Musings on life and how I choose to interpret it…

[I realize that this is a touch late now that I think about it, but it begs to be written. It’s a culmination of having been privy to these perpetually baffling social ordinances of our little (quite sizable, actually) Tibetan community in Toronto. I don’t harbour any illusions of this being a particularly regional attribute, nor am I convinced that it is only symptomatic of Tibetan gatherings. What I know of, and muse upon, are only those that I have personally experienced and laughed about later. If it comes across as condescending, judgmental or negative, please grant me the luxury of doubt for the sake of humour. Tibetan parties are very, truly, fun. Come around one if you hear one's in your neighbourhood.

There’s a texture here that’s a shade unique, and personal to me, in some instances, but the overall picture remains constant: drunken people and bad music converging into a night of loose hips and looser wallets.]

If you’ve ever been to any Tibetan parties in Toronto, the first thing that strikes you, after you’ve cleared the entrance, before the crowd gets bigger, or even before the famous Mang-tso hits the floor, is the piquant reservation about the place. Regardless of any kind of venue, location or the organizers, it’s there; like a thick, all-encompassing drape, full of crossed arms and judgmental eyes. Any unsuspecting person who joins the party suddenly becomes self-aware of their arrival, as if they’ve just stumbled into the wrong wedding reception where the bride had just turned heel and abdicated the congregation: all eyes on the intrusive stranger, a little confused and quite annoyed. After a quick second’s existential quandary you naturally assume the “position” as well: blending into the low-lit periphery and corners of the main dance floor, surveying the characters and biding your time. You may take note of this lull in activities to grab yourself a drink, look around for familiar faces and just generally act inconspicuous. Nobody likes a showoff, and certainly not before the real party has begun.

The men are usually garbed in two distinct styles: semi-formal or street. There are variations and combinations for each of them; for example, a dude wearing a semi-formal pair of trousers can have a totally snazzy shirt on top with a pair of tattered sneakers below, or a guy wearing a baseball hat will have a suit jacket more suited for a courtroom appearance. There’s also a third, surging but less prominent style, which is that of a rocker/skater look: drainpipe trousers (sometimes torn at the knees) with converse shoes and a trucker hat. In all of the cases, you can, sort of, assess the employment aspirations and educational background of a person from his looks, and in some cases, determine if he’s single or at the party with a significant other.

There are exceptions of course, and I do not intend to portray such an obviously diverse field of Tibetan men into convenient pockets for dissemination. Fear not, bhumo-tso: your choices are many and varied. It must be said, though, that I feel a pang of disbelief every time a guy decked in a horribly mismatched and double-oversized assortment of bottoms and basketball jerseys, complete with a heavy compliment of silver chains, wrist bands and shiny earrings, manages to capture the fancy of a curious set of eyes. He must be really funny, I think. That or she has an unnatural capacity for street-tough posturing.

My only, genuine, regret is the absence of men in cowboy dresses. The guys, usually middle-aged or older, who were completely oblivious to the raised eyebrows at them and who actually felt bolstered by their outfit. They would have stamped their presence about them with an air of swagger and nonchalance that only a true pioneer from the prairies could muster. They enlivened an atmosphere like no other. They used to; not so much anymore. I have a sinking feeling that they’ve converted to the street look to compensate for the changing times around them. Shame.

The women are naturally, and by far, more interesting to look at. I can attest from experience that for the ladies, the dance begins far before the actual party has actually begun. They commit to a ritual that is time-honoured and bereft of any discrepancy in cultural differences: the arduous task of choosing from the wardrobe closet; the preening, huffed about way that they tend to their faces, the incessant calls to friends (men do that too) and the porous anticipation and excitement at the thought of strutting their heels and whisking the scent of their perfumes around them. Among many others.

