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I looked down at the moose lying on the side of the highway. Despite being dead, the animal had definitely seen better days. In fact, it was a God-awful mess. By the looks of the strips of fibre-glass lying around, I guessed that the animal had been hit by an 18 wheeler. There’s not much that can slow down a moose, but a long-haul truck is definitely one of them.
I was working for the Department of Natural Resources and Energy, which is just a fancy, bureaucratic way of saying “Forest Rangers.” It was a great job, no three ways about it, one that I returned to every summer of university despite the low pay and the tongue twisting effort of answering the phone with a perky: “Good Afternoon, Department of Natural Resources and Energy.” The real advantage of the job was that the “Ranger Station” is located right next door to my house. Every morning, I would walk across the lawn to work. I remember one morning I woke up at 7:56 and got to work on time at 8:00. The commute was a killer, especially if there was a lot of dog-poop to jump over. I was technically hired as a computer guy, office assistant type, but the great part was that if I got bored, I could head out into the field with one of the guys. So I was often out traipsing through the woods, rocketing down old roads on quads, canoeing [...]
One summer, I was home from University and my brother and I decided to play Soccer in a summer men’s league. Technically, it was called the International Men’s League, which makes it sound like we played Slovakia every third week, but all it meant was that we played one team from the State of Maine. Now, I’ve seen a lot of soccer in my day, but I have never seen a rougher, rowdier, or more violent league than this one. Basically, you’ve got a lot of guys who used to play, but are now pushing into their thirties and don’t have the wind that they used to. What they still have however, is their pride and competetive natures. So, when they get frustrated, they tend to lash out and try to compensate for their slower footwork by, you know, body-checking a guy. But I guess I shouldn’t talk, since I got the nickname “Tank” for (accidentally) knocking a guy unconscious. What can I say, there’s not much I can do about momentum… it’s physics… I’m a big guy… I have to admit though, it was kind of satisfying that he was out cold and in the fetal position before he hit the ground.
Anyway, this particular game we were up against one of our principal rivals from St. Andrews. The last meeting of our classy, gentlemen’s teams had led to three separate fights, one of which involved me being forced to knock a guy off of my brother [...]
I have to take a moment here and acknowledge one of the great storytellers of our time that you’ve never heard of: Big-Dave Lewis. Now, I like to spin a yarn here and there as you know, but Big-Dave has years of experience on me. He’s my friends Josh and Jay’s father, and since the time that we’ve been old enough to drink (or maybe even “almost” old enough) we’ve gotten together around the kitchen table (site of many a Maritime party) drank beer mixed with tomato juice, and told stories. Whether it was Big-Dave’s use and abuse of dynamite when he worked for the phone company, or the girl of dubious repute in his hometown that they all called “Old Yeller,” or even the “Winter of ‘39″ when the Bay of Fundy froze solid (which of course was many years before he was born), Big-Dave’s stories have never failed to entertain me no matter how many times I’ve heard them.
Big-Dave recently retired after thirty some years of service as a school teacher, and we should all raise a glass in honour of that feat. Unfortunately, in my recent battles to check my hotmail account, I missed the invitation to write something to be read at his retirement party. It’s not quite the same, but I thought I’d pay this little tribute here on the blog. So Big Dave, whenever I get back to God’s country, have those beers chilled and the tomato juice ready (since you [...]
One night, back in the residence years, a few of us were sitting around in my room having a few beers. Suddenly my door flew open and a guy we had never seen before walked into the room. His head swiveled from side to side, and his eyes seemed glazed. He seemed lost but then he nodded firmly and said, “This is my room.” Well, I hated to disagree, especially since the guy looked like a maniac, but I piped up and said, “Well, actually, this is my room.” That didn’t really seem to register with him, but after a moment’s silence he corrected himself and said, “This was my room.” Well, that made a whole lot more sense. He seemed to decide to stay awhile, since he proceeded to walk over and grab a beer out of my fridge, so we asked him exactly when the room had been his. “During the Persian Gulf,” he replied. I was kind of taken aback by this frame of reference so I instinctively said, “What?” He looked at me as if I was the idiot and said slowly, as if to a six-year old, “You know, Operation Desert Storm?” Now, if any of you are finding it hard to keep American incursions straight these days, that was the one back in 1991 where they saved the little, oil drenched, dictatorship from the big, oil drenched, dictatorship. (That being a slightly more plausible reason [...]
Back when we were doing our Masters at Queen’s my classmates and I partied quite a bit. It was an interesting year like that. I had arrived full of idealism for the world of post-secondary education, ready to push through until I had a Ph.D. After three weeks I had already decided that academia was no longer for me. The Queen’s English Department sucked the life out of me. Despite its lofty reputation, it was one of the worst educational atmospheres I had ever experienced and not conducive to learning at all. But luckily, the worst of my academic years was socially one of the best. The core group of us were united in our irritation with academia and driven in our conquest of alcohol and good times.
My friend Dave and I, both having previous bartending experience, decided one night that we would hold “The Daves’ Martini Party.” Everyone brought a bottle or two and we just kept mixing. And these were not your garden variety martinis. These were hardcore concoctions of at least 5 oz of straight booze. It was not long before things got out of hand. It was not long before things got messy. And of course, like chefs who tests their recipes before serving, Dave and I mixed ourselves into a frightful state. It’s one thing to drink too much of one liquor, but drinking too much of every liquor is never recommended.
At one point, [...]
