At the Edge

Jin-me Yoon: Group of Sixty-Seven, (detail). 1996-1997.

My thoughts on Canada Day come to you a little late dear reader, as I have just recovered from a near death experience, but fret not, we'll all be on the same page in a matter of moments, and I too shall join the legions of bloggers weighing in with their long weekend tales.

It all started innocently enough on Thursday, when Frannie called me at work in the middle of an MSN chat with Vernice, who was being weird and coy about the arrangement of a meeting to get my guitar back. Frannie had just returned from a fantastic jaunt around various North American culture centers during her break between contracts for the film studios in the home town. She had stayed with a group of artists in Quebec, smoked hash in a chic club that was owned by the fellow she was staying with in Montreal, had actually lunched in Manhattan with Je... Oh, wait, sorry, I wasn't supposed to mention that part. (ok just a hint, he was in Life Aquatic) She had seen the Decembrists in Toronto, and bought her brother the handsomest set of vintage cufflinks in Chicago, which at one time had been owned by an old blues great. I was listening to all this with a slight pang of envy when my eyes drifted off to the window and the Canadian flag flying over the home town's RCMP station was at half mast. I keep my eye on that flag, and always quietly note it's drop half way down the pole. I spend silly moments trying to picture who it was that died, and look at the skyline of the city thinking about the family who's sadness has been dictated by the height of that flag. But they are hidden within the walls of a skyline that is trying to touch the heavens with each and every building that graces its landscape. Vernice kept typing "Are you still there? where are you?????" And Frannie was killing me with tales from far away places I had never been when I maniacally cut her off in mid sentence, "Would you drink a bottle of wine on the beach with me tonight?" Time flew by after that, and within what seemed like a flash, I was sitting on the beach with Frannie.

The sun was setting, lazy tankers lay high in their bath of dark water after long journeys across the oceans. The lights of the city drew maps of progress all over the conquered mountain gorge with tiny dots of light; endless in supply. Frannie, to my surprise, was a pro at the beach party experience, and had a fire going in minutes. The waves were lapping at the fire, trying to put it out, and I thought that it was quite fitting to celebrate Canada Day at one of her borders. I was as far as one can go west without swimming. That little white line of frothy water trying to overtake my feet was the edge; and I was on it. We stayed there for hours, Frannie and I, talking about everything; our futures, our pasts, our hopes and dreams, and the 400$ dress she was going to buy at Betsey Johnson. We drank two bottles of wine, smoked a joint, got freaked out by rats trying to make it into their home that we unwittingly were blocking, and finally the fire went out, leaving us in darkness. We decided to head back to Frannie's place where she grabbed a third bottle of wine and invited me up to the roof of her apartment which showcased a dark mountain vista and the beach in all its sexiness. I was right pissed by this time, stumbling around the tiles of the flat charcoal colored roof. We had lawn chairs, we had wine, and we had the city staring us in the face. Eventually the sun began to peak up from the eastern side of the skyline which was my queue to get home. Frannie wanted me to stay, and I sensed an apprehension in her to face the long weekend alone after spending so much time traveling with friends in abundance, but I needed to endure my hangover alone.

I rode my bike over my favorite bridge, the sky was turning pink and The Fixx, Red Skies at Night was playing on my iPod. The streets were deserted, and I felt at that moment, that I had Canada all to myself for just a second, to wish it happy birthday of course. Which I did, by throwing a Canadian quarter with a beaver on it over the edge of the bridge, down into the water below as I rode home.

The official Canada Day, the one everyone else celebrated was a write off for me. I woke up sometime around 1pm. I had given my brother some of my clothes to sell at his garage sale; I was supposed to help out too. I stumbled to the phone, wondering if anything had sold, and if I could still get in on the BBQ later that day. He said nothing had sold. I imagined all these people picking through my clothes in my absence, deeming them unworthy. My brother said the festivities would kick up about 3 and to come down around then. We haven't spoken since, BBQ seems to allude me these days.

At this point I was feeling quite smashing, and looking forward to brown bottles and sunburns. I decided that I could wait till 3 to eat, seeing as the fridge was void of anything edible; so I lit up my pipe and jumped into the bath with my book. The fool I was! I was still drunk of course, and by the time 3pm came about I was in full blown detox. Surely I could still make my brothers BBQ by 3, and have something to eat, which would hopefully rectify things. By 4 though, things took a turn for the worst. My head was pounding, I was starving, and my brother was nowhere to be found. I heated up a can of chicken broth, lay on my face, and watched Finding Neverland, sobbing through the entire film. Finally, I gave up on everything, and just went to bed, headache, hunger, and all.

I woke up with a headache still. I had to get some medication, as this thing was just not going away. I thought I had damaged my brain and was slowly dying. Every time I tried to bend over to put my shoes on my head would swell, sending me back to bed. When I eventually made it to the store, I bought a V8 and some tylenol. The clerk looked at me and smiled looking at my purchase while asking me if I was hung over. I told him that yes indeed, he was correct, accept that I had celebrated Canada Day one day early, and my hangover was now two days old. He went silent, finishing the transaction while staring silently at the till. I retreated back to bed, and surfed the net in bed looking for dinner ideas. Vernice was coming over that evening, and I couldn't back out now, I had went through hell to get her to accept my invitation. I needed my guitar.

I decided on a Cassoulet. a dish that originated in the south of France around the 14th Century. I chose it because I felt so fucked up that I needed something I could throw together in a slow cooker and go back to bed. It worked out perfectly, giving me time to recover from the noon hour trip I had to take, running all over town for cannellini beans and the rest of the ingredients needed. All day the smell of chicken, kielbasa, cannellini beans, and tomatoes, stewing together in a brine made of dry wine and thyme permeated my place; which was looking ever so lovely with all thee warehouse windows wide open and the table set just so. I must say that I was feeling so cracking by the time that Vernice was due over that I decided to pop downstairs for a quick beer. With my new haircut and black shirt, it seemed like a tragedy to spend the whole evening looking so good, and never leaving the house. That, and I had to celebrate the fact that I wasn't a retard after all, that indeed I would pull through again, maybe just slightly dumber. But who needs smarts, when you have charm! I tipped my glass to health, along with a fellow that lived down the hall, and watched Neil Young on Live8, without sound. The bar downstairs has a rule that staff must always play the blues. It's a blues club damnit! Nothing else. I thought live8 wasn't for another month; perhaps I should get cable, or start reading a newspaper.

Vernice arrived, guitar in hand, looking lovely, and smelling even better. The memory of waking up at her place came back to me with the familiarity of her scent. She had not seen my place yet, and I could tell that she was impressed by the attention to detail that I had managed to put together under such distressing conditions. It was a lovely evening, and quite a story I assure you.

But I must save that for another time gentle reader. I feel like I a loud boisterous guest hogging the spotlight at someone else's party. This weekend belongs to that special lady that we all know so well, and to talk about anything else would just be rude. And I most certainly don't want to be rude, even if I am two days late for the party.