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 to [...]]]> 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 to old camp holdings or fighting forest fires. Great job I tells ya, one that always impressed my city-slicker friends.

Now, one thing that a lot of people don’t realize is that the Forest Rangers are responsible for clearing up large-scale road-kill. The Department of Transportation handles all the small animals, or “shovel-jobs” if you prefer, so basically, anything smaller than a coyote. We handled all the big game (deer, bear, moose, cougar etc.) Such large animals can be a real problem, since our high-speed highways, thick coastal fog, and abundance of wildlife make for a pretty dangerous cocktail.

So there I was, on the side of the highway, looking down at what was once assuredly a moose. I was with Terry, one of the Rangers I had known forever; he had watched me learn to ride my bike in the station’s parking lot. We backed up the truck and trailer and adjusted the winch. We hefted up the moose’s head, which is no mean feat, and secured the cable around its neck. Terry started the winch and I stood by to guide the animal up the ramp as we ungloriously yanked it up by its head.

The winch started to overheat with the strain of hauling the huge animal and we were forced to move the moose up the ramp in fits and starts. Terry would wait for the winch to cool and then give it another burst, hauling the moose up about six inches at a time. We were both starting to curse in frustration when I noticed a car zip past us, swerve suddenly to take the next exit, and come back down the other side of the highway until they found a place to turn and pull up behind us.

“What the hell is this?” asked Ranger-Terry. The car had Ontario plates, and a young couple jumped out with YUPPY written on their foreheads in indelible ink. “I think they’re tourists,” I replied. “Weeell, shiiit,” said Terry, rolling his eyes and giving the moose another pull up the ramp. I walked back to try to head off the couple at the pass.

“Hi there!” shouted the woman, “We’re from Toronto!” Now, that’s a label no one would self-apply where I come from. “Hi,” I said, giving a half-hearted wave, “I’m from right here.” The man grinned and said, “We’re on our honeymoon… we’re from Toronto!” I looked from one to the other, “You sure are,” I replied. I tried to cut between them and the shattered animal, but the woman was already peering over my shoulder. “We’ve never seen a moose before!” she said excitedly, “That’s a moose right?” The husband spoke up condescendingly, “Of course it’s a moose honey,” looking at me and rolling his eyes. I raised my hand and tried to speak with a little authority. “Look folks, I really don’t think this is the moose you want to see.” I’ve always found that when you talk with authority it’s good to call people “folks.”

“No, no,” insisted the wife, “we saw one from a distance once, but it was far away.” I decided not to tell her that things at a distance generally are. “Well, listen, there’s a zoo about half an hour up the road…” “No, no, not the zoo, that’s not the same. We want to see a REAL moose, in the wild.” I was sure that my face was betraying my disbelief. I tried to spell it out to them, “But… well, at least it would be, you know, walking around.”

There was nothing for it. The couple followed me back to where the moose was lying, halfway up our ramp. A pink jelly was oozing from several contusions, one of the legs flopped around like a rag-doll, and slimy green innards were spilling from several old and new orifices. I looked up at Terry on the truck and shrugged. He cursed and turned back to work on the winch. “Wow! Look at that!” said the husband. The couple seemed completely unaware of the mangled condition of the animal. “How much do you think it weighs?” asked the man. I looked to Terry for an estimate, but it was clear that he wanted nothing to do with this. “Oh, I dunno,” I said, “maybe 600 pounds?” Of course, I had no idea, I can’t even judge the weight of a package of hamburger. The woman was bent over the moose, inspecting it carefully, “Are you sure it’s dead?” she asked. I stopped short. “Pardon?” She seemed very genuine. “Are you sure it’s not still alive?” she asked again. I turned away to see if Terry was hearing this. “Well, you know, I’m just a summer student, I’m no expert…” I said, trying not to lose it. They both turned to Terry. I had to hand it to him, he looked at them for a long moment and then said, “Ma’am, in my professional opinion, this animal is dead.”

