It has been a weekend of indulgences, to be sure. Power Ball poured copious amounts of vodka sodas down the hatch, leading us on a strange and bizarre evening, showcasing our city’s eccentric artist-type scene. A crowd of misfits that are all united by their complete disregard for conventionalism; fishnet stockings pulled taunt over a balding head, a dance floor packed with patrons swaying to synths that only their ears were privy to, and drag queen drama galore.. this was not your mother’s gala scene. And in this mélange of weirdness, there was the poignant sense of potential, the feeling that there was a collective mind at work here on the very brink of great innovation. After all, I suppose to explore regions where no one has dared venture before one must require a certain level of fuckedupedness. Or perhaps yours truly just had a few too many. But I digress; let’s just say that as the night continued, walking in 6-inch stilettos somehow became much easier. That is, until they cut off complete circulation in my poor lil tootsies. But still, a most lovely romp in wonderland.

The festivities continued into Friday, with curiosity luring to Queen West’s new spot, Parts and Labour. Still safe from the lecherous clubfare (for now), the crowd was refreshingly mature and arty, and allowed for some QT drinking avec my dear S. A dented bottle and some time later, we emerged into the quiet of a sleeping Parkdale, minds awash with inebriated conversation and reeling for more. A hop, skip, and flight of stairs later, the next thing you know and the birds are chirping. Ah youth. Oh yes, I was about to repent for that one. But the insights and vibes absorbed were definitely a worthwhile trade, for after all, it is only between the truly intoxicated that brilliant conversations are permitted to occur (amidst chain smoking, I might add).

An unhurried day of recuperation was spent basking in the sun with my love, leading to a delish meal at Oddfellows, complete with a prime burger and positioning for people watching. Saw Prince of Persia in the evening (backup option, I swear) and although I was rightly skeptical, the movie did succeed in igniting some intense infatuation a la Gyllenhaal… dirty scruff, mussy locks, scorching blue eyes, and a smile that could disarm a nuclear bomb. Me likely. A lot.

That's right.
Come to mama.

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