Last night was Nuit Blanche. It was kind of a bust, to be honest.
The night started out pretty good. I went to my dad's place and we met up with his buddies at an Indian restaurant. Usually, I don't eat Indian food, because growing up in Brampton... curry is just not my cup of tea, both literally and figuratively. Not saying that that's the only spice used in Indian food, but it's VERY overpowering.
This time, however, I do not regret eating it last night. Spicy (which I usually don't like) and rich, just really good. Their butter chicken was to DIE for. Unfortunately, the other 6 people at the table thought so too. I didn't get much...
The first thing we did when we left the restaurant was go to this dark, quiet church, where there was this pseudo-sky projection on the ceiling, and silhouettes of people looking down. It was supposed to be what you would see in your coffin if you were dead. Your own funeral type deal. My father and the rest of the group were very adamant on having me try it. Why they wanted me dead so badly, I will never know.
Essentially, you lay down on a pew, with a lovely silk pillow, and picked up a phone at the attached to the side, to hear what people would say at your funeral. My in-casket name was Ryan. Apparently my mom was sad, and my sibling (I'm an only child), was jealous. Overall, it was a strange experience.
After that, we had another strange experience. I didn't really get it, and I left disturbed, intrigued, and confused. A man in white spandex, a few inches deep in water, with some strange projections, moving his arm and convulsing. strangely. Apparently, he lost all the muscles in his left arm, so it was all tiny. If they had presented it differently, maybe it would have been cool, but overall, it was just... weird.
Next, we were off to line up for 40 minutes, to see... well... nothing. The exhibit was a lie. The line up, however, was quite interesting.
My father's poor girlfriend fell victim to a line-talker. An obsessive line-talker.
Essentially, this is a line-talker:
Be on the lookout for these fellas. Ours was what I suspect to be an old Native guy wrinkly of skin, large of mouth, and repetitive of tongue. He spent at least 35 of the 40 minutes regaling my father's girlfriend of how he met Elvis when he was 13. Apparently it was a life-changing experience, and he basically stalked the poor man. Of course, I'm sure Elvis wasn't not used to stalkers, but still. No less creepy. My father made sure that the line-talker didn't try to be TOO friendly with father's girlfriend.
The line up was more interesting, in all honesty, than the exhibit. We were lining up for "Aurora" at Royal Conservatory of music, and it was basically just over-hyped Christmas lights. It was kind of neat, but not neat enough for a 40 minute line up. Though, we did see a couple thing that were interesting. Firstly, was the man who held the door for us.
He was so damn smug, but he had PERFECT facial hair. He was distinguished, pretentious, and sophisticated. All because of that goatee.
Second, we went into this music hall, where there was a player-piano that was going to be playing all night. It was pretty cool. You could see the keys going down and everything.
Aside from that, we saw a few more things. There were teenagers pulling a cart by bicycle down the street playing techno music. T'was pretty cool. There were opera singers in the street, which was beautiful, and just general craziness. There were drunken gents yelling at each other, two men in full spandex, and much tom-foolery.
Oddly enough, the most interesting thing was in the line up for the piano and the lights. My father was talking to one of his friends, and she told him about her nephew's report card. He's five or so, I think, and alongside other comments, the teacher made the comment that he was "foolish with glue". I think that's just fantastic.
Another little add-on to this whole story was the end of the night. I had to go home, so I took the subway with my father to Dundas West, where, I had to find a washroom. I have never needed to use a lavatory so badly in my entire life. I had to go so bad, I was going to vomit. Subway stations should REALLY have washrooms in them. They don't. It's awful.
Our search for a washroom took us to the seediest bar every conceived, and with sad old men sitting there just after last call, and washrooms that were disgustingly dirty. I've never been in a place more grungy and disturbing.
Getting home after that was another ordeal. The subways only ran to Keele, and I wanted to go to Kipling. Luckily, they were offering free, all night buses that went to Kipling Station. Or so I, and the 20 other people on the bus, thought.
It went across the street from Kipling. I followed the herd, to discover that there were no buses. going to where I needed to be.
Luckily, there was a convenient taxi, and even though it was a 15 dollar cab ride, it got me home, at 3 am. I passed out, and all was well.
Well, Nuit Blanche 2010 was probably about a 7/10. It would have been better, but I was feeling sick almost all night. And that whole TTC thing was irritating. Overall, not bad. Not bad.