It was Devil’s Night 2009 and, as there is every other year in London, Ontario, there was a Matadors show at Call The Office (This was also the same night I met wifey, but that’s a different, boring, go nowhere story altogether)
I had seen Evan around…we were bar friends, and not much more than that at that point. He had a cast, and looked he hadn’t had a haircut or shaved in months.
He claimed to work for a major financial institution, but I used to see him at varying times of the day throughout the week (at either a bar, or a Starbucks) never dressed for work. A week prior he had left about 18 undrank beers at Nick & Geo’s, and the bulk of those somehow disappeared in my belly. I was really hoping he wouldn’t ask about what happened to them. We made brunch plans (I learned much later on, that no one in London does brunch properly) and exchanged phone numbers. It was at this point that Evan helpfully explained to me that my iPhone didn’t have the latest iOS update. Dick.
He drove me to my sweet shitty pad on Kipps Lane in a pristine 1996 Ford Escort station wagon, all the while swerving across the road texting two separate girls. Let this be a lesson to never text and drive kids. His problem? There was two girls, and he couldn’t decide which one’s house he was going to go to afterward. We never did go for that brunch, and missing it was the only conversation piece we had when we ran into each other for months to come. Much later on, I asked him to help me move, which I knew was a bold question given the state of our friendship, but I knew he had access to a truck and I had a big shelf that needed moving.
He returned the favour (?) by inviting me me to a week long cottage trip, which seemed odd. Summer of 2010 me was a cheap, smelly, loud, farty, chain smoking version of the current me. Not really the kind of person you’d want to be stuck at a cottage with for a week. In hindsight, that getaway was probably one of the best times I’ve had in my life, and we’re still in on inside jokes we created that weekend. I chickened out on jumping off a cliff, and I have never heard the end of that one (I’m really afraid of drowning OK…it’s how Dennis Wilson died)
He has an irrational hatred for the french, but loves poutine. He hates hippies, but dates a lot of hippy girls, and his favourite musicians border on that folky-hippy bullshit genre. He likes punk rock girls more than he likes punk rock. The best description for his personality, is that he’s the living combination of Elliot Smith, Jim Jefferies and Karl Pilkington, and when I really think about that, it’s dead on.
It’s this dicks birthday today, and I’d like to remind him that even though he’s my best friend, he’s still a total cock.
Bury Me In Vans 
Leave a comment