Eating meat. From chipped granite countertops.

The ongoing saga of 'will I or won't I be able to fit my couch into my new digs' has been replaced by the new (and so FUCKING exciting) issue of how to fix the few, small chips in my granite counter tops. And is Galaxy Granite actually granite, or is it man made? And I will surely be rooked if I ask a professional to come and do it. And possibly I should just REPLACE them with something else to be sure I'm getting the real deal. What scrunts? This current issue is eating me up inside and I am not an expert on granite and I don't know the answer but I want it done correctly because I will be most dissatisfied to have to take a seat at my bar every morning and look at some glaring botch job on my counter top because I took the easy way out. You know, the nice thing about rented accommodations is who gives a shit. I miss my silverfish.
Yes, I know I'm blowing this out of proportion. I understand that on the scale of All Things Important in life this really ought not rate. I should be more concerned with getting over my runner's knee. Meeting new people in North Van. Trying to have at least one orgasm before the year is out. Yes. Bam! There it is. Maybe that's why I'm so goddamn uptight and I run twenty kilometres for "fun". Who needs therapy. Isn't this fun?
Okay. Next. So I met N and Po downtown to watch "Sweeney Todd". I really knew next to nothing about the movie and from what little research I did on the internet I discerned that it was a Broadway play about a serial killer that made it to the big screen with Johnny Depp. So then N turns to me and says, "Do you like musicals?" and, perplexed, I say, "Not really. Why?" and she says, "Cause this is a musical" and I laugh and explain that's not possible because it's about a serial killer and his landlady who takes the human remains, grinds them up and makes meat pies and how could that be made into a musical. Well, it can be. And wow: a lot of people got their throats slit. And a lot of people ate human meat pies. And Johnny Depp is fine. And parts of the this musical about a murderous barber were humorous, which just seems wrong.
Then N went home looking a little pale and shaken, but Po and I were hungry. Hungry for meat. Ha! So we went to the little pub across the street from the Scotiabank theatre (I had never been) and it was the most godawful experience I had ever had. We arrived. We ordered. They forgot half of Paola's order. They screwed up my side salad. They botched the hot chocolate that the couple next to us ordered (it was so bad they had to send it back). They forgot my wine. Only when presenting us with the bill did they ask us how our meal was. The screwed up the MasterCard amounts, and when I asked for clarification the twelve year old in Juicy Jeans that was no doubt unbelievably impressed by her boyfriend's Camaro almost burst into tears and had to bring her superior into the mix. Po confided that if she had been a cartoon character she would have had steam coming out of her ears (when in fact I did see some steam, but opted to say nothing).
Ah, but the company was good. Po asked if I wished that more people read my blog. I kind of shrugged my shoulders and said that it was rather irrelevant to anyone that didn't know me and that it's existence was egotistical and self-serving. She said that all art was (and she's an artist!) and I felt a bit better. I replied that my blog was mostly about casual sex and drinking and she said earnestly, "But it's well-written". I'm not so sure... as I sit here, drinking a rather nice Cabernet Sauvignon/Carmenere/Syrah blend and musing about my failure to climax over the past year. Do you get it? Right there: the irony. Was it lost on you?
It's so funny. I slept until 12:30 this afternoon, left my house for a scant five hours, and was able to produce a blog this long. Oh! I'm not even done.
On the seabus home a gentleman started picking his nose. Buddy: we're on public transportation - there are other people here! I stared at him (even though it meant being torn away from Gore Vidal's "Washington") as he rooted around in his nostril for some juicy nugget and I willed him to look at me and feel shamed. No such luck. Boarded the bus, read some more and noticed out of the corner of my eye the young woman next to me genuflecting - though surreptitiously. I didn't think that our bus driver was so bad that one ought to feel compelled to reach out to the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. How weird and random was that? And the nose-picker was on board too. Huzzah!
To sum up: Sweeney Todd was strange; don't go to the pub across the street from the Scotiabank theatre; will somone please shed some light on my granite counter top situation; who wants a meat pie; and I will be going for a nice, sweaty, vigourous, creative and satisfying run tomorrow.