Nightrider, the Water, and the Toronto Maple Leafs

I know I said I would hold out for some interesting things to happen, but the truth is I’ve got so many great stories about Dmitri and Carlos that even though they don’t live here anymore, I’d be doing the e-public a grand disservice to not try and Hoss-ify some of the more important epics.

And I think there’s no better way to start than with one of my personal favourites.

Dmitri might be one of my best friends on Earth. Maybe not my very best friend. That’s a tight race. But he’s on the podium, and at the end of the summer of 2008, it had been 4 months since we had hung out. Far too long, in my estimation.

Well, it was an exciting couple of days. I had just moved into the Hoss house. I was on my own, and anxiously awaiting Dmitri’s and Carlos’ arrival. We hadn’t yet met Bubs, but we had put up posters and I think he showed up only a couple days later.

At any rate, it was the big day of Dmitri’s arrival and I was stoked. Even more exciting, we’d been invited with our friend (I really am running out of ideas for pseudonyms, but this one will probably stay important, so I’ll try and come up with a good one) Tim-inator to go to a buddy’s place on the lake and go tubing. That sounded like a party. It was September, things were still warm, and I felt like I could use a day off.

So Dmitri and his stepdad arrived dropped off his stuff, and then with a flash, we were left to ourselves.

Aside: Dmitri’s stepdad is a very fast man. He works fast, drives fast, and talks kinda fast. Looks like he could run fast, too, but he’s one of those guys who seems so comfortable in his own skin that you can hardly believe anything in life could surprise him enough that he’d ever need to run after it.

With the rest of the afternoon, we hitched a ride with Tim-inator and went tubing. It was a par-tay, let me tell you. Our buddy (wow, this is getting confusing) Ivan tried getting launched off the dock on a GT snow racer and made it work a couple times

Ivan deserves a fuller character description than I can give at this moment. Suffice it to say that if you picture Chuck Norris and add a couple more truckloads of awesome, then you’ve got a reasonably sketched-out picture of Ivan.

Then we got to the main event. First up was Dmitri. Things were getting a little cold and a little dim, but we were men and not interested in such paltry concerns. Our boat captain was a man I hadn’t yet met, identified to me only as “Nightrider” (Not even a pseudonym…or at least not one that I just made up). Anyway, Nightrider tore off into the lake with Dmitri in tow, blasting over his own wake, punching through big waves and trying as hard as he could to unseat Dmitri from his cold and watery and inflatable perch.

Suffice it to say, Nightrider and the water were successful in dethroning our hero. He hit the water and he hit the water hard. When he floated up, he just kinda bobbed there in the water, and when we got closer we call out to him. “Dmitri! You okay?”

“Ya man,” Dmitri replied. Dmitri is not Jamaican. Dmitri likes mayo sandwiches with a side of conflicted internal ethnic identities – he’s as white-Canadian as they come. Russian at heart, actually, but either way he was not from the islands.

So we put him in the tube again. And Nightrider threw him again. And this time, when he came up, he really didn’t look so good. We hauled him into the boat.

It started raining.

Dmitri said he’d be fine, so I jumped in and tubed for a while. I got thrown twice, and hard. The second time I came down on my leg and it was screaming when I hit the surface. So I called it a day and then Tim-inator hopped in the water.

By the time Tim-inator had done a couple runs, the rain was really starting to pick up and Dmitri looked really bad. So Nightrider brought the boat into the dock to drop Dmitri and I off. I figured, if I could get him on land, maybe into some dry clothes and sitting down on a chair that wasn’t dipping and bobbing an smelling like gas, then he’d be OK. I was still limping a bit, but we gingerly hopped out of the boat, and then the others sped away to do a few more runs.

The moment they pulled away, Dmitri staggered over to the side of the dock, and decided that he was no longer so sure he wanted to keep his lunch in his stomach. After a moment of careful deliberation, he decided to deposit it off the dock into the water. Almost all of it, at least. Some hit the dock.

I’d like to say I met this new difficulty with calm preparedness and altruistic self-sacrifice for my friend. My thoughts actually ran something a bit more like:

“Man, I’m cold.”

“Oh, my leg is killing. Nightrider is a maniac. I wonder if Dmitri…”

“Oh crap.”

“I don’t remember my first aid. I didn’t pay attention in the class. Why do I carry the certification, why do I advertise it on my resume if I don’t even flipping remember what to do?”

