The Liberal Party
I racked my brain before I wrote this post, trying my hardest to remember if I’d ever attended a keg party during my time at Acadia. I figured I was there for four years, lived in 2 of the biggest party residences and knew more of the campus than security. Of course, I also react to the words “student party” like they were dipped in anthrax and Coors Light. In fact, based on reality, I was more likely to attend the following things than a keg party.
- Die Fledermaus, an operetta performed in German that I understood approximately 4% of.
- A speech by an American Troops deserter. On a Friday night. In a windowless classroom.
- Weekly classes on Theories of European Union integration, when I was hard-pressed to name where Europe was. (Ohio, right?)
- Cub meetings.
- Debate meetings. Where I would throw my backpack at bewildered students.
- A soccer match between the Czech Republic and Japan. This DID happen after Acadia, but was sufficiently random.
In short, I kinda missed out on the ‘party’ aspect of university. I tended to live vicariously through others… like the lads who had a kayak in my hallway at 3am, or the ones who managed to squeeze themselves into the vending machine after removing all the snacks. Or, really, even the ones who played network games at 2am on the campus servers.
Thus, I felt it was high time to face my fears, take the bull by the horns, grasp the nettle, spit into the wind and so forth. Ergo, I attended a keg party.
Now… I managed to do so and still avoided the major element – namely, the keg itself. I had a half-dozen Keith’s in my fridge that were just begging to be taken along, and I couldn’t be mean to my former homeland’s favourite brew. Nevertheless, it was still a party replete with people I didn’t know, drinking games of questionable intelligence and one poor lad who didn’t realize how clean the glass sliding door was and promptly walked into it, spilling his beverage all over himself. While talking to a girl. (No, it wasn’t me. I know. I’m as shocked as you are.)
Memories of exactly what happened are a little vague. I do recall having one friend, Erich, clutch me in a headlock and explain to the room how much me he loved me. We also entered into a spirited debate about who was a more clutch player – Chris Drury or Jyrke Lumme. (For any Leafs fans out there, YES… THAT Jyrke Lumme. I have no idea what the other guys were on.)
It was a great time, and it also was responsible for Jeff – name unchanged to endanger the innocent – coming over to my place in advance to meet, in order to catch a ride to the party. Jeff is an increasingly important name to remember, since he was so blown away by my Apartment of Gorgeousness, he decided that he’d be interested in the 3rd room. As such, I have a new potential roommate. In the photo below, he’s the one second from left, in the blue. Also in the photo, from Left to Right, are John Q, Ian (in orange), Richard, Julia, myself and Mike. Who, its just coming back to me, I may have at one point in the evening laid lips upon. Damn you, Kings.
Now… for the other part of this update, and really – the most shocking part for many of you. I have built up a reputation of having facial hair that most women are jealous of. I shaved every vernal equinox and still had less hair on my chin than Mr. Clean. The only thing related to me that was bearded was my dad (well, and various uncles. But the bad joke didn’t need them). This has changed. I know sport a scruffy little goatee that, admittedly, wouldn’t be out of place on a Grade 9er trying to show his friends how cool puberty is. Since I know that you’re unlikely to believe me without a photo – and really, I don’t blame you – there is one below. No, its not a shadow. No, its not dirt. No, I haven’t used MS Paint to copy and paste it from some guy in ZZ Top.
The Desk is Dead, Long Live the Couch
For those of you who have been following this blog with spontaneous regularity, you may recall The Desk that was dragged into my apartment way back in VicNotes 3. It has been fulfilling an important function in my life for the last couple of months. Effectively, as long as The Desk continued to exist in my home, I was not worried that my building would be lost in a tornado a la Wizard of Oz. Having been repeatedly reassured by co-workers, neighbours, my doctors and two separate delivery guys that tornadoes are not a huge Victoria problem, though, I decided it was time to remove it to make way for some new couches. However. I recalled the struggle I had getting it INTO the damned house, and didn’t relish the idea of attempting to get it out again. Thus I took to it with a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, a flashlight and enough rage to satisfy The Hulk. This was not a desk designed to come apart. The carnage included sheet metal twisted off, a floor littered with screws, at least 3 bloodblisters and a thumb the colour of an overripe plum. The piece of wood on the top – that I got off through a tricky combination of unscrewing at and pounding futilely with my fist until I discovered other screws – was the first to go, followed in short order by two metallic side panels, then the drawer-holding mechanism. I deposited the now hideously disfigured remains of the desk in the dumpster.
I admit. I feel bad for The Desk. I kinda miss it… it was the toughest thing ever to be in my apartment. Except, of course, for the chicken I forget about and left on the grill for 42 minutes.
