Monday, May 10, 2004
Whalers, Jets, and Nordiques
I have never liked the Maple Leafs. There may have been 21 teams in the NHL, but only two teams counted, the Maple Leafs and the Canadiens. In Nova Scotia in the early 80's you either liked one team or you liked the other. I read a ValueTales story early on about Maurice Richard and adopted him as my personal hero. I read 'The Hockey Sweater' by Roch Carrier shortly after and my mind was settled, I was a Canadiens fan.
I have never wavered in my love for the Canadiens and conversely have never wavered in my hatred for the Maple Leafs. That is until Wednesday night when I was watching what would turn out to be the Leafs last game of the 2003-2004 season with Gerry. When the Leafs lost the Eastern Conference Semi Final (remember when it would have been the Adams, Patrick, or Norris Division Final?), I found myself cursing and booing as loudly as I possibly could.
I guess that's friendship.
I have never liked the Maple Leafs. There may have been 21 teams in the NHL, but only two teams counted, the Maple Leafs and the Canadiens. In Nova Scotia in the early 80's you either liked one team or you liked the other. I read a ValueTales story early on about Maurice Richard and adopted him as my personal hero. I read 'The Hockey Sweater' by Roch Carrier shortly after and my mind was settled, I was a Canadiens fan.
I have never wavered in my love for the Canadiens and conversely have never wavered in my hatred for the Maple Leafs. That is until Wednesday night when I was watching what would turn out to be the Leafs last game of the 2003-2004 season with Gerry. When the Leafs lost the Eastern Conference Semi Final (remember when it would have been the Adams, Patrick, or Norris Division Final?), I found myself cursing and booing as loudly as I possibly could.
I guess that's friendship.
"Life's Not A Bitch, Life's A Beautiful Woman"
On the ride home to Cape Breton my cousin asked of me "Was it you that wrote off a car when you were 18?"
I had to think about it for a moment. I'm fully aware that writing off a car isn't something that just slips your mind. I wrote off one car or contributed to the writing off of one vehicle, however it wasn't mine nor was it my parents. I once rear ended a hatchback driven by what could only be described as a female version of Hans Moleman. Very little damage was done to the truck I was driving, but the rear end of hers was a hell of a lot more compact than it had been.
But I was over 20 when that happened, so it wasn't me that my cousin was referring to. I thought about it for a little while longer. Stories of my brother's daring while driving when he was in high school were legendary so much that when I graduated to high school (albeit a different high school) a number of years after him, people were still exchanging stories about him. I could never tell if they were in awe of him or just plain shocked. Despite my brother's risky driving, he never once flipped or rolled a car. I remember he once struck a rock while driving his new ten speed on a construction site and ended up splitting open his head. That's the only vehicle he ever flipped or rolled.
I thought about it a little longer and I remembered that my sister once flipped the family vehicle when I was 12. She was on the way to the ski hill and the roads were incredibly icy. I was already at the ski hill, my father had driven my brother and I out earlier that day. My brother's friend, who I really looked up to at the point in my life because he had a reputation as being an asshole, came up to me at the ski hill and informed me what had happened. After ascertaining that she wasn't dead and hadn't sustained life threatening injuries, I looked at my brother's friend and laughed and said "What a stupid bitch."
It's odd how easily those words spilled out of my mouth. You can produce, you can tag you can write, you can produce, but you can never make words merely physical constructs. You can just suddenly turn those sounds tangible. You can't eat your words the moment the exit your mouth, swallow them quickly, force them down your throat (sideways if you must), wash them down with a glass of water, and digest, thus erasing them from existence.
"No, I never wrote off a car."
On the ride home to Cape Breton my cousin asked of me "Was it you that wrote off a car when you were 18?"
I had to think about it for a moment. I'm fully aware that writing off a car isn't something that just slips your mind. I wrote off one car or contributed to the writing off of one vehicle, however it wasn't mine nor was it my parents. I once rear ended a hatchback driven by what could only be described as a female version of Hans Moleman. Very little damage was done to the truck I was driving, but the rear end of hers was a hell of a lot more compact than it had been.
But I was over 20 when that happened, so it wasn't me that my cousin was referring to. I thought about it for a little while longer. Stories of my brother's daring while driving when he was in high school were legendary so much that when I graduated to high school (albeit a different high school) a number of years after him, people were still exchanging stories about him. I could never tell if they were in awe of him or just plain shocked. Despite my brother's risky driving, he never once flipped or rolled a car. I remember he once struck a rock while driving his new ten speed on a construction site and ended up splitting open his head. That's the only vehicle he ever flipped or rolled.
I thought about it a little longer and I remembered that my sister once flipped the family vehicle when I was 12. She was on the way to the ski hill and the roads were incredibly icy. I was already at the ski hill, my father had driven my brother and I out earlier that day. My brother's friend, who I really looked up to at the point in my life because he had a reputation as being an asshole, came up to me at the ski hill and informed me what had happened. After ascertaining that she wasn't dead and hadn't sustained life threatening injuries, I looked at my brother's friend and laughed and said "What a stupid bitch."
