Thank you to Jeremy Mills and the class of 2001 for the first story from beyond the circle....sorry Jeremy but have to chuckle at your misfortune here, but believe me, I am not alone in saying that we have all had nights like this (ok maybe it is just me and Jeremy). Beer goggles don't even work sometimes.
2001 was kind of a bad year for the radio class. Wayne had a tough time with a bad cold so we did some of assignments via e-mail. I have to agree though, the trip to Moncton was very "educational".
Jason MacDonald, Ed Barfitt, Mark Cameron and myself left the night before to enjoy Moncton's nightlife.....why we went to Memeracook, I'll never know. We all got lapdances and a couple of the strippers were all right except for the one that i got. I don't think she had graced a shower for a couple of days and she looked exactly like the women from the Royal Canadian Air Farce show on CBC!!!!
Aside from that though the whole night was a blast.(We taught Mister Cameron that yes....you do sometimes need alcohol to have fun....or at least have the guts to the strip club in Memeracook!!) One of the best times of my life, and I have the late Radio Studies course at NBCC Woodstock to thank for it!!
Here's another one that sticks out. One night the entire radio class gathered at my place before we all ventured to JR's for a lovely night of Karaoke. Well the Journalism class was out in full force as well and we decided that we were going to show them how to sing. We signed Mark Cameron up to sing Sweet Caroline but we all got up to sing. The ovation at the end of the song was LOUD!! The next day in class we all had a good laugh about our crooning and Wayne must of over heard us because after lunch on all of our desks were the lyrics to Sweet Caroline. From that day on the official song of the Radio Studies Class of 2001 was....you guessed it, Sweet Caroline!
Monday, May 14, 2007
Chapter 12 - My first standing ovation
Chapter 11 - My first standing ovation
We can all remember our first college party’s right. If you answered yes to that question, you were obviously at the wrong ones. As I assume most of us (especially between the 1997 and 1998 Journalism classes) are still trying to piece together our years, yes I said YEARS in college. Thanks to a few kind souls here's what I remember, (or what I was told) about my first big college party.
Most students lived in close proximity to the college, however I didn’t. If you know where the fire hall in Woodstock is, I was about two streets above that staying with a friend of my mothers. So when the “gang” was going out for beers, it was a little out of the way for me to join them. (that is a long ass stumble home) Oh yeah, and not that it mattered much, I was only 18 at the time.
One day after a couple of heavy classes with Victor, Susan, Bernie and Steve (ok, Steve's classes were a breeze) Danik mentioned he was having a "get together" at his place (the aforementioned Club Kennedy) and that I should come along. I was like, cool, my first invite to a “party.” I’m not going to pass this up.
I told the lady I was boarding with that I was going out and not to wait up for me, as I would probably be out most of the evening. I arrived at my destination, and most of my first year journalism class was sitting around a table playing cards and drinking various drinks. There were even a few second year students there, setting a really bad example and I believe, the culprits were, Mr. Jean Bertin and Ms. Katie Stokes. I forget who jumped up to make me a drink first; it was either Disco Dave Wilson or Danik "the flying Frenchman" Boudreau. Either way I was handed a tall glass that looked like it had orange juice in it.
“It’s a screwdriver,” Danik said. “Orange juice and vodka go ahead it’s good.” This may have been the first drink Danik had made for me, but by the jesus, it sure as hell wasn't the last one.
After a couple of these I had loosened up a bit and had a couple really stiff rye and cokes to boot. This wasn’t the first time I had been drinking, it was however my first experience with hard liquor, so my head was starting to tell me I had enough.
Danik was feeling pretty good at the time (which meant he had a couple dozen into him) and announced that they were heading to the only bar in town called JR’s. This is the place where thousands and thousands of our hard earned government student loans would be spent over the next couple of years. (you are very welcome Mr. Rose)
Being only 18, I was afraid I wouldn’t be allowed in, and didn’t want to cause a scene my first night going to the "big bar.” The gang reassured me that I would be fine, just look like you belong there and you will be fine. Due to the amount of liquor I had poured down my throat, confidence wasn’t a problem. So we headed out. But, we didn’t take the Meduxnekeag Bridge. No no no, you see that would have been the SMART thing to do. We all decided (well at least the vast majority of us anyway) that we were going to take the TRAIN BRIDGE.
For all you students who started at NBCC Woodstock after 1996, this wouldn’t have been a big deal cause the TransCanada trail had already been built. Not in 1995!
The rickety old rail ties were still there, and they weren’t spaced all that evenly either, so just when you think you had a good rhythm going. You had to stop. Which also meant you were probably going to trip or be pushed over by someone coming up behind you. I think this is the time that Danik and Dave scared the bejesus out of Kim Elliot as they were trying to hurry her across the tracks. Hearing her scream was priceless.
Eventually we all made it. And I surprisingly got inside. I wanted to jump around like a little kid, but that would have meant my immediate exit. And being that the bouncers went to the college, I think you can figure the rest of it out yourself.
Thus is the begining of my demise!
We all find a table and sit down, and before I know it Danik puts three screwdrivers down in front of me. There was a 3 for 1 special on that night, and he had intended on taking full advantage of it. I thanked him for them and quickly drank them down.
A couple of rockin songs came on and we all headed out to the dance floor. Which I think Dok described earlier as being about 20x10 in size. But there weren’t many people there yet, so we basically had the floor to ourselves. About 3 songs later, I stumble in the direction of the table, and what do I find on my arrival….ding ding ding ding….yep, yet another round of screwdrivers thanks to the flying Frenchman. Again I thanked him for his generosity, but told him that I was going to throw up on him if he bought me anymore. One thing I quickly found out about Danik, he was very good at pretending to pay attention.
So those drinks go down, and I am pulled back out onto the floor. I don’t know if you have been in this position before, but too many drinks + dancing and getting all hot and sweaty = a straight line for the bathroom. So I calmly but quickly made my way to the back of the bar and into the bathroom. And on the way past the table, yep, were again more drinks on the table for lil’ Dave.
I spent what seemed like an eternity in that bathroom. Danik eventually rolled in to tell me that he was going to finish what drinks he had (which no doubt included the ones I wasn’t going to drink) come in and get me. Danik leaves and the next thing I hear this big gruff voice behind me say that I have to get my ass out of the bathroom cause the bounce staff was on to me, and they were going to kick me out.
I think I had a pretty good grip on that toilet bowl for a small guy, but this guy, who could have passed for the WWE’s Kevin Nash, (Wayne from Graphics circa 1995) promptly removed me from the stall and held me up long enough to get out the front door. Man did that fresh air ever feel good.
WHUMP!
I retreat to the steps and continue with what I was so rudely interrupted doing in the bathroom. Slowly the fresh air got to me, and I wasn’t feeling all that bad. Mind you I couldn't remove my head from my hands in fear of motion sickness.
“What is he doing out here, I told him (me) that was coming in to get him,” Danik sputtered in Franglais (half french half english) on his way out the front door. Wayne and Danik got into a pretty heated argument right in front of me (I know this cause their feet were getting closer and closer together) over who was supposed to take me out of the bathroom. Feeling quite honored and flattered that two grown men were fighting over me, I felt I was the only one that was going to be able to stop it. They were mere inches apart when I finally caught their attention.
“It’s my own damn fault for being in the position.” Not only was I surprised what I said, I was surprised nothing else came out of my mouth.
Finally the war was over and soon enough we were all laughing about the whole ordeal. The next thing I remember is waking up in a very dark room the next morning. Danik opened the door and informed me that if I didn’t get my drunken ass up out of bed, we were going to be late for Victor’s class. I peeled myself off the mattress and probably could have killed anything within 100 yards with the way I smelled.
And there was the light streaming in from the door. You know the scene in many movies where people die and they walk towards the light. That was exactly what I was doing. Club Kennedy's walls were white, their floors were white, everything in the damn place was WHITE, mix that in with some bright ol sunshine and you have one very mad very hungover college student. But alas I made it across the Bridge and up the stairs to class.
Danik had to run to his locker to get something, so I headed right in. Most of the class was already there, and proceeded to give me a standing ovation. Unaware at the time, that this was a very regular occurrence at the first of every year.
I walked back to my desk and very quickly closed my eyes and went to sleep. Minutes later, our fearless leader Mr. Victor Stanton came over and gave me a good ol pat on the back and continued on with the class. Something about a movie with Japanese prisoners of war…(snoring insues)
We can all remember our first college party’s right. If you answered yes to that question, you were obviously at the wrong ones. As I assume most of us (especially between the 1997 and 1998 Journalism classes) are still trying to piece together our years, yes I said YEARS in college. Thanks to a few kind souls here's what I remember, (or what I was told) about my first big college party.
Most students lived in close proximity to the college, however I didn’t. If you know where the fire hall in Woodstock is, I was about two streets above that staying with a friend of my mothers. So when the “gang” was going out for beers, it was a little out of the way for me to join them. (that is a long ass stumble home) Oh yeah, and not that it mattered much, I was only 18 at the time.
One day after a couple of heavy classes with Victor, Susan, Bernie and Steve (ok, Steve's classes were a breeze) Danik mentioned he was having a "get together" at his place (the aforementioned Club Kennedy) and that I should come along. I was like, cool, my first invite to a “party.” I’m not going to pass this up.
I told the lady I was boarding with that I was going out and not to wait up for me, as I would probably be out most of the evening. I arrived at my destination, and most of my first year journalism class was sitting around a table playing cards and drinking various drinks. There were even a few second year students there, setting a really bad example and I believe, the culprits were, Mr. Jean Bertin and Ms. Katie Stokes. I forget who jumped up to make me a drink first; it was either Disco Dave Wilson or Danik "the flying Frenchman" Boudreau. Either way I was handed a tall glass that looked like it had orange juice in it.
“It’s a screwdriver,” Danik said. “Orange juice and vodka go ahead it’s good.” This may have been the first drink Danik had made for me, but by the jesus, it sure as hell wasn't the last one.
After a couple of these I had loosened up a bit and had a couple really stiff rye and cokes to boot. This wasn’t the first time I had been drinking, it was however my first experience with hard liquor, so my head was starting to tell me I had enough.
Danik was feeling pretty good at the time (which meant he had a couple dozen into him) and announced that they were heading to the only bar in town called JR’s. This is the place where thousands and thousands of our hard earned government student loans would be spent over the next couple of years. (you are very welcome Mr. Rose)
Being only 18, I was afraid I wouldn’t be allowed in, and didn’t want to cause a scene my first night going to the "big bar.” The gang reassured me that I would be fine, just look like you belong there and you will be fine. Due to the amount of liquor I had poured down my throat, confidence wasn’t a problem. So we headed out. But, we didn’t take the Meduxnekeag Bridge. No no no, you see that would have been the SMART thing to do. We all decided (well at least the vast majority of us anyway) that we were going to take the TRAIN BRIDGE.
For all you students who started at NBCC Woodstock after 1996, this wouldn’t have been a big deal cause the TransCanada trail had already been built. Not in 1995!
The rickety old rail ties were still there, and they weren’t spaced all that evenly either, so just when you think you had a good rhythm going. You had to stop. Which also meant you were probably going to trip or be pushed over by someone coming up behind you. I think this is the time that Danik and Dave scared the bejesus out of Kim Elliot as they were trying to hurry her across the tracks. Hearing her scream was priceless.
Eventually we all made it. And I surprisingly got inside. I wanted to jump around like a little kid, but that would have meant my immediate exit. And being that the bouncers went to the college, I think you can figure the rest of it out yourself.
Thus is the begining of my demise!
We all find a table and sit down, and before I know it Danik puts three screwdrivers down in front of me. There was a 3 for 1 special on that night, and he had intended on taking full advantage of it. I thanked him for them and quickly drank them down.
A couple of rockin songs came on and we all headed out to the dance floor. Which I think Dok described earlier as being about 20x10 in size. But there weren’t many people there yet, so we basically had the floor to ourselves. About 3 songs later, I stumble in the direction of the table, and what do I find on my arrival….ding ding ding ding….yep, yet another round of screwdrivers thanks to the flying Frenchman. Again I thanked him for his generosity, but told him that I was going to throw up on him if he bought me anymore. One thing I quickly found out about Danik, he was very good at pretending to pay attention.
So those drinks go down, and I am pulled back out onto the floor. I don’t know if you have been in this position before, but too many drinks + dancing and getting all hot and sweaty = a straight line for the bathroom. So I calmly but quickly made my way to the back of the bar and into the bathroom. And on the way past the table, yep, were again more drinks on the table for lil’ Dave.
I spent what seemed like an eternity in that bathroom. Danik eventually rolled in to tell me that he was going to finish what drinks he had (which no doubt included the ones I wasn’t going to drink) come in and get me. Danik leaves and the next thing I hear this big gruff voice behind me say that I have to get my ass out of the bathroom cause the bounce staff was on to me, and they were going to kick me out.
I think I had a pretty good grip on that toilet bowl for a small guy, but this guy, who could have passed for the WWE’s Kevin Nash, (Wayne from Graphics circa 1995) promptly removed me from the stall and held me up long enough to get out the front door. Man did that fresh air ever feel good.
WHUMP!
I retreat to the steps and continue with what I was so rudely interrupted doing in the bathroom. Slowly the fresh air got to me, and I wasn’t feeling all that bad. Mind you I couldn't remove my head from my hands in fear of motion sickness.
“What is he doing out here, I told him (me) that was coming in to get him,” Danik sputtered in Franglais (half french half english) on his way out the front door. Wayne and Danik got into a pretty heated argument right in front of me (I know this cause their feet were getting closer and closer together) over who was supposed to take me out of the bathroom. Feeling quite honored and flattered that two grown men were fighting over me, I felt I was the only one that was going to be able to stop it. They were mere inches apart when I finally caught their attention.
“It’s my own damn fault for being in the position.” Not only was I surprised what I said, I was surprised nothing else came out of my mouth.
