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Sunday, July 02, 2006 

Get a real tattoo

I don't, but I do have the tattered remnants of a temporary "Canada" one from yesterday clinging to my right forearm. I keep seeing it and getting distracted, wondering what it is; I think that might be a good spot for a real one, actually.

So, the weekend went like this: Buy beer. Drive to Kincardine. Drive to Dad's. Go get more beer for the household with my cousin Ian. Drink too much with relatives. Eat (salmon from Alaska, cheese from Clifford). Hit the beer tent at the Scottish Festival. Drink way too much with family. Hitch a ride to Mom's. Sit around campfire. Make sandwich. Try to sleep.

Wake up too early. Drive to Dad's. Eat too much (french toast). Drive to Mom's. Drink way too much, play cups once, lose quickly. Eat too much (delicious, delicious spaghetti with, basically, pulled pork in the sauce, plus salad, garlic bread and so on). Spend next few hours slumped on the couch/lawn chair in a daze (so was everyone else, in my defence). Cousins come over. Make it to beer tent. Drink a little. Run into a couple of people from high school. Say goodbye to relatives. Hitch a ride to Mom's (see cute girls walking down street at midnight in bikinis, think briefly you recognize one of them). Sit around on front lawn (no fire, it's been raining since late afternoon off and on). Make sandwich. Watch fantastically exciting end of World Cup game, France knocking Brazil out. Sleep.

Wake up too early, to fantastic breakfast (eggs with peppers, mushrooms and green onions; bacon; toast; fruit salad). Get early ride back to Guelph. Stop for ice cream 3/4 of the way there. Get to apartment, wave goodbye to ride. Enter apartment (1:45). Collapse. Do nothing productive until at least, say, 5:30 pm.

So I take it this is why you haven't e-mailed me in, like, a week?

I'm exaggerating. Slightly. Glad you had a good weekend - now check out my Paris pictures and e-mail me!

Aww, c'mon - you emailed my last Thursday, I was running around packing, I just got back last night. I figured you were probably having an exciting enough time in Paris that you wouldn't miss me.

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About me

Ian Mathers is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Stylus, the Village Voice, Resident Advisor, PopMatters, and elsewhere. He does stuff and it magically appears here.

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