Park King

I went to the Tam Tams yesterday. It's pretty much a weekly woodstock in a big park here in Montreal. Most people either bang on drums, blaze joints, drink beer, smoke cigarettes, join in a medieveal battle, sneeze, dance, tightrope walk, buy a new bong, talk about humus, beg, pass out, play hackeysack wearing a headband, piss their pants, get arrested, play their accordion, sell stuff from Thailand or India, trip out, dance with their wooden snake, dance with their real snake or all of the above.

But not me.

I just handed out "informational literature" about smokeless tobacco for a marketing company I'm working for. Yes evil, I know -- but evil that pays $11 an hour and scores me a green shirt and a cream blazer, so I'm prepared to let it slide for now.

I'm working with this chick named Melissa who parked outside my apartment for just five minutes and managed to get a herself a parking ticket in that time. On a Sunday. Pretty ridiculous, if you consider how easy it is to understand Montreal parking signs.


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