- Chris Rootham
Let me start this off on the right foot: kids, just say no to drugs. Stay in school, all that stuff. Though you might have heard differently, winners don’t use drugs. Always look both
ways before crossing the drugs.
One of the main reasons that I’m not a habitual or even annual consumer of exotic chemicals is that for reasons unknown the effects that these things tend to have on me are not the ones described in the literature. In the great realm of human possibility this is not, of course, unheard-of; I’m sure that it’s all part of my mutant physiology, along with the extra-long
second toes and an ego that can spontaneously inflate to ten times its original size. If I have enough to drink, for example, I begin to enjoy Abba. Compared to passing out or dying of alcohol poisoning, enjoying Abba is clearly a less-than-optimal result, but that’s what happens.
Anyhow, at an Ultimate party last night a few members of the community
decided to get back in touch with the sport’s long-haired-filthy-hippie
roots, and invited me along. Very good, very good. Bene. Except that
rather than enjoying the mild high which is ostensibly the reason
that one does any of these things, I instead get badly desynchronized,
and start experiencing wierd discontinuity issues. I kept repeatedly and upredictably waking up
to some newfound realization of my current situation.
For the rest of the night, it was as if I’d been dropped into the lead role in some surrealist, lightweight Memento
Whoa, hey, I’m at a party. Cool. What am I doing here? I’m… I’m having a conversation. In fact, I’m in the middle of a sentence. I’d better keep going. Hey, I seem to be doing pretty well. I bet it sure helps that this guy’s pretty drunk.
So, my man Sean and I walked a few of the ladies who lived in the neighborhood home, because chivalry is not yet dead, but this walking-around getting of air was a source of more of those weird discontinuities.
“Is this your car?”
Hrm, I’m on Gladstone. It’s kind of chilly out here. Am I dressed for this
weather? Oh, I am. That’s good news. Sean and Amy are right here, too.
This is Amy’s car, so we must be dropping her off.
“Christ, it’s cold out here.”
Whoa, cool. I’m outside. Hey, we’re walking Jayanti home now. Hi, Jayanti. Yeah, he’s right, it is pretty chilly out here. I’d better make some smalltalk. What neighborhood are we in, anyway?
“Have a good night, Jayanti.”
“Yeah, we should head back. I’m not getting any warmer.”
Oh, there we are. I think I recognize this place. Gord lives near here. Christ, he’s right – it’s chilly. Am I dressed for this weather? Hey, I am. Great.
“Want to go for a shawarma?”
“Uh, yeah – we’re doing that.”
Large lebanese man: “Something guttural something something!”
Hrm, I’m being yelled at by a large Lebanese man. I wonder why? I’m
in front of a counter. And… Oh, I see.
“Could I get extra pickles with that?”
That seemed to go well. I must be in some Shawarma place. Hey, it’s Shawarma King! Cool, I’d totally go for a shawarma right now.
“How’s your Shawarma?”
Shawarma? Hey, I’ve got a shawarma in my hand. I must be eating a shawarma. Awesome, I could really use a shawarma right now.
“Great. What time is it?”
So I made it home around four, woke up at seven wildly concerned about something that I don’t clearly remember and got up again at 11 so that I could play the last game of the season outside, on a nice half-frozen field.
For a multitude of reasons, I should have stayed in bed.