Part 3 – The Reckoning

On Sunday, Trevor called Rogers and ordered the Wild-West channel. All westerns, all the time. He bought Coop some snacks and settled him in front of a spaghetti western marathon. Trevor had a soft spot for Westerns, but unfortunately, he had to get some work done from home.

“Why ain’t you watchin’?” asked Coop, “This stuff’s great. Although, in my experience, it ain’t as easy to shoot through a hangman’s noose at 400 yards as it looks.”

“I’d love to, it’s just.. well, remember I told you about my supervisor? I’m done my work for next week, but now I have to do his.”

Coop snorted. “Ain’t no reason you should do any such thing.”

“Yeah, well, I know… but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Coop sat up. “Trevor, haven’t I taught you nothing? Do not tell me that I seduced a buffalo for nothing.”

“No, no,,” said Trevor, “I should stand up to Conrad… in fact, you’re right. I’m gonna watch movies with you.”

“Weell Sheeeit”

On Monday evening, Trevor tried to get Coop out of the house, but the cowboy had really taken to the TV. He had sat on the remote control during the day and figured out how to change the channels. By the time Trevor got home from work, Coop was three hours into a Jersey Shore Marathon.

“You are not going to believe this,” said Coop excitedly. “These kids are wild. I’ve never seen the likes in any saloon in Arkansas.”

“But, let me guess, you’ve seen stranger sights?” asked Trevor hopefully.

“No, don’t believe I have… don’t believe I have.”

Trevor didn’t care for this development. He was enjoying having his own cowboy to help him gain in testicular fortitude. But he didn’t like seeing Coop so entranced by modern media. And the cow-poke seemed particularly vulnerable to advertisements. The only way he would consent to leave the TV that night was for a trip to Mac’s to pick up all the snacks he’d seen in commercials. When they got back to the apartment, Coop settled back into the cowboy shaped indentation on the couch and opened a bag of Funions. Trevor shook his head.

Tuesday passed in much the same way. Trevor was starting to worry about when the portal would close. He decided he’d have to talk to Coop about it, but when he tried to bring it up, Coop changed the subject, saying, “Hush up now, the bachelor’s coming on.”

On Wednesday, Trevor arrived home from work, full of excitement. “You’re never going to guess what happened!” he shouted. Coop looked up from the couch, lying there in his long-underwear the front stained orange with cheeto dust. “I finally did it,” said Trevor, “I stood up to Conrad, just like we talked about. I looked him right in the eye and said, “You’re going down… bitch” It was just like the buffalo, well not exactly, but you know what I mean. I went straight to my boss’s office and told him I’d been doing all the work. And guess what? He fired Conrad and gave me a promotion!”

“Good on ya!” said Coop. “Now that is the cowboy way, I’m proud of ya. Now, you mind makin’ me a couple those microwave burritos?”

Trevor looked down disdainfully at the junk-food stained cowboy. He realized that the modern world had quickly taken it’s tole on the old rustler. Something stirred inside him. He didn’t like seeing his hero this way. “Listen Coop, I’ve been thinking.” he said, “That portal’s going to close in the next day or so, you’d better get ready to head back or you’ll be stuck.”

Coop rolled over onto his back. “Yeah, Trev, I been thinkin’ bout that. Been thinkin’ I might stay on here actually.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean, this is a pretty good life. No blisterin’ sun, no dust-storms, no disease riddled whores.  And these Jersey Shore kids, I mean, I gotta know what happens next. No brother, I ain’t going back.”

Trevor was incensed. It was one thing to have a real-life cowboy teaching him the ropes for a few days. It was quite another to have a lazy, cheeto-stained slob on his couch forever. “That,” said Trevor, “is not the cowboy way.”

“You watch yerself, boy” said Coop, sitting up.

“Why? What are ya gonna do… you… you.. yeller-bellied, lilly-livered, waste o’ space.” Trevor had been watching a lot of westerns after all.

“Just who do you think yer talkin’ to?” shouted Coop.

