Ice cream and granola is my ascendance to divinity

Oh, don’t mind me. Just testing the limits of hedonism here.

I’m on vacation, and apparently that means I’m inhabiting my trashbag persona to the max. I’ve been downing Maple Bacon Moonshine Caesars and Jaegar/Mountain Dew all weekend. Coffee has come spiked with Butterscotch Schnapps. Yesterday I lay on my back outside with my eyes closed, listening to the natural soundscape play scenes around me, enjoying a gentle pull of CBD weed from my vape. This morning I had ice cream and granola for breakfast. This weekend is defined by “what do I want?” and “when do I want it?” Without time constraints, I’ve been able to drift as I desire, doing what I want and enjoying the inherent freedom. My vacation, apparently, is from any stress. Who knew that I had any?

By our second morning here, the place has found a sense of equilibrium. None of us are 20 years old, we generally clean up after ourselves. At intervals throughout the night, people go around and pick up empty cans. We’re running the dishwasher once or twice a day, making sure we have enough plates and cutlery. Or, more realistically, cups. There’s a loose notion of “tidy as you go”, or “last up cleans up”, that means we’re not stewing in our own filth. I’m a trashbag, but a responsible one. It’s kinda nice to be at this point of life, where we can all party without instantly creating a hovel.

It’s been awesome to have such a mix of personalities, and flowing between activities. There’s usually someone hanging outside by the stream, or having a smoke. The gaming room has a big ol’ comfy couch, where people hang out. The kitchen lounge has a table with people clacking away at their keyboards, taking care of errant work with a drink by their side. Someone is usually preparing a shareable snack of some variety. There’s often leftover food that people offer up to others. There’s abundance everywhere, and it’s amazing to be able to offer and share. Oh, and the hens lay fresh eggs we’re able to take and eat. All needs being met at all times.

Speaking of which, it’s about time I started with an afternoon drink. Hedonism demands that I finish up and sit back.

Sorry, them’s the rules.

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Is there such a thing as too much marzipan?

Sorry friends, I didn’t end up getting a Met Gala ticket. Which is a pity, ’cause I was planning on dressing as Childish Gambino’s debut studio album.

I woke up tired and I wonder if I’m still dreaming. It’s been a weird day. No real issues, but the air has been laden with a surreal sensibility. Everyone around me is feeling the same sense of instability. Not that anything’s going wrong, but that something’s off. A guy I ranted to about the Garfield pizza restaurant the other day came back to me having looked it up. We chatted on its stunning peculiarity, the nonsensical portmanteaux and the culty enthusiasm of its Chief Entergagement Officer. While this conversation was of course a delight, I rant about weird shit all the time and so few people actually check it out. What’s happening? Did I evolve a modicum of charisma in the past week or two?

I had this moment on the subway today. It’s important to note that I’m generally pretty body capable. I understand movement well enough to rarely misstep too badly. If I do happen to fumble I, often end up accidentally making some clutch catch that defies the laws of physics. This isn’t a brag, so much as a lead in. So I was on the subway, I’d stepped into a new carriage, put my bag down and settled in. It was the morning, I was absent minded, but there was abundant room for once. That rarely happens during rush hour, so I casually stretched out my arm to grab the pole as the train rumbled onwards. I missed. It wasn’t even that I fumbled my grip. My hand shot out to the left, fingers clamped shut, like I was clutching a phantom pole. I had nothing in my hands. My balance was all shifted into this movement, and with the train on its way I was shit out of luck. I stumbled back, one clumsy step after another. My some miracle, empty train car and all, I hit nobody. I staggered, freewheeling, arms flailing wildly. Then I stopped, finding my feet completely.

Everything was fine, crisis averted. I was simultaneously relieved and dumbfounded. I burst out laughing at the top of my voice. I looked around and there were no eyes staring back, but I knew mere seconds before they’d all been on me. I closed my eyes and laughed harder, genuine mirth flooding my brain. I walked back to the pole and gingerly grabbed it, laughing the whole time. For the next ten minutes before arriving at my location, I’d periodically chuckle thinking of it, which inevitably grew back to a full on laugh. Whether or not people were staring, I’m sure they had no reservations assuming that a lunatic was before them. I didn’t care, my joy and humour were so sincere, I could’ve happily vanished into the aether, never to be seen again. I could relive that moment on loop for the rest of my life and have lived a life worth something.

