February 7th
On NEVER SAY DIE
In the summer of 2003 there was a blackout on the Eastern seaboard. I was at work when it happened, working for Scotiabank in the sub-basement in “lending”. I still don’t know what the purpose of my job was.
I walked to union station and took one of the last functioning GO trains to Burlington, where Krista and I embarked on a drive to Ottawa to visit her sister Tracey. I had been feeling depressed a lot recently, and had even seen my family doctor and told him I was depressed. He prescribed me a book and told me to let him know if it started affecting my sleep habits or my appetite. I had taken to making dramatic statements to Krista, mostly along the lines of “I don’t like myself very much.” It felt pretty dumb to say, but I had a hard time expressing myself otherwise.
On the long dark trip to Ottawa, my self loathing increased. It was a trippy ride, because there were no lights on anywhere except for headlights and taillights and the stars, and we felt like we were driving into space. I had a snarky conversation with Krista. She had seen a raunchy, bad standup comedian a few years back at McMaster, our alma mater, and that had inspired her to consider becoming a comedian that worked with only clean material. I was skeptical, partly because I thought a lot of Krista’s funniest stories were dirty ones, and I thought she’d be throwing out a lot of her best material. That’s what I wanted to say, anyway, but it came out like I thought she was stupid for even considering the idea.
After jerkily pursuing my line of argument, I was overcome with remorse and self-hatred, and I asked Krista to stop the car. She pulled over, and I walked about twenty feet down the road and started throwing rocks from the side of the road into the dark trees. I hated my stupid job, and my stupid ambitions to become an actor, and Krista didn’t deserve a stupid asshole like me, who couldn’t get out of his funk and be the interesting and supportive person she had been dating before that summer. I had changed entirely from the cool guy I was in university, and I didn’t know who I was or what I was trying to do. Krista came over and asked what was wrong, and I apologized and cried. She said I didn’t have to apologize, but I really felt like I had to apologize, and was angry at her for not letting me. It was not a little bit ridiculous, me sobbing “I’m sorry,” and Krista telling me I had nothing to be sorry for. I guess that’s not ridiculous.
Eventually I calmed down and we continued on our way. That was my lowest point, and things have gone a lot better since then. I’m glad I kept going despite my doubts, and I’m thankful to Krista for not giving up on me.
Showing posts with label Personal Anecdote. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Personal Anecdote. Show all posts
Friday, March 13, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
On SNOWBALL FIGHT
January 3-4
Got it with only three misses!
On SNOWBALL FIGHT
I have a never-fail technique in a snowball fight: make two snowballs, one in each hand. Approach your victim. Lob the snowball in your non-throwing hand up in the air. When they look up at the snowball, nail them in the face! Works every time. For some reason, this improves my aim. Maybe I’m not thinking about aiming as much.
I hit Krista in the eye this way once and it made it go red and bloodshot. She didn’t speak to me for a while. Sometimes it’s disorienting when you’re in a state of warfare with girls and they take themselves out of the war and get offended. It’s a girl way of getting revenge, moving from the physical battlefield to the social.
Onetime my friends Allan, Bob, Amy, Sonia, Meera, Eileen and I went on a McMaster Outdoors Club trip to Bark Lake, which is Up North. The first night we arrived we played cards and made blunts until three or four in the morning, and then we put the four girls to bed before moving to the boys cabin. When we were in the girls’ room, Bob duct taped the door so it wouldn’t lock when we left. He didn’t have a plan, sometimes Bob just did things because he could.
Allan, Bob and I had to do something with our hidden advantage. Allan suggested we get up real early, run into their room and dump a bunch of snow on their bed. Bob and I thought this was a bit extreme, and would get us into Real Trouble. Bob suggested we go into their room and leave a note saying we could have woken them up, but we didn’t. Ha ha! Allan and I agreed that this was too lame, or at least too creepy. I struck upon a compromise.