It's odd how easily those words spilled out of my mouth. You can produce, you can tag you can write, you can produce, but you can never make words merely physical constructs. You can just suddenly turn those sounds tangible. You can't eat your words the moment the exit your mouth, swallow them quickly, force them down your throat (sideways if you must), wash them down with a glass of water, and digest, thus erasing them from existence.
"No, I never wrote off a car."
Weird Science
My first year of university I took a full slate of almost nothing, but science courses. I had been told all through high school that the only way that I'd have a steady job upon completion of my post-secondary career was if I graduated with a science degree. I was quite proficient at arts courses like drama, social studies, and English, but I was never encouraged to pursue an arts degree. I felt as though if I didn't take honours Math, honours Physics etc. that I'd wind up as a burden on society.
When it came time to enroll in university I made sure to take as many science courses as possible. I was convinced I was going to be a micro-biologist. I had no real idea of what that entailed (and still today I have merely a vague notion mostly from conversations with Derrick Hiltz and Sherri MacLeod), but I knew that it sounded like a great answer if I was quizzed by one of my parents' friends or one of my former teachers about what I was going to do.
I didn't worry so much about what my former teachers thought once I saw what they were checking out of the library, Clive Cussler novels. They made my selections look like pulitizer prize winners in comparison. I hate to say it, but the seemed like they were the adult equivalent of Choose Your Own Adventure novels. I didn't worry so much about my parents' friends once I fully realized that their own kids were huge fuck-ups. I have yet to see the offspring of one of my parents' friends achieve a Ph.D. Not that anyone in my family has either.
I was wholly unprepared for university science. I spent most of my time writing crude comic strips about former NHL head coach Mike Keenan and goalie Darren Pang as well as cartoons that concerned Snorks and the evils of pre-marital sex. I was out of my element and no amount of charm was going to garner me A's and B's. The rub was that all of my friends were doing great in school. I had surrounded myself with hardworking students and geniuses. I look like I had either Klinefelter or Turner syndrome in comparison...I kid, I kid.
Needless to say organic chemistry, c ++ programming, and biology all made mince meat out of me. One of the very few things I gleaned from chemistry was how to use a bunsen burner to transform a length of pipette into a glass heart. I promptly handed that glass heart over to my lab instructor. It was a 'thank you' for putting up with my inability to understand even the basics of organic chemistry. I would later see her at the public library checking out Harlequin romance novels. She didn't recognize me. I suppose the glass pipette heart meant nothing to her. Hells I ain't no Fabio!
My first year of university I took a full slate of almost nothing, but science courses. I had been told all through high school that the only way that I'd have a steady job upon completion of my post-secondary career was if I graduated with a science degree. I was quite proficient at arts courses like drama, social studies, and English, but I was never encouraged to pursue an arts degree. I felt as though if I didn't take honours Math, honours Physics etc. that I'd wind up as a burden on society.
When it came time to enroll in university I made sure to take as many science courses as possible. I was convinced I was going to be a micro-biologist. I had no real idea of what that entailed (and still today I have merely a vague notion mostly from conversations with Derrick Hiltz and Sherri MacLeod), but I knew that it sounded like a great answer if I was quizzed by one of my parents' friends or one of my former teachers about what I was going to do.
I didn't worry so much about what my former teachers thought once I saw what they were checking out of the library, Clive Cussler novels. They made my selections look like pulitizer prize winners in comparison. I hate to say it, but the seemed like they were the adult equivalent of Choose Your Own Adventure novels. I didn't worry so much about my parents' friends once I fully realized that their own kids were huge fuck-ups. I have yet to see the offspring of one of my parents' friends achieve a Ph.D. Not that anyone in my family has either.
I was wholly unprepared for university science. I spent most of my time writing crude comic strips about former NHL head coach Mike Keenan and goalie Darren Pang as well as cartoons that concerned Snorks and the evils of pre-marital sex. I was out of my element and no amount of charm was going to garner me A's and B's. The rub was that all of my friends were doing great in school. I had surrounded myself with hardworking students and geniuses. I look like I had either Klinefelter or Turner syndrome in comparison...I kid, I kid.
Needless to say organic chemistry, c ++ programming, and biology all made mince meat out of me. One of the very few things I gleaned from chemistry was how to use a bunsen burner to transform a length of pipette into a glass heart. I promptly handed that glass heart over to my lab instructor. It was a 'thank you' for putting up with my inability to understand even the basics of organic chemistry. I would later see her at the public library checking out Harlequin romance novels. She didn't recognize me. I suppose the glass pipette heart meant nothing to her. Hells I ain't no Fabio!
"I'm so afraid of getting cancer"
When I moved out to the country there wasn't a whole lot for me to do as I didn't have many friends my age who lived close by and things such as the mall, all ages shows, and the movies were all located about 30-45 minutes away. It was incumbent upon me to dream up my own ways of passing the time.
One thing we used to do when friends came to visit was head down to the side of the highway. There'd be three or four of us and we'd pretend to beat on one of the members of our group while cars passed. We'd continue with our faux swarming until a good samaritan would slow down or stop and then we'd flee into the woods. It wasn't terribly bright, but it did while away the idle hours.
