I called the Doctor he said "Son, I cannot offer you a pill". Or "Tomorrow's Post"

So, this is technically the day after "tomorrow", but "tomorrow" was so action packed that I had no time to blog about it. It was everything I wanted and more in terms of meat for a post.

Thursday

I awoke this morning in a different manner than my average Thursday: cursing and full of sleep a full 2.5 hours earlier than normal. It is 7:30 and my "Brilliant Plan for Thursady" is about to move sleekly into operation. The first stage: setting my alarm for one hour in the future and going back to bed. This is a tactic I have employed on many days I don't feel like getting up. I intentionally set the alarm an hour early to jolt myself out of deep sleep. I then get to feel good by going back to bed, and feel even better waking from a light nap-like rest an hour later. My bank card and my GST refund cheque were sitting in front of my keyboard on the desk. I grabbed them, and then put them down again. I first needed to dress and freshen up before I proceed to Stage 1.

It is 5:30 and the AMD is complementing me on my work. We trade pleasantries and continue with the songs. He is a self-depricating man who works too hard for no result. Stage 4 complete. Operation "Brilliant Plan for Thursday" a success. Once the actual Footloose rehearsal is done I am free to leave behind the stress of this week.

It is noon on Friday. I have slept through my classes. Again. I eat half of the sub and drink the Cocktail. I must have eaten the Cream Egg the night before.

It is 9:25. I am back in my room killing time with the internet before anatomy class. I have 12 $20s and a single $10 in my pocket. I also withdrew an additional $3 for a cellophane bag of chocolate suckers being sold by the tellers for a local women's shelter. I support sheltered women, and buy the suckers without prompting. This also helped to turn the teller's fake smile into a real one. Stage 1 complete.

It is 9:45 and I am walking with Paul Ali back to his residence. He usually helps me clean up the drums, and I carry his case of pedals back for him. It's actually quicker to get back to my residence if I walk with him through the Colleges instead of around them.

It is 10:15 and I am being IDed. A very large man in the doorway of Federation Hall (a terible bar presumeably run by the Federation of Students) is scrutinizing my ID. He tells me it's difficult because of the hair. I inform him that the hair is in my Passport and Watcard photos. I then realize that he's been talking about my beard and feel a fool.

It is noon and I am listening to Footloose songs in my room. My father should be here with my jazz brushes by 12:15 and we will continue to Stage 2. What I'm doing right now is really pre-emptive work for Stage 3, but it can't hurt. Getting the songs into my head will only help me follow the score more easily when Stage 3 really comes around. My father has called to tell me that he is running late and to expect him at 12:25. This may involve speeding Stage 2, but hopefully not.

It is midnight and the fashion show has still not started. Danger and I have transferred ourselves from the booth to a bar overlooking the dancefloor and stage. I suggested the move as my back was being killed by the shoddily made seats. Danger introduces me to a favourite game of his. He explains that he's never been much of a dancer (and I sympathize fully), so he found another way to spend his time at dances. We both pick a person on the floor. I affectionately refer to mine as my "mark". She is peroxide blond, wearing pink plaid pyjama pants and a coat with some kind of red accents on it. The object of the game is to know the position of your mark the longest without actively watching them the whole time. I attempt to keep an eye on her while searching for a couple I had seen earlier in the booth ahead of Danger and I. The man had bought his (presumably underage) girlfriend a drink and they had made out for a while until she dragged him onto the floor, where he danced akwardly until I lost sight of him. I couldn't find them, and my fruitless searching meant that I lost my mark within 5 minutes.

It is 8:42 and I am walking down Colombia towards the bank. The card is in the breast pocket of my coat and the cheque is in the large hip-pocket of my green army surplus pants. I will forget to deposit the cheque, and carry it around in my pocket for the rest of the day. This is unimportant. The cheque is merely a secondary objective, a way of offsetting a small portion of the money I am withdrawing today. I enter the bank and draw suspicious glances from the tellers. I quickly remove my hat and open my coat. Since I got a knee-length black wool winter jacket and a full beard, the combination, with my black Yngwie Malmsteen baseball cap, has been somewhat unsettling to persons older than 30. Believe me, this is a new experience. I have worn a bright white sweater and a princely smile to try and counter the negative preconceptions forming in the tellers' minds.