When they get to the party itself though, there’s a sudden swerve in their earlier disposition. Inside the venue – with the colourful lights dancing around them, and the music banging off all sides – excitement gives way to ennui, anticipation to annoyance: eyes ready to roll at the slightest perceived threat or interest. With men, it transforms into similarly bored entropy, but with a touch of irritable possessiveness. In both cases, the air of reservation reigns supreme, and the look in both men and women is that of waiting for something to finish; like sleepy villagers in early morning standing in line to have their buckets filled up from the local pump.

The dresses that our women-kin (in the broader, Tibetan sense) wear are multi-faceted, and a lot more attuned to different styles rather than age, or employment/educational standing. The colours usually feature a dark shade in some form, and conservatism is the norm, rather than the exception. Then again, that can be attributed to the Tibetan society as a majority, as an outlook; and not just to the choice attires in parties for women. The jeans are tight, sometimes low-hip, and the tops accessorized by a dazzling array of jeweled necklaces, pendants, braces and shawls. The dresses, I have noted, are black most of the times. Full-length leather boots are parlayed for their aggressive, bold tendencies; and when the women sashay about the dance floor, watch out for the air of entitlement. It is a poor, intrepid but insipid soul who dares approach a girl without the choice permission of her eyes. I haven’t heard of any accounts of guys being kicked upside their behinds with those intimidating sets of boots, but I imagine that it must be most humbling.

Women are also the ones most likely to wear an actual chupa to a dance party. It is a sad and sobering commentary about our society that no one really thinks twice about ladies in traditional Tibetan garbs; but for men it would be a most unsavoury prospect – we who are horrified at being labeled as uncouth or worse: boring.

It should be noted though that the chupa is a lot more form-pleasing and attractive on a woman. For guys, even the most sharp and athletic looking stud becomes reduced to an ungainly bundle of layers – the slim look fat, the short become shorter. Only the most dignified, noble warrior from faraway times would manage to look proud in a setting such as this, and even he would’ve felt ridiculous every time he entered the men’s washroom just to pee.

And it should also be noted that it is usually the older women who can be seen in chupas time and again. They are derisively labeled as aunties, a term coined by the Tibetan community (here? further?) for women hovering around the middle-ages (or maybe even lower – it’s all relative). The men folks of similar ages are called uncles. Those are terms that I absolutely loathe; not only because they reek of crude and unfair classifications, but also because they’re so unimaginative. I’m sure we can find better replacements for Tibetan cougars and sugar daddies. Uncles and aunties just have this queasy, shuddering feeling of naïveté about them; the kind that recalls faint traces of inbreeding and unwanted relatives.

Back to the party: the lights are in a furor, people more or less milling about; but it still hasn’t hit its crescendo yet. The floor still remains, yawning and strangely intimidating. Sometimes it is so bad that you can almost imagine tumbleweeds blowing across it. But then, at the centre of the floor, a phantom appears: twisting and contorting its joints in an irreverent and almost awe-inspiring lack of finesse. Its phantasmagorical movements have a rhythm all its own, removed from the music and the place around it. There it goes: shadowboxing, grabbing its crotch, thumping its chest with one arm across it, shadow-roundhouse-kicking; all in a non sequitor, voluminous disregard for form, beauty or reason. It dances because, it just has to. Who is this enigma? Who is this figure that openly revolts against early-hours convention? Who is it that so openly mocks us, calling us out for our inaction and apathy?

His name is Mang-tso, or T.O.B, as he likes to refer himself, usually in third person; T.O.B being short for “Tibetan Original Blood.” I’m guessing his self-anointed title asserts his undisputed claim to legitimate Tibetan-ness, which sets an awkward standard for mixed Tibetans. T.H.B? T.Q.B? None of them have the ring of T.O.B, as he himself would prove beyond doubt by spitting such ill, memorable, street-certified rhymes as:

We T.O.B, we are cute
We have a dimple.
Look at you, you have a pimple.

Or,

Ra tat a tat a, ra tat a tat ah.
T.O.B Mang-tso need a glass of watah.

