MATT WOLSFELD
Opinions Writer

There exists a place in the heart of Western Canada unlike any other: a den of hedonism, alternative lifestyles and right wing values. A paradoxical Xanadu of the prairies. Many times I have lost a morsel of my soul to the great beast that sleeps at the foot of a mountain, blowing smoke that curls around its gold-encrusted underbelly of rig workers and financial prospectors like Tolkien’s great dragon.

I speak, of course, of Calgary.

I recently found myself settling into a bus on a Friday morning crawling towards the foreboding West. We hit the Alberta-Saskatchewan border and, as always, the fruitful and radiant cropland turned to lifeless brown pastureland. As the beast drew nearer, rolling foothills offered lip service comfort, as if to say, “We seem beautiful, but you and I both know we’re only hiding a steaming pile of sadness.”

The bus reached the city and I was hit with the initial euphoria at the sight of tall-ish buildings. The moment my stumpy, sad looking pseudo-hotel came into sight, something about the drug dealer in front of the 7-Eleven across the street put me ill at ease for what lay ahead.

A couple of shots later, I felt a warm fuzzy feeling that I mistook for the beginnings of an enjoyable weekend. I found a trendy martini bar for an early supper: 30 minutes later, I was shit-faced. Something about drinks that come in tall triangular glasses with names like “The 1951” make you forget about the gigantic blow they serve to your wallet. Luckily someone noticed that I neglected to tip and left a $28 total on a $45 bill, and reasonably, little ruckus was raised.

I was set to attend a hockey game that night, so I quickly returned to the hotel and found myself in a broken elevator. May I suggest that the suggested nine person limit of an elevator car should never be waived in favour of 12 jumping drunks. After 49 minutes of fighting couples and grunting, fist pounding rageaholics, I was en route to the Pengrowth Saddledome.

A disappointing game, three $8 beers and an impromptu slip-and-slide down the stairs later, I was slightly inebriated with a golf ball sized lump on my throbbing elbow.

I have never cared for marijuana, but I found myself desperately trying to procure the stickiest icky I could find to numb the searing pain shooting through my body. An impromptu invitation to a rowdy homosexual threesome proposed by a threateningly large man along the way did little to ease my mind. Eventually I figured a couple of quick doubles would have the same effect.

Memories go black here.

I woke up the next morning with my arm resting in a pot of water, formerly ice. I downed a Gatorade and treked over to my friend’s apartment. Looking out the window, I gave the endless expanse of sadness the middle finger over a bowl of cereal.

One has never experienced absolute absurdity until one eats lunch at a strip club, enjoying beer and spring rolls while a woman spreads her legs and removes her top, her prying stripper eyes staring at you, the only person on this side of the room. My waitress approached, unconcerned with the fact that her skirt was doing a poor job of preventing me from seeing her lady parts, and asked if I needed anything. We finished eating, paid/tossed bills and headed out.

The night rolled around and I found myself superbly inebriated at a casino. I lost $40 before I realized my favourite game in the house was Drink Face. I approached the bar and laid down all my bets. I promptly lost. We exited with minimal mess to catch a cab to the agreed upon nightclub.

We found ourselves staring at a nightclub line stretching around the block. After a resounding chorus of, “Fuck that,” we found ourselves back at the apartment with new liquor and uniform speech impediments. I woke up in a haze on the couch. The clock read 2 a.m., I had an impromptu watermelon helmet on my head and The Daily Show was on. I gurgled for someone to call a taxi.

I was welcomed into the hotel room to learn we were host to two haggard-looking prostitutes. Others left, while I decided to see where this was going to go. The prostitutes left in a whorey huff, as they were merely used for a free cab ride home from the strip club. We informed our roommate that this went against the rules of hookerdom, and the deadbolt and chain were promptly placed on the door.

The morning came and we crawled onto the bus reeking of sin and regret. The bus travelled at the speed of a meth addict tied to a Barcalounger armchair. Ah, but behold! Despite the blanket of snow covering the countryside, a distinct yellow glow started to appear around us. The fast food stench of Kindersley hugged me like a warm blanket.

At home, I comfortably settled into my bed and cracked a small smirk. The next morning I recited my usual mantra: “I will never again find myself in that abhorrent den of unholiness.”

Only two months till my next trip.

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image: Danni Siemens