Seemingly satisfied, the woman ran back to the car and came back with a video camera. This was getting out of control. She started her narrative, “Here’s the moose we saw in Nova Scotia…” “New Brunswick” I broke in. “New Brunswick…. And here are the Forest Rangers.” She started panning over the moose and zooming in. Terry had had enough. He wanted to get the damn moose loaded and put an end to the stage show. He started up the winch, and with a scream of engine and cable, the moose lurched six inches up the ramp.

To be fair, we probably should have warned them. Despite our assurances, and the overwelming physical evidence, the poor woman must have suspected that the moose just maybe, possibly, was still alive, because when the winch screamed and the animal jumped up the ramp, she screamed and jumped even louder and higher, and threw her hands in the air. I give a lot of credit to her husband, who watched agape as the video camera flew through the air in a perfect parabola, but somehow managed to catch it before it became as mangled as the moose. The woman was hysterical, I was shouting, “It’s dead… It’s dead.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The couple scrambled back to the car without saying goodbye or thank-you for seeing their first REAL moose, which I thought was a little rude.

Man, would I ever love to see that video.

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 where [...]]]> 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 where he was kneeling on his chest about to pummel him (although I bet my brother still would have got the better of him). So, I wasn’t exactly looking forward to the game.

We were warming up, taking shots on goal, when one of our balls sailed over the fence and into the yard opposite. Charles, a childhood friend of mine, started over to retrieve it because it happened to be his own ball. But just as he was crossing the street, in a streak of grey and pink, an old lady ran out, grabbed the soccer ball and then ran back into the house. Charles stopped in the middle of the road and turned back to us with a look that would have perfectly accompanied the phrase, “What the fuck?”

You see, St. Andrews is a resort town. It is a tourist destination. It is the site of the Fairmont Algonquin hotel and an international golf-course (where my canoe and I once pitched a tent). It is a beautiful location, there’s no doubt about it, but for me the place always rings a little false. The town swells in the summertime when all the Americans come north to their summer homes. My town, on the other hand, is just as beautiful, but more like a country cousin. My little town is quaint; St. Andrews is faux-quaint. The way to make this distinction is by counting the gift shops. Who needs 24 gift shops selling the same thing on one street? Anyway, the town has a reputation locally as being snobby and elitist, and like most reputations, some of that is completely undeserved, but then, some of it isn’t. There are some great people who live in St. Andrews, but as we were about to find out, the lady who had just athletically whisked away Charles’ ball was not one of them.

Charles continued across the street and knocked on the door. Eventually, the lady opened the door, releasing a small white poodle that immediately started barking and relentlessly jumping on Charles’ legs. Ever the gentleman, Charles began, “I’m sorry Ma’am, but it seems our ball landed in your yard, and I was wondering if you might have found it?”
“Yes I did,” stated the woman, “but you little bastards can forget about getting your ball back.”
This took Charles aback, not being used to hearing the elderly refer to him as a little bastard. But still, he maintained his composure. “We are very sorry Ma’am. But you see, that’s actually my own personal ball, and I’d like to get it back.”
“Young man, there is no way in hell you will ever see your ball again.”
“Look, I understand you’re upset, but maybe you should talk to the town about raising the fence around the field or stringing a net or something…”
“The town?” she sneered, “Those bastards are the worst bastards of them all.”
Charles took this in stride, but the dog jumping up his leg was starting to annoy him. “Listen,” he began.
“Don’t you “listen” me!” she shouted in a shrill voice. “I’m not putting up with this anymore, you can all go fuck yourselves!”

At this point, I heard escalating voices and started over there. I arrived just in time to hear Charles shout, “Listen you crotchety old whore! You go into your musty, old-lady house right now and get my god-damn soccer ball!”
The woman gasped… so did I. “Chuck!” I said, completely at a loss for what to say.
The woman recovered first. “Have respect for your elders, young man!” she squeaked.
“Fuck You.” said Charles.
“That ball was on my property,” said the woman, “It’s mine now!”
“Fine” said Charles as he bent down and scooped up the annoying, little dog, “You keep the ball, I’m taking your dog.”
“You can’t do that!” she screamed.
“Watch me! Your dog is jumping all over me, so he’s my property now… See ya.” Charles turned and started down the walkway. I stood rooted to the spot.
“I’ll call the police you little bastard-shit-head!” she screamed at his retreating form.
“You go right ahead, you old bag!” Shouted Charles.