Finally the war was over and soon enough we were all laughing about the whole ordeal. The next thing I remember is waking up in a very dark room the next morning. Danik opened the door and informed me that if I didn’t get my drunken ass up out of bed, we were going to be late for Victor’s class. I peeled myself off the mattress and probably could have killed anything within 100 yards with the way I smelled.
And there was the light streaming in from the door. You know the scene in many movies where people die and they walk towards the light. That was exactly what I was doing. Club Kennedy's walls were white, their floors were white, everything in the damn place was WHITE, mix that in with some bright ol sunshine and you have one very mad very hungover college student. But alas I made it across the Bridge and up the stairs to class.
Danik had to run to his locker to get something, so I headed right in. Most of the class was already there, and proceeded to give me a standing ovation. Unaware at the time, that this was a very regular occurrence at the first of every year.
I walked back to my desk and very quickly closed my eyes and went to sleep. Minutes later, our fearless leader Mr. Victor Stanton came over and gave me a good ol pat on the back and continued on with the class. Something about a movie with Japanese prisoners of war…(snoring insues)
Chapter 11 – Have another one Ossifer!
Chapter 10 – Have another one Ossifer!
“You’re drunk you just don’t know it”
On the surface any person would think that this statement would be well thought out and relatively harmless. But coming from a police officer who was to know that this statement would disrupt an entire evening. Curious aren’t you?
Every year Halloween Havoc wrapped up with a wet/dry dance whether it be at the college or another nearby establishment. It just so happened this one was the last one to be held at the college. Myself as well as a host of other people were in charge of organizing this year’s dance. So we arrived early afternoon to start setting up the music table and add a few decorations here and there. A couple of hours before the dance started we went over to the liquor store and picked up the mass amount of booze that would be required to keep all of the students and some staff happy.
Finally people started to show up and the music started pumping, before you knew it, the place was absolutely rocking, people having a good time and the booze was flowing like water. Now, where the wet bar was located, there was a large window that looked out to a commons area just in front of the college along Broadway St. where on a really nice day people would come out and eat their lunch.
It was also a very common place where Woodstock’s riff raff would congregate to smoke dope and drink. (College Students were a lot smarter, they did it where no one could see them) On this night the riff raff were about 30 kids between the ages of 13-15. All night they would be knocking on the window asking the bartender to pass some booze through the window to them. This got to be such a problem that a couple of us were asked by then Student Activities Co-ordinator Lori-Jean Johnson, to go out and see if we could disperse the crowd. Remember this was a Halloween dance so when we went outside, we were still in our costumes. I was dressed like Garth (Wayne’s World) Chris McGarrigle was dressed up like Aunt Jemima, there were others that followed us out, but I can’t remember what costumes they had on.
The confrontation began with just mere words being slung back and forth. Being as intoxicated as they were, the “children” didn’t have very much ammo in the way of insults. The verbal jawing continued for about 15 minutes when Woodstock’s finest arrived on the scene with lights a blarin in two cruisers. By this time, no physical action had taken place, but as soon as one of the police officers were getting out of their car, this very brave, stoned and very stupid girl decided to rush across the lawn at Chris. All Chris could do to protect himself was extend his arm to keep her at bay, but of course all the police saw was Chris lifting his arm, and the girl falling over. (She did run right into his arm) This seemed to be enough grounds for them to arrest him for assault.
Chris was rather intoxicated, as he and a bunch of friends decided to play century club before attending the dance. But he knew and the rest of us knew that the police had the wrong person, so he put up a little bit of a fight in protest.
Thinking it was the right thing to do at the time, I approached the officer that was placing Chris in the back seat of the first car and told him that they had no right to apprehend Chris, at least for what they were basing it on. As soon as I spoke my piece, another officer approached me and led me back to the second cruiser where I thought I would be questioned as an eyewitness. I couldn’t have been any more wrong.
The officer opens the back door of the car and asks me to get in. Right now I am thinking to myself how weird this is because if all they wanted to do was ask me a couple questions, they could do that OUTSIDE of the cop car.
“Why do I have to get in the car when all you want to do is ask me some questions?” I politely asked the officer.
“Please get in the car,” the officer grumbled again.
I was really confused at this time and began to get a little irate. I told him I wasn’t getting in the car until he told me what was going on. He then proceeded to inform me that I was in fact being detained under the suspicion of being drunk in a public place.
Sure, I had a couple of beer before the dance even started and had a couple more in the short time I was actually in the dance. But I was far from drunk. But being that he smelled booze on my breath, and evidently trying to tell them how to properly do their job was warrant enough for Woodstock’s finest to detain me.
I protested a little stronger and a little louder now and was in the middle of a long rant when the officer put his hand on my head and pushed me into the back of the cruiser and stated those famous words......
“You’re drunk you just don’t know it.”
If you all of a sudden hear a loud laughing noise, sorry that is the voice inside my head cause he still finds that very very funny.
He closed the door and peered in through the glass with a little smirk on his face. I gave him the double finger salute and called him everything but late for dinner.
I sat in the back of the car for a good 15 minutes before we made our way up to the station. While still outside the dance one after another, friends of mine came up to the car to ask me how I was and they were doing everything they could to make sure I would be released shortly. Oh how I wish that were true.
During the drive, the officer decided he was going to place nice guy and try to chat me up, I would have none of it.
“So, what are you taking at the college?” he asked, to which I replied, “you can go f*** yourself if you think I am going to start a conversation with you.” Needless to say he shut up in a hurry.
We finally arrived at the station, and Chris and I were being led in at the same time. We were laughing and saying how stupid the Woodstock police force actually was because this all seemed to be a little ridiculous. If the officers even had half a brain in their head, they would have noticed that we were all having a good time, trying to protect our dance from the little hooligans, and let us go with a warning or something but of course that would have been too easy.
They took Aunt Jemima (Chris) directly to the tank where they tried to take off his work boots. During the process he was in fine form, shouting protests of racism and sexual harassment. I couldn’t help but laugh and was paying no attention to the officer asking me questions. There was even a little game of "chase the drunk around the drunk tank."
“Do you have anything in your pockets?”
I reached in and found a couple of pennies and a rather large ball of lint to show him. He pulled a plastic bag from the drawer of his desk and asked me to place the contents of my hand into the bag. Being in a rather un-cooperative mood, I threw the pennies and the lint across the room, when all of a sudden some lackey comes running into the room and retrieves the items I sent flying no more than 30 seconds earlier.
All though this was a little weird, nothing would prepare me for the officer’s next statement.
“Please remove your shoes and your watch please.”
“You give me a good reason why I should take my shoes off, and I might just think about it.” The officer looked a little stunned and informed me at this time that I would be placed in the holding cell with Chris for a little while so we both could, get this now, “sober up a little.”
I stopped laughing and before I had the chance to wipe the tears out of my eyes, some one came up, grabbed my feet and removed my shoes and placed them in the bag as well. My repeated requests for a Breathalyzer fell on deaf ears, I was escorted across the hall to the “drunk tank.”
The officer closed the door behind me and stated he would be back when he thought a sufficient enough period of time had passed for us to sober up. The bastard returned just a little under FOUR hours later. Chris and I had tired ourselves out by this time, all of the laughing and yelling that we did definitely sobered Chris up and I just didn’t care anymore.
During that time, I had asked the "nice" lady on duty for a blanket. This request seemed a bit odd to her, but hell it was a cold October night, go figure. I did recieve my blanket, it was what was on the blanket that I disapproved of. To put it lightly, the blanket could have gotten up and walked out of there by itself it was so crusty. And on a couple of occcassions we had asked for some toilet paper, cause at seperate times we both had to use the lovely drunk tank facilities. Hehehehehehe, we each recieved two squares of TP each. Even if we had put our winnings together, we still wouldn't be able to wipe one of our asses let alone two.
He peered at us through the door and stated that it looked like we had sobered up enough to be released. In his mind we still weren’t 100% sober, but we were enough to return to public.
We walked across the hall into the office we were in four hours earlier and were given our personal items back. I reached into the bag, put my shoes back on, put my Garth blonde wig and nerdy glasses back on and threw the pennies and lint across the room again, much to the displeasure of Mr. Police man.
“If you had been able to control your liquor consumption a little better, you wouldn’t have been here in the first place!” he said in return of me throwing those items across the floor.
“I had controlled my liquor consumption thank you very much, and if you had half a brain in that little head of yours you would have realized that I wasn’t drunk in the first place,’ I retorted.
The little officer man was getting a little angry now and decided it was in his best interest just to get us out of the station. He handed me a pencil and wanted me to sign a release form that basically released the cops from any wrongdoing. I politely took the pencil and snapped it in half.
“Number one, I shouldn’t have been here in the first place, number two there is no way in hell that I am signing this form, you can sign it for me, but forgery is a very illegal offence.”
He said he was done with us and that we could leave. Now, being dressed like we were the minute we stepped outside that station, we would have been jumped in a second. Mind you it was only about a 10- minute walk back downtown, but by this time of the morning, the dance had been over for a couple of hours, so we really had no where to go. Plus it was rather cold out.
I told the officer that since he was so kind to have driven us up to the station, he was going to be just as kind and drive us back downtown. He refused over and over until I told him we had no problem standing right where we were and annoying him more and more until he decided to drive us down.
He grabbed his keys and the three of us walked out to the car. Chris called shotgun and beat me to the front seat, so I again had to sit in the back. He drove us down to where Chris was living (Club Kennedy), Chris got out of the car and walked upstairs. The officer pulls away with me still in the backseat. After not noticing for a couple of seconds, I knocked on the partition that for some reason surprised him.
“Oh you are still back there, I thought you got out with your friend?” he stated in all of his infinite wisdom and chucked to himself at the end.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the backdoors of a police car do not open from the inside, and I informed him of this. He finally stopped the car and let me out. I had a few choice words for him as I walked away, and I continued up to Chris’ place as well.
The two of us sat around and got shittered over the next couple of hours, when I finally decided it was time for me to get home myself. I had a couple of hours sleep to catch up on, so I missed my first two classes the next morning. When I arrived at the college just after lunch, I wasn’t prepared for the welcome that I would receive.
I crested the last two steps up to the cafeteria, all of my friends were sitting on the other side in the lounge area, and they all stood up and started clapping. Once everyone else in the cafeteria realized what was going on, they as well stood up and joined in on the clapping.
“Jailbird, Jailbird, Jailbird” rang through the entire floor. I was greeted with hugs and high fives. I didn’t quite make it to my afternoon classes either, as everyone wanted to hear the story. So we all filed out of the college and across the street to the pub to chat over a couple of pitchers of suds. When I walked through the pub door, who is there sitting at the bar but my jail mate Aunt Jemima. The two of us, as well as everyone else that followed me over sat around and laughed our asses off at the entire situation, well into the next morning.
“You’re drunk you just don’t know it”
On the surface any person would think that this statement would be well thought out and relatively harmless. But coming from a police officer who was to know that this statement would disrupt an entire evening. Curious aren’t you?
Every year Halloween Havoc wrapped up with a wet/dry dance whether it be at the college or another nearby establishment. It just so happened this one was the last one to be held at the college. Myself as well as a host of other people were in charge of organizing this year’s dance. So we arrived early afternoon to start setting up the music table and add a few decorations here and there. A couple of hours before the dance started we went over to the liquor store and picked up the mass amount of booze that would be required to keep all of the students and some staff happy.
Finally people started to show up and the music started pumping, before you knew it, the place was absolutely rocking, people having a good time and the booze was flowing like water. Now, where the wet bar was located, there was a large window that looked out to a commons area just in front of the college along Broadway St. where on a really nice day people would come out and eat their lunch.
It was also a very common place where Woodstock’s riff raff would congregate to smoke dope and drink. (College Students were a lot smarter, they did it where no one could see them) On this night the riff raff were about 30 kids between the ages of 13-15. All night they would be knocking on the window asking the bartender to pass some booze through the window to them. This got to be such a problem that a couple of us were asked by then Student Activities Co-ordinator Lori-Jean Johnson, to go out and see if we could disperse the crowd. Remember this was a Halloween dance so when we went outside, we were still in our costumes. I was dressed like Garth (Wayne’s World) Chris McGarrigle was dressed up like Aunt Jemima, there were others that followed us out, but I can’t remember what costumes they had on.
The confrontation began with just mere words being slung back and forth. Being as intoxicated as they were, the “children” didn’t have very much ammo in the way of insults. The verbal jawing continued for about 15 minutes when Woodstock’s finest arrived on the scene with lights a blarin in two cruisers. By this time, no physical action had taken place, but as soon as one of the police officers were getting out of their car, this very brave, stoned and very stupid girl decided to rush across the lawn at Chris. All Chris could do to protect himself was extend his arm to keep her at bay, but of course all the police saw was Chris lifting his arm, and the girl falling over. (She did run right into his arm) This seemed to be enough grounds for them to arrest him for assault.
Chris was rather intoxicated, as he and a bunch of friends decided to play century club before attending the dance. But he knew and the rest of us knew that the police had the wrong person, so he put up a little bit of a fight in protest.
Thinking it was the right thing to do at the time, I approached the officer that was placing Chris in the back seat of the first car and told him that they had no right to apprehend Chris, at least for what they were basing it on. As soon as I spoke my piece, another officer approached me and led me back to the second cruiser where I thought I would be questioned as an eyewitness. I couldn’t have been any more wrong.
The officer opens the back door of the car and asks me to get in. Right now I am thinking to myself how weird this is because if all they wanted to do was ask me a couple questions, they could do that OUTSIDE of the cop car.
“Why do I have to get in the car when all you want to do is ask me some questions?” I politely asked the officer.
“Please get in the car,” the officer grumbled again.
I was really confused at this time and began to get a little irate. I told him I wasn’t getting in the car until he told me what was going on. He then proceeded to inform me that I was in fact being detained under the suspicion of being drunk in a public place.
Sure, I had a couple of beer before the dance even started and had a couple more in the short time I was actually in the dance. But I was far from drunk. But being that he smelled booze on my breath, and evidently trying to tell them how to properly do their job was warrant enough for Woodstock’s finest to detain me.
