Old-fashioned hedonism

This entry will not be pretty.

Kevin called me Friday evening to tell me he was going to be in town for one night only, and asked if I wanted to do anything. I'm a sucker for fun, so I agreed, and we made no plans.

Around 10:30 or 11 or so, he showed up and brought me some fancy East Side Mario's pizza (it was awesome, thanks), then we went out in search of beer. He was wearing his Queen's jacket, so I decided to wear mine. It was chilly too, so that helped the jacket decision, and the fact that I was wearing it is important.

I don't normally wear it anymore. I feel weird being the only person aroud wearing one, especially now that I'm not actually a student anymore. I can't quite put my finger on what the problem is, but the expression "fish out of water" comes to mind as being tangential to it.

Regardless, we set out across the Experimental Farm to meet up with his friend Andrea, who lives somewhat close to me. As we're walking we discuss some things, and he asks if I've ever slammed my jacket. Jacket slamming is a proud tradition carried on by engineers in which the jacket is gripped by the collar and swung into the ground in an overhand motion. When done right it creates an impressive amount of noise, and when done in large numbers is a bit scary. Normally only engineers slam their jackets because they're made from a stronger leather than the other Queen's jackets (or some reason like that), and because they're the only ones stupid enough to pay over $300 for something, dye it purple, and then slam it on the ground repeatedly. But I'm editorializing.

He slams his jacket in the grass, and it does make some good noise. I decline to do the same, and he tries to slam it on my back. I'm not sure what did it, but something managed to wrap around and hit me in the face. It stung for a bit and made my vision blurry for a bit, but somehow it straightened my glasses out.

Eventually we meet Andrea, and go to some place called the Pendragon. It's on Merivale near Clyde, and it was a fairly awesome place. Small and cozy, but not cramped. Good beer on tap, but not expensive. It was just about the perfect balance of factors I like, and if I ever start drinking again, it'll probably be my favoured hangout.

One look at the waitress reduced my brain to a puddle of goo, and Kev and I split a pitcher. We reminisced, brought up roughly 500 inside jokes (all of which still made us laugh), and watched some guy get his lights punched out (boxing match on tv, not in the bar). More beer, more stories (including the Flight of the Kevinbee, which tells of Kevin's fateful top-speed run over a retaining wall) were told, more jokes referenced in varying degrees of detail. Eventually we'd drank enough, settled up, and left.

Normally I feel bad mooching off people, but I had absolutely no problem letting Kev pay for the beer. I figure he owes me for all the dishes I washed the second year we lived together, and I told him that. He's going to comment about this, I just know it, so I'll tell you flat out that anything he says about him washing dishes has an 80% chance of being a flat-out lie. Obvious lies include "I did too wash dishes" and "my hands made contact with dishes in soapy water more than twice all year".

When we left, Kevin and I sang some songs we know. Officially they're rugby songs, but we know them from somewhere else. I'm not sure if I can reveal the source, but rest assured, we know some nasty lyrics. Which we proceeded to sing very loudly as we walked up Merivale.

In the interest of internet decency I won't post any lyrics here, but we were wishing all the ladies were in the North Atlantic Squadron, if you feel like doing some google detective work. There are two songs merged there, so have fun. You probably won't be able to find most of what we sang (I used to be a dirty songwriter), but you'll no doubt get the gist of it. Instead of getting the whole of it, loudly, in public.

We split off from Andrea (she was going home, I wanted to get some coffee, and Kev wanted to keep singing before he slept at her place), and we kept going up Merivale. The singing petered out not long after we separated, and I took a leak behind the dumpster at Harvey's, and we continued on our merry way.

I can say without a doubt that if not for the jacket, I wouldn't have been singing dirty dirty things in public, nor would I have considered the dumpster a good place to go to the bathroom. There's still some magic in that jacket, some aura that infuses one with the mindset of a student. I hope that never fades, and I think that might be the real reason I don't wear it anymore. Not because I don't like it, because I'm afraid of wearing out the magic.

As an aside, the pens I finished my last exam with are still in the pocket, and I'm instituting a rule for my circle of friends. All unimportant items contained in your jacket the moment you finish your scholastic career can never be removed except to use them. Ever. Those pens will still be in the pocket at my 60 year homecoming, and if I can still drink a pitcher and remember the words, I'll be singing along wherever the opportunity presents itself.