And he would offer these sorts of gibberish provisos unasked to anyone, irrespective of time, location, or relevancy. The Tibetan community of Toronto has a lot of personalities, but if there is one character that stands above all, one that breaks through the current of time, change and scrutiny, it is Mang-tso.

Even his name Mang-tso is just a nickname, bestowed by the Tibetans of Toronto for his ubiquity. Mang-tso is the Tibetan word for democracy, and even though he has yet to display any redeemable social skills, everyone knows about him. Every visitor in Parkdale gets to know about him soon enough.

There are countless numbers of stories around him, woven into the fabric of the community, as old as the late 90s settlers and as real as snow. Some are amusing, some tragic, and some just profusely stupid. But let’s not get waylaid by the stories. If there’s one constant theme to Tibetan parties in Toronto, as straight as the divide between men and women, and stronger than even the sepulchral dance floor of the early hours of the party, it is that of Mang-tso breaking the floor.

Let’s also not miss the fact that this guy will come to any party, all the time – bar none. I can’t ever recall one single party where I haven’t seen him gyrating his spines and spitting his rhymes at puzzled strangers. He comes usually attired in a loose shamble of oversized clothes, a baseball hat or a bandana wrapped around his head. Sometimes he has another piece of bandana around his mouth, to conceal his face (I think) which is a purpose defeated since almost no one fails to recognize him. He walks with a purposeful gait, with undulating shoulders and his head hung low, glancing at people sideways (sizing them up?) and mostly harmless. That’s his reputation in the community: eccentric and sometimes annoying, but mostly harmless.

And so goes this party maven; this dance-floor breaker. He isn’t a break dancer by any stretch of imagination, but he does carry himself like he just completed a ridiculous spin on his head. The way he strides towards the bar, exhausted and content, barely masking his effulgence. He seldom sits, choosing instead to lean on walls or tables. He almost always comes earliest, and alone. If there’s one thing the Tibetan organizations in Toronto can be thankful to Mang-tso about, it is his unfailing resolve to support all the various fundraiser parties in the community. He drinks too, but not to the point of incapacity. Most of the times, I should think. How else would he able to afford his extravagant dalliances otherwise?

There’s one more piece in this growing mantle of oddities: he rarely removes his over-sized, down parka. The place can be crowded, musky and dripping with sweat, yet he always has his huge jacket on.

And it’s always just Mang-tso being Mang-tso. Mostly harmless. People these days don’t even nudge each other when they see him getting tribal in the empty dance floor; not unless it’s someone new to town and not fully acquainted with Mr. T.O.B. Who knows, they wink mischievously, he might even serenade you tonight.

The real party, or more elaborately put, the time when the people start peeling off the walls and chairs, and hesitatingly – or enthusiastically, depending on the alcohol intake and popularity of the tune that just beckoned them to dance – enter the dance floor, varies a little from each party but usually starts picking its tempo up after 11 p.m. That is a fact. At every Tibetan celebration night, the mood of the event makes a marked upswing after a rush of bodies suddenly start pouring in from outside, usually two to three hours before closing time. Most people, for whatever reasons, are perfectly fine with their rationale of paying full price for only half of the event. Maybe their choice lies not in the quantity of the time spent, but the quality of it.

So, it’s not really because of Mang-tso breaking the floor and the dam of clogged feet along with it. It’s because Tibetans, at least the young, hip and socially wary, choose to come at a predetermined time of being fashionably late. Not that anyone would notice by this time of the night.

The role of DJing for all of the major Tibetan parties in Toronto is usually serviced by not more than four revolving lists of party anthems enthusiasts. They seem to be quite a populist bunch as well, from the nearly indistinguishable traits and preferences in their music played at every party. Some are a little quirkier than others; but overall, most patrons wouldn’t be able to discern one playlist arranger from the other without the advertised names. They just like the tunes, or they don’t (understandably). Barring any miraculous feat of total crowd captivity, the unfortunate DJ has to put up with muffled post-event assessments from unsatisfied disco aficionados more often than not. “DJ gaa-mas” is a popular sentiment at the conclusion of every dance.