I protested a little stronger and a little louder now and was in the middle of a long rant when the officer put his hand on my head and pushed me into the back of the cruiser and stated those famous words......
“You’re drunk you just don’t know it.”
If you all of a sudden hear a loud laughing noise, sorry that is the voice inside my head cause he still finds that very very funny.
He closed the door and peered in through the glass with a little smirk on his face. I gave him the double finger salute and called him everything but late for dinner.
I sat in the back of the car for a good 15 minutes before we made our way up to the station. While still outside the dance one after another, friends of mine came up to the car to ask me how I was and they were doing everything they could to make sure I would be released shortly. Oh how I wish that were true.
During the drive, the officer decided he was going to place nice guy and try to chat me up, I would have none of it.
“So, what are you taking at the college?” he asked, to which I replied, “you can go f*** yourself if you think I am going to start a conversation with you.” Needless to say he shut up in a hurry.
We finally arrived at the station, and Chris and I were being led in at the same time. We were laughing and saying how stupid the Woodstock police force actually was because this all seemed to be a little ridiculous. If the officers even had half a brain in their head, they would have noticed that we were all having a good time, trying to protect our dance from the little hooligans, and let us go with a warning or something but of course that would have been too easy.
They took Aunt Jemima (Chris) directly to the tank where they tried to take off his work boots. During the process he was in fine form, shouting protests of racism and sexual harassment. I couldn’t help but laugh and was paying no attention to the officer asking me questions. There was even a little game of "chase the drunk around the drunk tank."
“Do you have anything in your pockets?”
I reached in and found a couple of pennies and a rather large ball of lint to show him. He pulled a plastic bag from the drawer of his desk and asked me to place the contents of my hand into the bag. Being in a rather un-cooperative mood, I threw the pennies and the lint across the room, when all of a sudden some lackey comes running into the room and retrieves the items I sent flying no more than 30 seconds earlier.
All though this was a little weird, nothing would prepare me for the officer’s next statement.
“Please remove your shoes and your watch please.”
“You give me a good reason why I should take my shoes off, and I might just think about it.” The officer looked a little stunned and informed me at this time that I would be placed in the holding cell with Chris for a little while so we both could, get this now, “sober up a little.”
I stopped laughing and before I had the chance to wipe the tears out of my eyes, some one came up, grabbed my feet and removed my shoes and placed them in the bag as well. My repeated requests for a Breathalyzer fell on deaf ears, I was escorted across the hall to the “drunk tank.”
The officer closed the door behind me and stated he would be back when he thought a sufficient enough period of time had passed for us to sober up. The bastard returned just a little under FOUR hours later. Chris and I had tired ourselves out by this time, all of the laughing and yelling that we did definitely sobered Chris up and I just didn’t care anymore.
During that time, I had asked the "nice" lady on duty for a blanket. This request seemed a bit odd to her, but hell it was a cold October night, go figure. I did recieve my blanket, it was what was on the blanket that I disapproved of. To put it lightly, the blanket could have gotten up and walked out of there by itself it was so crusty. And on a couple of occcassions we had asked for some toilet paper, cause at seperate times we both had to use the lovely drunk tank facilities. Hehehehehehe, we each recieved two squares of TP each. Even if we had put our winnings together, we still wouldn't be able to wipe one of our asses let alone two.
He peered at us through the door and stated that it looked like we had sobered up enough to be released. In his mind we still weren’t 100% sober, but we were enough to return to public.
We walked across the hall into the office we were in four hours earlier and were given our personal items back. I reached into the bag, put my shoes back on, put my Garth blonde wig and nerdy glasses back on and threw the pennies and lint across the room again, much to the displeasure of Mr. Police man.
“If you had been able to control your liquor consumption a little better, you wouldn’t have been here in the first place!” he said in return of me throwing those items across the floor.
“I had controlled my liquor consumption thank you very much, and if you had half a brain in that little head of yours you would have realized that I wasn’t drunk in the first place,’ I retorted.
The little officer man was getting a little angry now and decided it was in his best interest just to get us out of the station. He handed me a pencil and wanted me to sign a release form that basically released the cops from any wrongdoing. I politely took the pencil and snapped it in half.
“Number one, I shouldn’t have been here in the first place, number two there is no way in hell that I am signing this form, you can sign it for me, but forgery is a very illegal offence.”
He said he was done with us and that we could leave. Now, being dressed like we were the minute we stepped outside that station, we would have been jumped in a second. Mind you it was only about a 10- minute walk back downtown, but by this time of the morning, the dance had been over for a couple of hours, so we really had no where to go. Plus it was rather cold out.
I told the officer that since he was so kind to have driven us up to the station, he was going to be just as kind and drive us back downtown. He refused over and over until I told him we had no problem standing right where we were and annoying him more and more until he decided to drive us down.
He grabbed his keys and the three of us walked out to the car. Chris called shotgun and beat me to the front seat, so I again had to sit in the back. He drove us down to where Chris was living (Club Kennedy), Chris got out of the car and walked upstairs. The officer pulls away with me still in the backseat. After not noticing for a couple of seconds, I knocked on the partition that for some reason surprised him.
“Oh you are still back there, I thought you got out with your friend?” he stated in all of his infinite wisdom and chucked to himself at the end.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the backdoors of a police car do not open from the inside, and I informed him of this. He finally stopped the car and let me out. I had a few choice words for him as I walked away, and I continued up to Chris’ place as well.
The two of us sat around and got shittered over the next couple of hours, when I finally decided it was time for me to get home myself. I had a couple of hours sleep to catch up on, so I missed my first two classes the next morning. When I arrived at the college just after lunch, I wasn’t prepared for the welcome that I would receive.
I crested the last two steps up to the cafeteria, all of my friends were sitting on the other side in the lounge area, and they all stood up and started clapping. Once everyone else in the cafeteria realized what was going on, they as well stood up and joined in on the clapping.
“Jailbird, Jailbird, Jailbird” rang through the entire floor. I was greeted with hugs and high fives. I didn’t quite make it to my afternoon classes either, as everyone wanted to hear the story. So we all filed out of the college and across the street to the pub to chat over a couple of pitchers of suds. When I walked through the pub door, who is there sitting at the bar but my jail mate Aunt Jemima. The two of us, as well as everyone else that followed me over sat around and laughed our asses off at the entire situation, well into the next morning.
Chapter 10 – BBQ sauce for those eyebrows sir?
Chapter 10 – BBQ sauce for those eyebrows sir?
Ahhhhh just the thought of barbeques makes my mouth water. The smell of burning meat on the grill, the sound of that first beer of what normally would be many beers opening. Yes there’s nothing quite like a good ol fashioned barbeque with friends. And to tell you the truth there’s really nothing like almost turning yourself into a human fire ball infront your friends as well, like you will quickly find out.
Sherri is one of my best friends, even to this day. She was and still is the type of person that would go out of her way to make sure her friends were all right. Every once in a while she would invite a bunch of us up to her house for a little get together, whether her two children were around or not cause we all got along with Scotty and Jillian really well.
So on this evening three or four of us showed up at her place to cook a little cow and throw a little cold barley soup down our throats. We sat around long enough for a few of us to get pretty well lit, not polluted by any means, but like Sherri likes to call it, “happy feet.” We totally lost track of time, and before we knew it , darkness reigned and we hadn’t even started the barbeque yet.
Either I was nominated or I volunteered myself to go out and start the fire demon. Said demon was located just outside the porch door at the very back of her driveway. Being as dark as it was, the only way I was able to pick the thing out was because of the small light over the porch door, other than that, it was like trying to look through a pint of Guinness. (nice alcohol euphimism there huh....)
I am reaching around the back of the barbeque turning on the juice when I hear Sherri’s voice ring out from the kitchen.
“Oh yeah Dave, I meant to tell you, the electric ignition doesn’t work, so you have to light it manually.”
"Oh wonderful," I think to myself. The ignition doesn’t work and I don’t have anything to light said demon except for the lighter I have in one hand and a freshly torn beer label in the other.
Just a little side note, if you have been paying attention, you would realize the propane has been on for about 5 minutes now
Somehow, I have to light the beer label throw it on the grill and just pray to god that it falls through and ignites all the while planning my escape route from the impending fire ball. I know you are thinking, why don’t you just turn off the propane for a couple of minutes and just light it then, but only a sober person would think of something that easy.
So I light the beer label and throw it in the general direction of the barbeque.
DAMMIT!!
Just my luck. Sure, the label is lit, but it’s sitting on TOP of the grill. For some reason, even with as much propane that HAD to be in the air at that time, the frickin thing still didn’t light.
So at this time I think to myself, I say "Myself what in the hell do I do now?” Yes the propane has been running for a good 10 minutes by this time, and at any second could ignite and burn Sherri’s house to the ground, or at the very least remove her porch from the rest of the house. I continue to wait. Still nothing. In the meantime I am scrounging around in the dark looking for something long enough (hoping about 15 feet in length by now) to prod the surprisingly still lit label to fall through the cracks and start our fire. Can’t find a goddamn thing.
So I approach it quite cautiously knowing that at any moment the thing could ignite. With my outstretched arm and lighter in hand…yes I was using a lighter, begin to move the almost burned up label around the grill…
WOOOOOOFFFFFFFF!
Everyone else was still in the kitchen still pounding the booze back, other than the light over the sink, there wasn’t a whole lot of light in Sherri's kitchen. That was at least until I lit the barbeque.
Dok was one of the people inside and he told me, the flash from the barbeque was so bright afterwards that for a split second nobody could see anything.
Little ol retarded me was still outside and on the ground by this time. The concussion from the barbeque lighting sent me to the ground in a hurry. The very first thing I hear from the kitchen aren’t voices of concern, IT WAS LAUGHTER! They were all laughing at me. But as the reality of the situation set in, I began to laugh pretty hard myself. But just to be a prick, I decided I would play a little prank on them. But you know what, even though I did fall over, I didn't spill a drop of my beer.
I walked around to the front of the house and ran in the front door with my hands over my eyes screaming, “Ahhhhh, I burned my friggin eyebrows off someone get me some water.” And I quickly collapsed to the ground in pain.
Most of them will claim to this day that they didn’t believe me for a second, but I honestly think I had them. The only thing that gave me away was the fact that I was laughing like a little school girl on acid and tears were pouring out of my eyes.
Not surprisingly, the next time we had a barbeque, I wasn’t allowed anywhere near propane or fire…Oh well, you gotta do what you gotta do.
Ahhhhh just the thought of barbeques makes my mouth water. The smell of burning meat on the grill, the sound of that first beer of what normally would be many beers opening. Yes there’s nothing quite like a good ol fashioned barbeque with friends. And to tell you the truth there’s really nothing like almost turning yourself into a human fire ball infront your friends as well, like you will quickly find out.
Sherri is one of my best friends, even to this day. She was and still is the type of person that would go out of her way to make sure her friends were all right. Every once in a while she would invite a bunch of us up to her house for a little get together, whether her two children were around or not cause we all got along with Scotty and Jillian really well.
So on this evening three or four of us showed up at her place to cook a little cow and throw a little cold barley soup down our throats. We sat around long enough for a few of us to get pretty well lit, not polluted by any means, but like Sherri likes to call it, “happy feet.” We totally lost track of time, and before we knew it , darkness reigned and we hadn’t even started the barbeque yet.
Either I was nominated or I volunteered myself to go out and start the fire demon. Said demon was located just outside the porch door at the very back of her driveway. Being as dark as it was, the only way I was able to pick the thing out was because of the small light over the porch door, other than that, it was like trying to look through a pint of Guinness. (nice alcohol euphimism there huh....)
I am reaching around the back of the barbeque turning on the juice when I hear Sherri’s voice ring out from the kitchen.
“Oh yeah Dave, I meant to tell you, the electric ignition doesn’t work, so you have to light it manually.”
"Oh wonderful," I think to myself. The ignition doesn’t work and I don’t have anything to light said demon except for the lighter I have in one hand and a freshly torn beer label in the other.
Just a little side note, if you have been paying attention, you would realize the propane has been on for about 5 minutes now
Somehow, I have to light the beer label throw it on the grill and just pray to god that it falls through and ignites all the while planning my escape route from the impending fire ball. I know you are thinking, why don’t you just turn off the propane for a couple of minutes and just light it then, but only a sober person would think of something that easy.
So I light the beer label and throw it in the general direction of the barbeque.
DAMMIT!!
Just my luck. Sure, the label is lit, but it’s sitting on TOP of the grill. For some reason, even with as much propane that HAD to be in the air at that time, the frickin thing still didn’t light.
So at this time I think to myself, I say "Myself what in the hell do I do now?” Yes the propane has been running for a good 10 minutes by this time, and at any second could ignite and burn Sherri’s house to the ground, or at the very least remove her porch from the rest of the house. I continue to wait. Still nothing. In the meantime I am scrounging around in the dark looking for something long enough (hoping about 15 feet in length by now) to prod the surprisingly still lit label to fall through the cracks and start our fire. Can’t find a goddamn thing.
So I approach it quite cautiously knowing that at any moment the thing could ignite. With my outstretched arm and lighter in hand…yes I was using a lighter, begin to move the almost burned up label around the grill…
WOOOOOOFFFFFFFF!
Everyone else was still in the kitchen still pounding the booze back, other than the light over the sink, there wasn’t a whole lot of light in Sherri's kitchen. That was at least until I lit the barbeque.
Dok was one of the people inside and he told me, the flash from the barbeque was so bright afterwards that for a split second nobody could see anything.
Little ol retarded me was still outside and on the ground by this time. The concussion from the barbeque lighting sent me to the ground in a hurry. The very first thing I hear from the kitchen aren’t voices of concern, IT WAS LAUGHTER! They were all laughing at me. But as the reality of the situation set in, I began to laugh pretty hard myself. But just to be a prick, I decided I would play a little prank on them. But you know what, even though I did fall over, I didn't spill a drop of my beer.