“I dunno,” Trevor shouted back, “Some lazy, good fer nothin is what I’m seein. Call yourself a cowboy. You couldn’t hit a bull’s rump with a handful a banjos. Ain’t yer Mammy raised you right?”

Trevor had crossed a line. “No one,” shouted Coop, “No one talks about my Mammy!”

He lunged across the room to his pile of clothes, fumbling for his holster. With one quick motion, Trevor took two steps and kicked the bent over cowboy square in the ass. Coop stumbled forward, tripped over an end-table and went flying through the portal in the corner. The fabric of time and space zipped up neatly behind him. Trevor felt a slight pang of remorse when he imagined the pissed-off, half-naked cowboy in the middle of Arkansas, but he shrugged, picked Coop’s hat up off the floor and said, “Oh well, that’s the cowboy way.”

Two weeks later. Trevor sat on the couch, staring at the corner. The portal had been open for an hour, but no one had come through. Slowly, he stood up and walked over to the pile of Coop’s clothes, now neatly washed and pressed. He put everything on, step by step, and found that things were only slightly too baggy. He picked up the hat last, dusted it off out of habit, and placed it squarely on his head. Taking a deep breath, he stepped up to the portal, cleared his throat, and said, “Weelll, Sheeeit.”

And with that, Trevor Dykeman stepped boldly into the unknown.

I sat with my eyes half closed, neither of us exactly sure whether current medical opinion allowed for sleeping with a concussion or not. Suddenly, a stranger wandered into the room, which is never pleasant in a hospital… or anywhere I suppose. We both looked up, she with her book, me with my ice-pack. The injured interloper looked around for a moment and said, “That’s so sweet. You know? I was just walking by and I was remembering the movie Rocky, when Adrian is in the hospital and Rocky is reading to her. You ‘member that?” I nodded my head, and at that moment, knew that my concussion couldn’t be that serious because not only did I recall that scene,  I also knew it had actually happened in Rocky II. I decided not to mention it. “Yeah,” continued the man, whose voice was somewhat reminiscent of Stalone’s, “That’s awesome. You guys are awesome. So sweet.” Then he turned and headed back to the hallway, shaking his head in seeming amazement and muttering, “That’s love, man… True love.”

I looked over at my wife, smiled and said, “Yo, Adrian.”

Part 2 – A Walk in the Park

Thankfully, the next day was Saturday and Trevor didn’t have to work. After Coop spent a thankless hour trying to teach him to cook grits, Trevor spent an equally frustrating hour trying to explain how a television works. Trevor decided that despite the risks, it might be best to get out of the house. Of course, it helped that Coop seemed to be transitioning extremely well. Whenever he witnessed some new miracle of modern technology, he would say, “I have seen stranger sights…” But Trevor couldn’t imagine how that was possible.

In that light, Trevor had a feeling that the subway might be a bit too much for Coop’s first day in Toronto. Truth be told, the TTC was often a bit much for Trevor. But he was pretty sure that streetcars had been around in the 19th century, so they jumped aboard and headed for High Park. Coop seemed to enjoy the open air. The sun beat down, and when they reached the centre of the park, Trevor suggested they get an ice-cream. This was a bit of an undertaking, as Trevor could never bring himself to push forward in line. Men, women and whole groups of children shouldered their way in front of him. “Fer Chrissake Dykeman, be a man” grumbled Coop as he forcibly manoeuvred Trevor to the front of the line.

Licking delicately at his soft-vanilla, Trevor admitted that he wasn’t the most assertive character. “I just don’t want to get in anyone’s way” he explained. “Ya keep that up, folks’ll just walk all over ya in my experience,” said Coop. “Yeah,” sighed Trevor, “that’s pretty much the way it goes. Like at work, my supervisor Conrad, he takes credit for everything I do and gives me crap all day long.”

“Weelll Sheeeit,” said Coop, “Sounds to me like you’re in need of a pair a testicles. What you gotta do is stare this guy Conrad down… right in the eyes… show him you ain’t gonna take any more his guff.”