“Vomit, disorientation…uh…maybe a concussion? He could’ve hit his head on the tube or the water or something. And vomit wouldn’t make sense for hypothermia, which he could have. I know I’m about to lose some toes.”

So, after my moment of panic, and helped him up, holding his shoulders because he was very obviously weak on his feet, and helped him up to the house. There, our buddy’s mom, who I think might actually be a nurse, helped him into some dry clothes and got me on the phone to telehealth to ask about what to do.

Now, Dmitri is a rabid Canucks fan. Hockey is the most important thing in his life besides God and maybe…maaaaybe… his family. And coupled with his adoraton for the Vancouver Canucks is an almost inhuman hatred for the Leafs. I mean, I’ve seen people hate the Leafs, but Dmitri has every Habs fan in the world beat. He will actually cheer against Toronto even if they’re playing against a Vancouver division rival. That’s dedication.

So you can imagine my surprise when Dmitri emerged wearing one of our friend’s old t-shirts. An oversized grey number with a bright blue maple leaf right dead centre on his chest.

I know it isn’t classy to laugh at someone who’s throwing up and needs help walking from room to room, but I threw class and propriety and even common decency to the wind. I laughed. And I laughed hard.

And so did all the guys when they came in from the rainy wet boat ride. In fact, we tried to get pictures of it, but he kinda covered up the leaf on the shirt and I think most of us drew the line at actually manhandling the wounded even for a good laugh later.

Well, it was about 10pm now, and getting late. Some of the guys had work the next morning. But Ivan, because he’s not only awesome but a good man, drove me and Dmitri to the emergency room, where we got admitted immediately. I would be lying if I said I didn’t plead Dmitri’s case to the nurse a little more enthusiastically than might have been absolutely necessary. But they brought us in, got him lying down and told him to not sleep.

Well, it was about 10:30. Dmitri had been up since 5. And he had just gotten a concussion. And he’d just effectively had a lake-bath and was now in comfy, dry, loose-fitting clothes eerily reminiscent of PJs. And I’m just not that interesting a person, folks. So keeping Dmitri awake for the full hour and a half it took for a doctor to come over and take a look at him was a challenge.

When our exalted physician finally appeared, he had Dmitri sit up, looked at him, asked him a few short questions – the same ones, in fact, the nurse had asked an hour earlier – and then bestowed upon us his prescription:

“Go home and get some rest. Don’t sleep for more than 2 hours at a time, and if you throw up anymore, come back in.”

Thanks, Doc.

You guys want to guess whose job it was going to be to make sure Dmitri didn’t sleep for more than 2 hours at a time? Well, he doesn’t wake up to an alarm after 10 hours, so it would have to be me, el Hoss-io. I’m not still bitter. But I am still tired.

Waking Dmitri up is a difficult prospect, and essentially requires physical attack. I felt kinda bad waking him up over and over again because he was so tired, but I had my orders and Carlos wasn’t in the house yet to help share the burden

About 8am I woke Dmitri up and then, because I had to leave to help a buddy move (which is a story in itself, by the way), I told him that I didn’t care if he slipped into a coma and died after that because I was tired. Or something eloquent like that.

Turned out Dmitri slept for about another 5 hours and didn’t die. So no biggie.

As for the photos of the Maple Leafs shirt, they’ve gone completely AWOL. My theory is that Dmitri had them destroyed. Or at least the people who owned them.

And I think they might have made our buddy clean up the part of Dmitri’s lunch that didn’t make it into the water. But I have no sympathy. It’s his own fault for bringing Nightrider in to come and destroy Dmitri’s head.

Dry Spells

Howdy y’all

You ever get in one of those dry spells? And I don’t mean like the “when your throat is rough and you get unexpected nosebleeds” kind of dry. I mean the times when a lot of stuff happens and you go days without a really good laugh? And then some really little thing happens and you laugh way too hard?

End of hypotheticals

So it’s been a bit of a dry spell and yesterday I was sitting in the living room with my two roommates. Since I haven’t yet introduced these characters, I suppose I’ll do so now:

T-Bob is a relatively new addition to the house. Quiet, keeps to himself mostly, but he suffers from that same ailment that most Canadore students do which is that sometime after about 10pm he goes completely and totally insane. He may have picked it up from Carlos, who is actually his brother. Suffice it to say that when T-Bob does have something to say, it’s usually loud, boisterous and intended to make someone in the room upset. And usually followed by inexplicable maniacal laughter.