That last post reminded me indirectly of a story. This would have been back during my first year in Calgary. I’d only been in the city for a few months, so I was still looking for full time work. I signed up for a temp agency since I can type like a demon fiddles in Georgia, and the next day got a job with Shaw Cable. Now generally, this was one of the worst jobs I’ve held. And for anyone in Western Canada, just the fact that it was for Shaw Cable should make that self-explanatory. But it was something like $12 an hour and still gave me enough time to look for permanent work during the day.
As a result of the strange hours, I was often riding the C-Train back into the city late at night. On one of those trips, two old drunken bums stumbled on board and sat directly across from me. I sighed, since up until that point, the ride had been urine free. The downtown core of Calgary is linked by a “free-fare zone” for the C-train, which is cool, but the old drunks sometimes take advantage and ride up and down 7th avenue to stay warm.
I settled back into the regular transit stare at the window across from me, fascinated that my reflection somehow looked better in a subway window than it does in my bathroom mirror. Suddenly one of the drunks, weaving back and [...]
One summer, many moons ago, I planned out a canoe-camping trip with my girlfriend of the time. I planned to canoe from the town of St. Stephen, down the St. Croix river, out into the bay, around the peninsula where the resort town St. Andrews sits in all its quaint, touristic hypocrisy, and then through the islands to my hometown of St. George (my area has no shortage of Saints). Depending on the tides, I figured it would take us a maximum of three days. So we packed up the boat on a beautiful Friday afternoon and set out down the river. We were making good progress, so when we passed a local campground I decided not to put in and continue on to an island I knew of instead. In retrospect, not the best decision.
About an hour went by, and as evening spread out across the sky, I noticed a bank of thick coastal fog massing over the opposite side of the channel. Could be trouble, I thought, and I was right. The fog was thick. Within another half an hour, I could no longer see the opposite bank. Soon I wouldn’t be able to see the bank I was following. I knew that if I tried to shoot into the channel to the island I was aiming for, I could easily end up drifting in the middle of the bay. The wind decided to join in the fun and that just [...]
My friend Frank grew up in Niagara Falls (the city, not the cataract), which strikes me as a little unfortunate. I mean, Niagara Falls is a great place to visit but I think that actually living there would have me over the falls in a barrel quicker than you can say “Thundering Waters.” I understand why they have so many wedding chapels and casinos in their quest for “Honeymoon Capital of the World” but why all the haunted houses? I don’t get it.
Anyway, with its proximity to the US of A, and like all primarily suburban cities, Niagara Falls has a lot of drugs running through it. As a result, the first time Frank tried acid was way back in high school. He and a friend had rented a movie or two and were going to sit in for the night. They dropped the acid and were wondering why nothing was happening yet when unexpectedly, Frank’s friend’s parents came home. They were supposed to have been gone the whole weekend, but for some reason had returned early. But it wasn’t really a problem, since the acid apparently wasn’t working, and having no knowledge that it normally takes an hour to kick in, they sat down to visit with his parents. Like all good stories of this nature, Frank was chatting away with his friend’s Mom when he noticed that the walls were melting and starting to drip. This was relatively distressing for Frank. [...]
3:00 AM
…So this crazy chick keeps insisting that I have a lisp. The other girl, equally as crazy, is laughing her head off and nodding. I’m quite adamant that I do not have a lisp. I mean seriously, I think someone would have mentioned this fact to me at some point growing up. “No, no sweetie, don’t get defensive,” she says to me, “I think it’s sexy, it makes me want to make out with your right now.”
“Oh, ith that tho” I say.
I had never kissed a crazy chick in a Denny’s at 3:00 AM before. It was fun.
3:30 AM
….”Where the fuck is our food?” asks crazy chick number 1. I have to admit, our food is taking forever. I haven’t really noticed because the crazy chicks are keeping me very busy. I have no idea what they’re going to do next, and even in my drunken state I’m prone to embarrassment. “Cook the damn eggs so we can go home,” I think to myself. Our waitress, who looks maybe 18, and right off the farm, comes over to apologize. Since I manage a bar, I’m simpathetic. “It’s ok dear,” I start to say when crazy chick number 2, the lisp-lover, interrupts me: “Look, honey, what’s your name?” Our waitress looks a little taken aback, especially since her name is right there on her nametag. “Uhh, Alice,” she replies. “Ok Alice, listen, will our food get here any [...]
I’ve never been a hat person. Not that I have anything against hats. In fact, some hats I quite like… just not on me. Hats look terrible on me. Which, I think, is due, in part, to my gigantic head. I’m serious, my head is the size of a small watermellon (or maybe a large honey-dew, depending on your preferred mellon measurement unit). If you’re ever starved for something to laugh at, just put a hat on my head, and I guarantee you’ll get the goofy giggles.
Anyway, one day while visiting our cousins in Ontario, our parents decided to take us to “Ontario Place” since it was a hot day, and we must have been driving them wacky. Now, Ontario Place is kind of like a cheap version of Paramount Canada’s Wonderland, which is kind of like a cheap version of DisneyLand, which is kind of like a cheap version of DisneyWorld, which is more or less a really expensive version of staying at home watching the Disney Channel and shoving a fork in your eye.
It was a blistering hot day, and my mother insisted that we all wear hats to keep the sun off. I was adamant in my refusal, knowing even then, at the age of 12, how goofy I looked in hats. And of course, these were no stylin’ hats, this was the ’80s and these were Neon green trucker-style caps that said Ontario Hydro, or NB-Power or something on them. [...]
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We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
-T.S. Eliot
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