or
Advanced Classes in Bad Alchemy.
This past weekend saw the pre-figured arrival of Marc Bragdon, or Marc of the North as I like to call him. As is our tribe's way of doing things... you know, together... we huddled around tables in what we refer to as "Night Spots," though not the early teenage kind you might be picturing... and shame on you for that. What amazes is how folks like us, mildly advanced in matters of culture, technology, inter-personal politics, music and the ways of animal migration, can be reduced to slobbering shouting teenagers by tiny vials of amber liquid.
Our bar-hopping was two-footed if not sure-footed, and in retrospect quite a drain on the ol' right front pocket. But misinterpreted geography and early exhuberance followed by several shots to the mouth from the hand through the bending of the elbow fogged over my participatory powers early on. Most of the post-Taproom evening was viewed through what felt like slightly steamed diving goggles.
During a foray into the Creek they call "Bugaboo," we watched as a band who's name we did not know failed to entertain us. I am told that my hoots and ironic "devil horn" throwing was under appreciated by some at nearby tables, probably attached to the band in some way. Forgive me. I hoot when I'm happy. I hoot when I'm sad. I hoot when I'm confused and can't decide. Much later (well just tonight) I've come to find that the band was Colonial Quarrels who are an "offshoot," or at least share two members with Moncton's Peter Parkers, a band I quite like. While I'm generally easier to impress when "tipsy," I'll have to reserve final judgement until I can hear them with both ears and a full (or less full) head.
We seemed to walk for several blocks each time we left a bar... so I'm not entirely sure if we went to one or two bars next... so... but... eventually we decided on The Capital as a key place to wrap up the evening. However, as we re-navigated our way there we passed in front of the Creek once more... and from inside I heard the sounds of violin, cello and three part harmony. Indeed it was A Northern Chorus
who I knew were slated to play. The sound drew me inside while the others continued on. So I parked myself on the floor below the merch table and drifted along for the rest of their set.
I failed to find the rest of my expedition crew post-show, so I did what any explorer would do: Head for the Poutine truck. The rest was just about the wandering home.
Postscript. If I left a message on more than the one answering machine I've already been told about... please disregard what I might have said. It was probably true, but still. Sorry again. I hoot you know.
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