Bubs has been in the house almost as long as me, and is good at everything. Every. Single. Thing. He is very reserved at first, although he gets just as squirrelly when the clock gets late. Being one of the more mature and forward-thinking of the housemates, however, he usually has the sense to hit the sack before he has an opportunity to go truly insane. And in Carlos’ absence, he’s done all he can to carry the torch of tri-syllabic shouting, speckled from quotes from Bob and Doug MacKenzie and obscure movies he admits he can’t even remember, but they had that one good line that one time… Example: “ ‘Ello, Chee. Lezz talk-why-not.”

I don’t know either.

Anyway, last night we were watching the Canada/Norway hockey game (Whooooo!) and cheering loudly. A buddy of ours, I’ll call him Watergate, came over to watch Lost, which is usually on. But since Oz wasn’t home, and I’m only a mediocre Lost fan at best, and T-Bob hates Lost on principle, and the game was on, we watched that instead.

Then, thanks to the miracle of timeshifting, we watched Lost

T-Bob was doing his usual routine of complaining loudly that the show sucks and loudly interrupting so as to hamper mine and Watergate’s enjoyment of the show. But he stayed. And Bubs was there too, conspicuously silent. Although I think it’s possible he was only half-awake.

Anyway, a commercial break arrived and T-Bob was seizing the opportunity to obstreperously obtund the show, building to a crescendo of pontification on the subject. And then, at the height of his diametrically denunciatory diatribe, his chair in the corner slipped out from under him and he came crashing to the ground with a great “Thud.”

At this we all began to laugh, even Bubs. But because it had been so long since any of us had a good laugh (I am projecting of course, but then I am convinced that my experience must be universal to everyone else’s, and so mine is the only one worth worrying about), we continued to laugh for some time. Far too much and too hard and too long, in fact. I joined in, but not without a certain crisis of jollity. What exacerbated the problem was that the tight confines of T-Bob’s corner meant that for a minute he couldn’t even get up. So we continued to laugh at him almost all commercial break.

I have done my best to convey every iota of comedic effect the moment possessed, and know that I have done it a great deal better justice than it deserves. It was not as funny as you now imagine it, and we laughed far longer and harder than you are currently imagining as well.

Just saying.

Anyway, I think this is what happens in midterm season. People just aren’t interesting enough. And I’m thinking that if business don’t pick up soon, I may start to just record more favourite anecdotes from the recent past to keep something on the page. A writer with no muse is just a word-monger, not a craftsman. If people don’t start getting very interesting soon, I may have to pull a Picasso and just paint what sells, throwing feeling and belief to the wind.

By the way, I know nothing about art. I am just a Hoss. So if you care about Picasso, too bad. But it strikes me that if I were judging, the anatomical errors would end up as point deductions.

---

“People don’t have 3 eyes on one side of their face, Pablo. Look at one. Find me someone who looks like what you painted.”

“You can’t? Then I’m gonna have to deduct you.”

---

In the meantime, if you are truly lacking inspiration, just google some demotivational posters or something. With safesearch on, though. Apparently a lot of people find naked women very demotivating. So be careful.

Superbowl Sunday

Today is Superbowl Sunday!

Whoo! Booyaaa!

No self-respecting Hoss would be able to look himself in the mirror if he didn't get excited about the biggest football day of the year. However, I have a secret to share with all of you:

I know absolutely nothing about football. I care absolutely not at all about football.

In fact, recently, I had become convinced that football was actually one of the lamer games that are followed by a large audience. Hear me out.

Football is almost the exact same game as the ever-impressive game of rugby. Rugby has picked up a lot of popularity up here in Canada and is the real thing "across the pond" in Britain and other European countries. The only key differences between football and rugby are as follows: In rugby, you do all the exact same things, except you don't wear an imposing suit of pads and protection, and in rugby you don't get to take a 5-minute break in between each play.

Let's review: rugby is no padding and no resting; football is lots of protection and frequent rest breaks.

Real men play rugby.

That being said, I'm watching football tonight. And I like watching football. But I'm facing a powerful quandary. What team am I going to cheer for? Last year I faced this same problem; since I never follow the teams, I have no favourites. Last year I kinda cheered for the Steelers; they were Pittsburgh's team and I follow the Pittsburgh penguins (because hockey is a real sport!) This year, however, I'm faced with the choice between the Colts and the Saints. I know nothing about any of these teams.

