Mr. Head and I had a date to gallivant on Saturday afternoon. It has been a good while since I last gallivanted, and I had not realized how much I missed fresh air and watching crazy people in the park and getting a sunburn on my shoulders.
Our first stop was an Italian deli where a man with a salt-and-pepper curly mullet and a voice like Joe Pesci made us three-meat sandwiches rife with banana peppers and a side of pepperoni. We basically bought meat on focaccia with a side of meat. How old do Italians get?
We walked our carb-wrapped reconstituted dead over to a park and settled in on a shady bench to watch the park life. That particular park is a magnet for pothead, gothic teenagers, weary-looking homeless people, and on Saturday, a new brand of religious zealot.
What you cannot see in the above picture is the small assembly of people seated on a bench in front of him. A man had his hands held open with palms up to receive the holy spirit. A woman next to him wept into her bleach-blonde perm. Another man handed out fake $100,000,000 bills that were certified by the Governor of Eternal Affairs and entreated you to repent or be sent to the fires of Hell. He handed a bill to one of the last lobotomy victims of the Weyburn Mental Hospital and wouldn't let him get away from his threats of damnation. They were sweet folks.
We visited two art galleries. The first one had three life-size cars built from scratch out of wood and sheet metal and a 3-dimensional film of old cars pimped out and jumping on Cuban streets. That one just about made me lose my Italian sandwich, which is the only thing they would have let me take a picture of in the gallery. I would have called it "Hot Italian Special: The Second Coming".
The second gallery we went to had not a lick of art up. Weird, I know, but it had this cool second floor alley. When I was a kid, I would have crawled in there and stayed for hours, using my thirst and hunger as a creative springboard into imagining my awful war-torn, parentless waste of a childhood.
The following photo is of a fanciful, three-layer, metal sculpture of a buffalo. It is a large piece, but I obviously preferred to crawl up on it and have my nose pressed into the first layer and hook my camera lens on a corner. My camera laments its lot.
The rest of the afternoon started getting blurry at this point, because it was 25°C (77°F), which is actually pretty hot in Saskatchewan after a bitter winter, and we were headed to a pub patio for beers. Yes, beers. In Saskatchewan we say beers and mean it. It's those bitter winters that do it to us.
While at the pub, we played with babies! While drinking! That's why the kid is wearing a helmet. When Mr. Head spends time running around in direct sun with a child on his shoulders while drinking beer, he is responsible and knows to employ the proper safety precautions.
I am never up on the city news, which is why I had no idea that Princess Anne was coming to town. If I had known that she was coming, I would have made sure to be in the park in time to get a picture of the guy wearing an actual bear carcass with the head intact. Some areas of British/Canadian crossover are hard to explain. I did manage to take some pictures of different military-type groups marching out into the street I was sitting on.
Get a load of the guy at the back of the line up there. I have blown him up below. I do not mean any disrespect, but from naïf's viewpoint, it looks like he's wearing a leather dress with stylized boobies. It almost seems suitable that he is "taking up the rear".
I included the picture below for the sheer creep value of their moony faces and swishy, disappearing legs.
And then there were some tropical bird impersonators across the street.
For the rest of the afternoon, I settled in with good friends, drank beer, and worked on my next cancer scare by burning my left shoulder.