Canadian Music Week or: Invasion of the Beardos part 2


Canada. Home of… Canadian flags.

There are other things too, like actual real-life Canadians, a BBLT (bacon bacon lettuce and tomato sandwich), gravy smothered french fries, precious little play money that they actually exchange for good and services, and some crazy ass browner than brown squirrels, but I was surprised at the amount of flags. It was almost as if they had pride in their country for some reason.

Okay, so that was a lame and obvious joke. And who wouldn’t be proud of that squirrel? Seriously, look at that thing. Amazing!

Toronto is a lovely city. It has a Canadian Astrodome, Space Needle, and Tex-Mex restaurant. The people are eerily nice in the way that they will come within inches of running you over with their car and then sincerely wave and thank you for getting out of the way.

Keith and I drove around downtown Toronto for a while searching for the road to take us to our bohemian hotel, the Gladstone. We must have flipped through every radio station at least fifty times in hopes of hearing a Rush tune to start our Canadian adventure, but we were out of luck. Apparently, my dipshit friends in Texas listen to more Rush than Canadians do. For shame, Canada. You might as well be spitting in my mouth with first impressions like that.

After giving up on the ultimate rock experience, Keith looked up the hotel address and I used the great Gazoogle maps to point us in the right direction. We found it in no time and drove down Queen Street West. Keith said it reminded him of Telegraph in Berkeley. It reminded me of a video game version of a hipster neighborhood, but that may be because of Pizza Pizza.

When we got to the hotel, all we wanted to do was drop off our luggage and head back out for something to eat. The aforementioned fake Little Caesars, Chippy’s Fish and Chips, The Dog’s Bollocks and other amusingly named establishments were all within walking distance. I did a quick Yelp search and we settled on the one place without a clever name in the neighborhood, and its kitchen was closed. We asked the waitress at the witless restaurant to recommend a place and she did. We walked outside, took four steps, and forgot what we were doing. Fuck it. We walked straight towards the sign that read “Bar and Grill.”

The bar was a nondescript place from the outside, but the inside just screamed “Front for the Russian mob.” Literally. There was a drunk guy in the back, screaming his head off.

“This is a front for the Russian mob, this is a front for the Russian mob, why is there curling on the television? Who gives a shit about curling! I eat your cat face!”

Weird. If we hadn’t been so hungry, that may have bothered me and Keith. Especially the stuff about a front for the Russian mob, because that is a seriously silly thing to say. Who talks like that? Sounds so made up. Oh, well. As it was, we preceded to order up two bacon cheeseburgers and eight beers. That was six beers for me and two for Keith.

After the meal Keith decided he wanted to take a nap. I considered the same thing, but then I remembered that we were staying in a closet and Keith and I would have plenty of time to spoon later.

Next post: Two beards rubbing against each other: the ultimate butterfly effect? * “Oh, you’re from L.A.? Yeah, I went there once. That was enough.” * Why the bass player’s voice from the Schomberg Fair makes you want to shit your pants, and why that’s a good thing.

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