“Yes, well, that’s easy for you to say.”

“Just watch then,” said Coop, “I’ll show you how it’s done.” By this time, they had strolled their way to the penned animals that some people optimistically called a zoo. Coop strode over to the Buffalo enclosure, knelt down and started grunting, rhythmically. “Ahh… what are you doing?” asked Trevor. “You see that big bull buffalo over there?” said Coop, “I’m threatening his authority.”

“Why?… Why do that? Don’t buffalo the buffalo.” Coop was not fazed, not even by Trevor’s clever use of the English language. The huge male buffalo slowly swung his head around to face Coop from across the pen. As a crowd began to gather around the grunting, time-travelling cowboy, the animal puffed his nostrils and headed straight for Coop. The ground shook as the buffalo picked up speed, bearing down on the fence. Trevor took a hasty step back. “Be a Man!” yelled Coop. The crowd surged back as the bull came to a shuddering stop six inches from the fence, spraying clods of dirt.

Coop was unfazed. He stared directly into the Buffalo’s eyes, murmuring under his breath. He tilted his head to the side, and the Buffalo matched his movement. The crowd was spellbound. Coop squinted, and with surprising daintiness, the buffalo lay down, grunted, and rolled over onto his back, legs in the air. Coop reached through the fence and gave the buffalo a rub on the belly as the crowd broke into applause. “How did you do that?” someone shouted. Coop smiled and said, “Don’t try that at home folks, I come from a long line of Buffalo Whisperers.”

At that moment, an enterprising thief took advantage of the crowd and grabbed Trevor’s back-pack out of his hand. “My bag!” shouted Trevor, otherwise paralysed, as the man ran off. Coop, however, sprang instantly into action. Sprinting into the petting zoo he vaulted onto a startled pony and spurred her toward the fence. In what must have been the highlight of the small beast’s life, they soared over the rail and bore down on the thief. “Hyah!” shouted Coop. The thief was running hard now towards the woods, but Coop was gaining ground on his comically tiny horse. He slid sideways, reached over and grabbed the man by the collar, and flung him at full speed into a large tree trunk.

As he led the exhilarated pony back to the enclosure, Coop handed Trevor his bag. “And that, Trevor, is how it’s done. That’s the cowboy way.”

Trevor was awestruck. “Ah, you know,” he said, “I’m thinking maybe we should get some take-out, go home and watch “Crocodile Dundee… I think you’d enjoy it.”

And that’s exactly what they did.

In any case, I’m rambling. And well I might, since I have joined the ranks of the Canadian concussed. Yes, after years of feeling as though I was hitting my head against the wall, I’ve actually experienced the real thing. And how did I obtain my minor head injury? Volleyball. Seems silly to even say it. When my mother-in-law found out about my concussion, she urged me to find a new, less violent sport. Less violent than volleyball? I’m not sure I can think of one. Mini-golf? No, that windmill is a deathtrap. Sure I often injure myself playing volley. Spraining my ankles is a common occurrence, but I tore my ankles to shreds in high school and now they’re weaker than a UN resolution. In fact, in my nearly twenty years of playing the sport, I’ve never seen anyone get a concussion playing volleyball. Leave it to me.

So how did it happen? Well, it was the championship game. Final point. Win or lose came down to the final serve. I watched as the ball flew the wrong way off a teammate toward the wall. I can save that, I thought to myself as I picked up speed across the court. I leaped into the air, hit the ball and saw it hit the top of the net and fall on our side. Failure. Turns out I was wrong, I could not save it. Things are pretty hazy after that. My shoulder is killing me so I must have smashed into the wall at that level, and then my head whipped over and smacked the concrete. I remember a bright flash, a loud crack, and a strange mental image of lightning bolts emitting from my teeth. Then everything was dark. I came to on the floor with my teammate Ted, trained in first-aid, holding me down. Strangely, my sinuses immediately drained, and I found myself gagging on fluid coursing down my throat. I needed to turn on my side, but Ted was, quite rightly, still holding me on my back in case of spinal injury. I managed to convince him to let me turn my head, swallow and start to assess why the hell I was on the floor.