The police arrived shortly. The officer in charge went inside and retrieved our ball, begging us to try our damnedest not to let it land in this yard again. “That woman,” he confided in us, “is a God-Damn crazy lady.”

We thanked the officer, and headed back to our already delayed game, heady with the victory that a bunch of guys in their twenties and thirties had just achieved in getting our game ball back from a mean old lady.

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 and [...]]]> 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 and I are the only fools that will drink it)(even if it makes your ankles swell). We’ve got some catchin’ up to do.

And here, as best as I can reproduce it, is my absolute favourite Big-Dave story:

“Back in the day, I had just started teaching at the old Deer Island School. I was doing noon-hour supervision, when this girl comes running up to me saying, “Oh Mr. Lewis! So and so’s written something terrible about me in the girls bathroom!” It didn’t seem like that big a deal to me, but the poor girl was almost in tears, so I cleared out the bathroom and went in with her to check. I didn’t see anything written on the walls so I asked her where this terrible slander was located. “It’s behind the stall,” she sobbed. There was a small space between the last stall and the wall and apparently that was where I had to go. The thought crossed my mind that it was ridiculous to be checking graffiti that you had to crawl behind something to find, but I was already cramming myself in there. I was slimmer back then, but you know, I was still a big man, so it was a tight squeeze. I turned myself around in there, and had just spotted, “Laurie is a whore” written on the wall, when By Jeezus Boys, I felt a terrible burnin’ down below.”

At this point I interrupted, “You felt what?”

“It was the most horrible burning sensation I’d ever experienced. It turns out I had wedged myself up against an old radiator and now I was scalding the bejeesus out of my hooty-pecker.”

I almost choked on my beer, “Your what!”

“My ole hooty-pecker boys. The only thing between it and a chunk of cast-iron full of boiling water was the fabric of my pants. Of course, by this time, I’m hootin and hollerin, and just plain frantic to get the hell outta there. I manage to squeeze outta there, but now I’m in the girls bathroom, bent double and sobbing, and I gotta figure out how to tell my new boss that I gotta go home cause I burnt my hooty-pecker in the girls bathroom.”

By this time, the rest of us were all losing it. I was wiping tears from my eyes. Big Dave, always one to see the line and cross right over it, finished off with: “But I’ll tell ya boys, it felt some good when the scab came off.”

Here’s to you big guy, take a break and relax a bit.

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, late [...]]]> 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, late in the evening, I became obsessed with how great the olives were tasting. I switched from a chocolate mint martini back to a straight up and dirty Gin (see what I mean about mixing?) The gin was perfectly chilled, because let’s face it, otherwise you might as well be drinking gasoline, and along with a quick dash of vermouth, I filled the entire glass with as many olives as I could. According to sources, I diligently popped every olive in my mouth, counting aloud as I went, all the way to 18. Then, gulping the rest of the drink, I apparently turned to Dave, all smiles, and said, “Well, I’m going to be sick tomorrow… but I’ll deal with that… tomorrow!”

Luckily, my apartment was only about three blocks from Dave’s so the stumble home with my girlfriend and a friend visiting from Baltimore was fairly uneventful. The next morning, I woke up about 10:30. It was amazing, I had woken up in time for class. I sat up, and miracle of miracles I felt ok, a little hungover, but nothing out of hand. I walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water and only then noticed that the sink was full of vomit. “Oh Lord,” I thought to myself, “that’s just fantastic.” I looked over at my friend from Baltimore, still passed out on the couch. I couldn’t understand why she would have puked in the sink, especially since the bathroom was actually closer than the kitchen. Well, she had been very drunk. I sighed, bewildered, and wandered back to the bathroom. “What’s up?” asked my girlfriend. “Well, there’s a lot of vomit in the kitchen sink.” I replied. “Yeah,” she said, “You were sick for a long time.”

