Lovely weekend. No really, I’m serious. Because while you slovenly bastards tried to pull the shades and pretend that snowflakes the size of cinder blocks weren’t really falling on April-fucking-fifteenth, your not-so-friendly Snarky Boy high-tailed it to Montreal with a carload of fun-loving folks in pursuit of – well – denial. Total and complete denial of the unbearable grayness of it all.
Ah, and it worked. Too well, I would say. Because now that I’ve managed to stumble through a day of painting a non-state-owned office complex, I can feel the total and complete weight of a weekend gone wild.
But oh how I love Montreal. There’s nothing like it, especially within a three-hour drive. The city literally swallows you up, entices you with its modernity, bathes you in its urban lust, ignores your eccentricities, and encourages your pursuit of pleasure. Lots and lots of pleasure.
And while it was just as gray in the mother city of Quebec, it was still alive and kicking with music, food, revelers, and a seemingly endless parade of people ducking in and out of places that could only make you smile. Enough said (for now).
Now I’m back – physically, that is. And more than a bit damaged by the reverie and the bizarre dream I had last night in the car trip home. In it, I found myself at a paint store where there were only two choices of paint: black and white. Worse, the sinister man behind the counter only chuckled when I asked if I could do blends of the two.
“No, sir, that isn’t allowed,” he remarked, before bursting out with the kind of hackle that makes your spine tingle.
So it went. And now I’m home, sifting through emails, trying to catch up on the news and thankful that I missed two days of Vermont’s most hideous spring.
And you?