Also I finally caved and watched the pilot of the critically and commercially panned, cancelled sitcom Cavemen¬†(y’know, based off the Geico commercials?). Oh, heh, “caved”. That worked out better than expected. My pun, I mean, not the show. I know I’ve linked it there, but please do not watch that episode. It’s dull, stupid, crass and overabundantly sexist. Even on 2x speed, you’re wasting 4x the amount of your time that you should. Don’t watch it. Please. I coudn’t make it the whole way through.

At least my accident was confined to the subway, and not broadcast on national TV.

You may ask yourself, where does that highway go to?

How often do you live an alternate existence?

In peak “Once in a Lifetime”, I took in my surroundings and wondered how did I get here? I did a macro level zoom out and rewind. My friend and I were lying on wooden benches in a homey log cabin sauna. The sauna was inside an idyllic Russian bathhouse facility. Said facility was inside a larger warehouse. The warehouse was down a sketchy alleyway behind a block of strip mall shopping. The strip mall was in the middle of nowhere (Mississauga). The path to get there was strange and meandering. We’d smoked a joint in the parking lot, after having taken the local bus system from Islington station, near the end of the western subway line. I’d written on the subway heading out there, using my time efficiently. Before we got on the subway, we stopped off at a local weed store and grabbed the aforementioned joint. This coming after we ducked into my friend’s childhood home so she could grab a swimsuit. I’d been looking for one out and about, but no dice. We even checked Dollarama, where a homeless dude sweetly asked if we’d mind buying him a drink. We said sure, so he came with us and chose a pepsi from the fridge, mildly asking if we’d mind getting him some granola bars too. No swimsuit, but it was nice to do something for a stranger in need of help. This entire adventure, of course, was inspired by lying around on couches at a tea room and spontaneously deciding to try something different.

What a novel, stimulating and grossly ideal evening. The Russian bathhouse was a wholly different experience for me. I have so much trouble relaxing and taking time to chill out. At this place, there was literally nothing else to do. It was an extravagant night where I put a fear of costs aside in lieu of soaking up everything sensory. We were already relaxed from our trashy parking lot joint, and checked in at the counter. They gave us each locker RFID armbands, a towel and a bathrobe. I didn’t have any togs, but the lady behind the counter said there was a big basket of clean ones I could borrow from. We changed into our fluffy robes, then made a beeline for the restaurant.

The food was hearty and warming. We each ordered a bowl of borscht and split a plate of dumplings. The borscht was warming with a tingling sour nature. The dumplings were teensy meat pockets covered in sour cream. We dropped a couple into the soup and stirred in the cream, thickening it up. The combo was a real dream team. Even better, my friend suggested pairing it with Kvas, a Russian drink made from fermented rye bread. It was crisp and refreshing. Like a cider without that weird saccharine aftertaste. They added the bill to our RFID bracelets and, with full bellies, we set out to enjoy the bathhouse’s delights.

First was the sauna, a wooden room styled after a country log cabin. At the front was a big oven contraption. A ladle hung next to a bowl of water. To head the place up, all one needed to do was open the oven and spoon in some water. It was warm without threat of suffocation. We lay down, stretched a bit, and eavesdropped on most everyone hanging out there. Outside the sauna was a small courtyard. In one corner were chairs for people to lounge on at room temperature. A freestanding shower stood in another corner, and a chilled pool was inlaid outside the sauna. It was bitingly cold. We went in for maybe 10 seconds, then came out freezing. We let our bodies acclimate, then went back in for longer. Maybe 30 seconds the second time. It was such a strange and electrifying feeling, bodies adjusting to the polarised temperatures. It felt like a pleasant prickling sensation spreading throughout my extremities. Little spots of cold manifesting, warming gradually. We next tried the steam room, a beautifully tiled spot with a lovely blue hue. It was pretty damn hot, contrasting hugely with the chilled pool we’d just escaped. We took turns filling a bowl with cold water from a basin, then trickled the water over each other’s head and back. It was oddly almost sensual, incredibly calming. We bounced around between the cool pool, the sauna, steam room and dry sauna, taking in the sensations of heat fluctuation on our bodies. It was unbelievably relaxing, perfect after a bunch of late nights in a row.

After we’d had our fill and midnight was fast approaching, we showered up to rest in the lounge. Still clad in our robes, we lay down on the plush leather couches and drank peppermint tea. It was like all our stresses had dissipated, floating off into the aether. Midnight struck, and we gathered our things, heading back to the city together. Sleepily sitting side by side on the subway, we shared a set of earbuds and made a playlist on the fly, alternating tracks. Now we have a wonderful night to remember, and a playlist to remember it by. The whole evening felt like a dream, as if we’d gone on vacation together to someone else’s life. An entirely organic, spontaneous adventure to put us outside common routines.

