the scene

Tucked away in the back alley of the main strip, a strip that in itself features only two salons, three pubs, what seems like 30 antique and novelty shops, a pizza place and an overly bright pita pit, lies this little nugget of familiar fun. Walk into a dingy circle of familiarity where elbows bump, not because of a dance floor, but because of an abnormal amount of seating space for a place catering to the debauchery of the summer returned twenty somethings.

I take a seat amongst the universal conversation of "what are you up to nows", only to far too often hear of stagnant reprocutions that derived from being "too cool" for a high B average in high school. Pity sets in as I wait for the one waitress, dressed in her woodbridge looking finest, fix forty-five people the same pint of domestic. Don't get me wrong, there's Stella, Carlsberg, and Creemore on tap, but to the pride of this land, Blue and Canadian hold a mystic appeal: it smells of overexposure and irks of free t-shirts with purchase.

I look around at the communal circle jerk going on with the testosterone spoiled hockey haired (*cough*mullet*cough) gents lusting over "what they would do" to any of the five friends sitting at the only table of girls over the age of the remaining post-pubescent id wielding dynamo's. God I love kilts. Soon enough, number 99 spots me mockingly observing him and his band of needful cronies, which in no time warrants a pit of whisperful rage, and blue steel glances towards our overly abusive mockery.

Within seconds good times turn to macho whines, and the turkey's turn and puff out their chests as far as they can go while they sequentially measure the opposing pack to see what tribe measures larger. After twenty minutes of curious wonder, no punches are thrown, shots are had, smokes are burned, and cabs are called; a joint at the neighbourhood swing set is on the horizon.

*this scene has been brought to you by the Crown and Firkin of Whitby, ON.

posted by mr. tomas ubik @ Sunday, May 15, 2005