So many possible improvements, so many people to please. The only consolation for a disc spinner is the free admission and the free drinks that he gets for his troubles. And yes, it’s always, unfortunately, a he. Always.

If you were perched from high atop a vantage point, or if you were obscenely tall, and staring down at the people on the dance floor, the moment the area starts to become more crowded, a curious and almost organic arrangement of shapes will take place. After a moment’s hesitation and confusion, a clear pattern emerges: crop circles. They form and break up sporadically, but the overall shapes persist. Partygoers encircling one another, staring at each other and not staring, shuffling their legs and bobbing their heads, almost reluctantly, while possibly imagining all sorts of lurid images in their heads about some other dance patron from a foreign circle.

There are smiles aplenty, of course, and sometimes people do genuinely want to dance. By themselves or in pairs. Usually couples and some eccentric folks (Mang-tso included, although not, hopefully, to his extreme). But I can say for certain that ninety percent of the people there are there to check the others out. It’s the same as any other dance party, and Tibetans are no exception to this.

I know I’ve done this countless number of times. Sometimes you would feel like you’re trapped in a circle, sucked in by its gaping vortex, and you would peer away from the hollowness, towards another circle; as if on the other side, things were much better, much livelier and a whole lot prettier. But you know it’s just misguided, infantile thoughts. That it’s the same story everywhere and nowhere is it more evident than in the circle in which you hopelessly pine for a smaller circle, ideally reduced to just two persons: you and that someone else.

Sometimes you do find that other person, locked in another circle and maybe hoping for the same thing as well. You lock eyes, then quickly look away, blushing and feeling slightly guilty for not feeling content about the group you’re already in with.

But then sometimes you do want to approach that another person, but then are not too sure if that one is attached to anyone else. Does it come tethered? Is it attracted to anyone else? Should I deploy emissaries to reconnoiter and determine the best possible route?

So many questions, so little time.

By the time the party winds down, long after the bar has closed, and the patrons begin to retrieve their coats and friends, you’re hit with the sinking feeling that you might just have wasted another thirty-odd dollars and four hours in a totally fruitless endeavour. Or maybe you don’t feel that way. Maybe you reason that, hey, it’s for the sake of our community. If CTAO/TWAO/SFT/TYC throws a party and needs my support, who am I deny them that?

It’s a roll of dice, usually, and a particular combination of drunkenness, music, atmosphere and attitude. Some of the times you feel great about having been there, most of the times you’re indifferent – meh. And then sometimes, like at the last New Year’s Eve party, when you’re not particularly drunk and the music isn’t particularly happening and you don’t really have the budget to buy the tickets in the first place and yet you manage to buy drinks for four people, somewhere deep inside your gut there’s an incessant clawing that reminds you the next day about how much you totally wasted your time and your money. You can’t help it. Yes, there was a large crowd, and yes, there were some people glad to see you there, and yes, yes you know CTAO absolutely deserved your money. It all leads to a big conclusion of “oh well.”

At the end of every party, there’s always a chance of some sad pugilists waiting to engage in some fisticuffs with some person that either inadvertently brushed against them or looked at them the wrong way. They usually huddle around the gates in groups, buoyed by the self-serving assurance of posse-wisdom and the detached cowardice of gang rushing. Most of these scourges are either recent high school dropouts, or perennial factory dwellers, but always young and stupid. The kinds that see fit to take their frustrations out on strangers or rivals at a time when merriment and congeniality are the flavours of the night. They don’t (can’t) see far, these poor insolents, far beyond the throbbing rage of their alcohol-induced anger, and frustration-fuelled animosities. Their insecurity is veiled by an overpowering sense of machismo, and an excruciating loss of humour and perspective. The angers don’t flare up as much as it used to previously, but it’s still there sometimes, quietly simmering under the hood of a reject, burning with the anger of youth and senselessness.

