So my Kevin Smith story goes a little something like this. Bryan spotted him first. I was immediately struck by his fashion sense. He was decked out in a Silent Bob jacket, but bare legs were sticking out from under it, along with Spicoli-style sockless sneakers, paired with a Louis Vuitton suitcase. As I was eyeing the open laptop case atop the suitcase, it suddenly occured to me that all of Kevin Smith's movies take place in Jersey, and that he is exactly the type of patron I expect to frequent a Girls Girls Girls concert. At that moment I knew what I had to do. One of our band's business cards must somehow stealthily find its way into that bag. I didn't want to be the annoying fan and just tell him about my band. On the contrary, I let another annoying fan help distract him so that I didn't get caught. Usually these are the kinds of shenanigans that Stacey and Sarah encourage me and join me on, while Bryan points out the things that can go wrong and tries to tell me the more cautious route. Not this time. I was delighted that Bryan waited until after the deed was done and I was giggling with glee to point out that I had just commited a security breach in a post-9/11 airport, and it could very well have been a crime. True, but in the end, I'm sure Kevin Smith is in his hotel somewhere thinking "I don't know how the hell this card got into my bag, but I need to see these girls play!"
We're staying on the cheap in Vancouver since Japan will be very expensive. On our way from the airport, as we were passing a few adult shops that Bryan commented on, all of a sudden the cab slowed and we were at our hotel. While our neighborhood does have a little bit of a seedy element, we are also surrounded by rock shops, music venues, nightclubs and arcades, so the seediness really only lies in those shops. As Bryan said, everyone here seems so nice and we still feel very safe here.
Still, one thing that has led me to some crazy places is a good plate of nachos. Because I have to go to a dork reporters convention today, last night I wanted to do something "Vancouvery." There is a cable car that goes to the top of Grouse Mountain, and the guidebook's exact words are "Here Grouse Grinders down well-deserved pints of beer and eat the most deserved nachos in the city." I knew we needed to go. I never realized before how much my husband dislikes heights. The cable car would be an eight-minute ride 3,700 feet up the side of a mountain. I was able to talk him into going mainly for the nachos. (He luckily forgot the London incident where we stayed at the world's worst hotel, conveniently located near the restaurant aptly named Nachos, which was closed when we got there, or our Denver trip into the barrio to the world's cheesiest restaurant ever.)
When we got to the top, I actually wasn't feeling all that hungry, since we'd just eaten fish about three hours previous. Rather than keep this feeling to myself, I thought it might be more fun to utter those words out loud. My traumatized husband did not take the news well. He had fun talking in the Patty voice, and I had fun picking at a huge plate of, well, they were pretty damn good nachos.
We enjoyed the nachos in a pretty little ski lodge with a fireplace and incredible views. Here is one of them:
We're staying on the cheap in Vancouver since Japan will be very expensive. On our way from the airport, as we were passing a few adult shops that Bryan commented on, all of a sudden the cab slowed and we were at our hotel. While our neighborhood does have a little bit of a seedy element, we are also surrounded by rock shops, music venues, nightclubs and arcades, so the seediness really only lies in those shops. As Bryan said, everyone here seems so nice and we still feel very safe here.
Still, one thing that has led me to some crazy places is a good plate of nachos. Because I have to go to a dork reporters convention today, last night I wanted to do something "Vancouvery." There is a cable car that goes to the top of Grouse Mountain, and the guidebook's exact words are "Here Grouse Grinders down well-deserved pints of beer and eat the most deserved nachos in the city." I knew we needed to go. I never realized before how much my husband dislikes heights. The cable car would be an eight-minute ride 3,700 feet up the side of a mountain. I was able to talk him into going mainly for the nachos. (He luckily forgot the London incident where we stayed at the world's worst hotel, conveniently located near the restaurant aptly named Nachos, which was closed when we got there, or our Denver trip into the barrio to the world's cheesiest restaurant ever.)
When we got to the top, I actually wasn't feeling all that hungry, since we'd just eaten fish about three hours previous. Rather than keep this feeling to myself, I thought it might be more fun to utter those words out loud. My traumatized husband did not take the news well. He had fun talking in the Patty voice, and I had fun picking at a huge plate of, well, they were pretty damn good nachos.
We enjoyed the nachos in a pretty little ski lodge with a fireplace and incredible views. Here is one of them:
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