. I thought – fuck, Jack Johnson is old people/family music. When the fuck did this happen? We used to listen to it gathered around campfires, smoking wild grasses, hunting for wild growing psychedelic fungus and showing off our drinking skills. We lived in a trailer park that summer. I remember the exact campfire someone had a bottle of Stroh rum (80%, 160 proof) that we passed around until someone challenged me to multiple shots which I of course accepted. Let it be known I ended up in the hospital early the next day. Stay classy me. The hospital thought I was having a miscarriage which seemed bizarre to me as I was not with child and then they changed the diagnosis to being alcohol related. That made more sense. I was certainly with alcohol. But back to Jack.
It was clear that I was, in fact, an old person enjoying the music by the way I was trying to dance but also stretch my extremely sore back at the same time. The ol’ side to side sway became longer and deeper until I was basically camouflaging pain stretching for dancing. Then my brother pulled his camera out and I imagined we were taking a nice sibling selfie. I posed for too long before I realized he was taking a “snapchat video” and I looked like a fucking tool in it. #oldpersonforreal

We went to Toronto this weekend for the annual health food association show. Prices were extortionate downtown so we stayed in a hotel outside of town that I had stayed in before and had remembered it as being nice. After Siri took us in circles about 3 times around the hotel, as there was a street named the same as a crescent that intersected it and multiple U-turns later, we found our place. As we got into our room it occurred to me that the last time I had stayed there I had arrived 3 sheets to the wind, past midnight and had left first thing in the morning for a meeting. This room was okay. The bathroom counter was vintage, the air conditioner had a motor and some of the lamps were missing bulbs. It was nothing to write home about. It was when we went to venture out for dinner that we realized we were staying in a part of town I have now called “dumpster fire.” We finally decided on a gross chain to eat at because I knew they had GF stuff. I should have just eaten the bloody gluten because instead of me losing it all out the other end I ended up throwing it all up (I am a pretty lady). Knowing how delicate my stomach truly was, I spent the next 2 days at the show, carefully…shoving every piece of food I could humanely consume into my body. It’s the only time in the world 98% of everything is gluten free and veggie, so I took full advantage. I ate my 3 meals, each day, out of a thousand sample cups. Enviro disaster, but worth it.

You know when you get into a show so craptacular and embarrassing that you turn it down when the neighbours walk by your window? I’m into one right now. It’s so terrible that I imagine the director after every shot saying, fuck it, this garbage is not getting any better, it’s a wrap. It feels like soap opera with Southern accents smothered in lame sauce. But I’m committed. It feels like reading all the Fifty Shades books or the Sylvia Day trilogy – garbage but addictive. My name is Angie and I am a Netflix garbage addict. I actually needed some mourning time when I realized it ended after 2 seasons. Ugh I sicken myself.

I was biking home the other night from work. What crossed my path was a parade of homeless cyclists. The one in the front had a kid buggy attached to the back. There was a homeless guy in the kid buggy surrounded by empty beer cans. There was another homeless biker behind him laughing his ass off. I thought, I know where the party is. I bet, in all the Glebe, these guys are having the most fun, right now. They are also my totem animals. I wondered if I had joined onto the end of the parade they would have thrown me a beer. I guess I will never know, mistakes were made.

Ben and I drove to Kanata to see a movie with my parents. We were walking past the 3 Brewer’s towards the theatre when my Mother yelled across the patio “Yo yo! It’s your Ma!” I told Ben we should just put our head down and keep walking. Mom thought she was a cool rapper of some sort and it was best we just let her be alone in that moment to analyze it, so she realized she is in fact not a rapper and that it should never happens again.

During the same staycation where my car broke down we needed to take Tiger Pip (the cat) to the vets. When we got there they said he was constipated. They said the only thing they could do to help was remove it manually. The scene – an older, bald, Lebanese man with latex gloves with two fingers in my cats butt and the front half of the cat being held down by a young Asian woman. The cat started screeching at the beginning but then we got to wondering if he may be getting into this. On the ride home we talked to the cat saying, although it might have felt good, I could not afford to fund this potential new fetish, so I would be adding additional fibre to his diet from now on.