Posted: September 28th, 2013
In Toronto it was unexpectedly warm, unseasonably so. Inside the Danforth Music Hall the music and the temperature was smokin’ hot. Enough that I noticed, for an early autumn night in Ontario, more chiquitas in skirts than pants. Warm enough that even I would consider thinking about wondering for a fleeting second what it would be like to be a woman—only in the singular sense of having that choice—the one slight advantage over the hunter-gatherers of the species—of baring my legs to be cool. That, or maybe if I were Scottish, then I could wear a kilt out on the town, engage in manly activities of manliness without any misconceptions of being a cross dresser (whatever blows your skirt up, I always say—not that there’s anything wrong with it.)
I know this guy from Scotland by the name of Burns. He’s a flautist, and on occasion he has been known to where a kilt out to perform, or just to hang out at a pub. He’s asked me to join him in a kilt night out before, but my reluctance is thoroughly grounded in my Polish-Canadian, mongrel gypsy heritage-slash-lifestyle. I’m not going any further on that.
However, there was this one time with Burnsy, we were out and he was sporting his kilt. I was standing close enough to him—not close enough that would lead to confusion—but close enough when the big blonde walked up to him to hear her ask, “Excuse me, but I’m curious to know what’s worn under a kilt?”
“Worn, lassie?” replied Burnsy. “Why nothing’s worn under me kilt. Everything’s in fine working order!”
“Really?” she said.
“As true as pigs can fly, trees are deaf, and grizzly bear nuggets are the color of gumdrops in berry season,” he responded. That one flew right across her bow, so he just said, “Go ahead! Find out for yourself.”
And she did! My God she reached right up under his kilt, gave a hard tug, then dropped her hand in disgust, and shouted, “That’s gruesome!”
“Aye, lassie, ‘tiz true!” he nodded. “And if you put yer hand down there again, you’ll see he’s grown some more.”
Anyway, I suppose you want to know more about Toronto than the temperature there, or my buddy Burnsy and his stupid, old kilt jokes. The boys, your favorite band moe., dropped 32 Things, It, YOY, Stranger Than Fiction, and good ol’ Buster, on the crowd, to name a few tunes—and they were on! Too bad you weren’t there to see it. It was a good night and a very good show. I recognized moe.rons from P.E.I., New Brunswick, and Florida. Very impressive, Indeed, but not as impressive as the chick in the black pleather gym suit I saw. You don’t see that every day. She was a mullet short of a bad MTV video flashback from the ‘80s. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking—pretty gruesome.