I walked around to the front of the house and ran in the front door with my hands over my eyes screaming, “Ahhhhh, I burned my friggin eyebrows off someone get me some water.” And I quickly collapsed to the ground in pain.
Most of them will claim to this day that they didn’t believe me for a second, but I honestly think I had them. The only thing that gave me away was the fact that I was laughing like a little school girl on acid and tears were pouring out of my eyes.
Not surprisingly, the next time we had a barbeque, I wasn’t allowed anywhere near propane or fire…Oh well, you gotta do what you gotta do.
Chapter 9 – The Dark Side of Woodstock
Chapter 9 – The Dark Side of Woodstock
EDITORS NOTE: Due to the context of this story, some strong language has been used. Read at your own risk
Before beginning this unfortunate story I must make one thing clear, even though I lived in Fredericton for 22 years, I can also say that I grew up in Woodstock as well. It is where my grandmother still lives and is the stomping grounds of my father and his brothers and sisters as well.
Woodstock was like a second home to me as well as the many students who populated the college. So it is never easy to talk about such a place with negativity.
Racism is everywhere, it’s on every street corner, it’s in every school, and it’s in every city and every town. But just because it is everywhere doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. A few of the students of the college could call Dwayne a friend or colleague, but even fewer could call him a brother, like some of us did. He would always greet you in the hallway with a smile or sarcastic comment or was always one of the first one to buy you a drink at the bar. (Especially on cheap night) Dwayne fit the college like a glove and vice versa. But the same couldn’t be said about the town itself. You see, Dwayne was just like everyone else, except he was black.
In the hundreds of years that Woodstock has existed, it has never really boasted a large population of African-Canadians, barely any at all to tell you the truth. It would be easy to estimate that 60% of the residents of the small town of Woodstock are over the age of 50.
In an earlier story, Dok eluded to the term “bible-belt,” which is a reference to Woodstock and surrounding area and their love affair with the church. African-Canadians weren’t always a popular people in Woodstock, not only with the elderly residents but the younger generations as well.
It wasn’t uncommon for a group of us to be walking up the street, Dwayne being part of the group. A school bus full of junior high or elementary children would drive by and stare in amazement that white people were walking with a person of color. Even if he wasn’t with us we would be approached by some of the town folk, which I will refer to from here on out as hardcore rednecks and we would be asked, as if it was no big deal to them “how can you stand to be friends with a nigger.” (editors note: I will no longer be using the entire “n” word for the rest of the story. It upsets me greatly to even think of it.)
Such rednecks didn’t even have a problem approaching Dwayne himself on the street and calling him the n-word directly to his face. But we would just keep walking and calm him down.
Being at the bar was a totally different story. It wasn’t an easy task to calm him down after an altercation on the street. It was one hundred times harder when alcohol was involved. For the most part the 300+ students that filled the college any given year weren’t overly popular in the town. It was like we were stomping on their toes or something. Some people would show their displeasure at us in a grander form at the bar. For the better part of the school year it was the NBCC students that ran the bar, (and were told as much by management on a number of occassions) in our minds we were just giving it back to the town while we were gone for the summer, and get it back once September rolled around again.
Sixty percent of the people on the dance floor at any given time were students, cause we were just out for a good time, while the rednecks would be sitting around or even standing in close proximity to the dance floor eyeballing each and every one of us. Once a song was over, or once we decided it was time to sit down, more times than not we would be tripped or purposely bumped into while leaving the floor as their sign of disapproval.
One night, myself, Dok, Homer, Brucie, Dwayne as well as some other friends were leaving the floor and someone bumped into Dwayne basically to get a rile out of him. Words were spoken and the bouncing staff was quick to jump in to prevent the altercation from heating up any further.
Once our buddy Kevin the DJ played the final song and the house lights went up, these “brave” souls decided to confront Dwayne on the floor. By this time I was already half way to the coat check. Dwayne, who rarely brought his jacket to the bar passed me and once outside lit a smoke. I followed him outside then all of a sudden was bowled over from behind by someone who had been after Dwayne the entire evening.
“You’re mine now n*****” Dwayne’s assailant muttered as he began to rain haymakers to the side of Dwayne’s head. Once I regained my balance and actually realized what was going on, I grabbed on to the assailants arm to prevent him from landing another blow. Before I knew it, I was being detained by another person, obviously a friend of the guy who was using Dwayne as a speed bag, who grabbed me by my jacket, pushed me up against the outside door and said to me very calmly that I shouldn’t interfere or I will “get exactly what the n***** is getting.”
During this very brief conversation, Dwayne had been pushed the rest of the way down the stairs. As I am still being detained I say calmly back to the prick who is holding me. “If you are going to hit me, hit me mother f**ker, otherwise get the fuck out of my way.” I grabbed his hands removed them from my jacket and promptly pushed him down the steps.
Luckily by this time, more of our group of friends had come outside, so the numbers were now pretty much even. Reddawg and I would be holding Dwayne back cause I am certain if we had let him go, Dwayne probably would have killed the guy. But everyonce in a while the waste of skin would get to close, so RD and I would “temporarily” let go of him and the coward would retreat.
I would like to say this was an isolated incident, but it wasn’t. It seemed like every second week or so Dwayne was being harassed or assaulted sometimes by the same group but often times by different people. But the assaults weren’t just limited to Dwayne himself. Another friend of Dwayne’s, who at the time of these incidents was to young to get into the bar, McCormick was also assaulted on his way home from class one day.
As he was walking towards his house, vehicle drove by him and stopped soon after. Next thing McCormick knew he was being attacked from behind, after being kicked and punched repeatedly, one of the assailants said “you are being beaten because you are friends with the n*****.” This sickened all of us who were McCormick’s friends, and unfortunately after the attack and after talking it over with his friends and teachers around the college, McCormick returned to his hometown, fearing for his safety.
The worst incident that I can remember was one night after the bar, the same sort of story inside, words being thrown around and such, but it was a different story outside. Instead of having a fair fight, which 95% of them were, this time around Dwayne was gang beaten in the parking lot of the bar by a group of infamous brothers, The Jecartins. The rap sheet on these boys was as long as a Stephen King novel, everywhere they went they instilled fear in most people. On this night, the brothers made their point clear. Four on one, they un-mercifully beat Dwayne down to the ground and even continued to beat him while he was down. What makes this tale even more horrific, there were two Town of Woodstock police cars sitting no more than twenty feet away. Two police cars means four officers, who decided to do nothing but stick their thumbs up their asses while an innocent man was being beaten.
Finally a friend of ours Nick ran over to one of the police cars forcibly opened the drivers side door and asked “are you fucking pigs going to just sit around and watch this or are you going to do your f**king jobs and stop it.” By the time the officers approached the scene, the brothers were already in their vehicles and allowed to drive off with no questions asked. Not only were the some of the younger generation of Woodstock bigots and racists, but so were a handful of the police force. The only one taken to the police station and questioned was Dwayne, after he got out of the hospital of course.
In a later court hearing, the police officers would testify that the only reason they didn’t interfere when the fight broke out was because “they didn’t want to create a mob scene.” The only reason they didn’t do anything cause the police force consisted of guys who grew up either in Woodstock or in the Woodstock area, they all had the same frame of mind. A good portion of the force were just as bigoted as the rest of the town, probably even more so depending on who you talk to.
Of the three years I spent in the town, I would safely say that this was the only dark side. It’s just to bad that most of it had to do with the color of Dwayne’s skin. Now like I said, I really have nothing against the town, I grew up there for the most part and anytime I’m in that part of the country I continue to visit the friends and family that I have there. Gram, Grampie (May he rest in peace), Chucky, Sherri(Scott/Jillian), Carina (Greg and Rianna and now Victoria), Kevin, Mike, Stacy….you all know who you are, and you all stood behind him in his time of need. You all are the true souls of Woodstock.
EDITORS END NOTE: Opinions expressed in this piece are those of the editor(s) and do not reflect those of NBCC Woodstock or the town of Woodstock.
Before beginning this unfortunate story I must make one thing clear, even though I lived in Fredericton for 22 years, I can also say that I grew up in Woodstock as well. It is where my grandmother still lives and is the stomping grounds of my father and his brothers and sisters as well.
Woodstock was like a second home to me as well as the many students who populated the college. So it is never easy to talk about such a place with negativity.
Racism is everywhere, it’s on every street corner, it’s in every school, and it’s in every city and every town. But just because it is everywhere doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. A few of the students of the college could call Dwayne a friend or colleague, but even fewer could call him a brother, like some of us did. He would always greet you in the hallway with a smile or sarcastic comment or was always one of the first one to buy you a drink at the bar. (Especially on cheap night) Dwayne fit the college like a glove and vice versa. But the same couldn’t be said about the town itself. You see, Dwayne was just like everyone else, except he was black.
In the hundreds of years that Woodstock has existed, it has never really boasted a large population of African-Canadians, barely any at all to tell you the truth. It would be easy to estimate that 60% of the residents of the small town of Woodstock are over the age of 50.
In an earlier story, Dok eluded to the term “bible-belt,” which is a reference to Woodstock and surrounding area and their love affair with the church. African-Canadians weren’t always a popular people in Woodstock, not only with the elderly residents but the younger generations as well.
It wasn’t uncommon for a group of us to be walking up the street, Dwayne being part of the group. A school bus full of junior high or elementary children would drive by and stare in amazement that white people were walking with a person of color. Even if he wasn’t with us we would be approached by some of the town folk, which I will refer to from here on out as hardcore rednecks and we would be asked, as if it was no big deal to them “how can you stand to be friends with a nigger.” (editors note: I will no longer be using the entire “n” word for the rest of the story. It upsets me greatly to even think of it.)
Such rednecks didn’t even have a problem approaching Dwayne himself on the street and calling him the n-word directly to his face. But we would just keep walking and calm him down.
Being at the bar was a totally different story. It wasn’t an easy task to calm him down after an altercation on the street. It was one hundred times harder when alcohol was involved. For the most part the 300+ students that filled the college any given year weren’t overly popular in the town. It was like we were stomping on their toes or something. Some people would show their displeasure at us in a grander form at the bar. For the better part of the school year it was the NBCC students that ran the bar, (and were told as much by management on a number of occassions) in our minds we were just giving it back to the town while we were gone for the summer, and get it back once September rolled around again.
Sixty percent of the people on the dance floor at any given time were students, cause we were just out for a good time, while the rednecks would be sitting around or even standing in close proximity to the dance floor eyeballing each and every one of us. Once a song was over, or once we decided it was time to sit down, more times than not we would be tripped or purposely bumped into while leaving the floor as their sign of disapproval.
One night, myself, Dok, Homer, Brucie, Dwayne as well as some other friends were leaving the floor and someone bumped into Dwayne basically to get a rile out of him. Words were spoken and the bouncing staff was quick to jump in to prevent the altercation from heating up any further.
Once our buddy Kevin the DJ played the final song and the house lights went up, these “brave” souls decided to confront Dwayne on the floor. By this time I was already half way to the coat check. Dwayne, who rarely brought his jacket to the bar passed me and once outside lit a smoke. I followed him outside then all of a sudden was bowled over from behind by someone who had been after Dwayne the entire evening.
“You’re mine now n*****” Dwayne’s assailant muttered as he began to rain haymakers to the side of Dwayne’s head. Once I regained my balance and actually realized what was going on, I grabbed on to the assailants arm to prevent him from landing another blow. Before I knew it, I was being detained by another person, obviously a friend of the guy who was using Dwayne as a speed bag, who grabbed me by my jacket, pushed me up against the outside door and said to me very calmly that I shouldn’t interfere or I will “get exactly what the n***** is getting.”
During this very brief conversation, Dwayne had been pushed the rest of the way down the stairs. As I am still being detained I say calmly back to the prick who is holding me. “If you are going to hit me, hit me mother f**ker, otherwise get the fuck out of my way.” I grabbed his hands removed them from my jacket and promptly pushed him down the steps.
Luckily by this time, more of our group of friends had come outside, so the numbers were now pretty much even. Reddawg and I would be holding Dwayne back cause I am certain if we had let him go, Dwayne probably would have killed the guy. But everyonce in a while the waste of skin would get to close, so RD and I would “temporarily” let go of him and the coward would retreat.
I would like to say this was an isolated incident, but it wasn’t. It seemed like every second week or so Dwayne was being harassed or assaulted sometimes by the same group but often times by different people. But the assaults weren’t just limited to Dwayne himself. Another friend of Dwayne’s, who at the time of these incidents was to young to get into the bar, McCormick was also assaulted on his way home from class one day.
As he was walking towards his house, vehicle drove by him and stopped soon after. Next thing McCormick knew he was being attacked from behind, after being kicked and punched repeatedly, one of the assailants said “you are being beaten because you are friends with the n*****.” This sickened all of us who were McCormick’s friends, and unfortunately after the attack and after talking it over with his friends and teachers around the college, McCormick returned to his hometown, fearing for his safety.
The worst incident that I can remember was one night after the bar, the same sort of story inside, words being thrown around and such, but it was a different story outside. Instead of having a fair fight, which 95% of them were, this time around Dwayne was gang beaten in the parking lot of the bar by a group of infamous brothers, The Jecartins. The rap sheet on these boys was as long as a Stephen King novel, everywhere they went they instilled fear in most people. On this night, the brothers made their point clear. Four on one, they un-mercifully beat Dwayne down to the ground and even continued to beat him while he was down. What makes this tale even more horrific, there were two Town of Woodstock police cars sitting no more than twenty feet away. Two police cars means four officers, who decided to do nothing but stick their thumbs up their asses while an innocent man was being beaten.
Finally a friend of ours Nick ran over to one of the police cars forcibly opened the drivers side door and asked “are you fucking pigs going to just sit around and watch this or are you going to do your f**king jobs and stop it.” By the time the officers approached the scene, the brothers were already in their vehicles and allowed to drive off with no questions asked. Not only were the some of the younger generation of Woodstock bigots and racists, but so were a handful of the police force. The only one taken to the police station and questioned was Dwayne, after he got out of the hospital of course.