They don’t usually go beyond name-callings and shovings. It eventually gets broken up. Anger lies simmering and unfulfilled. For now.

At least Mang-tso just spits terrible rhymes. He was mostly harmless.

-Part I-

After a couple of ciders, three shots of vodka and ginger ale, followed by two tequila shooters, all in quick succession — and the inevitable chorus of “oh yeahs” and the falsetto howling — the mosh-pit doesn’t look as intimidating as previously thought of. Instead, the distant humming in the back of the head numbs your taste in music and the weirdly bobbing and swaying motions of equally or exceedingly inebriated strangers invites you to spit out your distaste for ruefully inconsiderate invaders of the comfort zone, and just “let’s just dance, man”.

And so he followed, uncertainty slipping away from his grip with every tap from another summered-out girl and her sun-burned skin exposing every bit of the coquettish harlequin carefully wrapped up in deadlines, schedules and shifts before. Bangs were whipping everywhere, sweat pouring freely and colourful shoes that were going to be searched for in a maddeningly confusing state of recovery in the days that were to follow.

They stopped somewhere on the edge of the core of the mosh-pit. She leaned her back on him, guiding his hands towards her navel, and closed her eyes as she rested the back of her head on his general facial area. The music began to gain tempo again, and people around them were getting restless, as if instructed by some intrinsic sound wave to pick their pace and gyrate their bodies accordingly: to release their budding energy of being young, to celebrate the unbecoming of.

She was tall — only about an inch or so shorter than him — so it was impossible to see what was going on in front of him without leaning his head. The band was now playing at a fevered pitch, possessed by the urgency of trying to establish themselves as legitimately in-touch with what they just used to be. Her body started to move in waves of calm and restlessness, every movement punctuated by the vibe of the air around her.

He stroked the side of her legs, admiring the supple crease of her jeans, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

“How are we doing today?” she whispered. Her knotted bun now came undone and the intoxicating smell of sweat and shampoo briefly enveloped his face.

“I think we’re doing good. Are we doing good?” he asked rhetorically.

“You’re awesome, you know that?” she replied non sequitur. Somehow the fact that her alcoholically tainted comment had no bearing whatsoever on her actual feelings cracked him up and he chuckled. She grinned and proceeded to writhe her shoulder and spine slowly: brushing and tempting.

The sun had now settled at a comfortable angle, the elongated shadows of the band members mesmerized the young hedonists on the side of the stage. A particularly boozed up person wearing a black t-shirt imprinted with white lightning and the letters “AC/DC” managed to scramble up the stage and attempted to test the buoyancy prowess of the crowd before him. Unfortunately for him — and fortunately for the people on the ground, for he was a rather heavy-set person with drops of what appeared to be beer dripping from his morass of a goatee — the security team quickly descended on him and escorted him away amid scattered shouts of derision and applause.

It was now nearly three hours since they’d first met at the grounds and delved into a progressively downward spiral of youthful debauchery. He let his hands feel the curve of her back, her firm belly, the soft mounds and the delicate neck. She continued to move contently, glowing in the unabashed appreciation of those around them. He didn’t mind. Let them gawk, he thought.

Yesterday, he mused, I was wallowing on weed and pils. Today, I feel like a fucking rock star.

“Listen: bound to the realms of this existence, I can only look as far as my eyes can see. And I can only hold for as long as my lungs can take. But take the plunge with me and you’ll sense the impermanence.”

We breathe in staccatos, afraid to let go of the last…bits and swallow abruptly. We cling. Do we not? We tug at futility, raging at the constant ebb and flow of impulses — some involuntarily, while others concocted from the myriad lapses of logic and perspective.

