ADMITTEDLY it's been a while since I spent an evening in a nightclub, but when I found myself in that situation last week I wasn't expecting to be so out of the loop that I was actually speaking a different language.
Last week was Vancouver Craft Beer Week and I, being a discerning and sophisticated newspaper columnist, was invited to several of these outings to offer my sophisticated opinion.
By the end of the week I was really getting a clever routine down. I'd take my teeny sampling glass, ask for some beer, look at it for between four and six seconds, take a drink and then - here's where it gets technical - say, "Hmmm, oh that's nice."
I'd repeat this a good two, three or four dozen times and then get back on the SeaBus - still commanding respect with my sophisticated newspaper columnist nametag - and try not to vomit on the sea captain.
These were, after all, events designed to allow patrons to try many different local beers while enjoying the craftsmanship and camaraderie of our local brewers. The operative words in that previous sentence, however, are always going to be "many" and "beers."
Even at the most nerdy of beer-tasting events, by 10: 30 p.m. you still end up standing next to a guy in the washroom who is belting out "Dust in the Wind" whilst peeing.
The nightclub event in question didn't even pretend to cater to the beer connoisseur - sure there were special-brewed casks lined up on the bars but both the beard and plaid ratios were way below normal craft brew standards.
No, this was a trendy Gastown club party held in what appeared to formerly be a trendy Gastown dungeon. The joint certainly didn't have any time for outdated extravagances like windows, air circulation or fat people. Crammed inches away from strangers in the sweltering heat of long beer lines, I certainly left more than my share of big, fashionable piles of sweat all over the place.
Even the washrooms were funky new designs that featured guys and gals sharing the same little single-serve rooms and washing up at communal sinks. I don't have the authority to speak for the ladies but I do believe this isn't a great deal for them - trendy pee on the seat is no less wet.
Anyway, sorry for being gross, but that's sort of where my problem starts. As a father of two kids under the age of three, the language I speak is English but I have a strong "poop" accent. As the night wore on at the nightclub I found myself more and more striking up conversations about super sexy subjects like the incredibly inefficient way a toddler uses toilet paper or breathlessly retelling the tale of the seldom seen but always dreaded three-poop nap.
Yes, it's gross, but it's English. Everyone else I spoke to, however, was talking in a language I barely understood and did not speak at all. The language was Game of Thrones. The popular HBO fantasy-world television series was all anyone wanted to talk about and, as seemingly the only person in the entire bar who had never seen a single episode, I was more hopeless than a drunken British tourist trying to order a pint of bitter from a potted fern.
I tried to hide my ignorance, offering up a few words I'd picked up on the street.
"Boobs?" I said. "Dragons, dwarves. Did I say boobs already?" Damn, did it get even hotter in here?
Anybody bring a tableside shower?
One last stab: "Winter is coming?"
Nope, not good enough. Not at all.
"You forgot carnage," my friend said. "Carnage is the first word. And hello, incest anyone?" That question drew an interesting look from the trendy ladies standing next to us.
I then dug myself even deeper, going on to explain why I'd never seen an episode. I'm going to explain it again here, though I'm risking intense ridicule from a certain segment of the population. There's a real generational divide here: People over the age of 40 will all immediately comprehend my answer and carry on with the business of owning all the houses and getting into fights at children's soccer games.
Those under 30, however, will lose all respect for me. Lucky for me there are approximately only seven humans on earth under the age of 30 who still read newspapers.
Here goes: I haven't watched Game of Thrones because I don't get that channel. Phew. Of course you old timers know what I'm talking about. For the kids, however, the notion of being restricted to a set number of TV channels is about as meaningless as a screen door on an eight-track player. Whatever they want to watch, there is some guy named WobbleNobble47 in Puerto Rico who will happily screen it for them on the Internet anytime, anywhere.
I resolved to someday soon acquire the whole Game of Thrones series and watch it all the way through. I'm going to try, however, to do this in a legal matter. Anyone heard when it'll come out on VHS? [email protected]