What? Was it possible that, in fact, I was the complete idiot who had walked past the bathroom and emptied my half-digested liquor cabinet into the sink? Was I trying to get a drink of water at the time? How could I have absolutely no memory at all? I cleared my throat and sure enough, there was a foul acrid taste back there. It was the first time that I had ever completely blacked out, and for the amount of drinking I’ve accomplished over the years, that’s pretty amazing. I was still almost certain though that it could not have been me. I peeked back into the sink, and sure enough, the certification of my own incompetence was there: an undeniably high olive content.

For whatever reason, I still decided to go to school, but ended up leaving the room 4 times to vomit. There I was, a serious student, trying to get a Masters degree, and I was straddling a toilet still amazed that I had puked in my own kitchen sink. Good times.

And generally, I have no troubles with psychological taste aversions, I got right back on the horse as far as gin, vodka and whatnot are concerned, but I’ll tell you, it took me a heck of long time to get back to eating olives.

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 forth, [...]]]> 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 forth, hollers at me, “What’na hell you lookin at?” I realized I had been staring at the window above his head. I shrugged and said, “Nothin,” realizing as I did, that had I been looking at him this answer would have been quite clever. “You wanna go? Is that it?” he yelled at me, attempting to stand up and failing. I explained that I clearly did not want to go, while simulataneously trying to judge how far it would be to the next stop.

Suddenly the other man jumped into action, grabbed his friend and shook him. “What the hell are you doin?” he shouted in his face, “are ya tryin to screw everything up?” He turned to me across the aisle, and with a gesture of supplication said in his gravel racked voice, “Noooo Offence Meant” and then repeated, “No offence meant” I nodded, and he turned back to his friend. “You don’t understand the world man,” he said, “You think everything’s going to go your way, you think life’s all a bunch of fawkin roses!” I highly doubted that this was exactly what the man thought of his life, but his friend continued, “But someday, everything’s gonna be shit, and this guy…” he said, jerking his thumb in my direction, “this guy ain’t gonna be there to help you.” They looked in my direction, and the only thing I could think of doing was shaking my head solemnly. “You see!” “Ok, ok,” said the now calm drunk, “I’m sorry.” “What!” shouted his adamant friend, “You call that an apology!” Then he quickly turned to me and once again extended his hands, patted the air as if he were telling an entire roomful of people to calm down, and said again, “Nooo Offence meant… no offence meant.” Then he turned his attention back to his friend, “You see this guy (me again), he’s going to be famous (really?), he’s going to be filthy rich (sounds good), he’s going to be down there in L.A. or Hollywood or Reno making a fortune (Reno?), and he’s not going to be there to help you out, he’s not going to give a damn about you. That’s how the world works! It’s the circle of life, Man! You were rude to this guy, now he’s going to be rich and you’ve got a whole mess a shit coming your way!” I really didn’t follow this logic path, but his once belligerent friend seemed spellbound. “Ok,” he said, “I’m sorry I was rude.” “That’s ok,” I said. For good measure, the drunk philosopher king turned to me once again, “Nooo Offence meant” he crooned, “… no offence meant.”

The original rude drunk seemed to forget about the whole thing immediately, he looked around and asked his buddy something about where they were getting off. His friend looked pained and immediately turned to me with his hands out, “Nooo offence meant… no offence meant.” By this time, I was baffled and trying my hardest not to laugh. A couple got on the train carrying a lamp from The Bay department store. “Hey, Nice Lamp!” shouted the drunk. I knew what was coming. His pal jumped into the middle of the train, threw his hands out desperately, patted the air and said, “Nooo offence meant… no offence meant.” I snorted into my gloves and tried to turn the laughter into a coughing fit.

Finally I reached my stop at the far end of the free-fare zone. And of course, this was also my drunken friends’ departure point. When the preaching drunk realized I was behind them at the doorway, he threw his friend roughly against the wall, gave me a quick maitre d’ bow and gestured that I should get off first. I stepped off, and started walking home. I looked back and saw them staggering on the platform, and in the distance heard the drawn out shout, “Noooo Offence Meant…..”