Then I went through what I can only describe as a hard re-boot. I could hear everything that was going on. I understood all of Ted’s “assessing” questions, but I couldn’t seem to bring myself to answer. This, of course, made him think I was really in trouble. But I remember thinking that it was obvious that I was fine, why couldn’t they see that? Slowly, as if systems were coming back online, I realized that I hadn’t yet answered him, so I started sputtering out that I was okay. I heard the league rep. talk about calling an ambulance, and that’s when I really snapped back into reality. Ambulances? They cost money! My stubborn side came out as I vehemently refused that anyone should call the paramedics. Just give me a couple minutes, I kept saying… or at least I think I did. Slowly, I managed to sit up with my back against the wall, and then eventually stood and weaved my way down the gym and took a break to sit on a bench. Ice packs arrived and that made things more tolerable. As I came fully back online, I personally thought I was fine. I was vehement. No, I didn’t want to go sit in emergency for hours to have someone tell me that I had a concussion and should take it easy.

So, I went to emergency and sat for a few hours and had someone tell me I had a concussion and should take it easy. But of course, it was the right thing to do. I was just being stubborn. Head injuries aren’t something you can really assess on your own, mostly because, you know, your head is injured.

So, my first concussion. Back in residence, my crazed, rugby-playing friend Jawn had had 13 when I knew him, I’m sure that he’s had more since then. And Jawn was always a bit special, especially where electrical sockets, staplers and wrapping himself in toilet paper and lighting himself on fire were concerned. So, I’m wary now. I certainly don’t want it to happen again. It was by no means a pleasant experience. And now I’ve discovered that everyone wants to know what it’s like to have a concussion. Perhaps it’s because of our new found Canadian curiosity with brain trauma. It’s not an easy thing to explain, but now that so many people have asked, I’ve had a little practice.

First of all, it’s boring having a concussion. All the things i would normally do when home sick are pretty much off limits. Reading, movies, tv, computer… too much stimulation. I  scoffed at this at first, but after a quick run through the emails the first morning, I was ready to go lie down again. And the first day, I did feel a bit slow. So there’s been a lot of lying around with my eyes closed, listening to CBC radio, chugging down Tylenol. I stubbornly watched the hockey game Wednesday night, and only made it two periods before I went to bed with a decent headache. Too much tracing the puck around, and I found that Don Cherry is even more intolerable with a concussion.

Secondly, I found I was much more aware of my individual senses. Sudden noises would jar me, and bright lights were obviously painful. In a crowd, I found I was honing in on individual conversations and had trouble filtering the whole thing out as background noise. it’s a bit like being a super-hero except it’s really annoying.

Overall, the more you rest and follow doctor’s orders, the faster you recover. Surprise, surprise. It’s been a dull few days, but each day is much better and now I feel more or less back up to speed. Physical activity is annoying in that simple things like climbing a flight of stairs can get the head to throbbing, but that’s better now. I’ll certainly be avoiding any sports for a while, especially the hyper-violent, danger-infused game of volleyball.

It’s been an experience, and i guess I’m lucky it wasn’t any worse. Largely, I can safely say that having a concussion hasn’t really affected hasn’t really affected me in any way.

End of discussion.

Part -1 – The Visitor

Trevor Dykeman was in the kitchen cooking a poorly-constructed grilled-cheese sandwich when he felt a gust of wind and heard the insistent ringing of jingle-bells in his living room.  He froze.  The spatula clattered to the floor.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and tried to muster the courage to investigate.  He knew that the longer he put it off the harder it would be.  Slowly, cautiously he edged his head around the corner.  There, between the lazy-boy and the coffee table stood… a cowboy.  Strangely, for Trevor this was no surprise.

