Drinking in Toronto in December
I’m not normally much of a drinker. While I enjoy a Maker’s Mark bourbon whiskey on a cold night, a freezing pale ale on a hot night, and a nice Australian or South African shiraz or pinotage on any other night, I’m not the type of guy who thinks of getting wasted as a worthwhile activity in and of itself.I enjoy the warmth and conversational lubrication that a few drinks usually provide, but in my adult life have generally stayed away from the filthy, slobbering, disgusting malodorous mess that accompanies over-indulgence in recreational intoxicants.
I like being in control of my body and mind. I don’t have any strong desire to relive the embarrassment of almost-forgotten days when I may have said or done something I would later regret. Missing hours, mysteriously bruised body parts, waking up in strange, fuzzy situations and being urged to make the sincerest of apologies in the most ambiguous of circumstances is … well … not always fun.
On the off-chance that I may actually choose to have more than just a few, I have a strict rule that dictates this only occurs among my best of friends, trusted people who will go to whatever lengths necessary to protect me from myself – even though I’m known as a ridiculously happy drunk – and who will forgive me in the event The Stupid Imp who lives on my left shoulder manages to weave his messages of ridiculous tempestuousness and false bravado through my nearly-impermeable thick skull and sticky membrane of reason.
Because I’ve been living away from these close friends for so long, I’ve trended towards moderation, believing the old adage better safe than sorry rings rather true.
However, I’m now back in Toronto for a few weeks’ rest and relaxation, and, as another proverb goes: all things are good in moderation, including moderation.
It’s sufficient to say that we made the appropriate exceptions.
About a dozen of us met up in my old neighbourhood at The Gypsy Co-Op on Queen Street West, where we enjoyed some apertifs and an uninspiring meal. Fortunately the shots we had to chase the bourbons to wash away the taste of the meal helped clean our palate for further consumption.
A few of my boys came out, and we were our usual high-energy selves. Jay, Noah, myself and Farf are pictured above. The Flink was also present, amid a bevvy of attractive ladies and gents, but alas we have no photos with her in it that could be published without severing either our friendship or some part of my body...
It's almost a shame that you can't see what Farf's t-shirt says...
Kim and Claire sharing their love for film...
A toast to ... well, let's just say it was one of many toasts to many things. At this point, we had passed through Squirrely's (next to the Gypsy Co-Op) and made our way to Paddy Murphy's.
Why Paddy Murphy's, you might ask? Well, Noah insisted we go there to indulge in a plethora of $2.50 shots. He thought it would be fun to alternate jagermeisters with jack daniels for an hour or so... Chasing shooters with shooters? Sure, why not...
Alas, it caught up with some of us.
And this bill is only interesting because of the shot count (posted due to popular request). It reads more like a boxing score card than a bar tab. And keep in mind that this was the third bill of the evening...
The rest of the night was quite fun, full of public displays of singing, dancing, colour and affection. Until next year!
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