Why settle for “same as it ever was”?

Oh, the buck is only just STARTING here

Ready to get buck and/or doe?

I’m always up for an adventure. Always. When my friend floated the idea of crashing a Buck and Doe party in her hometown I immediately said “PICK ME! PICK ME!” Then I was all “it doesn’t change my answer but what’s a Buck and Doe?” The short answer is that it’s a wedding fundraiser. The longer answer is that it Is An Experience. But we’ll get there.

I’d slept not enough, and coffee’d too much. Which bode well for a frenetically chatty train ride from Union Station to Brantford. It was exciting. My friend and I don’t hang out that much, but every time we do we’re like “why don’t we hang out more?” So having an hour’s train ride to catch up was a stellar way to start a neat trip. More importantly, she hadn’t had breakfast yet (I on the other hand tore chunks of chicken from a rotisseried carcass and dipped them in tomato sauce, while crafting a big ol’ chicken sandwich for the ride. I’m trash inarnate and I’m okay with this). She was talking a big game about the snack cart and avidly awaited its arrival. An attendant came by ot check our tickets. “Oh, you’re getting off at Brampton. That’s the next stop.” The snack cart FINALLY arrived just when we were about to offload, so my friend got her ham and cheese croissant and we tucked in hurriedly. We finished maybe a few minutes before arriving, then jumped out all hopped up on snack induced pep. Second wind time!

Her dad picked us up at the train station, and drove us back to their home in Simcoe/Norfolk. Look, it’s one of them, but amalgamated provincial town politics ain’t my specialty. They have no Starbucks. They do have three Tim Hortons. More importantly, they have a Giant Tiger (which we did visit, and I narrowly avoided dropping $34 on a colossal human sized teddy bear. It was touch and go, but I knew I’d need to carry it back on the train). We arrived at her place and met her mum. Her parents were so goddamn nice and friendly, it was crazy. They were practically falling over themselves to be hospitable. Her mum had expected a larger group (who were coming later in a packed car), and had set out enough spreads for a Greek wedding. Mini muffins, chocolates, several bags of chips. A toddler sized bag of popcorn. It was just like being back at Nana and Papa’s house as a kid. Just couldn’t do enough for us. It was very sweet looking around their place, a comfy spot with so many treasures, baubles and memories from over the years. The customary baby photos of my friend were around the place (I’m usually not good at seeing adult features on babies, but she looked IDENTICAL). We hung out and chatted for awhile, before she and I walked into town.

I hope I didn’t imply in any way that it was a journey. Town was maybe ten minutes’ walk. We visited the aforementioned Giant Tiger (which I guess could best be described as a small town discount Walmart?), and walked around a bunch of closed signs. It was 4.30pm on a Saturday, most establishments had closed for the afternoon/weekend. We went into an adult store and chatted with the owner a bunch about the ins and outs (okay, pun kinda intended) of running an adult store, locals with specific tastes, and competing with Amazon. She was a friendly chatterbox and we managed to get out my invoking a need for coffee. We wandered the streets, and looked around. It was quiet, nay, empty. A few passing cars, maybe, but mostly a gentle state of serenity. We walked through a lakeside park, all untouched snow and wintry trunks. Geese flew overhead, no doubt shitting over everything. Ducks swam idly though the lake, occasionally taking brief flight only to come skidding back across the surface of the lake. It was like they were skating. We bought personal NY cheesecakes from a local food truck and roamed the streets, amazed at the size and stature of local homes. We weren’t in Toronto anymore, Toto.

Oh wow, I haven’t even gotten to the Buck and Doe yet. We did around 9pm, after a few beers and evening game show watching. Her mum had prepared a big dinner for all of us, but everyone else was still stuck back in Hamilton picking up travellers. So we just ate a bunch. There was KFC (I mean, I needed to accomplish the chicken trifecta. Breakfast, lunch and dinner), sweet and sour meatballs, rice, coleslaw and pasta salad (and of course we were offered dessert post dinner. I swear her mum was just about to ask if I was eating enough. That I’m just skin and bones, etc. I also shit you not, as I’ve been writing this at the kitchen table she just dropped off a plate of meat and cheese, a fruit platter, mini muffins and chips. She already made us bacon and eggs. Jesus it’s an onslaught). So we arrived at the Stag and Doe already stuffed. Her mum had a sore foot, so she was driving. I told her I couldn’t in good conscience accept a ride for the 200m or so to the event. I was sure my mum would astral project and guilt trip me into walking regardless. Also, more accurately, I wanted to smoke a bowl and I was already bonded to my friend’s parents. Even if it’s totally legal, I didn’t want them to be disappointed in me.