Trevor had come to Toronto (what folks back home called “The Big City” … amongst other things) a little over a year ago.  This apartment was the first and only one he’d looked at.  Truth be told, the landlord had intimidated him.  He didn’t feel he could turn it down. As the landlord slicked back his hair and asked him again whether he was interested, Trevor quietly suggested that the rent was higher than he’d expected.

“Yeah, about that,” said the landlord, “this ain’t exactly what you’d call a regular apartment… You see, occasionally… Well, yeah, once in a while what chou might call a wrinkle in the space-time continuum opens up over there in the corner… by the cactus.  And I figure I should charge extra for that.”

Trevor was understandably taken aback.  “I don’t… what?”

The landlord sighed.  “Let me spell it out for ya.  The rent is high because utilities are included: heat, water, electricity…  and a portal to another mother-fucking dimension. Take it or leave it.”

Trevor had never been much of a haggler.  He presumed he was being snowed by this slick operator.  The tactic was bizarre, it was true, but Trevor was terrified.  If he had to go through something like this for every apartment he looked at, he was going to run screaming back home.  So he swallowed hard and paid first and last month’s rent.  It couldn’t be that bad, could it?

Yes, it could.  Less than a month later, Trevor sat watching TV when a gust of wind blew across the room and, sure enough, a shimmering blue rip in the fabric of space and time crackled open.  Oh. Shit. Before Trevor could recover, a crazed Mongol warrior dove through the rift, destroyed a small footstool with a large club, and then jumped screaming back through the portal, which zipped up neatly behind him.  As Trevor crawled out from behind the couch, it was a while before he noticed that he’d pissed himself.  It was even longer before he realized that his cat had disappeared.  It was then that he knew he was in over his head.

But Trevor didn’t have many options.  With his data-entry job, he couldn’t afford to move.  And as the months went by, Trevor fell in with the human condition and accepted his lot in life.  Besides, new to the city, he could use some visitors, wherever (or whenever) they were from.  To be fair, most of his experiences with the portal were not as terrifying as the first.  It was quite a pleasure, for example, when a dignified lady from the Antebellum Deep South stopped by for a visit.  Although, he’d had to smile and nod through what he considered some horridly racist comments.  When a prostitute from the 1890′s slipped into his bed one night, it had been embarrassing, but it had led to the establishment of his jingle-bell warning system, for which he thought himself quite clever.

Often, the rift would just open without anyone stepping through.  On those occasions, the portal seemed to stay open a few days before closing again.  Whenever this occurred, Trevor stood for long hours, staring into the void, trying to convince himself to step through.  But he never could.  One time, he had tied his camera to a string, set the timer and threw it into the vortex.  Again, he thought himself quite clever, until he saw the picture of Maoist China and he peed himself just a little.  Regardless, every time the little bells rang, a tremor of excitement ran through Trevor’s body.  He never knew just what would happen next.

And so we arrive back at the present – depending on your perspective.  A bewildered cowboy shuffled around the living room, tracking muck all over the floor.  And there really wasn’t any other way to describe him, he was a cowboy through and through.  Trevor didn’t have much prior experience with cowboys.  He’d been to a conference in Calgary once during the Stampede, but that just seemed like  a bunch of businessmen in cowboy hats with an excuse to act like assholes.  This was a different story.  This was the real deal.  Spurs, boots, vest, bandanna, chaps… the whole package.  Trevor had never seen someone wearing chaps in real life, well, besides Church street.  Noticing him, the cowboy whipped around, fingers twitching over his holster.

“Whoa! Hey!” shouted Trevor, “Uhmm, Hi… Welcome to my house.”  The man took in his surroundings and decided correctly that Trevor was not a threat.

“Where in the sam-hell am I?” he asked.  He had a voice like he gargled rocks.

Trevor patiently explained to the cowboy that he’d travelled through space and time by walking through the hole in the air over by the cactus. The year was 2010, and they were in Toronto, Canada. The cowboy turned and squinted at the shimmering blue rift and said, “Weelll Sheeeeit,”  but otherwise, he seemed to take the situation remarkably well. “Ahh… My name’s Trevor Dykeman, by the way” said Trevor.