None taken… none taken.

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 about [...]]]> 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 about sowed it up. It was getting dark, the fog was thickening, and the sea was angry… yaaaar.

Through the fog, I glimpsed a light up on the shore. I yelled through the wind to my girlfriend in the bow, “We’d better try to pitch our tent in that farmer’s field!” We put in to shore, lugged the canoe up over the rocks and above the high tide level. I climbed up over the rock bluff and immediately started to curse. “What’s the matter?” asked the girlfriend. I made my way back down, “Well, this isn’t so much a farmer’s field as it is the St. Andrew’s Golf Course!” I was frustrated. I threw myself down on the rocks as the wind started to pick up. The St. Andrew’s Algonquin Resort’s golf course is one of the top courses in the country. It caters to high-end tourists with extravagant green fees local golfers could never afford. “Screw it,” I said, and pitched my tent in the rough of the third hole.

The storm raged and pummeled us all night long. Sleep was not forthcoming. At 6 AM, I stumbled out of the tent in my underwear to water the green. As I relieved myself, a golf ball soared over my head and landed in the gulley in front of my tent. It was early, it was raining… I had underestimated the determination of golfers. I had picked a spot that was somewhat sheltered for the tent, so it wasn’t immediately visible from the fairway. I jumped back in the tent as I heard someone crest the hill looking for the ball. “Larry!” I heard in a thick Boston accent, “There’s a Gawd-Damn tent down he-ah!”

We decided that maybe it was best to pack up the tent. The wind was still gusting. I looked out to sea and saw whitecaps rolling in to shore between five and ten feet high. I knew there was no way we could continue in the canoe. Setting out in waves taller than you are in a craft you can carry on your shoulders is never the best of plans. So we were stuck. We dug the cell-phone out of the waterproof bags and called mother. There’s nothing quite like setting out on an adventure and having to call you mom for help. Mom knew the area and thought there might still be a road down beside the golf course to come pick us up. We dragged the canoe up onto the third hole, across the green, and set it down beside a bench on the cart-track.

We sat and waited to see what Mom would come up with, sporting life-jackets, bandannas and shorts on the premiere golf course of the province. As time passed, more and more golfers walked by us, some looking bemused, some looking peeved that commoners had infiltrated their domain. Finally one golfer paused, looked at the boat lying on the lawn and said, “How’s the canoeing?” I had an answer prepared, “Oh, par for the course I suppose.” He nodded and chuckled and then gaped over our shoulders as my mother came around the corner in the family van, driving down the golf cart track. I laughed out loud, don’t get in my mom’s way! I pictured golf carts forced into the ditches and golfers diving for safety. We loaded up the canoe and put an end to one of the strangest canoe trips I’d ever experienced. The friendly golfer even helped us pack up a bit before he shook his head and continued on with what was I’m sure, one of the strangest golf games he’d ever experienced.

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. He [...]]]> 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. He quickly clammed up, and watched in panic as the mom’s mouth slowly formed the words, “Frank, are you ok?” Somehow, he managed to get across that he had a headache. The mom left the room and returned with some water and a Tylenol. Frank stared at the drug in his hand for almost five minutes while the drug in his mind registered one paranoid thought: Poison. Nothing could possibly be worse at that moment than swallowing that over the counter pain reliever. Slowly and deliberately, Frank took a sip of water, raised his hand to his mouth, and then casually tucked the Tylenol under the cushion of the sofa. The whole family was staring at Frank during this entire episode of completely obvious sleight of hand. His friend, who was still fine, suddenly realized what was wrong with Frank and attemted to rescue his tripped out friend.
“Come on Frank, let’s go to the store and get some snacks.”
“Ok,” said Frank and rose to go.
“Sit Down!” said his friend’s father. The gig was up. Frank sat. From out in the hall came his friend’s voice, “Frank let’s go.” Frank was confused. He stood up again and headed for the door.
“I said, Sit Down!” said the Dad. Frank immediately sat. “Are you sure you’re ok Frank?” asked the Mom. “Come ON, Frank!” came the call from the hallway. Once again Frank stood up, dreading the father’s wrath.
“SIT!”
Frank sat.
His buddy finally came back into the room, grabbed Frank by the arm and dragged him out of there. “What the hell is wrong with you man! You’re acting like an idiot! Why didn’t you come out?”
“You’re Dad kept yelling at me man!”
“Frank, he was talking to the Dog!”

