Big Night Out

Saturday we broke out of our suburban shackles, entrusted Lydia with the folks, and made our way over the bridge that keeps the Dartmouth unwashed out of Halifax. We had a pocketful of insurance policy rebate cash, an eye fer drinkin', a belly fer BBQ, and two tickets for Paul F. Tompkins (comedian).

There were 11 of us who sauntered into the comedy venue as a group (two smaller groups actually, but we were still sauntering I reckon) and commandeered a big table at the back of the room from which to be entertained. So there we sat - beers in hands - and were entertained, thoroughly, for two hours solid. Like pawns, giddy pawns. Both Paul and openers Picnicface were fantastic - dropping jokes about, um, suicide, funerals, drugs, murder, alcoholism, religion, body bags, and Anne Murray. Reciting the jokes wouldn't do it justice, and I'd just get them wrong, so you'll have to trust me. Funny. It is a testament to the comic - who seemed genuinely happy and likeable - that an entire room full of strangers were doubled over in stitches to a recounting of his mother's funeral.

So... we laughed. We drank. We barhopped. We ate heaping piles of BBQ'd foodstuff much too late at night. I feel I may have been something of a mean and complain-y drunk, but it's all relative, and this is probably my standard Sunday guilt taking. My hollered conversational skills are apparently suspect, as is my ability to politely address wait staff, reciprocate conversations with garrulous cab drivers, and mutter something under my breath at a volume that could reasonably be considered either "muttering" or "under my breath". Whatever - it was cold in that bar, and that waiter's hair was stupid, and that cab driver was booooooooring...

Thanks for coming out, all!