We walked into a community hall, packed with people. There were small games lining one side of the room. The other side had lottery prizes stretched across the length of the wall. Blue Jays tickets, spa packs, a fish prep table, a mystery man cave pack (whatever that meant. It sounded ominous). There was a ton of stuff, and I didn’t remotely want any of it. But there was something about the event, that I just wanted to find excuses to give the happy couple money. Who, in a weird and mercenary turn of events, I never met. Even if I’d crashed their party. There was a “pick a key” game, where everyone bought a key and only one key would win a prize. There was booze curling, where participants would slide loonies across the ground towards liquor bottles. Whoever got closest without touching, won the bottle. Some dude plonked down $10 and managed to get himself a bottle of Grey Goose. Not bad, eh? I tried the “strong man” game, knowing full well I had no chance of winning. You had to hold a 35lb dumbell straight out in front of you for as long as possible. I looked at the times on the board: 24s, 35s. 55s was the time to beat. I considered 30s to be a decent goal to hit. I braced myself with liquid courage and held tight. Time ticked by all too slowly. I got past 30 and my arms started trembling. At 40, they basically convulsed as I struggled to keep the laughter in. It was so impossibly hard. 42 seconds was not a bad innings, far as I was concerned. I looked up, and dinner had been served. A full buffet table with pulled pork and all the fixins. I tucked in and made myself a big ol’ sandwich. Surprisingly, it was a chickenless meal. I looked to the dancefloor, with the DJ doing his best to hype up attendees. Like any good middle school dance, it was just the gals, as the dudes were clearly too cool (sober) to join in the fun.

My friend and I were shooting the shit, and this tall, muscular dude walked up to us. He turned to me and patted me on the arm. “So, go to the gym, eh?” I shot a look at Lily, eyes wide. Was this dude THIS brazen? I’m not used to getting hit on, and definitely not so obviously. We chatted amicably, and I tried moving the topics all around. Drunk, he kept coming back to me and my gym habits. Sure, he was heavy handed, but he was a friendly enough dude that we were sure was pretty benign. He turned to us. “So what’s your deal? Are you guys fucking?” We laughed and I replied “nope, just friends as far as we know.” He pressed on “c’mon, you can tell me. You’re fucking right?” My friend chuckled “I mean, we’ve seen each other naked, but never had sex.” “Wait.” He replied “you’ve seen each other naked and you’ve never fucked?” My face contorted to horror. “Dude, how many people have you seen naked? It’s heaps, right? How would you even have the time in your lifetime?” He lost himself for a second, then shook himself back to normal. “Okay” he responded “so you’re GOING to fuck?” We shrugged, my friend chimed in “well not tonight at least. We’re staying at my parents’ house.” He then took an unexpected turn and mentioned his girlfriend. “Yeah, she was a virgin when we met.” Beat. “She was 29.” Beat. My friend and I stared holes into each other’s eyes. The story grew. “WAIT. I HAVE SO MANY QUESTIONS.” I implored. He changed the conversation back to the gym, questioned why I was eating pizza if I wanted to keep my body in good shape. “Oh dude, you have no idea where my priorities lie here, but they’re definitely with the food.” I replied. His girlfriend came over and unprompted, started showing us photos on her phone. She was also pretty handsy. Eventually they got distracted and wandered off (don’t worry, he came back to squeeze my biceps at least once more). My friend and I stood in stunned silence. “Did the town swingers just try to pick us up?” I asked. We had a couple of drinks and headed to the dance floor.

Naturally the dude already had his shirt off and was eye-fucking the shit out of us. He had moxie, I’ll give him that.

The event all closed up around 1pm, and we meandered back along the short walk to her parents’ place. They’d set up bedding in the basement. We settled into bed and stared at the ceiling, all warm and cosy. We felt like kids having a sleepover. After a full day of fun, we said goodnight and drifted off to sleep. It was fucking charming.