It is 12:30 and I am being sold on a pair of mallets that don't fit the specifications Mike Wood gave to me Monday night. He suggested Waterloo Music, and to talk to Andy Coffin. Waterloo Music was found easily, but Mr. Coffin was in the midst of a business report of some kind when we arrived, and the man we talk to instead of him knows nothing about percussion. I am assured that the mallets can be taken back if I still have the receipt. When I see Mike Wood in 2 weeks I will run them by him. I also pick up a practice pad. Stage 2 complete.

It is 12:40. The fashion show ended as quickly as it had begun, and Danger and I headed back for the Dirty South. I attempt to check my email, but decide sleep is the better option

It is 11:30 and I haven't seen any scantily clad women. At least not any on the stage at Fed Hall. All the others are busy being fondled by scantily clad men. Danger and I have been pontificating on Civ2 and 3. This is refreshing as he is the only person I know who will initiate a conversation about Civilization, as opposed to berating me for it. I consider the oddity of 2 reasonably virile young men sitting in a booth in the middle of a dark and crowded bar talking amicably to one another about RTS in their pyjamas. Then I remember that about half the people are wearing pyjamas and no one can hear us talking. I idly wonder whether we look like a good couple.

It is 6:30 and I am running from the rehearsal hall to get chilli and a country bun to stop the ulcerous feelings coming from my unfed belly.

It is 2:30 and I am deep in Footloose scores and soundtrack (Stage 3). I idly wonder if my floormates (and possibly the people living below me) have noticed that my usual loud and (in my opinion) eclectic musical playlists degenerate to morbid showtunes every Thursday afternoon. I have enough time to go over the songs we're doing today and go back through the tougher ones I'm supposed to know. It is almost guaranteed that I'll be working on them during Stage 4 anyway. Stage 4 is the culmination of today: a 2 hour session with the Assistant Musical Director (AMD, hahaha) before the rehearsal to get me up to speed on the material before the rest of the band arrives. Since I am going to be in rehearsal from 4:30-10:00 tonight I make a mental note to pick up some dinner beforehand.

It is 10:00 and I am stepping in from the drizzle with a 12-inch sub, a Cadbury Cream Egg, and a 300ml bottle of Cranberry Cocktail. Danger meets me on the stairs and reminds me that we were going to see a langerie fashion show at Fed Hall. He is worried that it has already begun. I put my food on the desk and change into pyjamas in order to gain free entrance. The newly inaugurated Stage 5 is beginning: Rough air ahead. Stand by for some chop.

It is 10:00 and I am sitting in the "Engineering Dungeon", a room 3 stories high but situated underground. Dr. Ranney is slightly amusing and heavily boring as we discuss what he believes (and I have come to agree with him) to be the most beautiful structure in the body: the hand. How he can make it so boring I will never know. Tyler Vivian and co have not come to class. I haven't seen the man himself since last Thursday, and his girlfriend and their friend Ben have been missing from my life since Monday. I occupy an entire row in the lecture hall to myself. It's good that this is my only class. The intricate timing of today's operations might be irreparably damaged otherwise.

It is 12:15 and the fashion show has finally begun. After two hours of waiting (almost to the minute) my evening is about to get good. And good it was when the first model came onstage. The theme of the show seemed to be sleep-wear (thus my mode of dress for free entry), and the models had all been selected from the student body. Model 1 was a smoking 3rd year who kept my interested throughout the whole show. Models 2 and 4 were men, who didn't keep me interested. But they staggered the run so that I could watch a woman going offstage when they came on, and vice versa. One of them called himself the Hebrew Hammer though, and that was pretty amusing. Model 3 was another good-looking 3rd year, but 5 and 6 were total dogs. It was like an advertisement for Curves or something, "It's OK to be overweight and model underwear for screaming frat-boys".

The photograph is in my hand... In twelve seconds time, I drop the photograph to the sand at my feet, walking away. It's already lying there, twelve seconds into the future.