I'd rather be in Montreal

The rural east coast river they'll probably find my friends in

A carload of my close friends took off today to Montreal for a bagel and Reuben-eating, beer chugging, recluse-leading noise-rock band listening, getaway. Meanwhile, I sit here at work, watching the snow fall outside through the window, wondering if they'll make it back alive.

I was supposed to head to Maine next week to catch Sigur Ros, a fabulous Icelandic band made even more fabulous by the fact they play less-than-exotic places such as Portland, Maine. But seeing a forecast that calls for 20 cm (centimetres for you Americans, and yes, we spell it "re," not "er") consoles me when I think back to why I decided not to head to the French-Canadian metropolis in the first place.

Instead, I get to rock it with controller.controller and OK Go at one of the local watering holes. In case you didn't know, OK Go is the band that became famous with their hugely downloaded video of them practicing their choreographed dance skills in the backyard:

Ok Go in the backyard

Supposedly due to the word-of-mouth success of said video, the Ohio-based band has been invited for the sole purpose of doing this dance for television shows and during opening slots on comedy tours. Who knew that indie kids trying to be N'Sync would be so popular? Perhaps I should head to Value Village, pick up a $10 used suit and hit the comedy circuit with my interpretation of the Nutcracker set to the sounds of the latest Nada Surf record. Score!

That said, if they choose to ignore the main reason people like them and decide to neglect "the dance," I will be extremely peeved walking home from the bar in the blizzard tonight. That is, until I find out that my friends hurled off a bridge near Miramichi, New Brunswick in order to avoid hitting an Ewok or Chewbacca in the middle of the road.

Forgive and forget

So I’m at the bar I frequent and sometimes spin records at. Said bar also has the distinction of being the place where almost every single woman I’ve slept with or hit on in the last year likes to hang out too. It’s totally cool, though, as I thankfully have this learned ability to not be an asshole, and that leaves me on good terms with my former lovelies.

But every once in a while, I slip and show my other human ability to fuck up and do something that pisses another human off. It happens, we choose to forgive, or we bear a grudge until the sun overtakes Earth and destroys us, and we move on. But I digress…

On said evening, I was having drinks with Library Girl and Legs - no, I will not divulge whether either were part of my really-not-so-sordid past. Sorry, gossipy scenesters! – and found my glass empty. I moved to the bar to refill my tasty Stella in a fancy glass just to hear one of the off-duty bartenders finish a naughty comment that involved her breasts. Laughing, my eyes averted to said region. “I’m sorry,” I said smugly as she noticed me. “But I couldn’t help but look after I heard that.” More giggles ensued.

However, one girl across the bar gives a look that could make a Mormon feel sinful (It was a joke, honey!) and sensing this, my bartender friend backs me up, telling her that we know each other. Or perhaps she was sensing what was possibly to come.

“Didn’t you date Stylist Sweetie?” (Not her real name, duh!)
“Uh, yeah” feeling my stomach drop, knowing exactly where this is headed and for those of you who don’t read Status Single frequently, I’ll fill you in below.
“Oh, you’re that guy,” she says in that self-righteous tone that requires one to stick their nose as high it can possibly reach in the troposphere.

I recover enough to throw out an inkling of a response:
“Don’t believe everything you read,” I retort weakly, caught off guard.
“Well, you’re the one who wrote it.”

Touché stranger-girl. Touché.

Of course, she’s referring back to when I was dating someone who happens to frequent the bar and then wrote how I had feelings for a different woman. It was only then that I realized that half the indie scene reads my blog. Ooops! I guess the person at the bar decided it was never too late to show distaste for my fuck-up, regardless that she doesn’t know me or that the event happened months in the past. Hey, to each his/her own, right? As I’ve said before, I’m no saint.

Fast-forward two weeks. I’m kicking out the jams on the turntables thanks to my awesome new DJ pal. During a set that includes “Ring My Bell,” “Heart of Glass,” and “Daft Punk Is Playing In My House,” whom do I see busting a rug on the dance floor? But the very same person who deems it necessary to dole out dirty looks to the unworthy. I guess she recognized me at the same moment, because she pointed at me while dancing, mouth agape in a surprised, I just swallowed a bug sort of way.

“Hey, that’s Rockstar Writer!”

I don’t care if she was probably tipsy or that I may have just enough skills on the decks to make those who dislike me to dance. In that moment, I came to the conclusion that everyone deserves to be forgiven, especially where music, alcohol and blogging are concerned. Even me.