That’s one hell of a blank canvas

I was at a party last night, chatting to some guy I’d met before. Lovely dude. He mentioned he’d recently come back from Antarctica. Antarctica is one of those beacon subjects for me at a party. I don’t know why. It’s not the first time I’ve talked to someone who travelled there for work, but it never ceases to be a fascinating topic. Maybe it was growing up in NZ, the proximity meant that we heard about Antarctica a bunch. I remember watching all these old school videos of large barges breaking up the ice. Or March of the Penguins style documentaries. I remember being so excited to visit the Antarctic Adventure at Kelly Tarlton’s Aquarium when it opened. There was just something otherworldly about such an inhospitable location. It was exotic and outside of the realms of anything I ever imagined experiencing. So when I chatted to this dude I was understandably engaged.

As he talked, I was struck with how subdued life in Antarctica sounded. We’re so overstimulated in our daily lives. Between the infinite sprawl of the internet and the constant bombardment of advertising, Antarctica seemed stark, like the simplicity would bring things into focus. The guy talked about how mundane pleasures really meant something while he was there. The emotional warmth of a luxury item brought from home. Maybe some Baileys he’d stowed away added to a hot chocolate. Being able to send and receive scattered messages from his girlfriend back in Canada. Having to be driven around by someone else until he got his bearings, then having the freedom to explore. Someone else asked him how he passed the time, if he’d brought hard drives full of series’ to watch. He countered that while he’d assumed that’d be the way, he never found himself having the spare time. Antarctica was still so fresh and new. If he wasn’t working, he was sleeping or adventuring out just to see things. That without stimuli constantly vying for his attention, his mind seemed free to run wild. He was processing information in a whole new way. Friendships he built seemed built on a genuine desire to connect and see the best in one another. Supplies were rationed, which took his mind off a lot. He was able to exist in a way that wouldn’t be possible back in normal society. He could kind of just “be”, y’know? He couldn’t wait to go back.

Imagine finding your centre like that. Arriving somewhere that enabled you to find parts of yourself you didn’t know were important to you. I’ve gone on holidays before, obviously. I’ve had a great time exploring, living as the locals do. Losing myself in how it feels to travel, to feel uninhibited. At the same time, it’s always felt temporary and fleeting. I’ve never been somewhere that resonated with me in such a profound way. What does that feel like? I swear I’ve had those passing moments, but it’s never struck me to my core. At the same time, I’m sure there’s somewhere out there. There has to be. How do you find that? Do you just know once you’ve arrived? What if there’s a life out there that would complete me, but I’ll never know it?

Egads, I wasn’t looking for a personal crisis. I just wanted to know about penguins.

And I’ve got the bones to prove it!

Hi friends. Toronto’s in the middle of a snowy shitstorm. I haven’t left the house in two days. I can remote into work, and the good coffee is better at home, so it’s all been for the best. I figure I should get some air, so I’m going out to the gym and I’ll grab Korean after Why don’t you come with me?

I still haven’t shovelled and I still kinda feel stink about it. The snow hasn’t ceased and my neighbour broke the back door off its bottom hinges. That’s two doors slain by this ceaseless sleet. Bummer. I noticed that the postal worker stepped through the shovelled path, only to deliver junk mail. Poor postie, wasn’t worth their effort.

I’m on the bus and three separate passengers are eating chips. Every once in a while their chip rotations sync up and they cronch in unison. It’s kinda creepy. One of them has a sneaky ziplock in her purse like it’s contraband, and her eyes are darting around with suspicion. Maybe she has a shit flavour and she’s trying to hide it. Wise.

On the subway and I’m listening to the sniffs sync up. I just did with the guy next to me. It’s rush hour, but going against the traffic. Everyone’s tired of course, but it’s different. There are seats. People seem happier, even the standing ones. There’s no desperation. I even feel refreshed. I guess it’s nice to go against the tide sometimes.

No sooner had I said that, of course, than I hit the transfer station and the train got instantly flooded. Oh yeah, and the next stop was mine. Not ideal, Neil. When we hit the station, I resignedly announced that I had to get off and, well, the waves parted. “No problem man” said a cheerful onlooker. UNDERSTANDING AND EMPATHY? ON MY TTC? What weird world was this? Going against the tide was like entering The Upside Down. Anyway, gym time.