We went into their rooms (how did we get in there? No questions were asked) and roused the girls for a sunrise hike! What is more Outdoors Club than a sunrise hike? The girls, on about three hours sleep (as were we), did not want to go. Half of them (Meera and Sonia) submissively agreed and forlornly started preparing, whereas the other two (Amy and Eileen) really made a stink. We told them we’d meet them out front. When they finally got up, put on all their outdoor gear, and got to the front door of their dorm, we had left them a note saying “Sunrise Hike Cancelled!! Love, The Boys xoxoxoxox”
What a great prank! What a great start to our trip! But the war had only just started. The boys had no time to lose as we rushed back to our cabin, retrieved our stockpile of filled supersoakers, and barricaded the door to our room with furniture. Then it was the waiting game as we prepared for the inevitable revenge attack. But it never came. When we saw the girls later, they refused to talk to us. It was the girl form of revenge, which is effective, but not very much fun. Not very pranky. These were girls we liked too, so it was a real blow to not have them talking to us. It was Allan’s birthday too.
We learned later that while we were barricading ourselves in our room, they went on a sunrise hike on their own. What a bunch of jerks. The moral of this story is that revenge is tenfold, but in kind. No fair switching battlefields.
Got it with only three misses!
On SNOWBALL FIGHT
I have a never-fail technique in a snowball fight: make two snowballs, one in each hand. Approach your victim. Lob the snowball in your non-throwing hand up in the air. When they look up at the snowball, nail them in the face! Works every time. For some reason, this improves my aim. Maybe I’m not thinking about aiming as much.
I hit Krista in the eye this way once and it made it go red and bloodshot. She didn’t speak to me for a while. Sometimes it’s disorienting when you’re in a state of warfare with girls and they take themselves out of the war and get offended. It’s a girl way of getting revenge, moving from the physical battlefield to the social.
Onetime my friends Allan, Bob, Amy, Sonia, Meera, Eileen and I went on a McMaster Outdoors Club trip to Bark Lake, which is Up North. The first night we arrived we played cards and made blunts until three or four in the morning, and then we put the four girls to bed before moving to the boys cabin. When we were in the girls’ room, Bob duct taped the door so it wouldn’t lock when we left. He didn’t have a plan, sometimes Bob just did things because he could.
Allan, Bob and I had to do something with our hidden advantage. Allan suggested we get up real early, run into their room and dump a bunch of snow on their bed. Bob and I thought this was a bit extreme, and would get us into Real Trouble. Bob suggested we go into their room and leave a note saying we could have woken them up, but we didn’t. Ha ha! Allan and I agreed that this was too lame, or at least too creepy. I struck upon a compromise.
We went into their rooms (how did we get in there? No questions were asked) and roused the girls for a sunrise hike! What is more Outdoors Club than a sunrise hike? The girls, on about three hours sleep (as were we), did not want to go. Half of them (Meera and Sonia) submissively agreed and forlornly started preparing, whereas the other two (Amy and Eileen) really made a stink. We told them we’d meet them out front. When they finally got up, put on all their outdoor gear, and got to the front door of their dorm, we had left them a note saying “Sunrise Hike Cancelled!! Love, The Boys xoxoxoxox”
What a great prank! What a great start to our trip! But the war had only just started. The boys had no time to lose as we rushed back to our cabin, retrieved our stockpile of filled supersoakers, and barricaded the door to our room with furniture. Then it was the waiting game as we prepared for the inevitable revenge attack. But it never came. When we saw the girls later, they refused to talk to us. It was the girl form of revenge, which is effective, but not very much fun. Not very pranky. These were girls we liked too, so it was a real blow to not have them talking to us. It was Allan’s birthday too.
We learned later that while we were barricading ourselves in our room, they went on a sunrise hike on their own. What a bunch of jerks. The moral of this story is that revenge is tenfold, but in kind. No fair switching battlefields.
Monday, February 9, 2009
On THE LIBERTY BELL
January 2nd
I figure out the puzzle before being hanged, having only a head and two arms in the noose.
On THE LIBERTY BELL
I know two twin brothers, Steve and David Pukin. Steve lives in Toronto, like me. David lives in Chicago now, taking forensics at a college there, but in 2005 Steve and David lived together in a big pink house on Bellevue Avenue in Kensington Market in Toronto. Steve and David are from Winnipeg, Steve was part of our group of friends at McMaster in the drama program, and we met David through him. They don’t like to play it up that much, but both Pukins really like the Smashing Pumpkins. Steve, at least, is well known in the online Pumpkins community, and has organized several tribute concerts.
So, when we were out at our local pub on the Pukins’ birthday, we ended up talking about the Billy Corgan concert tour that was going on that summer. Steve and David were bummed because the only show that would have fit into their schedule was in Philadelphia, which was eight hours away. I was a bit drunk (others would tell you I was very drunk) and suggested a road trip. Well, I told them that I would drive them to Philadelphia as a birthday present, and told Krista she would be coming too. When Steve called the next day I told him I always keep my drunken promises, and so I arranged procurement of the Barcmovan (my parents’s minivan) and picked up Steve, David, and their Pumpkins friend Erin, and off we went towards Philadelphia, PA.
