We’ve now reached that point in my birthday where I get tears in my eyes thinking about all the amazing messages and incredible people in my life taking the time to send them to me.
Not only am I the luckiest little bitch in all of Canardlia, but it’s really proving this meaning of life thing to be true.
If the meaning of life is love and friendship shared with awesome people, I have got it fucking DIALED.
They don’t hate you because you made fun of them Ricky. No, they hate you because you’ve somehow managed to not lose your sanity and your soul while existing in their soulless, insane universe, thus you’ve maintained the ability to recognize the smell of rotting horseshit when you’re in the same room with it. AND you have Fuck You Money, so who cares if you burn a bridge or 100.
Well done, sir. Well done.
And to close with “Thank you to God… for making me an atheist”? I am in awe.
After a breakfast of gluten-free waffles and bacon, I had a very productive meeting with some people (and their dog) about a possible future project, then walked the long way home to enjoy the beautiful warm weather, stopping for a few drinks and laughs at The Cambie. Got a lift uptown from a buddy that smoked me up, and as I walked up to the front door, the woman who lives across the hall was outside drinking a beer with another gal, and they announced that they were going to see Cyndi Lauper at the PNE (our local summer fairgrounds) and that since my neighbour works there, she had a ticket for me and I should come.
Ten minutes later I was in a cab with them on the way to the exhibition grounds, and by the time Cyndi came on stage, we were making our way through the crowd to get closer to the front. Whether it was just straight up “never gonna see you again” bitchery, the efficacy of our human concertgoer centipede or just perseverance, we ended up a few rows from the stage, reveling in the Cyndi splendour. It was a privilege to hear an 80s icon who still sounds AMAZING, especially when singing the blues tunes from her new album (which I LOVED), and bringing the bluesy flavour to some of her classic hits, including the best damn version ever of the feminist masturbator’s anthem “She-Bop,” which almost made me lose my mind. I’ll see if I can find video of it somewhere online, but Cyndi actually called people out at one point for being all with the cameras and not seeing with their eyes, which made me glad all I was holding up in the air was my lighter, old school. Because of that, I got some nice screen time during “Time After Time” when they panned to the audience and showed me waving my Bic, singing my heart out with her. Also, her tits looked PHENOMENAL. (I mean, mine did too, but the woman is fifty-seven years old.)
After the show, the neighbour who works at the PNE led us out of the park via the shortcut, I served up my powerhouse New York taxi whistle and hailed us a cab mid-block before the busy corner, and I was back home EATING LEFTOVER GLUTEN-FREE WAFFLES AND BACON BY 11.
And that is how you do that.
Work it, girl
At this point in your journey, a picture like this brings tears to my eyes.
Besides the obvious negatives we all acknowledge, my experience of internets has given me a whole new subset of welcome emotions relating to pride and joy in friends unmet. That’s what I feel when I look at this picture. I can only imagine what it all must mean to you and your family. I get all verklemt thinking about that.
Work it, indeed.