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Avia S-199 in Israeli Air Force Service

Fun weekend

The wife and I spent one a night out on the town Friday. We started at the jazz festival, or as I think of it, the Montreal International Festival of Women on Display.

Elvi (the aforementioned wife) and I differ in our approaches to the jazzfest. She likes to walk around and find surprises. I like to find a specific performance to attend beforehand. See, I don’t like to listen to jazz – which isn’t as much of a problem as you’d think. The jazzfest encompasses a wide variety of musical genres under the jazz banner. Swing, bluegrass, and zydeco all find a home.

That’s why I like to have a performance as a destination. It helps me avoid the hard-core jazz, which does little for me. Actually, it does do something for me – it annoys me. I prefer mindless repetitive melody in my music (and that explains why I like this little ditzy – er, ditty.). As a musician, Elvi appreciates skill and technique that just pass over my head.

We tried and failed to meet Giz and Marcel, two of Elvi’s DUBB bandmates, at the General Motors stage. We ended up watching a band with impressive technical skill, Elvi tells me. I think the band was called Bomboless√©. It was a big band that played what sounded like improv jazz with rap and some salsa influence. I’m all for salsa influence – it was the rest of it that I didn’t need.

I’m not as much of a cretin as I paint myself here, I want to add. Last year, or maybe two years ago, we stumbled onto a jazzfest band that played a compelling mix of Quebecois folk and traditional Chinese music. That, I liked.

After an eternity, or maybe it was two songs, we abandoned Bomboless√© and headed toward the Downchild Blues Band. It sounded like some good old southern rock blues, but the band ended its set just as we got there. As we wandered, we met Andre, another DUBBer. I’d had enough jazz by that point, so Elvi and I left to go dancing.

We walked to Crescent Street and into Electric Avenue, where we proceeded to dance the night away to songs of the ’80s. We like it there because the music is OK, and the crowd skews older than your typical bar scene. I suspect they water down their booze, however. The rum and diet Cokes had no apparent effect.

When we returned home, I ate a pepperoni stick and an apple turnover. Elvi drove her aunt, the babysitter, home. She got back and we, uh, consummated our night out.

I couldn’t fall asleep. I felt… uncomfortable. I felt like I feel when I have a migraine, only there was no pain. I had stomach cramps and nausea. At 4:00 a.m., I dashed for the bathroom and lost it – first from the bottom and then from the top. At least I flushed between the two. While the bottom remained stable, the top continued to contribute to the city’s ancient and leaky sewer system. I was able to sleep about two hours, then I woke up to coach NDG novice baseball at a tournament across town (in Villeray).

I don’t think it was the alcohol that made me sick. I rarely have hangovers, and this didn’t feel like one. I was perfectly fine the rest of Saturday, except for the smell of vomit inside my nose which is just now wearing off. I’ve had two more pepperoni sticks since Friday night. I’ve had another turnover, too – strictly in the interest of science, as I really should not put pastry into my body (my physiology turns carbohydrate into triglycerides and sets them loose in my blood). I kept both foods down.

If it wasn’t the alcohol or the food that made me so actively ill, that leaves two possible culprits: live jazz or sex. I’ll let you know which it is, next summer.

Bonus naches:

One of the other coaches said of Child Three, “Boy, he can really whack the ball.” Child Three’s not the strongest of the kids on the team, but he’s among the top five hitters and makes perhaps better contact than any of the others.

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