Dinner Party

by Nic Olson

After staying up only until 1am last night, I slept in until noon today. It was pathetic. I have no job, I don’t even stay out that late, but I can’t get out of bed in the morning. So, to counteract that immature, irresponsible act, I threw a dinner party.

After waking up I finally slipped on a crisp pair of jeans and looped the shoelace in my belt loops and around my waist, I went back to my bed. My bed is about all I’ve got in my room; it is my desk, my breakfast table, my dinner table, my lounging chair, my movie theatre, my computer charger, my bookshelf, my hat rack, my classroom, my everything… I cracked open my laptop and decided to get responsible the laziest way I knew how, applying for jobs by sitting on my ass at my ‘desk’ at home. The internet will be the cause of my first heart attack. I applied for probably more than twenty jobs today, ranging from Telemarketer, to Fancy suit Rental-man, Female clothing Sales Associate, Bartender, Dishwasher, Stripper, Hitman, etc. I got two e-mails back, both saying that I forgot to attach my resume, and one call back, a very short conversation that ended when I said I did not have three years experience selling insurance over the phone. Not bad. Tomorrow might be Tangible Friday where I actually speak to human beings that don’t actually speak my language, hoping that somehow someone needs a dishwasher or upper body model.

I went to an art show later in the evening. An exhibit at some fancy restaurant/bar/independent theatre on the fancy street featuring the photography of some French man that went to India. The photos were truly amazing, with proper lighting and colours and ideas that may have captured a piece of the truth of India. He sold some 4’x8′ portrait of some old Indian dude for three grand. To make it all seem better, he was giving a decent portion of the proceeds to the Red Cross for the recent troubles in Haiti. But the Indian man he took the photo of got a few rupees. Unshowered at 8pm, wearing my Habs hat and dirty jeans, watching rich, well dressed Montrealers drink $20 glasses of wine and listen to fancy club music while glancing at pictures of the destitute, I had my fill. We went home to catch the end of the game with a friend. Montreal 5 Dallas 3. I missed most of it as I cooked Indian. A few other friends joined. It was a dinner party. And I charged nothing.

A friend in the big city from the small town once expressed his confusion saying he couldn’t tell if the big city was the real world, or if the small town was the real world. Montreal is real, but when I explain Regina to the unknowns, Regina seems like it is reality, but when I think about India, it seems like the only part of the world where everything is actual and authentic. Not all of these places can be real. Tonight Regina was in Montreal which was, for a brief moment, in India. And the only thing real about it all was the realization that there is no ‘real world’.

Except dinner parties. Nothing more real than that.

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