No. 210 – In the Mood

Performer: Robert Plant

Songwriters: Robert Plant, Robbie Blunt, Paul Martinez

Original Release: The Principle of Moments

Year: 1983

Definitive Version: Live in Texas, 7-85, 1985.

When Scott and I decided to reprise our excellent adventure in Toronto in 1992, I chose the week in late July for a particular reason. At The Journal, only one week out of the year was forbidden when it came to vacation—Buick Open week in August. Anything else was fair game, so I chose the first week of the Olympics to avoid the extra work. It ended up being a good idea for another reason.

After the softball debacle and the volleyball vindication (good ol’ No. 692) the Sunday night, Scott and I left Grand Blanc on a bright, beautiful Monday. We took the usual route: I-69 to the Blue Water Bridge that links Port Huron and Sarnia. There, the highway turns into the 402 to the 401 at London and then all the way to Toronto.

Well, we took it all the way to Mississauga, where we’d stay to avoid the higher priced hotels downtown. Robert Plant was a big play on this trip, and I particularly recall hearing In the Mood as we arrived. I don’t remember what all we did that first night, but I’m sure it involved consuming Labatt’s or some other domestic beer. As before, Scott loved seeing Budweiser and Miller listed as “imports.”

The first full day, Tuesday, we went downtown and knocked around in the business district, including the famous City Hall complex and touring the Toronto Stock Exchange. I bought a pair of John Lennon shades with green lenses that would have been far more useful had they actually included SPF protection. Well, at least they looked cool.

That night, I wanted to check out a decent restaurant, along the lines of the Fish House, but Scott had a special request. On Tuesday nights, he and his buds usually went to BW-3 at Ohio State. What’s BW-3? A wing place, and Tuesday night was 20-cent wing night. We can get some wings, he said, and then go somewhere else and maybe shoot some pool. It wasn’t what I had in mind, well, OK. Why mess with tradition?

We headed to Yonge Street, where it seemed all the bars were, and found a place called Joey’s. Hey, check this out: Joey’s was having a wings special that night—20 cents each, Canadian, if you bought a dozen. Well, you can’t mess with karma.

Joey’s was a two-room bar. One room had a few high tables and a quarters pool table; the other room had the bar, and that room was small. We didn’t want to intrude, so we hung back in the pool room. After a while, a waitress took our order, and after we got our first Labatt’s of the night, we decided to move into the bar area, because no one else was in our room and the TVs were by the bar.

No one in the bar either, except for a guy whom we surmised was Joey hisself and the bartender, who had taken our order. Her name was Merrill, and she was as friendly as she was hot. She greeted us with a hearty, “you boys decided to sit in here, eh?” Yes, as Scott noted in 1991, everyone in Canada really DOES say, eh.

As we wolfed down our first round of wings, we explained why we were visiting their fair city. The wings were good, the beer was cold and the company excellent, so Scott and I stayed put at Joey’s.

On the TV were the Olympics that I had so fastidiously avoided at work. It was interesting to watch the Olympics through the lens of another country. As in the United States, Canada focused on the sports that were big there and where Canadian athletes had the best chance to medal.

That meant lots of swimming, rowing and equestrian. Scott and I, relieved to not be inundated with Dream Team nonsense, and swayed by our surroundings, jumped on the Maple Leaf bandwagon and cheered as the Canadian swimmer won a rare gold medal for Canada. Gold for Canada translated into free J.D. shots for everyone, including their newfound American friends, so everyone won.

Scott and I ended up closing Joey’s around midnight. We might have been the only ones there that night, or at least we were the only ones I recall who were in the bar. One day under our belts, and we already were congratulating ourselves for our brilliant decision to return to Toronto.

The next morning came earlier than anticipated—and not just because we nursed hangovers. We both were jolted awake by a loud alarm. Who set a freakin’ alarm? Then we realized as it continued much louder than a table radio buzzer that it wasn’t the alarm clock—it was the fire alarm! Holy crap!

We quickly dressed, grabbed our wallets and raced downstairs a few floors to the parking lot. Nothing seemed amiss aside from all the folks wandering around in a similar state of just-awakened dishevelment. The only people who seemed clear-headed were the kids peaking around the curtains a few stories up and laughing their butts off at the dopes down below.

Yep, it was a false alarm, but we couldn’t go back to our room until the fire department came and gave the all-clear. At least it was sunny out, but it was an ominous beginning to the day.

(To be continued)