Montreal comfort

Carolyn and I went to Montreal. I asked her many years ago if she, like me, feared getting older. "Not at all," she replied emphatically. I believed her. And I was curious to see what she would be wearing when she picked me up at the airport. Carolyn has always tended towards outfits that resemble something a hippie professor's wife in New England would wear. She did not disappoint, in this orange one-piece with floral leggings, and a comfy green scarf. She is letting her hair turn gray, of course. More than any of my friends (other than Cherita), I believe that Carolyn will make the smoothest transition into old lady-hood.

Since neither of us is quite an old lady yet, we set out to do some walking in Montreal, me in sneakers and she in clogs. Everyone was speaking French! Every time we passed by a store selling comfy-looking women's casuals, I said, "Uh oh," because I knew that Carolyn would insist that we go in. We looked at so many frocks and muumuus that day! So many beads, so many moccasins and shawls. I eventually re-asserted my masculinity and dragged us to Top Man, where I purchased that sweatshirt I admired a couple of months ago at the Top Man in Los Angeles.

As we were returning to our residence, we saw a dog running wildly across a busy street. I went to go restrain the dog before he could get hurt, but I made the error of calling to the dog before I crossed the street to him. The dog ran towards me and was immediately struck by a car. The impact was so loud that I assumed the dog had been killed, but then Carolyn saw him running down the street again, thankfully toward his owner this time. I think its leg was broken, but otherwise he seemed fine. I am so glad that my error didn't result in the dog dying. We were both very shaken, and Carolyn retired for the evening, and I went to a strip club.

Over the course of the evening, I became a legend at Stock Bar and Campus, the two wholesomest-looking strip clubs on Rue de St. Catherine. It seemed as though I couldn't sit down on my own without paying a stripper to give me a lap dance. At my age, a lap dance can still be slightly ironic while also being stimulating, but one does have to be careful that an overzealous dancer doesn't break your hip while he's grinding into it. I made some new "friends" ... Ian ... Jason ... Gabe ... some of them told me their "real names." One of them made out with me. (Against the rules!) A couple took even more liberties. I thought to myself, What better way to overcome the shame of almost killing a dog than by blowing my vacation budget with frottage?

Call me when you're in New York next week, Ian!