In a later court hearing, the police officers would testify that the only reason they didn’t interfere when the fight broke out was because “they didn’t want to create a mob scene.” The only reason they didn’t do anything cause the police force consisted of guys who grew up either in Woodstock or in the Woodstock area, they all had the same frame of mind. A good portion of the force were just as bigoted as the rest of the town, probably even more so depending on who you talk to.
Of the three years I spent in the town, I would safely say that this was the only dark side. It’s just to bad that most of it had to do with the color of Dwayne’s skin. Now like I said, I really have nothing against the town, I grew up there for the most part and anytime I’m in that part of the country I continue to visit the friends and family that I have there. Gram, Grampie (May he rest in peace), Chucky, Sherri(Scott/Jillian), Carina (Greg and Rianna and now Victoria), Kevin, Mike, Stacy….you all know who you are, and you all stood behind him in his time of need. You all are the true souls of Woodstock.
Chapter 9 - Porcelain -- The Other White Meat
Chapter 9 - Porcelain -- The Other White Meat
House parties during my time in college were always…well let’s say interesting bordering on infamous. For instance the party at Anthony’s place that Dok detailed earlier in this book. Whether it was at my place with Bruce or at Dok and Homer’s place or even at Kimmy and Val’s place, there was always a story to tell afterwards.
Back when I first arrived in Woodstock (circa: 1995) there was really only a couple of places to party. One being Club Kennedy (King Street above Greco Pizza which I am sure you will hear of in another tale or two) and the old green house up on Broadway. At the time a bunch of radio guys and I think some graphics folk lived there. The radio guys (Quinn and Slaney; I will tell you about their Halloween drag party as well)
Of course, over the years many different people chose this place to be their abode for the year, and of course it remained a pre-bar or pub night hang out for a bunch of people. In late 1998, well after I had graduated a bunch of friends of mine decided to take this place over for their final year. Lance (whom you know of through his car/ambulance GUMBY) and McCormick were two of many whom packed this place. There were a couple of reasons people picked this place. One being that it was close to the college and on the college side of the river to boot, so they didn’t have to walk across the Meduxnekeag River (By the way, Meduxnekeag was native for “FUCKING COLD WATER”)
The other reason people chose it was because it was stumbling distance from the pub and the bar, albeit an uphill stumble.
I arrived in Woodstock at the very beginning of the 1999 school year. As I was leaving for Calgary shortly after, I wanted to say my final goodbyes to everyone. Myself, Homer and Kimmy would often take the hour's drive up river to Woodstock on a whim, just to surprise some friends who remained at the college or lived in town. Yeah we would pop by some instructors houses as well. (Right Jeffy!).
During my tour I was informed that a party would be happening that night up at McCormicks and Lance’s place and that I was invited. I had spent most of my money on my bus ticket getting to Woodstock so didn’t have much money for food. (had to think of the alcohol I would be buying first) Thankfully I knew some folks who worked at the store/pizza house located right across the street from the college who kindly threw me a couple of pieces of pizza. (Thanks TJ)
It was about time for me to make my appearance at the party. And I was struggling over whether to spend my last $10 on more food (cause the pizza was sooooo good) or on beer. Being fresh out of college this wasn’t really a struggle. Many a night Brucie and I would agonize whether to fill the cupboards with Kraft Dinner or the fridge with booze. Needless to say many a night booze won. So I went to the candy store to pick up an 8-pack and headed up to the party.
The house was completely packed with people, most of which being college students I knew but of course in a party this size there are always going to be people you don’t know. There was also enough weed around to kill a small elephant, which wasn’t overly surprising if you knew half of these people.(not that students or instructors at the College did that sort of thing) It was getting a little crowded inside and due to all of the pot being smoked around me I was also getting quite high, so I moved through the house and out on to the back porch.
The two Christa’s, Radio's Jill, Dok and a few new Journalism students from St. Thomas University taking their Bachelor of Arts in Journalism degree were sitting on the porch. Chris Connors was one of them, I think Kaveri made and appearance as well. Chris, a really cool cat from Cape Breton (trust me, the accent gave it away) was sitting back on the railing of the porch drinking R&R right from the bottle.
Due to the very limited amount of food in my stomach, the beer was starting to take it’s toll after about six or so. I took a small rest from drinking to get my composure back then continued. The longer I talked to Mr. Connors, the more he kept offering me a swig of his rye. I thought what the hell, one little sip won’t hurt me. Yeah right, try five or six big ones.
Have you ever heard the saying “Liquor before beer you’re in the clear -- beer before liquor never sicker.” I wish someone would have informed me of that before indulging in the rye, cause the world starting taking me for a spin not to long afterwards. Now I have been very very drunk before(shocking I know). I have even passed out on one or two occasions, this night was as drunk as I can sort of remember being without passing out completely...that would come later on. I walked through the house through the blue cloud of smoke and out to the front step where I spent a good part of the rest of my stay at the party.
Everyonce in a while, someone would come out to make sure I was still breathing, and I guess sometimes it was a pretty close call. Eventually a couple of brave brave souls decided the best thing for me was to get some sleep. I was staying at Dok’s that night anyway, so Dok and McCormick drug me home. Being as polluted as I was, my legs weren’t working all that well, so when I say they drug me home, they literally drug me home.
Dok’s place was on the second floor of a three-story house. The inside stair case was twisty and turny, and the outside stair case was very steep, neither one was good for getting drunks home. But they chose the outside stair case anyway just incase I decided to lose what ever was left in my stomach. (The beer and the rye were still fighting for supremecy)
Dok's Edit:(*Dave's sidenote*: Dok was way more sober and vertical than I was, so take his word as gospel....) As Joey and I are standing in the bathroom, making sure that our buddy is going to be OK, Joey as he normally does, whilst drinking decides to start acting the fool. After one too many smartass remarks, Joey decided show off his trademark crotch chop. Unfortunatly to do so, he leans up against the sink. Not made to support the weight of a 19 year old pointing at his crotch, it begins it's quick decent to the floor. I try to decide to stop it but it's a lost cause, causing nothing but a cut finger on my part. With water everywhere, Dave decides that it's time to exit stage left, but as he mentioned earlier in this tale his legs are not working as they should. So he crawls out to the deck (really a 3foot by 5foot landing and a great entry route for those drunks who just couldn't find their way to THEIR OWN HOUSES)
Back to Dave's recollection: Once inside, they immediately took me to the bathroom. And the first thing I held on to was the sink. A small porcelan thing jutting from the wall. Now, I either went to the toilet to hurl and tried to prop myself back up with the sink or lost my balance leaving the bathroom and fell back on it, regardless next thing I hear is a loud bang and water at my feet. Somehow the sink was removed from it's rightfull spot on the wall, and hot water was burning my feet.
Someone cut their finger on the porcelain either by trying to catch it on the way down, or fumbling with it while it lay on the bathroom floor. While all this is happening I am sitting on the edge of the tub hoping beyond all hope that I wasn't the one who broke the sink. My head is in my hands, my feet are still burning from the hot water (still coming from the pipe) and then I noticed the blood. Thankfully it was only a small cut, which stopped bleeding quickly.
Fearing that I might cause more damage, Dok helped me crawl to my post, where he would have been well within his right to push me down the stairs or throw me over the edge, but like the brother he is he sat me down and handed me what was to be my best friend for the rest of the night. My red bucket. Things were spinning, my head was ringing from the eminent hangover that I was to have the next day and I could still hear the party going on across the street.
After what seemed to be a couple of days, (mere hours) I crawled back into the house and found the nearest thing to rest my head on, Dok’s beanbag chair. Dry heaves followed and I think it was either Dok or Devon put the bucket over my head. The thing is, I don’t remember them doing this, so when I woke up the next morning or afternoon whenever it was, I thought I was laying in a pool of blood. All I saw was red. And everytime I called out to someone, there was this strange echo. It didn’t take long for me to realize I had indeed slept in a bucket the whole night. Evidently, they put the bucket on my head so I wouldn’t lay face down on beanbag chair and suffocate myself. What are friends for right?
(Dok's Final Thoughts: The night of the first class bash at the green house, all of the returning class was sitting on the back porch, discussing things that had happened over the summer. As it tended to do when we all got together when drinking, things got a little personal. Turns out that the cute chicky in Graphics (can't remember her name) lived in the house between mine and the green house got to know a lot about all of us before any of us knew what she looked like. She was the one that showed up at the apartment with Conners, dry humping on the floor. Poor Lance, sat there and watched it)
House parties during my time in college were always…well let’s say interesting bordering on infamous. For instance the party at Anthony’s place that Dok detailed earlier in this book. Whether it was at my place with Bruce or at Dok and Homer’s place or even at Kimmy and Val’s place, there was always a story to tell afterwards.
Back when I first arrived in Woodstock (circa: 1995) there was really only a couple of places to party. One being Club Kennedy (King Street above Greco Pizza which I am sure you will hear of in another tale or two) and the old green house up on Broadway. At the time a bunch of radio guys and I think some graphics folk lived there. The radio guys (Quinn and Slaney; I will tell you about their Halloween drag party as well)
Of course, over the years many different people chose this place to be their abode for the year, and of course it remained a pre-bar or pub night hang out for a bunch of people. In late 1998, well after I had graduated a bunch of friends of mine decided to take this place over for their final year. Lance (whom you know of through his car/ambulance GUMBY) and McCormick were two of many whom packed this place. There were a couple of reasons people picked this place. One being that it was close to the college and on the college side of the river to boot, so they didn’t have to walk across the Meduxnekeag River (By the way, Meduxnekeag was native for “FUCKING COLD WATER”)
The other reason people chose it was because it was stumbling distance from the pub and the bar, albeit an uphill stumble.
I arrived in Woodstock at the very beginning of the 1999 school year. As I was leaving for Calgary shortly after, I wanted to say my final goodbyes to everyone. Myself, Homer and Kimmy would often take the hour's drive up river to Woodstock on a whim, just to surprise some friends who remained at the college or lived in town. Yeah we would pop by some instructors houses as well. (Right Jeffy!).
During my tour I was informed that a party would be happening that night up at McCormicks and Lance’s place and that I was invited. I had spent most of my money on my bus ticket getting to Woodstock so didn’t have much money for food. (had to think of the alcohol I would be buying first) Thankfully I knew some folks who worked at the store/pizza house located right across the street from the college who kindly threw me a couple of pieces of pizza. (Thanks TJ)
It was about time for me to make my appearance at the party. And I was struggling over whether to spend my last $10 on more food (cause the pizza was sooooo good) or on beer. Being fresh out of college this wasn’t really a struggle. Many a night Brucie and I would agonize whether to fill the cupboards with Kraft Dinner or the fridge with booze. Needless to say many a night booze won. So I went to the candy store to pick up an 8-pack and headed up to the party.
The house was completely packed with people, most of which being college students I knew but of course in a party this size there are always going to be people you don’t know. There was also enough weed around to kill a small elephant, which wasn’t overly surprising if you knew half of these people.(not that students or instructors at the College did that sort of thing) It was getting a little crowded inside and due to all of the pot being smoked around me I was also getting quite high, so I moved through the house and out on to the back porch.
The two Christa’s, Radio's Jill, Dok and a few new Journalism students from St. Thomas University taking their Bachelor of Arts in Journalism degree were sitting on the porch. Chris Connors was one of them, I think Kaveri made and appearance as well. Chris, a really cool cat from Cape Breton (trust me, the accent gave it away) was sitting back on the railing of the porch drinking R&R right from the bottle.
Due to the very limited amount of food in my stomach, the beer was starting to take it’s toll after about six or so. I took a small rest from drinking to get my composure back then continued. The longer I talked to Mr. Connors, the more he kept offering me a swig of his rye. I thought what the hell, one little sip won’t hurt me. Yeah right, try five or six big ones.
Have you ever heard the saying “Liquor before beer you’re in the clear -- beer before liquor never sicker.” I wish someone would have informed me of that before indulging in the rye, cause the world starting taking me for a spin not to long afterwards. Now I have been very very drunk before(shocking I know). I have even passed out on one or two occasions, this night was as drunk as I can sort of remember being without passing out completely...that would come later on. I walked through the house through the blue cloud of smoke and out to the front step where I spent a good part of the rest of my stay at the party.
Everyonce in a while, someone would come out to make sure I was still breathing, and I guess sometimes it was a pretty close call. Eventually a couple of brave brave souls decided the best thing for me was to get some sleep. I was staying at Dok’s that night anyway, so Dok and McCormick drug me home. Being as polluted as I was, my legs weren’t working all that well, so when I say they drug me home, they literally drug me home.
Dok’s place was on the second floor of a three-story house. The inside stair case was twisty and turny, and the outside stair case was very steep, neither one was good for getting drunks home. But they chose the outside stair case anyway just incase I decided to lose what ever was left in my stomach. (The beer and the rye were still fighting for supremecy)
Dok's Edit:(*Dave's sidenote*: Dok was way more sober and vertical than I was, so take his word as gospel....) As Joey and I are standing in the bathroom, making sure that our buddy is going to be OK, Joey as he normally does, whilst drinking decides to start acting the fool. After one too many smartass remarks, Joey decided show off his trademark crotch chop. Unfortunatly to do so, he leans up against the sink. Not made to support the weight of a 19 year old pointing at his crotch, it begins it's quick decent to the floor. I try to decide to stop it but it's a lost cause, causing nothing but a cut finger on my part. With water everywhere, Dave decides that it's time to exit stage left, but as he mentioned earlier in this tale his legs are not working as they should. So he crawls out to the deck (really a 3foot by 5foot landing and a great entry route for those drunks who just couldn't find their way to THEIR OWN HOUSES)
Back to Dave's recollection: Once inside, they immediately took me to the bathroom. And the first thing I held on to was the sink. A small porcelan thing jutting from the wall. Now, I either went to the toilet to hurl and tried to prop myself back up with the sink or lost my balance leaving the bathroom and fell back on it, regardless next thing I hear is a loud bang and water at my feet. Somehow the sink was removed from it's rightfull spot on the wall, and hot water was burning my feet.