The first incident we had on ‘the road’ (before we had left Erin’s driveway), was when I backed into a wooden porch and broke the right taillight. Krista spent the next little while taping the plastic shards of the taillight together with duct tape, I think because she thought it would help explain the whole ‘taillight situation’ at the border. Sometimes my wife (girlfriend at the time) has a logic that is all her own. We trundled along, Erin sleeping in the back and only waking up to complain, and the Pukins chirping in the middle seats about Philadelphia and the Smashing Pumpkins. It became clear that Krista and I would be the parents on the road trip. When we got to the border, Krista turned around and told the twins to stay cool and say nothing.
We pulled up to the customs officer and she asked us where we were going. We told her, to the Billy Corgan concert in Philadelphia. She responded, in customs officer deadpan, “Did you hear the Smashing Pumpkins are getting back together?” Steve and David jumped out of their seats with excitement, responding with a torrent of rumour and hearsay that they had picked up online. David tried to open the side door to the van to talk more freely with the border guard, but the Barcmovan doesn’t allow doors to be opened while the engine is on, so the van just beeped angrily, and David tried to stick his head between the driver’s headrest and the window as we pulled away.
Shortly after Krista started her driving shift (we split the duties into 3 shifts, Me, Krista, and then Steve, because David didn’t have a license) we were pulled over and Krista got a speeding ticket. Not only was that bad for the obvious reason that we now had to pay a speeding ticket from a foreign nation, but it also turned out to be a lesson Steve and David really took to heart. Which is why, during Steve’s shift, we ended up driving five miles under the limit at three in the morning on a Pennsylvania highway with no cars for miles around. I gently suggested we could drive a couple miles over the limit, and the fuzz probably wouldn’t bother us. The fuzz is what we all called the cops the entire trip. I said it first as a joke, and then Steve and David started yelling ‘The fuzz!’ anytime we saw a car that looking like a police car. So whenever Steve got a little brave and started creeping up his speed, David would remind him that the fuzz were probably watching and he’s slow back down. Krista was asleep.
Once we got into Philadelphia, we did usual touristy things: we climbed up the Rocky steps and had our pictures taken at the top in celebratory poses (except for me, I feigned exhaustion), had cheesesteaks from Jim’s Steaks (which is one of at least three places which were ‘the famous one’) and went to the Liberty Bell. I wanted to spend longer reading the accompanying exhibit, but we had to run to try and catch the Duck Boat tour, which we didn’t make. It’s true, though, the Liberty Bell does have a crack in it.
We drove back after a lovely night with a few more ridiculous incidents, and we all agreed that it was a road trip for the ages, and we would have to do another one soon.
I figure out the puzzle before being hanged, having only a head and two arms in the noose.
On THE LIBERTY BELL
I know two twin brothers, Steve and David Pukin. Steve lives in Toronto, like me. David lives in Chicago now, taking forensics at a college there, but in 2005 Steve and David lived together in a big pink house on Bellevue Avenue in Kensington Market in Toronto. Steve and David are from Winnipeg, Steve was part of our group of friends at McMaster in the drama program, and we met David through him. They don’t like to play it up that much, but both Pukins really like the Smashing Pumpkins. Steve, at least, is well known in the online Pumpkins community, and has organized several tribute concerts.
So, when we were out at our local pub on the Pukins’ birthday, we ended up talking about the Billy Corgan concert tour that was going on that summer. Steve and David were bummed because the only show that would have fit into their schedule was in Philadelphia, which was eight hours away. I was a bit drunk (others would tell you I was very drunk) and suggested a road trip. Well, I told them that I would drive them to Philadelphia as a birthday present, and told Krista she would be coming too. When Steve called the next day I told him I always keep my drunken promises, and so I arranged procurement of the Barcmovan (my parents’s minivan) and picked up Steve, David, and their Pumpkins friend Erin, and off we went towards Philadelphia, PA.
