Submitted by megan on Sat, 11/11/2006 - 19:10
Am I fucking crazy? Who thought these giant tattoos on my ribs would be a good idea? I got most of the whale coloured in today. I had to stop Julian when my legs started twitching and I though might barf. Only two hours in. Fuck. Me. But it's too late to stop the whole process now.
This time I was not so shy with the boobs. You know, there are a lot of people who wander in and out of that tattoo shop, neighbours, old clients, friends. But everyone seems nice, and moreover, they all pretended not to notice that my tit was hanging out. But I wasn't wearing my glasses, so I wouldn't have known if they were ogling anyway.
After we stopped for the day, I lay there for a few seconds, dumbstruck and leaking tears: I knew, just knew, that what I had coming up was not a patient few tears, but a flood. "Julian," I said "Could you hand me a kleenex? I'm sorry, I need to bawl."
He grabbed a paper towel and handed it over. "Weep away." And I did. It was cathartic sad bawling, not ouchie pain bawling. They understood that, have seen it a million times.
It is doubtful that there will be pictures in the near future. Before I wrapped my ribs up in tensor strips to hopefully keep the swelling down, the blood had almost soaked through the bandages.
The GD and I had seats 1 & 2 in the 40th row on the floor. The last row on the floor. It was dark when we went in, and there was row 40, though I practically had to crawl to find the number chalked on the floor. There were two empty seats at the end, so we didn't pay much attention and sat down. A half hour or so into the Foo Fighters, security came over. "Could I see your tickets?" We pulled them out, and she directed us down to the other end of the row - the beginning of the row. That started at Seat 3. There was no C40 1 or 2.
A kerfuffle ensued, requiring the getting of the supervisor. "Don't worry, we'll Take Care of It," he said to us.
Take Care of It? I thought, Do you have to have a conference call to ask for two more folding chairs?
As the supervisor walked away, presumably to just find the conference room where the big guns would dole out our chairs, the Great Dater grabbed his sleeve. "Well, I guess you'll have to put us up at the front now, eh?"
"Sorry to make you stand. It'll just be a few moments." The baby security guard was very apologetic. Who the fuck do they normally deal with here? I thought. Are the people who normally come to scotiabank place particularly weak of leg? Particularly bitchy?
Supervisor came back, no chairs in sight, and crooked a finger for us to follow him. We did, closer and closer to the stage. And indeed, there we were, being taken up to the front. To row 10, as a matter of fact. I think I enjoyed the concert more from row 10 than row 40.
There was one particularly entertaining man who would pop up every 3 or 4 minutes and pump his fist in the air, and then just as suddenly melt into the crowd again. And there was another crazy dancing man, one who just could not be kept down, instead keeping up a herky-jerky Elaine-dance for almost all of Dylan's set.
Highly entertaining, all in all.
On the Way Home from Bob Dylan
I borrowed the Grs car, affectionately known as the Polecat. GD and I were speeding home along the highway in said Polecat, talking about the high points of the show. "One of my favourites," he says to me, "was the penultimate song. But I can't remember the name."
"Did you just say penultimate?" I goggled.
"Yes. It means second to last. Doesn't it?"
"Well, yeah, it does." A moment of silence. "Now all you need to do is toss 'nonplussed' casually and correctly into conversation and you will have well and truly swept me off my feet."
Mitch and Steve and I went to see J5 last night. It was a capacity crowd at the Capital Music Hall. 650 people screaming their heads off any time someone in the band called out a sing-song "Ottawa!" Only for the longest time, I thought he was shouting "I dunno!" and I couldn't figure out why we were supposed to scream our support out for him not knowing whatever it was he was not knowing. I waved my arms in the air like I just didn't care for quite a long time and enjoyed myself thoroughly.
The band seemed genuinely surprised by the sustained enthusiasm of the crowd. It was fun to watch just that. Ottawa fans obviously don't get as much hip hop as they'd like.
Mitch bailed early, and as Steve and I were walking home, he stopped. I kept going for a few steps, then realized Steve wasn't with me and stopped dead too, waiting for him to catch up. And then backed up, wanting to see what he was staring so perplexedly at. A barefoot and shirtless man, either scaling or climbing down the side of a house, wrapping the ropy wires covering the house like ivy around his hands. Electrical wires? We didn't wait to find out. "What the fuck are you looking at?" he said to us. "A guy," Steve responded "who seems to be climing the side of a house." And we moved on.
Only a few steps later, someone shouted our names. Thankfully, it was not our shirtless Spidey, but the Great Dater, who was just getting dropped off after a hot tub soiree. The GD invited me home with him, so we scooted across the street and watched some Monty Python before I attacked him. He was really drunk and really high - the first time I've seen him be either of those things - and really fucking adorable. "How so?" he asked me this morning, when I told him that, and I had no good answer. Just 'cause.
Since I feel like shit, I'm staying in. The GD is coming over and we're going to watch a movie. I will actually suggest starting the first season of the Wire. He's never seen it, and it is my favourite television show, hands down. And since I already know what happens, I won't have to pay that much attention.