My first reaction, actually, was to cheer for New Orleans. But that has nothing to do with the team and everything to do with the city. They've never made it to the Superbowl before. They've never won. The city is still rebuilding. It would seem morally excellent for the Saints to win the Superbowl. It would seem most altruistic and people-loving to cheer for New Orleans.

Then again, is that really what's virtuous? Why do we feel a need to sympathize with the underdog? Why not cheer on the Colts who'v forged a successful dynasty? The hard work, difficult management and consistently good football required to turn out those kinds of results should be rewarded by our allegiance, shouldn't they?

Hence my quandary. The Saints is a cool name. So is Colts. If someone comments or messages me or something before kickoff telling me who to cheer for, I will. First come, first serve.

Anyway, as far as annual traditions go, this crisis of conscience isn't so bad. I'll survive. Unless I choose the Colts and all my roommates choose the Saints. Then I'll be tarred and feathered like a Loyalist in 1777 Massachusetts.

What do you read?

I just had the oddest experience.

I instantly want to clarify. I can imagine odder experiences. I could have just been dipped in a vat of banana yogourt and give the Nobel prize in cartwheeling. That is not what just just happened. I imagine, however, that the one I've just had is likely the oddest experience I'll have today.

I am currently getting work done. That is, until I was interrupted and so shaken by the experience that I decided to stop what I was working on and carpe the creative diem.

I was getting some research done for one of my papers. Rwandan genocide. Scary unhappy stuff. lots to read. I was in the midst of this reading when a couple people walked behind me.

Considering I'm in the Nipissing library, this is not an entirely uncommon phenomenon.

However, all is not well. Because the taller of the two indistinct presences whose existence I am all-but ignoring stops, turns to me, and says, "Do you read novels?"

I need you to understand something about me. There are people who are single-minded. There are people who have a one-track mind. But I take focus to a whole new level. Exclusivity is my trademark. The mental effect of this question on the progress of what I was thinking about (which was fascinating, but this doesn't strike me as the venue) was that of a perfectly happy train rounding the corner and bumping into an entirely inconveniently placed mountain.

"Uh...umm...sure..." I believe was my eloquent response, my brain scrambling to put the pieces of the train together, to look for the track again, to write apologetic and sympathetic letters to the families of everyone who had been on the train, and praying they would be able to trust Hoss-Brain-Rail again someday in the future.

The asker of this question turned out to be an older gentleman with short, trim white hair. I don't believe he was very tall, but since I was sitting and he was standing behind me, I didn't have a great angle for comparison. He was accompanied by a lady who seemed younger than him though old enough to have a family and a mortgage and real problems. The man was dressed in a dark suit, I believe. Maybe a red tie? His face was dour and serious. I had the strongest need to impress this man, as if he were something of importance. I hoped that he had wanted me to be a novel-reader.

And then the follow-up question, breaking the momentary and even unnoticable silence.

"What kind of novels do you read?"

It wasn't the question that threw me off. It was his manner. He wasn't trying to make conversation and he wasn't interested in getting to know who I was better. After not even so much as an "Excuse me", I don't know why I would expect warmth or interest now, but there it is. Force of habit.

Anyway, I blanked. Way blank. What do I read? What have I read?

The book I just finished the other day was "World War Z: An Oral history of the Zombie War" by Max Brooks. But that wasn't really a novel exactly. The most recent novel I read was "And Another Thing" by Eoin Colfer. Great. Funny. Really liked it. What kind of novel is that? Science Fiction? Comedy?

I believe these last two categories are what bumbled unceremoniously from my still-derailed and wrangled-by-insurance-companies brain.

Well, apparently he was pleased. He smiled, turned to his friend and said, "See?" and then turned to me saying, "Thanks, son. You've helped me prove a point." With that they walked away, the woman laughing and the man seeming very proud of himself.

Hrmm.

I feel a little taken-advantage of. How could he know that I read Sci-Fi? Is it how I dress? My Mac? At that precise moment I had a page from Google Books open to a book I was previewing. What about Genocide and Public Health screamed "Science Fiction"? Or is it a demographic thing? A lot of guys my age, in university, are big on sci fi and fantasy.

What was his point? Should I be happy I helped him make it?

The book I read before that was John Bunyan's "The Pilgrim's Progress". What if I had told him that?

I guess I don't like being pigeon-holed. I don't like meeting expectations. And I don't like being picked on by people bigger than, or at least standing over, me.

And now my train of thought is good and dead. Jerk. Maybe I'll take lunch now.