Aaaaand done. Off to grab some veggies on my way to dinner. With all this snowfall, I’ve been reticent to leave the house. Wait, was that meant to be a euphemism for lazy? I haven’t seen daylight. My supplies of greenery have dwindled. A few more days and they’ll find me lying dead, clutching my bloated stomach stuffed full of meat and bagels. Honestly, doesn’t sound like a bad way to go…

… And wasn’t that just a comedy of errors? Like a goddamn pratfalling clown, I was a whirling dervish of clumsy. Limbs akimbo, constantly in everyone’s way. I went off to the local apple section, and in doing so, my massive bag closed in a couple looking for Ontario produce. Sometime else had to get past, so I pivoted in the hopes she could slide past. She did, but once I turned back she had to get out again. I’d become a turnstile. Then sheet taking a futile age to try cram a too-large cabbage in a bag, I found myself blocking someone from passing. With a sigh, I left the store to get a basket and allay the madness. I re-entered and noticed my shoelace was untied. I knelt down in an opening to fix it, and my new basket blocked no fewer than three people. THIS WAS WHY I HADN’T LEFT THE HOUSE. GAWRSH.

But I made it. I just ordered pork bone stew. We did it, team. Adversity overcome. Wasn’t that fun?

I never meant to start a war. Unfortunately, I probably will finish it

Infinity War Part 2 is potentially going to be three hours.

I once got stopped coming back from New York. We’d arrived at the Toronto airport, but I’d stupidly travelled on my NZ passport and forgot to bring my citizenship certificate. When the security dude questioned me I was like “oh shit, that was dumb. Here’s my Ontario photo ID with address, and library card and whatnot.” He put a big “X” on my entry form and pointed me towards another room. My girlfriend, travelling on her Canadian passport, was waved straight through. It sucked. The line was long and slow moving. I chatted to the dude next to me. He’d been brought through from Utah on a football scholarship. Because he was immigrating, he’d had to take this extra customs step. He was nervous about being in a new country, but excited. By this point I’d been living here for maybe two and a half years, so I gave him some info on how to get around, what to see, etc. The line dragged on, and we were right at the end of it. After what felt like an eternity, I got to the front of the line and explained my plight to the customs officer. “Oh, you had ID and everything and he didn’t let you through? What a dick. Look, I’ll put this note in the back of your passport, and if anyone ever gives you grief about when you re-enter Canada, show them this and you’ll be fine.” It was nice to be treated like a person, but it sucked to have that whole endeavour to go through, even with a friendly footballer dude to talk through. That line took an hour.

Infinity War Part 2 is potentially going to be three hours.

I once watched a film called Golmaal: Fun Unlimited. It was a Bollywood farce that my friend got basically press-ganged into by an enthusiastic child selling VCDs on the streets. This child claimed that it was a “laugh riot”, and my friend would be sad for life if he didn’t buy it. My friend, of course, purchased the DVD and we watched together. It was kind of like Weekend At Bernie’s, with a group of college students pretending to be a blind couple’s dead son. There was a lot more to the film. An excessive amount of subplots and contrived romantic relationships. We mostly didn’t get it. Or maybe we did, and just didn’t like it. The film started with this large scale, colourful and evocative dance scene with a catchy song. It went downhill almost immediately. The film did not get better, but it felt like we were trapped there watching it until it ended. Maybe we were just culturally ignorant, or jaded by Western film experiences. Maybe it really was a laugh riot and we were too blinded by our own judgement to notice. It took forever and a day to finish, and there was little in a satisfying conclusion. It was a mere 150 minutes.

Infinity War Part 2 is potentially going to be three hours.

There’s this film Toni Erdmann that I’ve been wanting to watch for some time. It came out back in 2016 to rave reviews. It was nominated for the Foreign Language Oscar, Palme d’Or, etc etc. Critics lost their shit. My girlfriend didn’t share quite my level of enthusiasm, but was willing to go on that journey with me. We tried to watch it time and time again, but always seemed to run out of time. We’d be like “okay, what can we watch tonight? How about Toni Erdmann? Oh, but it’s like 9:30pm already. It’s too late. Damn.” This pattern repeated for a while. I have to stress, these weren’t remote incidents. We even planned to watch it on the flight back to New Zealand, but somehow didn’t get there. It was just such a massive chunk of time to devote to a German farce, we couldn’t work ourselves up to it. Eventually we started watching, but the film got too long, I don’t know if my girlfriend was truly into it, so we paused it. We haven’t gone back. Now that she’s absent for a couple of months, I may just power ahead and watch it on my own. If it was that hard to get the two of us ready and primed for it, maybe it’s ’cause she straight up didn’t want to watch, but felt rude speaking her mind. Who knows? Toni Erdmann is 162 minutes. That’s 2.7 hours.

Infinity War Part 2 is potentially going to be three hours.

You know, I don’t actually¬†have to watch this film. I will though, and I hate myself for it.