…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 faster [...]]]> 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 faster if I take you in the back room and lick your pussy until you scream?” Alice turns red all the way down her neck, I slowly start choking to death on my Coke. The poor girl stammers, “Ahh, no, I don’t think that will make it come any faster.”
“No, but you might.”

We got 35 % off.

4:30 AM

… I couldn’t believe it. He was just sitting there, smirking up at me. It’s 4:30 in the morning and this cabby won’t give us a ride. “Look buddy, this’ll be like $45 by the time we get home.” He’s arrogant like nobody’s business, reclining in his seat with his feet out the window. He’s made himself comfortable, has even kicked off his sandals. He looks up at me again and says, ” I’m on my break, Fuck off.” One of the crazy chicks goes nuts when she hears that, starts tearing a strip off of him. I’m pretty pissed off myself. I’m trying to force the car number into my drunken memory banks so I can complain tomorrow. It’s not working very well. I stare down at the pavement and see the cabby’s sandals where he had kicked them off. I turn to the crazy, lisp-lover and say, “We should steal his fucking shoes.” This girl goes into overdrive, starts pleading with the cabby, gets down on one knee and says, “Please, please, please take us home!” All the while, she is quietly collecting his shoes while he’s not looking. “Fine” she says abruptly, and we walk off in what I would consider to be a huff. We manage to flag a different cab on the street and it’s only then that I realize I haven’t moved into my new apartment yet, and I have absolutely no memory of where I’m supposed to be staying that night. “That’s ok,” says the lisp-lover, “You can stay with me.”

The sandals fit me perfectly and I wear them to this day.

7:00 AM

…I wake up with a cat on my chest licking my face. I am very close to screaming. In the one bedroom apartment, I count four cats that I can see. I think I can hear others. I look over and see the crazy lisp-lover. The night starts to come back to me. She is awake. I look up at the ceiling and see a huge picture of a naked stripper. I am at a loss. “Who’s the girl?” I ask. “Oh, that’s my girlfriend Dani.” She replies. I sit up. “Your girlfriend? You’re a lesbian with a stripper girlfriend?” I give my head a shake. She says, “Sure, didn’t you know that?” “No, I certainly didn’t know that!” I stammer, but now the incident with the waitress makes more sense. I think a bit longer, trying to clear my head, “Will she be mad that I’m spending the night?” I ask. “Oh no sweetie, she knows that I’m a sucker for lisps… besides, she’s in China.”

I didn’t bother telling her again that I don’t have a lisp.

* * *

A friend of mine is fond of saying: “And then I looked up and realized that I was in a Dave Ford situation, and I had no idea how to get out.” I think the phrase originates from this night in particular.

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. [...]]]> 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. But of course, all complaints fell on deaf ears since parents have a vengeful way of making up for the embarrassment of their own childhoods by making you wear the goofiest shit possible (this also explains the fur-lined eskimo parkas I had to wear as a child while my friends wore ski-jackets… oh the tears).

So this is all to say that I was wearing a hat, not used to a hat, hating my hat, grumpy, and sulking my way through this amusement park. We were walking through one of the main buildings, which was air-conditioned, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone, so I had my head stuck in a brochure. As I was reading, I glanced up and saw someone walking toward me, but I didn’t think much of it. I figured that the guy would get out of my way since we were a large group, and hey, I was obviously busy reading. Next thing I knew, WHAM! I walked face first into a big mirrored column. I hit the floor hard. The figure I had seen was, of course, myself in the mirror, walking towards myself. But I hadn’t really looked, and in my quick glance I didn’t recognize myself in that stupid hat.

I came to a few seconds later to see my Dad standing over me. He pointed at me and started to laugh. “You know I love you right?” he said as he helped me up,”but you’re one stupid kid.”