My birthday is still a week or so away but a pre-birthday trip was in order. Business and I snuck off to Toronto for the weekend. Something of a big deal as I’ve technically never been out of the country. Last year was Puerto Rico, which may as well be its own country and Baja California in 1998. That is Mexico, but it’s the Americanized, poor, Wal Mart of Mexico, so it still qualifies as the United States in my mind.
Alas, we set off in our tiny jet for an unknown land. My main objective was to hear someone interject “A” into a sentence. Hopes were high right along with my alcohol tolerance…which is relevant due to hindsight.
Day 1: Arriving, we made our way to the hotel in an effort to offload baggage and shake off the groggy feeling that lingered from being up early and having stayed up late. There was joy as I realized my phone still functioned and allowed me to check into the Mexican Restaurant that would officially kick-off Margarita Friday. I know, Mexican food in Canada. But they don’t have Canadian food as it’s more or less the same as here. So, bastardized Mexican food for all! Our arms twisted, we complied with the waitress and ordered the “big margarita,” surprisingly small by American and Alcoholics Anonymous standards.
After what was probably the best burrito ever, we headed straight to the bar. That’s just fortunate wordplay, you know we went straight to the gay bar(s). Beginning at Woody’s – seriously. An awesome bartender began feeding us nectar of the Gods. We then ran across the street to discover a bartender that was high on something. Enjoying many beers and another bar stop we looked around to realize we were the only patrons…anywhere. Drunk as shit at only nine, there was not a potential make-out partner in sight. I was feeling that special kind of drunk where all you really want is ten minutes of attention and then you can face plant the bed.
A passerby, or maybe a bartender, the beer goggles made it difficult to distinguish, informed us that nothing picks up until closer to midnight. This was baffling considering the bars close around two. We slowed our flow and made it to eleven, and now I wanted to dance. What little junk I have in the trunk could not be contained to the bar stool any longer. We found a club, with a crazy expensive cover, but who cares, this is “monopoly money” as Business so eloquently says. Not a soul. Damn I have to pee, and thank zombie Jesus for my miniature bladder because in the washroom (as the Canadians call it, though I never saw any of them wash their hands) we learned that there’s a party upstairs.
This was it, we discovered the secret dance club of Toronto…but everyone was lined up against the wall. It was either a about to be raided by police or we just traveled back to eight grade. This had to end, Business and I marched to the center of the dance floor and just went nuts. After a few crap songs, the DJ finally realized the audience and the classic manufactured pop that we crave started blaring. After forty-five minutes of dancing as a duo, we finally got some others on the floor. It was pretty much amazing. The night wrapped up with a porn star coming on stage and much to our shock and horror fully stripping. Aside from his roid-rage acne he was semi-attractive. Then this kid about to get gay married is pulled on stage, they strip him, and start showering each other with a water pail. Ok, we’re done – bed time.