Anyway…went to that wedding in Toronto this weekend. Mississauga, actually, which gave me a chance to do my best “David Banner in Mississauga” impersonation to the bemusement of my breezy (“I’m from the M! I! Crookedlettercrookedletter I Crookedlettercrookedletter A! halfadub G! A etc etc”). We had a lot of fun, though that was all thanks to the wedding and related events and had nothing to do with Mississauga. Man, that was a suburban wasteland. I’m not going to make the mistake of judging Toronto based on Mississauga, but damn, y’all Mississaugans don’t have shit to do! We arrived on Canada Day and the place was dead. No fireworks, no shenanigans, people spending their holiday walking along the median strip of Hurontario Street… We were laughing until we needed someplace to get food before bed and were stuck with the ‘roided-up Kit Kat in the minibar and a miniature can of Pringles that had been opened by the previous guest and then resealed. No shitting you. Fucking pathetic. Even the room service was going to take like an hour because a late flight had arrived and everyone ordered grub. Jerkfaces. We were hungry!

We got back to Broo-kyln on Sunday afternoon, however – day before the 4th – and immediately saw some bottle rockets and whistlers going up. We love this city, dogg. Love it. Walking down to the park, smelling all the grills, scoping out the graf posse (or atleast that’s what I thought they were) chilling on the grass, then cruising down Roebling and seeing the bottle rockets, some Claw tag nestled among all the others… I mean, I get out there in the suburbs and I quickly end up downright scared of what awaits in the grown-up life (I guess I’m grown, but with no mortgage and no kids, I’m only sorta halfway grown. IRA grown, and quit-the-hustle grown, but not….quite…ouch, too far!). The suburbs are not for me. You find me with a rider mower on anything less than 12 acres? Find me with a Wave Runner on a trailer next to the garage? Shoot me. Shoot me right in the…yes, you guessed it, face. There’s nothing like standing on a roof in Brooklyn, seeing not just the two sets of city fireworks going off but all the little ones popping up at various distances in Bushwick, Bed-Stuy, Greenpoint, etc, just enjoying the tapestry of the city as it rises up into the sky for one night. Everyone is popping off – literally. Ah, it’s great.

Anyway, not much to report. Tim from the Fire was indeed at the wedding, and I met him briefly but generally left the dude alone. You should have seen his table – one or two of those mu’fukas were so too cool for school that I burst out laughing when I walked past their table at one point. Jesus, I guess I need to try harder, because some folks are absolutely schooling me in the trying-hard department. Anyway, Tim seemed like a genuinely nice guy, so I don’t want to portray him as a dipshickle. His tablemates handily managed that role. And when it came to dancing when shit got live, dude can’t hang with the streets. He found himself short. Anyone wanna take a stab at that rap reference without using google? Oh, that reminds me – I need to google some lyrics to see if it was E-40. Hang on.

I’m back. Guess I didn’t listen well enough, or the people who are posting rap lyrics are spelling Thierry Mugler really poorly or something. Whatever. Can’t find it. It’s almost 4 – time to see Jimmy, aka the gym – and I’m not looking forward to it as much as I was at 10am. I like my workouts these days, though. Fabian and I engage in some serious foxy boxing, as he calls it, and I’m actually liking it when he catches me in the face sometimes since it’s, like, nerf fighting and I know I’m not getting my ass completely kicked into the pavement. I’m not standing on the box, nor would I ever be able to do so without the entire club laughing at me, yet I remain a man, and a closet masochist at that, so getting in the “ring” with Fabian. I’d make some lofty remark about how the face shots remind me that I’m alive, but really, getting hit in the face with a boxing glove is just funny. Especially when you block a shot with your own glove, but the shot you blocked came hard and fast so you punch yourself in the face in the process. That’s funny.

Ok, whatever. I guess I could go on about the weekend, or seeing Niagara Falls, or the annoying throngs of tourists combined with the equally annoying dearth – nay, absence – of cool, cheesy Niagara Falls t-shirts, but really it’s just not all that interesting. I’ll see if I can punch Fabian hard enough to make him fart this afternoon. Hell, he did it to me with a medicine ball. Time for revenge.