2001-01-07 || 12.55a

Music makes the people come together...

Last night, I went to O'Donnell's with some of the guys after work. The girlfriend of one of my buddies was thre with two of her work friends, so it was a fair group we had going. The girls are all newly-hatched professors of English at Concordia University, and they arrived at the pub fresh from having High Tea at the Ritz Carleton up on Sherbrooke Street to celebrate their first classes. The distinctive Earl Grey, cucumber sandwiches with the crusts off, and various sorts of scones and such. Just another day in the colonies, I guess.

I'm actually just jealous. I've only been able to afford High Tay at the Ritz *once*. Maybe I should become a newly-hatched professor of something.

Except the pay, I hear, is crapulent. I'm pretty disgruntled about my pay where I am, so it's a pretty safe bet that I would be at least as pissed in an academic setting. And I would hate to be a disgruntled professor. Especially at Con U, where disgruntled professors have this unfortunate habit of getting all Valery Fabricant and shooting-spree-like on their peer's bums.

And they got the memorial benches in the lobby to prove it.

Anyway, I downed about five pints over the course of the evening and managed (though J's girlfriend denied it) to alienate a fine single professor of about my age. Not a really problem, as I'm not single, but I hate coming off as a drunken bitch with people who don't know me well enough to ride it out. Although I do have to say in my defence that I'm apparently not all that bad, and apparently all this is in my head. I prefer to believe that I'm a howling jerk when I'm drunk though: it suits my self-abashing character.

So, Lover finally arrived and had some food, then asked me to request that the band play 'The Black Velvet Band.'

Now, this is where I explain a fact that is basic and known throughout the Irish Pub scene here in the gods' own city, the city that Charles Dickens called a 'heart-burning place,' Harriet Beecher Stowe described as 'A mountain of churches,' and Mark Twain claimed was the only place he'd ever been where 'you couldn't throw a brick without breaking a church window.' That basic fact is that every band hates playing 'Black Velvet Fahking Band,' and anyone who requests it had better have a good singing voice.

So, with a sinking gut, I told them that my girlfriend wanted to hear BVB, to which the singer's response was 'Oi, this guy here wants to sing a song for his girlfriend!'

Well, I got a free scotch out of the deal, and the pub-goers sang along, so it wasn't so bad. Lover's face made the utter embarrassment worthwhile, though.

||Gods save the Queen,
||cf

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