When I was 25, I was in a bit of a weird spot. My quarter life crisis was in full swing and the only real friends I had were either dead, or lived in a another city that they refused to leave. I had plans to leave London, because it didn’t feel like home and the thing for all desperate kids to do is head out west. Until the balmy summer of 2009, when I met this Colombian asshole.
I’d like to take a moment to remind everyone, that when we met him, he looked like this…
Dat Flo Tho…
Imagine that, with a fedora. Of course, I had a fedora on as well, and that blatantly put us in violation of the one fedora per crew rule. We made hasty plans, that night. Plans that included getting drunk nightly on the patio at Winks, and going to the beach to talk shit like bored 20-ish year olds in London do. This was basically how we rounded out 2009. We were into weird shit that no one else fully understood, like watching Step Brothers every other day, and then reciting the entire dialogue of the film to the pleasure/annoyance of anyone within earshot. We talked about old lifetime albums, and had numerous different ideas for bands, none that ever made it off the barstool. At some point, I found out about his stint in Fallbrooke, and haven’t let up about that since (They had a song on the The Hills you know)
One night, there was a decision to drive to Montreal at 1 am and hang hard for a few days, simply because we had nothing better to do. At a 3am gas stop in Whitby, I asked him to grab me an orange juice, and he came back to the car with a Sunny D. A GOD DAMN SUNNY FUCKING DELIGHT. I was pretty sure I asked for orange juice, not anti-freeze. I have never forgiven him for this. He drove part of the way there, and I’m pretty sure he got his drivers license from a piñata. If this turned out to be true, I wouldn’t be surprised…his expired, Florida drivers license looked like it was made in a high school visual arts class…I wish I had a picture. In Montreal, I watched him drink all of the dollar beers, and try to hit on French girls while speaking Spanish. His creative take on the English language had always amused me, but this was so much better.
He became a Canadian very quickly, although his choice in toques was always suspect. I gave him his first poutine, and I’m sure his belly and impending heart disease that will cause later in life will thank me. There have been times I wish he never said hello, but he is one of the finest people I have ever met, and I’m privileged to call him a friend. The fact that Canada kicked him and his family out will always leave a bad taste about this country in my mouth. Fuck you Canada.
To this day, this asshole is my best buddy and step brother. It’s his 30th birthday this weekend, so happy birthday from one total homo to another. Everyone in Canada misses you like we miss those Degrassi Jr. High reruns after school.
Bury Me In Vans 
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