Playing for Pizza

Actually, I'm pretty sure that she'll have to share it with Emma Frost.

 

 

Nuit Blanche happened yesterday. That was alright. It doesn’t really do anything for me as a showcase of urban art, but it works quite well as a backdrop for my adventures. I don’t really appreciate the art, but I enjoy the energy. I just can’t really bring myself to care about what anyone else is doing when I have all of this awesomeness right in my own head. Seriously. Have you seen my stuff? That’s some glory right there.

Anyway, this was the first Nuit Blanche in three years that didn’t coincide with a Hot Apollo show. Performing always seemed like a great way to spend these nights because it allowed me to get out and feel the spirit of the occasion without actually dealing with any of it. Due to some injuries sustained by the hands of David, the guitarist, a formal gig couldn’t really be managed for this weekend, but we still decided to bring out a guitar and add a bit of tuneful flavour to our aimless wandering.

At one point during our walk down Spadina, Dave decided that a bit of food would be just the thing to aid in his convalescence. To that end, we stopped by Harbord to grab some pizza at a little shop that had served as a peripheral point of interest at my life in bygone eras. In the waning days of high school, its proximity to the apartment that hosted many of my friends’ meetings secured its spot in their hearts. Over the course of my tenure at the university pasta shop, my boss’s respect for that pizza place was the reason for which I was always instructed to stay on the opposite side of the street whenever I was sent to hand out flyers at Harbord.

As I don’t really have a taste for pizza, Dave’s decision left me without much to occupy my attention. Not wishing to be idle, I took up the guitar and played some classic Hot Apollo tunes outside the restaurant while I waited. Though I didn’t notice the tossing of any coins into the open guitar case by my feet, I was pleasantly surprised to receive the patronage of the restaurant’s manager. Upon realising that Dave and I were a team, she decided that the majesty of our music warranted free pizza. I think that she’s also sticking our picture up in her store? I’m not really sure. It was slightly hard to tell through the delightful thickness of her accent, which doubtlessly infuses her business with the kind of authenticity that stands in stark contrast to the cosmopolitan vagueness of the lurking Subway sandwich shop on her store’s left side.

Anyway. That’s when I took note of the late hour and realised that my ancient, tenuous plans to finally visit the Dance Cave, a club that has been recommended to me for ages by various acquaintances, would not be brought to fruition on this night. But that’s alright.

 

Copyright © 2011, Jaymes Buckman and David Aaron Cohen. All rights reserved. In a good way.