The cowboy tipped his hat and said, “Good to meet ya Trevor. The name’s Coop…. Coop Anderson.”

Trevor decided that now was not the time to discuss CNN’s ruggedly handsome newsman of a similar name. “Pleasure to meet you Coop. And so when and where are you from?”

“Summer a 1880, far as I can reckon…” Coop looked around for a spittoon and decided Trevor’s Japanese Peace Lily would do. “I hearken from a little know-nothin town in Arkansas you ain’t never heard of, name-of Tombstone.”

“Tombstone!” Trevor shivered with excitement, “ Are you kidding! I’ve seen the movie!”

Coop shook his head and said, “This is mighty strange.”

“Well yes, I suppose it is. I must say though, you’re handling it very well.”

“Well, I have seen stranger sights”

“You.. have?”

“Yup. But this is one for the books all right… like somethin’ outta Jules Verne.”

Trevor was surprised. “Oh excellent, you can read! That’ll make things much easier.”

The cowboy bristled. “Now wait one minute, my Mammy taught me my letters when I was a wee lad and I will not allow for any disrespect.”

Trevor shrank back, “Oh no, no. No disrepect meant Mr…. ah.. Coop.” He desperately tried to change the subject, but Coop suddenly twitched his head to the side and said, “Reckon somethin’s burnin’” Trevor let out a squeek, “My Grilled-Cheese!” He had completely forgotten. As he ran to the kitchen he shouted over his shoulder, “Mr. Anderson, make yourself comfortable… have a seat…. You must be tired. In my experience, time travel takes a lot out of a person.” Trevor tended to babble when he was embarrassed. “I mean, it makes sense to me, I personally get terrible jet-lag, and that’s just a few time-zones… I mean 130 years, now that’s something…”

By the time Trevor had de-cheesed the frying-pan, he could hear deep-throated snores from the other room. He peeked around the corner and saw his very own cowboy asleep on the lazy-boy. He couldn’t help but smile. This was going well. Then he noticed that Coop’s spurs had already gouged long rents in the leather. Trevor shook his head… it was certainly exciting having his own portal through time and space… but it sure was hell on his furniture.

Take this fun little tidbit that a friend of mine (the intrepid Doggy, I believe) had as his email signature a while back:

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

Surprisingly, that works out as a grammatically correct, albeit baffling, English sentence.  Let’s dig in:

You have to start with the plural of Buffalo being the same as the singular, the benefit being that you don’t need an article (a/an/the) to introduce a plural.

Then you’ve got three definitions of buffalo:

1) Buffalo – the city in New York state, famous for its wings, and probably other stuff as well.

2) buffalo – the largest North American land mammal.

3) buffalo – a verb, meaning to bully or intimidate, as in “The USA buffalo developing countries with the IMF and the World Bank.”

So, if we take the original sentence:

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

Let’s break it down, add some articles, change plural forms and rearrange things a bit, to translate it as, “Buffaloes from Buffalo, who are buffaloed by other buffaloes from Buffalo, also buffalo other Buffalo buffaloes.”  What does that tell you?  You definitely don’t want to be a buffalo in upper New York, because that social scene is a real bitch.

Basically, you can run with weird sentences like this whenever you have a word that is both a noun and verb.  Another easy example would be “police.”  Who polices the police?  Why, it must be the police police.  But then, who would police the police police?  I suppose it would be the police police police.  So, in no time flat, you can put together something along the lines of: Police police police police police police.

Of course, my personal favourite has to be:

Malkovich malkovich malkovich Malkovich malkovich malkovich.