Slowly, and gently, a mother falcon nudges her chick away from the precipice, beckoning with shrill laughter at the seemingly hapless indecisiveness of the young one who has never felt a thermal updraft or the shimmering mist beside a waterfall. Does she plunge, will she follow? You were there. And you mocked at your reflection then, taunting it with words that didn’t break any bones nor any mirror. You broke a lot then, didn’t you? All that swelled inside you burst forth, but all that ulcerated inside have yet to cleanse.

Would you rather pick up the broken bits, or step on them? I have questions from many and answers for few, and I have feathers from afar, but songs that never travel far. Interpretations give way to irreverence, and all the traveller has in the end to show for his trip is a bag of rustic postcards. They are all filled with words of intent, but they lack intentions.

Here’s a bus ride with only one passenger: you. You choose to sit at the very back, on the left, because you’ve always favoured your left shoulder when leaning on the window. You choose to sit behind because then you can stretch your feet without having to position yourself sideways. You choose to sit at the back because you like the way the streets play out before you in front of all those empty seats. And the driver that you never met? Is he wearing a hat? Does she call out every stop in a singsong way? Is he wearing shorts, or is she gaining at all the wrong places?

Outside, it is just past twilight and the streets are dim with lights that are slowly coming aglow. It is pouring today. Or tonight. Can you tell? The fogged up windows and the trickling drops outside cloud your orientation. And now you’re unsure about which stop you passed by, which curve and what slope you descended into. The bus travels along at a brisk speed, the whipping rain now completely blinding the windshield, and yet the driver ignores the wipers. Do you slowly panic now? Or are you beyond reprieve?

You rub your eyes and wipe the windows, but it doesn’t help. Nausea creeps in from some absurd corner of your gut. Your hands feel distant, aloof and almost independent of your thoughts. You’ve forgotten your backpack, stereo headphones emitting tiny crackles of choruses that you never bothered to uncover. Do you stand up, or do you sit? Transfixed. A feeble attempt at opening the overhead window is met with a blunt noncompliance. You’re moving at an average speed of 66 kph, but you’re paralyzed inside.

You’re hurtling through space at a blistering pace of thirty kilometers per second, but you’re stuck. You’re barely hanging on, it seems. Clinging seems more appropriate. Do you chuckle at your inane thoughts now? Are you “reflecting”?

When the woods have cleared and you’ve brushed aside the sweat on your forehead, take a look behind the seemingly wayward journey of yours and you’ll discover an uneven path. A path strewn with broken branches and carelessly tossed tissue papers. A path, nonetheless. The falcon cries in the distant — of wonders that have yet to be beset upon, and pitfalls that lie beneath every bed of flowers.

Follow or plunge. Pack heartily in any case.

Driving along a seldom used back-road that suddenly leads into a vast stretch of farms and grasslands with an odd barnyard pockmarked here and there. Thanks, o Canada.

That cool drift that generally follows a quick storm on a hot, humid day. The smell of rain and the displaced dust helps too.

Being engulfed in the persuasive perfume of some mysterious passer-by on the side-walk. And as you distractedly turn to look back at the offending stranger, she drowns into the impersonal crowd, leaving you momentarily bemused at your own capacity for capriciousness.

Sitting through a crappy club and hearing the opening rift of a really good song, and looking at someone as you both realise it.

That rude gush of ice-cold water that remained in the shower pipe before the warm water comes out. Perks you right up even though you’ve been dreading it since releasing the tap.

That tilted, painfully intrigued look on a dog’s face as you test your whistling prowess.

The wonderful mounds and angles of a woman’s shape. Especially so when all they care to have on is a pair of jeans and nothing else.

Instantly connecting with a complete stranger and sharing a nefarious sense of humour.

Moving people with your writing.

Watching someone close their eyes in bliss and thoroughly enjoy a dish that you made while listening to some Stones’ tunes.

Really old couples sitting on park benches and soaking up the bustling life before them.

