ALWAYS answer your phone… or at least look who’s calling

For someone who owns [and uses] a 70yr old typewriter, I have heavily embraced the tech age. I love my toys. If I’m texting, or Tweeting, or Facebooking, or Tumblring, it is still a form of communication, a conversation of sorts. So if you walk over when I’m communing with my Blackberry, I am not being rude for ignoring you, it is you that is interrupting. Keep that in mind as you read the following…

ALWAYS answer your phone…

Friends, enemies, and Internet losers…

It was a Saturday. I was in bed. Awake, but lethargic. I was preparing to settle in for the day, a full on Harry Potter Marathon my only concern. Then my phone buzzed; I had a pm on Twitter. It was from a darling of Vancouver’s Burlesque scene that I am less-than-silently crushing on. She was at work and in desperate need of a coffee, a non-fat latte to be exact. Harry Potter would have to wait.

I packed up the travel bag:

1 Mont Blanc Meisterstuck ballpoint, 1 Canon Rebel XSi digital SLR, 1 Moleskine notepad (a gift… heh), Cigarettes, iPod, and various sundries not requiring mention here.

I jumped on the bus and headed out into the wilds of the almost-East Side.

I grabbed the coffees at Gene Cafe and went in search of my friend’s boutique. I couldn’t find it. I popped my head into Pulp Fiction Books to ask the owner (an acquaintance I’ve known since elementary school) if he knew where it was I wanted to go. He told me to walk, “gingerly,” across Main and look to my left. After a short game of Frogger with two coffees, success.

As much as I respect and love Dumbledore, spending an afternoon sitting at a sidewalk table, smoking and drinking coffee with one of the more interesting names on my Facebook roster is much better than a Harry Potter marathon.

About the time Harry, Ron, and Hermione would have been busting into the Chamber of Secrets, I hoofed it down Main Street, camera in hand, documenting all the fun little sites the street has to offer.  The Skytrain and bus ride was made slightly more joyous by listening to France Gall, who can make even the most boring moments on transit feel like a flirty, perfume commercial.

Just as my Super Blue Limousine was feet dry at the north end of the Lions Gate bridge, the elf that lives in my Blackberry went into seizures again, this time spawned by Graham Myrfield, bass player for The Stumblers Inn. Earlier in the week, I’d expressed interest in thumbing a lift with them up to their gig in Squamish, and now Graham was touching back in the affirmative. Where was I? Just getting of the bridge. Where was he? Just getting on. I got off, they pulled over, and an hour later we’re in Squamish loading in gear.

Three hours after that, about the time Harry would have been learning the identity of the Half Blood Prince, I was no-handing shot glasses out from between the legs of a gorgeous, not-quite-blushing, bride to be.

Always answer your phone.


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