Saturday at POP Montréal.
Real sentences for a bit? Sure.
The decision to go to the gym while in Montréal, on (kind of) vacation, during POP Montréal is not one I made lightly. Truth told, I needed to sweat for reasons other than that I’d eaten too much meat at Resto Biarritz.
Alex and I went at 10:30 a.m. on Saturday morning for reasons passing understanding, and, because I was with him (aka The Guy Who Knows More About Pop Music Than Anyone) I cued up some true non-Dave music for lifting/running, including but not limited to:
Yeah. Seriously. Who am I?
(“Toxic” is killer to do the elliptical to, though. Who knew?)
Post-gym turned to writing.
Turned to late breakfast and Puces Pop with Ellen.
Turned to more writing when Vanessa had to bail on dinner.
Turned to surprise dinner engagement at Biarritz.
(Which turned into fried okra, raw sheepsmilk cheese carpaccio, and deep-fried panko-crusted pork belly and a ton of good drinks.)
Which led to us heading down to Divan.
We missed TPDR and Goosehut.
We didn’t miss Stepdad (fucking awesome).
We didn’t miss Rich Aucoin (my hero in life).
We left lighter. Fitter. Happier.
We sweat out full pounds on the dancefloor.
We walked arm-in-arm in the cold air, dripping with sweat.
We looked like we just got out of a sauna.
Or a pool.
Or a pool in an iced tea commercial.
It was perfect.
(NB: I’m late-posting September 22nd’s post because to cover POP Montréal you have to do it and write about it after. And, while I wrote this on Sunday September 23rd, I was busy saying goodbye to everyone to post. As such, I’m bending my own rules so that I can get to my goal of 30-in-30 with a bit of fudging on the “I posted daily, motherfuckers!” rule.)
This is the twenty second post in my #30posts challenge.
Don’t know what that is? Read this.