Going over an absolute mess of pictures from the day, getting progressively pissed at yourself, and then coming across that one single image that “just works” and had nothing what-so-ever to do with the day’s intended theme.

Dragging your feet against the knots of a well-made Tibetan rug.

Talking to sensitive, precocious little children about the arts and music.

Unexpectedly catching a really good song in an otherwise shitty, commercial radio station.

Mature yet casually stylish women in subway trains and cafes.

Oily foot massages … and taking turns.

Walking through a neighbourhood early in the morning, when the streets are eerily silent and you share nods with joggers and street cleaners.

Spending the whole night talking about everything under the sun and beyond with old friends and schoolmates.

That dull sensation ringing in your head when you’re pleasantly buzzed and you can finally ask that pretty girl for a dance without mulling over the disaster scenarios.

Everyone agrees that yes, we demand an encore and all involved shall heartily stamp the floor beneath them. And then the band shows up, obviously glad of the reception.

The awe in babies’ eyes as they crane their head back and stare at the mountain of a being that you are. And then laughter.

Finding yourself attracted to someone, in spite of yourself.

(what do you like?)

You should have seen the way she held his hand and firmly led him around the festival ground. A fluttering of not-quite-unpleasant aches swelled inside him as the cacophony of the distortion from the opening bands plundered the eardrums of those who were not quite sure which band was coming after whom.

A pleasant mid-May afternoon, and already the cherry blossoms were signaling the turn of the season — the high sun casually burning the young, restless people loitering or canoodling about the park.

“Did you bring any sunscreen with you?” she inquired after settling on a high spot on the ground, a safe distance from the thick of the crowd but close enough to feel the thumping speakers vibrating and shaking the air around them. A comfortable spot, he hazily surmised, lying beside her on the soft mound.

“Uh…what?” He was still feeling the bitter aftertaste of whatever he had shot earlier on the tip of his tongue and on the roof of his mouth.

“A sunscreen cream. It’s fucking hot. Wow.”

He didn’t. He didn’t even bring his bag, come to think of it. Well, be that as it may, he rested his head on the grass as she fished around her purse, evidently looking for a tube of cream to protect her pale skin. So fair, he caught himself thinking, and let a smile loose.

The clean, late Spring sky loomed overhead as strands of cirrus clouds harmlessly swirled on the periphery. Then, silence. Distant screeches from sea gulls swooping towards the ground and fighting over bits of hot dogs and buns punctuated the still, murmuring atmosphere. I wonder who’s coming next, he wondered. Is that a banjo? No fucking way.

“I need a smoke so bad.” she said, quite earnestly, after watching a bunch of roadies disassembling and assembling the equipments onstage.

“I thought you said you quit.”

She stared at him bemusedly and shrugged. “Only on special occasions, natch. Hey beautiful, can I steal a drag from you?”

A girl sitting about three steps away from them glanced at her laughingly and more than happily obliged. “Thank you so much. You look really, really hot.”

They all laughed and exchanged pleasantries: the “what faculty”, “which quad”, “how long”, “where from”, the “oh my god really? All the way from Kootenays? That’s so awesome!” and the “hey, you know a Jeff from so-so went to this high school my cousin’s ex la dee la dee das” — then silence, again.

She decided that it was about time they sauntered towards the crowd and “y’know, let’s dance.” OK.

Wait, what? He maybe a little buzzed, but he wasn’t inebriated to the point of flailing his arms around and embarrassingly beleaguering himself with the frat boys. He didn’t care much for the frat boys: the “bros”, the guys with the Birkenstock sandals on slightly frayed, fatigued cargo shorts with their over-sized aviator shades, their meticulously tousled coifs and their propensity for gratuitous exclamations, their AXE deo-sprays and lastly, their fucking popped collars. Who the fuck does that? Why would anyone do that? He didn’t really, really care much for the frat boys.

-Part II-