Someone cut their finger on the porcelain either by trying to catch it on the way down, or fumbling with it while it lay on the bathroom floor. While all this is happening I am sitting on the edge of the tub hoping beyond all hope that I wasn't the one who broke the sink. My head is in my hands, my feet are still burning from the hot water (still coming from the pipe) and then I noticed the blood. Thankfully it was only a small cut, which stopped bleeding quickly.
Fearing that I might cause more damage, Dok helped me crawl to my post, where he would have been well within his right to push me down the stairs or throw me over the edge, but like the brother he is he sat me down and handed me what was to be my best friend for the rest of the night. My red bucket. Things were spinning, my head was ringing from the eminent hangover that I was to have the next day and I could still hear the party going on across the street.
After what seemed to be a couple of days, (mere hours) I crawled back into the house and found the nearest thing to rest my head on, Dok’s beanbag chair. Dry heaves followed and I think it was either Dok or Devon put the bucket over my head. The thing is, I don’t remember them doing this, so when I woke up the next morning or afternoon whenever it was, I thought I was laying in a pool of blood. All I saw was red. And everytime I called out to someone, there was this strange echo. It didn’t take long for me to realize I had indeed slept in a bucket the whole night. Evidently, they put the bucket on my head so I wouldn’t lay face down on beanbag chair and suffocate myself. What are friends for right?
(Dok's Final Thoughts: The night of the first class bash at the green house, all of the returning class was sitting on the back porch, discussing things that had happened over the summer. As it tended to do when we all got together when drinking, things got a little personal. Turns out that the cute chicky in Graphics (can't remember her name) lived in the house between mine and the green house got to know a lot about all of us before any of us knew what she looked like. She was the one that showed up at the apartment with Conners, dry humping on the floor. Poor Lance, sat there and watched it)
Chapter 8 – Trouble at the Border
Chapter 8 – Trouble at the Border
Dave: The three years I spent in Woodstock I compiled hundreds of very fond memories, as you can attest by this book Chris and I are writing. And of all those memories there are a few that I can recall as if they happened yesterday. The following is one of those and has a little to do with our friends south of the border.
Woodstock, New Brunswick is located along the Canada/U.S border in the western part of the province. If you were to take a 20-minute drive a little further west you would reach the small American town, Houlton, Maine. Every once in a while, and if we could find a willing person with a car (usually Lance and his car Gumby) a crew of us would head over the border to get something to eat or do a little cross-border shopping.
Enter April, whom we affectionately nicknamed “Psycho.” (and trust me, if you ever drove with the girl, you would understand. To date she is the only person I know of that has passed an off duty police officer on the shoulder of the road.) April used to be a student at NBCC Woodstock, till a severe bout with a brain stem infection, insifilitis put her in the hospital for six months. She never came back to Woodstock as a student. (Her family is another story all together.)
Once she was cleared to drive again, April would often make the three hour trip from Moncton to Woodstock to see us and we would most always head over to Houlton to play a little mini-golf (There was a great little 18-hole miniature golf course located in the basement of a video store that we stumbled on the previous year) and on the way back would stop at Burger King for some greasy American burgers and then head back through to Woodstock.
On this day we packed myself, my girlfriend at the time Dawn, Dok, Homer and of course Ms. Psycho herself into her golden Chevy Cavalier and headed off to Houlton. There is a tiny history lesson that will probably make the story a little easier to understand. Homer had just recently broken up with his girlfriend whom we called Big-E (Erin was probably 90 pounds soaking wet), and before dating Homer, Big-E dated this guy named Shannon whom Homer didn’t like a whole lot.
Homer: Hey there, This is Homer, I know I have been mentioned a few times in the previous chapters. I figured that since this story would never have happened were it not for me, that it was only appropriate for me to throw in my two cents worth. Because let's face it, if you don't come out of an afternoon of cross-border galavanting with at least one story, WHAT'S THE FREAKIN POINT!
So, as my cohort mentioned, I noticed this guy stopped at the border. I'm not sure if his name was actually Shannon, but sunce his name is neither important, nor worth remembering, he is now, and forever will be, known as Shannon.
It would be safe to say that this guy would never get a Christmas card from me, but, it had nothing to do with him dating Big E. I never liked the guy.
His idea of having fun was to get as drunk as possible and drive "the loop." This was a circuit that literally looped through downtown Woodstock. Locals would spend hours a night driving the loop, and this was called "fun." Hey, it was a small town.
Dave: Usually, we had absolutely no problem getting through the border, we would just explain that we were heading over to play a little mini-golf and wouldn’t be any longer than a couple of hours at the most, and we were waved through. We wouldn’t have the same fate on this day. As we were approaching the booth at the border, Homer happened to spot Shannon just on the other side of the border having his van searched by American authorities. To prove his dislike for the guy, Homer who had called shotgun back in Woodstock, proceeded to give Shannon the D-Generation X crotch chop. (Arms crossed like an X and a chopping motion towards ones groin area) We all found this a bit entertaining, but the problem was Homer was spotted by the border guard, and we were the next vehicle to go through.
Homer: Naturally, I found it hilarious that his vehicle was being searched, so, in my mind, it made perfect sense for me to taunt him about it. This is how my mind works, you see.
Dave: We approached the station and the usual questions were asked, but this time we were actually asked for identification. So the five of us handed our I.D’s to the guard to examine. As he was doing this, small bits of laughter could still be heard coming from the car.
“Please pull ahead and you can obtain your identification inside,” said the surly guard. With a worried look on our faces we all looked at each other wondering what the hell was going on. We immediately began to razz Homer who by this time was feeling like a piece of crap for putting us in this predicament. April pulled ahead parked and as we entered the customs building were met by a few American officials who wouldn’t have looked out of place on any NFL offensive line. What was even scarier about these dudes, they were carrying 9-mm pistols on their sides.
Homer: So there we are in the border station, a little nervous, but still able to see the humor of it all. Unfortunately, as Dave pointed out, the linebackers didn't share our point of view. Damn Yankees!
Dave: Being from Canada, I don't believe our border guards are permitted to holster a weapon, so this was a little out of the ordinary for us.
Being seated and awaiting further instruction, we were still laughing about the entire situation. Cause at the time, it was actually rather humorous.
“I don’t think you guys are in any position to be laughing,” said another guard behind us. "You are being detained for on a very serious matter."
It actually wasn't too long before this incident happened that the whole Beanie Baby craze had hit. You know the little stupid stuffed toys that some people were giving their kidney's away for. People were stopped at the border like normal but if Beanie Babies were found on their person entering the States, they were confiscated. So being in the jubilant mood we were in, that's what we figured we were being detained for. Smuggling Beanie Babies into the U.S. to sell on the black market.
I don’t know what it was about all these American border guards, but none of them had any sense of humor whatsoever. Trying to chat them up a little failed miserably, even our genuine "Canadian" smiles were returned with just a blank stair. One by one, we were led into a small room where we were patted down and asked a series of questions, most of which involved the use of drugs.
While waiting for his turn, Homer decided he was a little hungry so got up and was walking towards the M&M vending machine when Mr. Surly himself yelled out. “SIT DOWN.”
Homer didn’t have a chance to explain himself, “Bu-Bu but I was just getting som…”
“I said sit down!” the guard boomed. Bad knees and all, it didn’t take Homer too long to get back to his seat. April wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom for god sakes. We knew it was something serious by that time. But we still kept a pretty light attitude about the whole ordeal. After all, it isn't everyday a couple of good friends get to share a moment like this.
Homer: I happened to be the first one of our band of outlaws to be taken into the room by Mr. Linebacker, and of course I am fearing the worst. I figured there would be a search involved, I was just a little concerened what kind of a search it would be.
Immediatley, the movie Beavis and Butthead do America came to mind, with the body cavity search, and this guy had pretty big hands!
So he gets me into this room, and does the whole "if your hands ever come off this wall, you and will no longer be friends,' bit. I, of course immediately thought "I never really considered us friends in the fiirst place," luckily, common sense over-powered my natural smart ass tendancies and I kept the comment to myself.
So the first thing Linebacker guy says is for me to empty my pockets. So, since he was big man with one gun and I was little man with no gun, I emptied my pockets of change.
He noticed that one of the coins was a toonie, and proceeded to ask me if it was one of those new two dollar coins. I'm thinking these have been in circulation for more than two years, but since he is big man with a gun and I am little man with no gun, it is new.
At this point, I realise that he is just a dumbass American and I am a smartass Canadian, (did ya catch the little play on words there) so I decide to have a little fun. I figured that since there were no signs of latex gloves, my sphincter is probably safe.
As Dave mentioned, we were all known as being smartasses, but, without blowing my own horn too much, I think I was probably the king of smartasses. I am sure Dave would atest to this, having been the victim of many well-timed zingers (remember the Irving comment?)
I proceeded to tell him that we were coming out with a five dollar coin next. It was going to be the size of a hockey puck and contain five different metals including poutin. He actually bought it, which sent my inside voice into hysterics.
So after all the formalities are taken care of, he proceeds with the patdown. Let me tell you how releaved I was about the fact that it stopped at that!
It has always been my philosiphy that the best laugh you ever have is at someone else's expense. So, I was actually thinking about coming out of the room walking a little bowlegged, but I figured we were in enough trouble.
He then asks me when the last time was I had taken drugs. I again saw the opportunity to have a little fun with my new-found "friend". I proceeded to tell him that I have never taken them (at the time, that was true). Naturally, due to our afore mentioned behaviour, he found this a little hard to believe.
This was where the fun began. I proceeded to spin this elaborate tale about drugs interfering with my football career in high school. This peaked his interest, and we started chatting about it.
I had him convinced that I was a starting middle linebacker in high school, with a full scholarship to play at McGill University until I blew my knee out my senior year. The story was made more believable because I was actually limping a little bit that day.
The funniest thing is, thanks to the two bad knees that Dave mentioned, as well as having only one eye that works, I was never able to play high school football!
This really lightened the mood and the rest of the time spent in the little room was not all that unpleasant.
Dave: My turn came around, and was led into the room by one of the linebackers. I was told to empty out my pockets and place the contents on the table in front of me. I was then instructed to take my position on the wall with my arms and legs spread so he could pat me down.
”Please spread your arms and legs on the wall and if you feel it necessary for your hands to come off the wall, we will fail to remain friends.” Now usually I would find a remark like that quite funny, and the little person inside my head was laughing like a little schoolgirl, but I remembered that the guy was carrying a very powerful handgun, and even the smallest outburst would probably mean a big ouch for me. So I maintained my composure and followed the very nice man’s instructions.
"When was the last time you used drugs," Mr. Linebacker asked me. Now, again we were all known for being huge smartasses while in the college atmosphere. And if it weren't for the gun it would have been open season and a perfect opportunity for a sarcastic outburst. Being that Houlton time was an hour behind Woodstock time, it was quite tempting to ask him which time zone he was refering to. If I had smoked a joint at 2 o'clock Woodstock time, I wouldn't had smoked it yet according to American time. But alas the saner part of my brain thought it best just to sit there and shut up.
Dok was next. Now one thing you have to remember here is that when we were asked to take everything off our person while in the detention room, they meant everything.He emptied his pockets on the table, but had forgotten about his sunglasses that were hanging from the chain around his neck. The guard proceeded with his pat down, and once he reached around to Chris' chest area, he found the glasses.
Dok: "As soon as he touched them was when I realized that I had forgotten them." "I felt him reach for his gun and was thinking to myself, oh man, I am a gonner. I think this is where the friendship ends."
Dave: After we all had our turn, we all sat back down by the happiest guard in the world and awaited our fate. Electric chair was swimming through my brain, and I think Dok was picturing us before a firing squad. But finally the time had come to bid our friends a found adeiu. THREE HOURS LATER!. As we continued into Houlton the conversation centered on our recent experience. Since we were basically sworn to silence while in the customs building, we couldn't converse much.
“Holy Shit, they thought we were stoned,” I blurted out.
We had all the tell tale signs; We were giggling when we got to the border, and continued to giggle and act up inside -- Homer was hungry for M&M’s which could have easily been misconstrued as having the munchies. -- and April needed to go to the washroom, which they probably viewed as a great chance to dump the evidence before she could be searched. The laughter erupted again, and we all took turns harassing Homer for putting us in that predicament in the first place.
“Next time we come over to Houlton, we are taping your hands behind your back,” April said to Homer. But not even a three-hour detention could have stopped us from our final goal, and that was mini golf. I can’t really remember who won, or even if we kept score that day. The only thing that any one remembered was our encounter with our ‘brothers’ to the south.
Homer: I would like to think that if nothing else, we did our little part to improve Canadian-American border relations. Although, in reality, we probably set things back a few decades.
Oh well, at least we achieved our goal of never going on an adventure without having a story to tell.
Dave: The three years I spent in Woodstock I compiled hundreds of very fond memories, as you can attest by this book Chris and I are writing. And of all those memories there are a few that I can recall as if they happened yesterday. The following is one of those and has a little to do with our friends south of the border.
Woodstock, New Brunswick is located along the Canada/U.S border in the western part of the province. If you were to take a 20-minute drive a little further west you would reach the small American town, Houlton, Maine. Every once in a while, and if we could find a willing person with a car (usually Lance and his car Gumby) a crew of us would head over the border to get something to eat or do a little cross-border shopping.
Enter April, whom we affectionately nicknamed “Psycho.” (and trust me, if you ever drove with the girl, you would understand. To date she is the only person I know of that has passed an off duty police officer on the shoulder of the road.) April used to be a student at NBCC Woodstock, till a severe bout with a brain stem infection, insifilitis put her in the hospital for six months. She never came back to Woodstock as a student. (Her family is another story all together.)