I’ve been doing some guest blahging at my buddy Andrew’s blog while he studies for exams.  It’s all part of my cunning “Get back into writing, you lazy Git” program.  So if you want to check out my take on more science oriented topics, check out: Live Like Dirt

Living in an all male residence back in the undergraduate days has provided me with no shortage of crazy stories.  This was no exception.  It all started when the good people at Moosehead Beer (a staple of any Maritime diet) had a marketing idea.  The big breweries were always competing to represent the residences on campus.  We would wear their logos and advertise for them at our house events, they would give us free stuff.  It really was a win-win-drunk situation.  I don’t ever remember being encouraged to drink the beer of our sponsor, but we probably would have, and given the $1000 we made on bottle-returns every month I think they missed the boat-race on that one.  Anyway, the beginning of the year always saw the breweries wooing and competing for our favour, until we selected the same sponsor we had every year.  It was fun.  I was a representative for Aitken House one year, when Moosehead decided to take the House Committees from all the residences on a brewery tour.  Wicked.  It was early November, and we all piled on a school bus, Men’s Houses, Women’s Houses, Co-Ed Houses, all the colours of the UNB residence rainbow, and headed down the highway to Saint John.  An hour of ribald songs and inter-residence jibes later, we came off the highway into the city in high spirits.

When we arrived at the brewery, we were all shuffled into the lounge, where we were divided into groups for the tour.  I don’t know what your experience of brewery tours has been, but my memory of the tour itself goes something like this: “There’s a copper kettle.  There’s a stainless steel kettle.  There’s a shitload of pipes.  There’s a bunch of bottles going by really fast.  Okay, let’s head back to the lounge.”  It lasted about ten minutes at the most.  For the remaining two and a half  hours, we were given free reign over the lounge bar stocked with every Moosehead product available.  We were told that we could drink as much as we wanted until time ran out.  I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure giving a bunch of college students a time-limit on unlimited beer is the wisest decision. The sole stipulation was that we could only get two beer at a time.  This was hardly a hindrance; some of us even waited until we’d finished two before we got two more.  Moose Green, Pale Ale, Clancy’s Amber, Oland’s Red, Alpine, you name it.  We tried everything available, except the lite beers, because really, what’s the point?  One percent less alcohol?  That’s a waste of my time!  Clock’s a tickin’.

Things got ridiculous fast.  The volume-level in the room steadily increased as impromptu drinking games cropped up.   Someone at our table had brought a bottle of Tums with them, I don’t remember who it was, but he was a genius.  Bloating was averted.  One of the girls’ houses suggested a huge, sloppy game of spin the bottle, which the guys shot down as a poor use of drinking time… priorities people!  Instead, groups of girls started flashing each other from across the room.  What a perfect compromise.  Soon came the slurring, the slobbering, the shouting, the stumbling and the spills.  By that point, we didn’t care.

Then the pizza arrived.  Fifteen boxes of crappy Greco pizza were immediately destroyed.  I usually can’t stand Greco pizza (they’re the type of place that uses canned mushrooms) but I sure liked it that day.  “Fifteen Minutes!” called out one of the frenzied bartenders.  Everyone lined up to stock the table one last time.  As one guy put it later, “It was that last round that put me over the edge.”  Right.  Five minutes left to go, and I had an epiphany.  There was going to be one hell of a line-up for the bathroom.  I took advantage of this foresight and snuck into the washrooms, took one look at the toilet, and promptly vomited litres of Moosehead products and several pounds of pizza.  I performed a cursory clean up, and worked my way back out of the bathroom, only to notice the “Ladies” sign on the door.  “That’s weird,” I thought, and immediately returned to the table to finish my beer.  I still contend that that graceful skip to the loo saved me much hardship, and probably the memories I’m recounting too.

The clock struck the hour and time was up.  We all stumbled our way out to the bus.  One of the girls shouted, “Hey look, there’s the copper kettle… It’s shiney!”  I’m sure the tour guides were proud that something had stuck.  I glanced back at the room, it looked like a killing field.  Dead soldiers lined every table and much of the floor.  As I had predicted, we waited for what seemed like ages for everyone to use the bathroom.  Then the bus-ride home began.