The first incident we had on ‘the road’ (before we had left Erin’s driveway), was when I backed into a wooden porch and broke the right taillight. Krista spent the next little while taping the plastic shards of the taillight together with duct tape, I think because she thought it would help explain the whole ‘taillight situation’ at the border. Sometimes my wife (girlfriend at the time) has a logic that is all her own. We trundled along, Erin sleeping in the back and only waking up to complain, and the Pukins chirping in the middle seats about Philadelphia and the Smashing Pumpkins. It became clear that Krista and I would be the parents on the road trip. When we got to the border, Krista turned around and told the twins to stay cool and say nothing.
We pulled up to the customs officer and she asked us where we were going. We told her, to the Billy Corgan concert in Philadelphia. She responded, in customs officer deadpan, “Did you hear the Smashing Pumpkins are getting back together?” Steve and David jumped out of their seats with excitement, responding with a torrent of rumour and hearsay that they had picked up online. David tried to open the side door to the van to talk more freely with the border guard, but the Barcmovan doesn’t allow doors to be opened while the engine is on, so the van just beeped angrily, and David tried to stick his head between the driver’s headrest and the window as we pulled away.
Shortly after Krista started her driving shift (we split the duties into 3 shifts, Me, Krista, and then Steve, because David didn’t have a license) we were pulled over and Krista got a speeding ticket. Not only was that bad for the obvious reason that we now had to pay a speeding ticket from a foreign nation, but it also turned out to be a lesson Steve and David really took to heart. Which is why, during Steve’s shift, we ended up driving five miles under the limit at three in the morning on a Pennsylvania highway with no cars for miles around. I gently suggested we could drive a couple miles over the limit, and the fuzz probably wouldn’t bother us. The fuzz is what we all called the cops the entire trip. I said it first as a joke, and then Steve and David started yelling ‘The fuzz!’ anytime we saw a car that looking like a police car. So whenever Steve got a little brave and started creeping up his speed, David would remind him that the fuzz were probably watching and he’s slow back down. Krista was asleep.
Once we got into Philadelphia, we did usual touristy things: we climbed up the Rocky steps and had our pictures taken at the top in celebratory poses (except for me, I feigned exhaustion), had cheesesteaks from Jim’s Steaks (which is one of at least three places which were ‘the famous one’) and went to the Liberty Bell. I wanted to spend longer reading the accompanying exhibit, but we had to run to try and catch the Duck Boat tour, which we didn’t make. It’s true, though, the Liberty Bell does have a crack in it.
We drove back after a lovely night with a few more ridiculous incidents, and we all agreed that it was a road trip for the ages, and we would have to do another one soon.
On NOISEMAKER
January 1st
I played the first puzzle with Krista (my wife) at around one in the morning on January 1st, and even though the sheet shows that we got hunged, I want the world to know that I knew the answer before she lost it for us while I was playing my turn at
On NOISEMAKER
I’ve never really liked New Year’s Eve celebrations, and in recent years it has turned into a conscious antipathy. I can’t say exactly what it is about December 31st; when I was in high school I didn’t drink, but I went to some drinking parties. In university I would always be back in
The real reason I don’t like New Year’s Eve parties is because I get excited about New Year’s Day: I like starting new calendars and throwing out the old ones. I’m a little neurotic about it – last year I had five day-by-day calendars and one wall calendar. So in my mind, I wake up on New Year’s Day fresh and new, my entire year a blank slate ready for me to get to work, armed with several calendars to help me keep track of my progress. A hangover and sleep-in ruins that fantasy, it lets the old year with all its anxieties and disappointments seep into the new.
The last few years I have had what seems like a good excuse to not go to New Year’s Eve parties. I work at Massey Hall as an usher, and there is an annual Yuk Yuk’s New Year’s Eve extravaganza that I sign up for every year. Whenever people ask me what I’m doing, I am working, sacrificing one of the great party nights of the year to be loyal to my employer. The problem is the shift ends at around 11pm, allowing a little bit of time to go to a party.
Last year was the worst – I somehow agreed to host a New Year’s Party at my house, even though I wouldn’t be home? My old high school friend Snel called me up a few days before, and asked what I was doing New Year’s Eve. I confidently told him that I would be at work and so…. And he said that he and our friend Troup would stop by at 11:30, thus foiling my plan and surprising me into agreement. The show went long and Snel and Troup ended up sitting on my porch in the cold for half an hour, and I got home at 11:55pm, just in time for the perfect New Year’s! That’s what I told everyone anyway.
This year I went to Adam Walker’s apartment on the Danforth near
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