Once she was cleared to drive again, April would often make the three hour trip from Moncton to Woodstock to see us and we would most always head over to Houlton to play a little mini-golf (There was a great little 18-hole miniature golf course located in the basement of a video store that we stumbled on the previous year) and on the way back would stop at Burger King for some greasy American burgers and then head back through to Woodstock.
On this day we packed myself, my girlfriend at the time Dawn, Dok, Homer and of course Ms. Psycho herself into her golden Chevy Cavalier and headed off to Houlton. There is a tiny history lesson that will probably make the story a little easier to understand. Homer had just recently broken up with his girlfriend whom we called Big-E (Erin was probably 90 pounds soaking wet), and before dating Homer, Big-E dated this guy named Shannon whom Homer didn’t like a whole lot.
Homer: Hey there, This is Homer, I know I have been mentioned a few times in the previous chapters. I figured that since this story would never have happened were it not for me, that it was only appropriate for me to throw in my two cents worth. Because let's face it, if you don't come out of an afternoon of cross-border galavanting with at least one story, WHAT'S THE FREAKIN POINT!
So, as my cohort mentioned, I noticed this guy stopped at the border. I'm not sure if his name was actually Shannon, but sunce his name is neither important, nor worth remembering, he is now, and forever will be, known as Shannon.
It would be safe to say that this guy would never get a Christmas card from me, but, it had nothing to do with him dating Big E. I never liked the guy.
His idea of having fun was to get as drunk as possible and drive "the loop." This was a circuit that literally looped through downtown Woodstock. Locals would spend hours a night driving the loop, and this was called "fun." Hey, it was a small town.
Dave: Usually, we had absolutely no problem getting through the border, we would just explain that we were heading over to play a little mini-golf and wouldn’t be any longer than a couple of hours at the most, and we were waved through. We wouldn’t have the same fate on this day. As we were approaching the booth at the border, Homer happened to spot Shannon just on the other side of the border having his van searched by American authorities. To prove his dislike for the guy, Homer who had called shotgun back in Woodstock, proceeded to give Shannon the D-Generation X crotch chop. (Arms crossed like an X and a chopping motion towards ones groin area) We all found this a bit entertaining, but the problem was Homer was spotted by the border guard, and we were the next vehicle to go through.
Homer: Naturally, I found it hilarious that his vehicle was being searched, so, in my mind, it made perfect sense for me to taunt him about it. This is how my mind works, you see.
Dave: We approached the station and the usual questions were asked, but this time we were actually asked for identification. So the five of us handed our I.D’s to the guard to examine. As he was doing this, small bits of laughter could still be heard coming from the car.
“Please pull ahead and you can obtain your identification inside,” said the surly guard. With a worried look on our faces we all looked at each other wondering what the hell was going on. We immediately began to razz Homer who by this time was feeling like a piece of crap for putting us in this predicament. April pulled ahead parked and as we entered the customs building were met by a few American officials who wouldn’t have looked out of place on any NFL offensive line. What was even scarier about these dudes, they were carrying 9-mm pistols on their sides.
Homer: So there we are in the border station, a little nervous, but still able to see the humor of it all. Unfortunately, as Dave pointed out, the linebackers didn't share our point of view. Damn Yankees!
Dave: Being from Canada, I don't believe our border guards are permitted to holster a weapon, so this was a little out of the ordinary for us.
Being seated and awaiting further instruction, we were still laughing about the entire situation. Cause at the time, it was actually rather humorous.
“I don’t think you guys are in any position to be laughing,” said another guard behind us. "You are being detained for on a very serious matter."
It actually wasn't too long before this incident happened that the whole Beanie Baby craze had hit. You know the little stupid stuffed toys that some people were giving their kidney's away for. People were stopped at the border like normal but if Beanie Babies were found on their person entering the States, they were confiscated. So being in the jubilant mood we were in, that's what we figured we were being detained for. Smuggling Beanie Babies into the U.S. to sell on the black market.
I don’t know what it was about all these American border guards, but none of them had any sense of humor whatsoever. Trying to chat them up a little failed miserably, even our genuine "Canadian" smiles were returned with just a blank stair. One by one, we were led into a small room where we were patted down and asked a series of questions, most of which involved the use of drugs.
While waiting for his turn, Homer decided he was a little hungry so got up and was walking towards the M&M vending machine when Mr. Surly himself yelled out. “SIT DOWN.”
Homer didn’t have a chance to explain himself, “Bu-Bu but I was just getting som…”
“I said sit down!” the guard boomed. Bad knees and all, it didn’t take Homer too long to get back to his seat. April wasn’t even allowed to use the bathroom for god sakes. We knew it was something serious by that time. But we still kept a pretty light attitude about the whole ordeal. After all, it isn't everyday a couple of good friends get to share a moment like this.
Homer: I happened to be the first one of our band of outlaws to be taken into the room by Mr. Linebacker, and of course I am fearing the worst. I figured there would be a search involved, I was just a little concerened what kind of a search it would be.
Immediatley, the movie Beavis and Butthead do America came to mind, with the body cavity search, and this guy had pretty big hands!
So he gets me into this room, and does the whole "if your hands ever come off this wall, you and will no longer be friends,' bit. I, of course immediately thought "I never really considered us friends in the fiirst place," luckily, common sense over-powered my natural smart ass tendancies and I kept the comment to myself.
So the first thing Linebacker guy says is for me to empty my pockets. So, since he was big man with one gun and I was little man with no gun, I emptied my pockets of change.
He noticed that one of the coins was a toonie, and proceeded to ask me if it was one of those new two dollar coins. I'm thinking these have been in circulation for more than two years, but since he is big man with a gun and I am little man with no gun, it is new.
At this point, I realise that he is just a dumbass American and I am a smartass Canadian, (did ya catch the little play on words there) so I decide to have a little fun. I figured that since there were no signs of latex gloves, my sphincter is probably safe.
As Dave mentioned, we were all known as being smartasses, but, without blowing my own horn too much, I think I was probably the king of smartasses. I am sure Dave would atest to this, having been the victim of many well-timed zingers (remember the Irving comment?)
I proceeded to tell him that we were coming out with a five dollar coin next. It was going to be the size of a hockey puck and contain five different metals including poutin. He actually bought it, which sent my inside voice into hysterics.
So after all the formalities are taken care of, he proceeds with the patdown. Let me tell you how releaved I was about the fact that it stopped at that!
It has always been my philosiphy that the best laugh you ever have is at someone else's expense. So, I was actually thinking about coming out of the room walking a little bowlegged, but I figured we were in enough trouble.
He then asks me when the last time was I had taken drugs. I again saw the opportunity to have a little fun with my new-found "friend". I proceeded to tell him that I have never taken them (at the time, that was true). Naturally, due to our afore mentioned behaviour, he found this a little hard to believe.
This was where the fun began. I proceeded to spin this elaborate tale about drugs interfering with my football career in high school. This peaked his interest, and we started chatting about it.
I had him convinced that I was a starting middle linebacker in high school, with a full scholarship to play at McGill University until I blew my knee out my senior year. The story was made more believable because I was actually limping a little bit that day.
The funniest thing is, thanks to the two bad knees that Dave mentioned, as well as having only one eye that works, I was never able to play high school football!
This really lightened the mood and the rest of the time spent in the little room was not all that unpleasant.
Dave: My turn came around, and was led into the room by one of the linebackers. I was told to empty out my pockets and place the contents on the table in front of me. I was then instructed to take my position on the wall with my arms and legs spread so he could pat me down.
”Please spread your arms and legs on the wall and if you feel it necessary for your hands to come off the wall, we will fail to remain friends.” Now usually I would find a remark like that quite funny, and the little person inside my head was laughing like a little schoolgirl, but I remembered that the guy was carrying a very powerful handgun, and even the smallest outburst would probably mean a big ouch for me. So I maintained my composure and followed the very nice man’s instructions.
"When was the last time you used drugs," Mr. Linebacker asked me. Now, again we were all known for being huge smartasses while in the college atmosphere. And if it weren't for the gun it would have been open season and a perfect opportunity for a sarcastic outburst. Being that Houlton time was an hour behind Woodstock time, it was quite tempting to ask him which time zone he was refering to. If I had smoked a joint at 2 o'clock Woodstock time, I wouldn't had smoked it yet according to American time. But alas the saner part of my brain thought it best just to sit there and shut up.
Dok was next. Now one thing you have to remember here is that when we were asked to take everything off our person while in the detention room, they meant everything.He emptied his pockets on the table, but had forgotten about his sunglasses that were hanging from the chain around his neck. The guard proceeded with his pat down, and once he reached around to Chris' chest area, he found the glasses.
Dok: "As soon as he touched them was when I realized that I had forgotten them." "I felt him reach for his gun and was thinking to myself, oh man, I am a gonner. I think this is where the friendship ends."
Dave: After we all had our turn, we all sat back down by the happiest guard in the world and awaited our fate. Electric chair was swimming through my brain, and I think Dok was picturing us before a firing squad. But finally the time had come to bid our friends a found adeiu. THREE HOURS LATER!. As we continued into Houlton the conversation centered on our recent experience. Since we were basically sworn to silence while in the customs building, we couldn't converse much.
“Holy Shit, they thought we were stoned,” I blurted out.
We had all the tell tale signs; We were giggling when we got to the border, and continued to giggle and act up inside -- Homer was hungry for M&M’s which could have easily been misconstrued as having the munchies. -- and April needed to go to the washroom, which they probably viewed as a great chance to dump the evidence before she could be searched. The laughter erupted again, and we all took turns harassing Homer for putting us in that predicament in the first place.
“Next time we come over to Houlton, we are taping your hands behind your back,” April said to Homer. But not even a three-hour detention could have stopped us from our final goal, and that was mini golf. I can’t really remember who won, or even if we kept score that day. The only thing that any one remembered was our encounter with our ‘brothers’ to the south.
Homer: I would like to think that if nothing else, we did our little part to improve Canadian-American border relations. Although, in reality, we probably set things back a few decades.
Oh well, at least we achieved our goal of never going on an adventure without having a story to tell.
Chapter 7 – The Darkest Times
Aug 17 1996 started out as any regular day. It was the summer between my second year and my what was to be my real second year of Journalism.
You see, most of 1996 was not a good year for me with the death of my grandfather and was still reeling over the separation of my parents the previous year. I still vividly remember the morning my grandfather passed away. It was a cold November morning, and my roommate at the time, Disco Dave Wilson had just gotten up. I had been keeping him up to date on the status of how my grandfather was doing over his final days because he showed so much compassion during the whole process.
The way the phone rang that cold sunny morning; we both knew he was gone. Dave picked up the phone, and on the other end was my father who was sobbing. He handed the phone over to me, and before I took it out of his hands, tears had already been running down my face. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to class that day.
I tried to continue on with my course, but because of everything that was going on, I had fallen into a pretty serious depression and could no longer concentrate. I talked the situation over with my journalism instructor Victor as well as the head of Comm Arts, Brenda “Gilda Radner” Bradley and it was agreed that I would be dropping out of journalism. Much to the shagrin of many of my fellow classmates and friends. But in the end, they all understood.
To keep my second-year journalism dreams alive for the following year, I entered myself into a career education course. Basically to test myself to see if I was following the correct career path. I graduated from that program, and was once again accepted into the Journalism program.
That summer, I would take the hour drive north from Fredericton to Woodstock every once in a while to make sure the apartment was alright, and to catch up with some of the people whom I grew close to in my previous two years in the small town.
It was the labor day long weekend. To my surprise, my roomie and best friend Brucie also arrived back in Woodstock later that Saturday, so we called as many people as we could and had a little bash at the pad before heading off to JR’s for an evening of frolicking and fun. There was the usual red neck crowd that night, as well as a few other friends from the college whom we didn’t know had come back to town.
It was getting later in the evening and I had drank a copious amount of liquor, so it was about time for me to hit the shit sack. Nothing in the world would have been able to prepare me for the events that were to follow.
Once I got home, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep because the lady in the apartment next to us was beating the hell out of her kids and causing quite a racquet in the process. So I turned on the tube and flipped to Canada’s music station, Much Music to see what was on for videos. All I saw was some dumb ass boy band so continued to flip through the channels.
As I was going through the channels, I stopped on CNN and the words I saw plastered on the screen broke my heart into tiny little pieces.
“PRINCESS DIANA AND BOYFRIEND DODI AL-FIAID PRESUMED DEAD AFTER HORRIFIC CAR CRASH IN PARIS”
All I saw was the crumpled remains of the princess’s car, and I knew she was gone. The anchor that night was doing his best to put everyone’s mind at ease saying that although her boyfriend was pronounced dead at the scene, the Princess, although very badly wounded herself, was alert when she was pulled from the wreckage. He wasn't portraying a pretty scene.
For the next couple of hours there I sat, just inches from the television set hoping beyond hope that the Princess would some how find a way to pull through this. Brucie finally arrived back home in his usual jubilant post-bar manner, but it didn’t take him long to figure out what had happened and he took a seat on the couch next to where I was sitting and together we watched the tragedy unfold.
Early reports were saying that the Princess and her wealthy boyfriend, who was the heir to the Harros hotel chain, were spotted leaving their hotel and were on their way to some sort of private function, when they were spotted by the paparazzi. They chased the couples car on motorcycle, and in the process of trying to elude them, the driver of the car crashed into a pillar under a bridge.
Evidently the paparazzi even stuck around to take a few gruesome and tasteless photos of the victims of the crash before heading off. For the next 10 hours or so, I sat glued to CNN hoping beyond hope that the graphic on the bottom of the screen would change from “feared dead” to “recovering in hospital,” but it never came.
Early the next morning the world received the tragic news. Princess Diana had died from her injuries not long after she arrived at the hospital. The normal questions were running through my head, and all those questions seemed to always begin with one simple word. Why?