It turns out it’s not much fun being drunk on a school bus.  There were no songs being sung this time around.  If the bus-driver did not renounce his profession completely after that day, I’m sure he told the story of the “Brewery Bus from hell” to his bus-driving buddies for years to come.  We had barely made it onto the highway before the first calls to pull over began.  The driver pushed on for five more minutes before the litanies of, “I’m gonna piss myself!”, “I’m going to be sick”, and “Does anyone have a bottle?” forced him to the side of the road.  Just as we were stopping, one guy ran half the length of the bus shouting, “Too late!”, flung open the rear emergency door and projectiled out onto the pavement.  A rush of guys flew out of the bus to water the bushes and write obscenities in the snow.  The girls held on to their dignity, insisting they’d wait until they got home.

I’m not sure if the the phrase, “breaking the seal” is universal, but suffice it to say that that was the first of many such stops on the side of the highway.  The trip from Saint John to Fredericton, which usually takes about an hour in a bus, took us three.  Every ten minutes or so, we were back on the side of the road, much to the consternation of the driver.  I was ecstatic that my brilliant bathroom escapade had saved me any public humiliation.  About mid-way through the trip, the bus was reeking.  Streaks of vomit coursed down the exterior of the bus, as people resorted to the windows when the urge came on too quickly.  I applaud them really, the ability to puke out the side of a tiny bus window is no mean feat.  The girls suddenly realized that their dignified plan to wait it out was in jeopardy; they were not going to make it.  In solidarity, they all went out to pee at once (what is with that, by the way?).  Unfortunately, this was not the best of all our roadside stops for the female urinator.  There were few bushes and the land sloped up from the highway a fair distance before meeting the forest.  The girls were not discouraged.  The time was now.  The more timid amongst them ran through the snow toward the woods, jettisoning random winter clothing as they went.  I wasn’t sure we would ever see them again. Others crouched behind the minimal cover of the leafless bushes, while still others said, “To hell with it,” and squatted in the open.  Cries of, “Help me,” “I’m gonna fall over!” “Someone hold her hair!” punctuated the still winter air, as a bunch of guys stood outside smoking, laughing and glorying in the fact that the world is our urinal.  I tried not to stare, but the sight of a bunch of drunken girls trying to pee on an open slope made it impossible to turn away… it was a drunken train wreck.  Due to the steep slope, most of them fell over at some point during their endeavour.  Many of them fell, and continued to fall, all the way down the hill.  The memory of several girls tumbling bare-assed over teakettle back down toward the bus has stayed with me to this day.  I just hoped they had finished their business before losing their balance.

It was a somber crew that exited the bus outside the student union building.  Many of the girls wouldn’t look at us, let alone speak.  All plans of continuing the drinking party back at Res. were long since abandoned.  I hit the bed hard and passed out almost immediately.

Yeah, it was one for the books all right.

Pictured Above: McSkelety

The other night, I actually had the television on, and while flipping through the channel guide to see just how much wasn’t worth watching, I noticed Grey’s Anatomy.  To be honest, I had kind of forgotten that show existed.  I think I was probably better off before.

But it got me to wondering: After six seasons and countless combinations of whiny doctor sex, I wonder how many people watching realize that the title is a play upon the classic medical reference text, Henry Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body, otherwise known as Gray’s Anatomy?  I’m betting on “not that many” since a quick Google image search for the correct spelling of the textbook yields one image of the book for every twenty of the soap-opera.  What a poor fate for a work that’s been in continual use since 1858.  And of the people who are aware of the seminal medical text, how many do you think actually watch the show?  Seems like a waste of a pun to me.

And really, why are there two ways to spell gray/grey anyway?

But in the meantime, let me know if you find strange behaviour in the new layout.  I’m no coding genius.  I’m a trial and error kid.  So the chances that I’ve missed something are pretty darn good.

In related news, I’ll be performing a few of the old posts tonight in downtown Toronto.  My good friend Sarah has a theatre company that is hosting an East Coast Kitchen Party as a fundraiser.  I’ve been conscripted as a “StoryTeller.”  Should be fun.  I’ll let you know how it goes…