Margaritaville

There's a woman to blame, all right, for the spectacular hangover I am suffering today, and she is me.

Dave says, "I just do what the pretty girls tell me to do," but I don't remember seeing any pretty girls last night and I certainly don't remember any of them telling him (or me) to drink those last dozen beers.

On Friday night at The Banknote I asked all the regulars, the guy regulars, if they had skates, and if so, were they of Brobdinagian proportions, and if so, so, could I borrow them, and it was Martin, the daytime bartender, who reluctantly agreed to lend me his. I say reluctantly, because Martin has witnessed some of my attempts to fuck with Andrew's mind — like the time I had him convinced that the laptop he had been safekeeping behind the bar had been stolen &mdash and I could tell that he was balancing the need to be polite to a regular customer with the desire to say, no way, crazy lady.

So on Saturday night I arrived at Joey's birthday party, skates in hand, for Dave to try on. Surprisingly, they fit. Through the door.

Dave has sexy eyebrows. I didn't remember noticing that when we first met.

Joey's party was a low key affair, not at all like last year's bash. When you get married, you crank it down a couple of notches.

On the bright side, when you get divorced you crank it back up.

The restaurant closed at 12:30 and we were forced out onto the streets of Toronto to find another place to drink. Dave wanted to see The Banknote, so that's where we went.

The Banknote has a small but fine collection of single malt.

"Which is your favourite sketch?" Dave asked me.

"My favourite what?" I replied, denser than usual. Hey, it was late, many beers had been consumed. Oh, and there's that American accent.

He tried again: "Single malt."

"Macallan," I replied, in English this time. "Though I also like the peaty ones like Laphroaig. I have eleven bottles at home. Dalwhinnie, Glen Morangie, Oban..."

"You had me at Macallan," said Dave.

* * *
We were at the Air Canada Centre for the pre-game skate on Sunday just before 11:00, but the lineup was too long for my liking, even though we were entering through the V.I.P. gate on Bay Street, so we walked up to Front Street in search of a bank machine. It was a gorgeous, sunny day; unseasonable for November, but no one was complaining.

We returned twenty minutes later to find the line had, if anything, grown. The ice was full, we were told, and they weren't letting anyone else in.

Fuck.

I called my FIHP but he wasn't at the ACC, and, tragically, dropping his name at the door did not impress the security guard.

Double fuck.

"I probably could have gotten you in if you'd called early," FIHP was saying. "Sorry about that. But why don't you go up to the Club and have lunch. I'll call Jenson and tell him to expect you."

That means lunch and free beer. Almost as good as skating on the Leafs' ice.

Well, not really.

We had two hours to kill before the Air Canada Club would open, so I suggested we walk down to the Harbour Grill. On the way, we heard grumblings from the families still waiting in line: "There are are a lot of disappointed kids here."

"Yeah," said Dave, "And we're two of them."

* * *
So I didn't get to skate on the Leafs' ice but I did get to do some other things this weekend that I don't do that often, like wear matching underwear.

The Legends game this year was Canada vs. Russia — much more exciting than last year's "Original Six" vs. "Expansion." Paul Henderson was the coach of Team Canada. Billy Smith was the goalie. That cretin.

There was a guy with a trumpet circling the stands, playing rah-rah chants to get the audience going.

"I want that guy's job," said Dave.

The trumpet player was doing his schtick behind the goal.

"That's pretty loud," said Dave, "I wonder if it bothers the goalie."

"Hey, get away from Billy!" I shouted down to the trumpeter. "It's bad enough he's blind; don't make him deaf, too."

"You know, I'm all for heckling goalies," said Dave, "But usually I direct my taunts at the other team."

We stayed in the Club for the Hockey Hall of Fame afterparty. Because, after all, the beer was still free, and the day was young. Dave wanted to have his picture taken with Lanny McDonald. I manned the camera.

Lanny took one look at my Chris Nilan Habs jersey and said — to Dave — "You should know better!"

* * *
By the time we arrived at the Rivoli for Kickass Karaoke we'd been drinking steadily for almost ten hours.

Wendy and Joey had already arrived, and Sparky, Mo, and Goldilocks were all there, but it was a slow night; not too many of the regulars had showed. Which is fine by us, because it means we get to sing more.

I introduced Dave to my karaoke buddies, then sat beside Sparky and helped him apply eyeshadow. Sparky's drag outfit at last weekend's Halloween party was so great I didn't recognize him. He's been practising wearing makeup ever since.

"You're drunk!" Sparky exclaimed.

"I am? I might be, but I can still handle an eyeliner brush, don't worry."

"I've never seen you drunk before!"

Sparky was enjoying it a little too much.

Carson was reading from my request slip, "OK, next up is, what is this, I can't read it, it looks like Sass Ate American Dave."

"That's an ampersand, you idiot."

Dave and I sang Fairytale of New York. I introduced it by saying, "Have I mentioned that Dave and I have been drinking since noon?"

After that, things started to get fuzzy.

Mo asked me, "Did you drive here tonight?"

Misunderstanding his intent, I replied, "No, sorry, I can't give you guys a ride home this time."

"Just checking," he smiled.

* * *
Both my PhD buddy, Denise, and my cousin Kristine have told me that I snore, especially when I've been drinking. Funny, no man has ever told me that. I'm not sure whether they're being diplomatic, or if it's because they're snoring even louder.

* * *
The next time Sass sees Martin at the Banknote, she has to remind herself that he's her second favourite bartender. But before that happens, in the next story in sequence Postmodern Sass finishes the story of her friend Angela, the cult, and her neighbour Boz.