True story S and I went to that bustling hive of activity on the weekend, Kitchener, Ontario, to attend the wedding of one of S's oldest friends. After driving for over six hours, we finally pull in to the Holiday Inn. As you may have noticed, Holiday Inn often has a billboard welcoming its more 'interesting' guests, and this weekend was no different. As I got out of the car, I notice the billboard, which announces to everyone driving by:
Welcome Cheerleading ParticipantsI kid you not. The place was over-run with a few hundred pubescent girls, who ranged in age from about 14 to 17. Everywhere you looked there was a sea of young women with pert breasts, tight butts, taut tummies, overly made up, some of them spending most of their time either in the pool or by the phone.
It was hell.
Every guy attending the wedding was automatically accused of being lecherous, of going out of his way to sneak a peek, of entertaining lascivious, pedanphilic thoughts. I couldn't even get up to, um, go to the bathroom without some joke being made about being a dirty old man. It was rough, I tell ya.
Gripping rock Leaving in a few hours for the first climbing trip this year. Hey, it's for four days only, but it should be fun. Camping, mud in underwear, leaves in my food, going without a shower for several days. Back to my atavistic ways, where we all sit around and grunt.
Kinda makes you thinkGraffito seen on the side of the Pepsi Forum: “The US invaded Iraq for oil. Where do you think they'll invade for water?”
Okay, so the occasional blondness helpsSunday, the milliner S and I decided to finally head down to Burlington, Vt, which we had been planning to do for a while. As we stepped out of my apartment, a few flakes fell. Nothing major, thinks I, and we get on the highway. Unfortunately, my directions were off slightly, and we ended up past Magog, just a tad too east. By now, also, there was about 10 centimetres of snow on the ground, and we were driving around 80k. Get to the border, tell the nice guard where we're headed, and he kindly informs us that we're way past where we should be. Gives us the directions on a sheet of paper (I guess this happens often), and we drive down blissful Vermont country roads in a raging snowstorm, the flooded fields to our left and right, coming up almost to the shoulder.
Finally make it to Burlington, but the city is practically deserted, and there's not much to see. S and I walk the promenade, looking specifically for flip-flops. Afterward, we had a great meal at the Five Spice Cafe (if ever you're in Burlington and don't care to eat the normal American deep-fried batter sorry-excuse-for-food-preparation, then the FSC is the place to go).
Get back to the car, I sweep about another 15 cm of snow off, and we drive back on the proper highway. Get to the Canuckian border, and the old fart there starts asking the regular questions. “Where did we go?” “Did we buy anything?” to which we answered no. So, he repeated, are we sure? By now, I'm p.o.'ed. How dare he? We just told him no, that we simply went for supper. He lets us go, and about five minutes later both S and I look at each other, realising that we had totally forgot about the shoes. Had we been searched, we would have been in major trouble, if only because we had lied.
