Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Three dog night.

My philosophy has always been: go big or stay home – which may, or may not explain why I woke up spooning a golden retriever in a pup tent in my backyard.

Pup tent... get it? I need fries with gravy and a Diet Coke please.

The clock had all but run out on my deadline to blow $100 bucks in downtown Havenot while living to tell the tale – so I conned my neighbour into coming along for the Monday night ride. I normally would have asked my friend Larry to be my wingman but short of winding up in prison, downtowning it with Larry often ends in a tumble down pizza corner hill and/or standing on a chair singing along to a country and western song chugging whiskey out of a paper cup. In hindsight, Larry would have been safer than taking my neighbour along, as what was intended as a civilized culinary evening turned in to, well, did I mention I woke up in a tent?

First let me explain how I came to possess a Downtown Halifax Business Commission Visa card. The Coles Notes version is: some idiot at Extreme Communications, I'll blame Anthony Taafe*, decided it would be a good idea to hand $100 Visa card to 30 bloggers and set them loose on the downtown core – with hopes that the resulting social marketing frenzy would be a lift for the sagging bosom of downtown Havenot.

Could someone run and get me a milkshake and a Diet Coke?

I had several plans for blowing my wad, none of which came into fruition. Instead of a tub of wrinkle cream from Spirit Spa or taking a hungry hooker for a healthy lunch, I opted to leverage my $100 the worst way I knew how. Casino Nova Scotia. My plan was to win big, then spend big.

Having only forayed into the bowels of the Casino once – with Larry and a pair of Dionne Warwick tickets – I was horrified to see that we had apparently stumbled into that air-conditioned hell on Seniors night. It was also Tabi slacks night, toupee night, and cheap white wine night. Because my head hurts I'll just say, we were up $35 bucks on the slots at one point, but left there with a bit of a glow on and $40 bucks in the hole, because the Downtown Visa card wasn't accepted at the Casino. Just welfare cheques and old-age security.

The Halifax waterfront was hopping and hotter than shit. We passed on several restaurants that looked too busy and made it through the congregation of over-aged bikers who hang out by the ferry terminal. Heading uphill wasn't an appealing option so we hugged the coast and wound up at Bish of all places. I know, a little out of my comfort zone (wardrobe and budget wise) but what the hell, it wasn't my money.

Excuse me, could someone please go get me some egg rolls and a Diet Coke?

As it turns out, it was my money because after we plowed through the world's most expensive and delicious mussels, frites and wine we discovered the Visa card, once again, was a limp dick. The evening was slowly becoming hazy and expensive – but we were on a mission. Before plopping down at the neighbouring Il Mano (Italian for handjob) for a pizza to soak up the wine, I handed the so-far useless Visa to the waiter (who by the way gave French waiters a run for the money on the rudeness scale) to see if it would finally perform. It did. Too well. Champagne flowed and Havenot's best pizza followed, and before we knew it, we were heading home in a cab, covered with stupid grins and tiramisu – over-spent and over-served.

Oh! At one point I thought the man at the next table was winking at me, but he was falling asleep. But it's a start.

Okay, I am wrapping this up because my Big Day Downtown is nowhere near as exciting as the guy with the sex toys and the cocktails at nordinaryrollercoaster.com and besides, I am tired and really fucking thirsty. To make a long boring story short – we arrived home to a house that was so hot it was like Backdraft 2. I walked through the screen door sending it crashing to the floor and I had a combination of the whirlies and hot flashes and needed to lie down, but my bedroom was like an crematorium. It was around that moment that I had a brilliant idea – I'd get the little bastard to pitch the tent in the backyard.

It took a while because it was dark and he wasn't overjoyed to be setting up a tent for his mother, at midnight, but perhaps sensing I wasn't in the mood for bargaining – he got it all organized and I crawled in, and the two dogs crawled in, and within seconds I was in a Big Downtown Day food and alcohol-induced coma, under the starry sky in my backyard.

Would a Baconator and a Diet Coke be too much to ask?


*Anthony Taafe isn't really an idiot, quite the opposite in fact.