Inside & Out

Back in High School I had a friend who drove his fathers beat up '81 Oldsmobile. It was a lovely shade of brown, which had nothing to do with the actual paint color of the car (no one ever knew what that was). The driver side door didn't open, which meant that he had to crawl in and out the passenger side every time he drove the car. The radio was all but dead. I'll say almost, because he was lucky enough to have one AM station that played the same Frank Sinatra song over and over again at nauseum. It was great. We loved that fucking car.

This weekend, as a whole, reminded me of that car. With all the rust, dings, dents, doors that wouldn't open and soundtracks that just kept repeating themselves, it completely embodied the '81 Oldsmobile. It was great. I fucking loved it.

With all of that said, I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to talk about the good times on Granville Island. I don't want to talk about the limo's and the Brazilian party. I don't want to talk about running into one of my old best friends. I don't want to talk about actually sleeping in on my day off and then the day spent on top of a mountain riding for three hours. I don't want to talk about the Metric concert and how god damn amazing it was. I would talk about the douchebag scenesters who seem to populate those sorts of concerts with the sole intention of standing to the side and musing about the fact that the scene is dead, but I don't have the time. Why? Well, I'm heading out the door and just thought that sitting down here would be a good idea to kill some time.

Before I go I will say one last thing, well I'll ask one last thing: Will you call me or email me? I'll be up.