In the summers Lachie's family would spend a great deal of time at their cottage about a mile down the road from my house. Lachie, I, and his brother would play a game of my invention called Underwater Guatamelan Druglords. This entailed diving under water and kicking and thrashing at each other as much as possible. It looked pretty cool and the name was catchy so it stuck as an activity despite the fact that there was absolutely no point to the game and no connection to Guatamela or drugs.
The non-summer months were particularly hard because I'd hear from my friends at school how great the show at the Pit was that I'd missed. Not only was it difficult to get a drive to Sydney to see shows at the Pit, but it was extremely difficult to convince my brother to let me tag along to see his friends' bands play. I spent a lot of time watching Star Trek re-runs (MITV use to broadcast like 16 hours of Star Trek a week) and then when that wasn't enough I was reading Star Trek novels and attempting to write my own scripts for Star Trek. I'm glad we didn't have the internet at my house at that time otherwise I'd be a fan fiction mephisto.
I used to be really angry that my parents moved me all the way out into the country when I was just hitting puberty and hanging out with your friends and out of the eyes of our parents meant the world. I used to think that I was so unlucky that we moved out of Sydney. I pitied myself.
Sydney's slowly becoming a wasteland. I joked with the woman who cut my hair that I don't think that I'd want to move back to Sydney if given the chance because 'I don't want to catch cancer.' I relayed that story to Amanda and we talked about how true that was. Neither of us has encountered very many people in Ontario or Alberta who have friends or relatives dying of cancer on a regular basis. I could be wrong, but the word cancer doesn't seem as foreign to me as it does to a lot of people I've encountered who've grown up outside Nova Scotia. It's not that the word cancer doesn't scare me, but when you encounter it so much well you the fear stops being accompanied by shock. It's the same feeling I get when talking about layoffs or unemployment. It was nothing for me to have a dozen or so friends whose parents weren't working or were working under the threat of lay off. It's a scary thought, but it isn't uncommon, it isn't even unacceptable.
I read one of those economic 'feel good' articles that gets published in the Cape Breton Post every month. It was titled something like "People Still Island's Greatest Resource.' I suppose they are until they start dying early or flee due to the threat of it.
It's a beautiful island. I don't think I'd want to have grown up anywhere else, but there is something rotten in the state of denmark.
When I moved out to the country there wasn't a whole lot for me to do as I didn't have many friends my age who lived close by and things such as the mall, all ages shows, and the movies were all located about 30-45 minutes away. It was incumbent upon me to dream up my own ways of passing the time.
One thing we used to do when friends came to visit was head down to the side of the highway. There'd be three or four of us and we'd pretend to beat on one of the members of our group while cars passed. We'd continue with our faux swarming until a good samaritan would slow down or stop and then we'd flee into the woods. It wasn't terribly bright, but it did while away the idle hours.
In the summers Lachie's family would spend a great deal of time at their cottage about a mile down the road from my house. Lachie, I, and his brother would play a game of my invention called Underwater Guatamelan Druglords. This entailed diving under water and kicking and thrashing at each other as much as possible. It looked pretty cool and the name was catchy so it stuck as an activity despite the fact that there was absolutely no point to the game and no connection to Guatamela or drugs.
The non-summer months were particularly hard because I'd hear from my friends at school how great the show at the Pit was that I'd missed. Not only was it difficult to get a drive to Sydney to see shows at the Pit, but it was extremely difficult to convince my brother to let me tag along to see his friends' bands play. I spent a lot of time watching Star Trek re-runs (MITV use to broadcast like 16 hours of Star Trek a week) and then when that wasn't enough I was reading Star Trek novels and attempting to write my own scripts for Star Trek. I'm glad we didn't have the internet at my house at that time otherwise I'd be a fan fiction mephisto.
I used to be really angry that my parents moved me all the way out into the country when I was just hitting puberty and hanging out with your friends and out of the eyes of our parents meant the world. I used to think that I was so unlucky that we moved out of Sydney. I pitied myself.
Sydney's slowly becoming a wasteland. I joked with the woman who cut my hair that I don't think that I'd want to move back to Sydney if given the chance because 'I don't want to catch cancer.' I relayed that story to Amanda and we talked about how true that was. Neither of us has encountered very many people in Ontario or Alberta who have friends or relatives dying of cancer on a regular basis. I could be wrong, but the word cancer doesn't seem as foreign to me as it does to a lot of people I've encountered who've grown up outside Nova Scotia. It's not that the word cancer doesn't scare me, but when you encounter it so much well you the fear stops being accompanied by shock. It's the same feeling I get when talking about layoffs or unemployment. It was nothing for me to have a dozen or so friends whose parents weren't working or were working under the threat of lay off. It's a scary thought, but it isn't uncommon, it isn't even unacceptable.
I read one of those economic 'feel good' articles that gets published in the Cape Breton Post every month. It was titled something like "People Still Island's Greatest Resource.' I suppose they are until they start dying early or flee due to the threat of it.
It's a beautiful island. I don't think I'd want to have grown up anywhere else, but there is something rotten in the state of denmark.