Why her? Why now? She had done so much for so many people, and even through her divorce from Prince Charles her reputation as a devoted humanitarian and loving mother remained untarnished. Who was going to pay for taking her life? But as it turned out, no one would. The paparazzi was not charged but were found negligent. The driver of the car was found to be intoxicated but no formal charges were pressed. Another precious life taken, with absolutely no consequences.
As a small end note I have to send out a very special thank you to those of you who stood by me in my time of need. This was probably one of the toughest years of my life and you all came through with flying colors. You all know who you are. Like Dok said in a similar story everyone we met during our stay in Woodstock, we were supposed to meet for a reason. And not a day goes by when I don’t thank my lucky stars that all of these people came into my life when they did.
You see, most of 1996 was not a good year for me with the death of my grandfather and was still reeling over the separation of my parents the previous year. I still vividly remember the morning my grandfather passed away. It was a cold November morning, and my roommate at the time, Disco Dave Wilson had just gotten up. I had been keeping him up to date on the status of how my grandfather was doing over his final days because he showed so much compassion during the whole process.
The way the phone rang that cold sunny morning; we both knew he was gone. Dave picked up the phone, and on the other end was my father who was sobbing. He handed the phone over to me, and before I took it out of his hands, tears had already been running down my face. Needless to say, I wasn’t going to class that day.
I tried to continue on with my course, but because of everything that was going on, I had fallen into a pretty serious depression and could no longer concentrate. I talked the situation over with my journalism instructor Victor as well as the head of Comm Arts, Brenda “Gilda Radner” Bradley and it was agreed that I would be dropping out of journalism. Much to the shagrin of many of my fellow classmates and friends. But in the end, they all understood.
To keep my second-year journalism dreams alive for the following year, I entered myself into a career education course. Basically to test myself to see if I was following the correct career path. I graduated from that program, and was once again accepted into the Journalism program.
That summer, I would take the hour drive north from Fredericton to Woodstock every once in a while to make sure the apartment was alright, and to catch up with some of the people whom I grew close to in my previous two years in the small town.
It was the labor day long weekend. To my surprise, my roomie and best friend Brucie also arrived back in Woodstock later that Saturday, so we called as many people as we could and had a little bash at the pad before heading off to JR’s for an evening of frolicking and fun. There was the usual red neck crowd that night, as well as a few other friends from the college whom we didn’t know had come back to town.
It was getting later in the evening and I had drank a copious amount of liquor, so it was about time for me to hit the shit sack. Nothing in the world would have been able to prepare me for the events that were to follow.
Once I got home, I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep because the lady in the apartment next to us was beating the hell out of her kids and causing quite a racquet in the process. So I turned on the tube and flipped to Canada’s music station, Much Music to see what was on for videos. All I saw was some dumb ass boy band so continued to flip through the channels.
As I was going through the channels, I stopped on CNN and the words I saw plastered on the screen broke my heart into tiny little pieces.
“PRINCESS DIANA AND BOYFRIEND DODI AL-FIAID PRESUMED DEAD AFTER HORRIFIC CAR CRASH IN PARIS”
All I saw was the crumpled remains of the princess’s car, and I knew she was gone. The anchor that night was doing his best to put everyone’s mind at ease saying that although her boyfriend was pronounced dead at the scene, the Princess, although very badly wounded herself, was alert when she was pulled from the wreckage. He wasn't portraying a pretty scene.
For the next couple of hours there I sat, just inches from the television set hoping beyond hope that the Princess would some how find a way to pull through this. Brucie finally arrived back home in his usual jubilant post-bar manner, but it didn’t take him long to figure out what had happened and he took a seat on the couch next to where I was sitting and together we watched the tragedy unfold.
Early reports were saying that the Princess and her wealthy boyfriend, who was the heir to the Harros hotel chain, were spotted leaving their hotel and were on their way to some sort of private function, when they were spotted by the paparazzi. They chased the couples car on motorcycle, and in the process of trying to elude them, the driver of the car crashed into a pillar under a bridge.
Evidently the paparazzi even stuck around to take a few gruesome and tasteless photos of the victims of the crash before heading off. For the next 10 hours or so, I sat glued to CNN hoping beyond hope that the graphic on the bottom of the screen would change from “feared dead” to “recovering in hospital,” but it never came.
Early the next morning the world received the tragic news. Princess Diana had died from her injuries not long after she arrived at the hospital. The normal questions were running through my head, and all those questions seemed to always begin with one simple word. Why?
Why her? Why now? She had done so much for so many people, and even through her divorce from Prince Charles her reputation as a devoted humanitarian and loving mother remained untarnished. Who was going to pay for taking her life? But as it turned out, no one would. The paparazzi was not charged but were found negligent. The driver of the car was found to be intoxicated but no formal charges were pressed. Another precious life taken, with absolutely no consequences.
As a small end note I have to send out a very special thank you to those of you who stood by me in my time of need. This was probably one of the toughest years of my life and you all came through with flying colors. You all know who you are. Like Dok said in a similar story everyone we met during our stay in Woodstock, we were supposed to meet for a reason. And not a day goes by when I don’t thank my lucky stars that all of these people came into my life when they did.
CHAPTER 6 – OH CHRISTMAS TREE!
Although Communication Arts consisted of five different programs, we always made sure we stuck together. To tell you the truth, even though we were quite loud and very obnoxious at the best of times, we were probably the most popular program in the College.
So when it came down to pranks between Comm Arts programs, it wasn’t uncommon for two programs to team up on another. Radio and graphics against Video, or Journalism and Radio against photography. You get the idea.
Christmas 1997 - Journalism and Radio Vs. Graphic Arts.
To show their holiday spirit, the graphics class would always place a Christmas tree in their classroom. And anyone who walked by their room would be able to see it in all its glory. And every year it had the Comm Arts touch; in the place of an angel, a beer bottle. A common topic of conversation in the hallways during Christmas time was was plotting to get the tree and move it into another room, but it never seemed to happen.
Enter the duo with the master plan, sure it was spur of the moment, but hell was it successful.
Tuesday evenings at the Riverside Pub was our Mountain Club night, which was basically a pub night for NBCC Woodstock students sponsored by Moosehead Breweries. Every night we would have a pool tournament, and whatever money was raised as an entrance fee minus money to pay for the table, was put into a pot to pay for our end of year bash/drunk. Since it was the final tourney before everyone left for Christmas, the special that night was rum and eggnog. Mmmmm yummy.
Two of the biggest rum and eggnog fans in the Mountain Club were my good friend and radio student RedDawg Wells, and myself, being of the Journalism persuasion. After the tourney was completed, and I believe Kimmy C., was the victor of the evening, Mr. RedDawg and myself sat down with the rest of our student friends who were basically there just to booze it up. For the most part, it was the same folks playing pool every week.
Please don’t ask me how the conversation about the graphics tree came to be. (Quite frankly we didn't know how half of our conversations started). All I know is that it did, and we thought, being as lubed as we were, moving the tree from the graphics room to the radio studio was a great idea. There was no turning back…and no one else could know about our devious plan. (evil laughter fills your head)
Being that everyone else were pretty lit, our escape was easy. We just got up and walked out, with no questions asked. Most of the people couldn't see through their beer goggles anyway, so it wasn't really that big of a task.
The pub itself was basically right across the parking lot from the college, (talk about prime location), and good thing to, cause in the state we were in we weren’t going to be vertical much longer. So the faster we could get in and out the better.
The college closed around 10 p.m every night., so we had a very small window in which to work in. We stumbled and giggled our way past the security guard in the cafeteria up to the Comm Arts wing, and down the hall to the Graphics Department. Especially around Christmas time, a lot of projects were due before everyone left for their holiday, so you never knew who was around doing some last minute assignment. The print washer in the photo dark room was running, so we knew someone was around, not that we cared much.
The coast was clear. Time to make our move.
Just as we were ducking into the Graphics room, we heard someone come down the hall towards us so we stayed put until the footsteps disappeared and grabbed the tree. To this day, with the smell of smoke and booze just wafting off of us, I am still not quite sure how we didn't get busted, but I digress. The radio studio was a ways down the hall, and there were only a few strategic spots we could hide if needed but we made it with no incidents. Or so we thought.
We accomplished our goal, the Christmas tree was now located in the radio broadcasting teaching studio but being as drunk as we were we didn’t notice the trail of pine needles and water we left behind us on the way to the station. If it were a few here and there, it probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal. But it looked like the whole freakin tree.
We were about half way back to the graphics lab when we were stopped by Dave D., one of the NBCC Woodstock janitorial/maintance staff and one of the biggest scam artists known to human kind, and he wasn’t a happy camper. He asked us if we saw anything, and surprisingly we were able to answer him with a straight and imfatic no and acted just as concerned as he was.
By this time the blood to alcohol ratio was quickly turning back to the bloods favor, so we jaunted back over to the pub and drank our faces off for the rest of the evening. Every once in a while RedDawg and I would look at each other and laugh our collective asses off at our accomplishment thinking it was over.
But we were wrong. The next day people were still talking about it. And you knew there was something big going down when the principal of the college made his way upstairs. Mac would only wander into the Comm Arts wing if either A) he was lost or B) someone was in trouble. Inquires were made by instructors to students, but no one seemed to be able to place Reddawg or me there. So we got off scott free.
A few days later, after the smoke had cleared, someone in Graphics caught word that it was us that did it. And sticking with the Comm Arts credo, we stuck together and not a word was spoken. We all just continued over to the pub once again and devised even more evil plans…
Although Communication Arts consisted of five different programs, we always made sure we stuck together. To tell you the truth, even though we were quite loud and very obnoxious at the best of times, we were probably the most popular program in the College.
So when it came down to pranks between Comm Arts programs, it wasn’t uncommon for two programs to team up on another. Radio and graphics against Video, or Journalism and Radio against photography. You get the idea.
Christmas 1997 - Journalism and Radio Vs. Graphic Arts.
To show their holiday spirit, the graphics class would always place a Christmas tree in their classroom. And anyone who walked by their room would be able to see it in all its glory. And every year it had the Comm Arts touch; in the place of an angel, a beer bottle. A common topic of conversation in the hallways during Christmas time was was plotting to get the tree and move it into another room, but it never seemed to happen.
Enter the duo with the master plan, sure it was spur of the moment, but hell was it successful.
Tuesday evenings at the Riverside Pub was our Mountain Club night, which was basically a pub night for NBCC Woodstock students sponsored by Moosehead Breweries. Every night we would have a pool tournament, and whatever money was raised as an entrance fee minus money to pay for the table, was put into a pot to pay for our end of year bash/drunk. Since it was the final tourney before everyone left for Christmas, the special that night was rum and eggnog. Mmmmm yummy.
Two of the biggest rum and eggnog fans in the Mountain Club were my good friend and radio student RedDawg Wells, and myself, being of the Journalism persuasion. After the tourney was completed, and I believe Kimmy C., was the victor of the evening, Mr. RedDawg and myself sat down with the rest of our student friends who were basically there just to booze it up. For the most part, it was the same folks playing pool every week.
Please don’t ask me how the conversation about the graphics tree came to be. (Quite frankly we didn't know how half of our conversations started). All I know is that it did, and we thought, being as lubed as we were, moving the tree from the graphics room to the radio studio was a great idea. There was no turning back…and no one else could know about our devious plan. (evil laughter fills your head)
Being that everyone else were pretty lit, our escape was easy. We just got up and walked out, with no questions asked. Most of the people couldn't see through their beer goggles anyway, so it wasn't really that big of a task.
The pub itself was basically right across the parking lot from the college, (talk about prime location), and good thing to, cause in the state we were in we weren’t going to be vertical much longer. So the faster we could get in and out the better.
The college closed around 10 p.m every night., so we had a very small window in which to work in. We stumbled and giggled our way past the security guard in the cafeteria up to the Comm Arts wing, and down the hall to the Graphics Department. Especially around Christmas time, a lot of projects were due before everyone left for their holiday, so you never knew who was around doing some last minute assignment. The print washer in the photo dark room was running, so we knew someone was around, not that we cared much.
The coast was clear. Time to make our move.
Just as we were ducking into the Graphics room, we heard someone come down the hall towards us so we stayed put until the footsteps disappeared and grabbed the tree. To this day, with the smell of smoke and booze just wafting off of us, I am still not quite sure how we didn't get busted, but I digress. The radio studio was a ways down the hall, and there were only a few strategic spots we could hide if needed but we made it with no incidents. Or so we thought.
We accomplished our goal, the Christmas tree was now located in the radio broadcasting teaching studio but being as drunk as we were we didn’t notice the trail of pine needles and water we left behind us on the way to the station. If it were a few here and there, it probably wouldn’t have been such a big deal. But it looked like the whole freakin tree.
We were about half way back to the graphics lab when we were stopped by Dave D., one of the NBCC Woodstock janitorial/maintance staff and one of the biggest scam artists known to human kind, and he wasn’t a happy camper. He asked us if we saw anything, and surprisingly we were able to answer him with a straight and imfatic no and acted just as concerned as he was.
By this time the blood to alcohol ratio was quickly turning back to the bloods favor, so we jaunted back over to the pub and drank our faces off for the rest of the evening. Every once in a while RedDawg and I would look at each other and laugh our collective asses off at our accomplishment thinking it was over.
But we were wrong. The next day people were still talking about it. And you knew there was something big going down when the principal of the college made his way upstairs. Mac would only wander into the Comm Arts wing if either A) he was lost or B) someone was in trouble. Inquires were made by instructors to students, but no one seemed to be able to place Reddawg or me there. So we got off scott free.
A few days later, after the smoke had cleared, someone in Graphics caught word that it was us that did it. And sticking with the Comm Arts credo, we stuck together and not a word was spoken. We all just continued over to the pub once again and devised even more evil plans…
CHAPTER 5 – PRETTY IN PINK OR WHATEVER
CHAPTER 5 – PRETTY IN PINK OR WHATEVER
What started out as a normal October day back in 1997, turned out to be something it wasn’t intended to be. A real life version of the movie To Wong Fu –Thanks for Everything Julie Newman..
Before I go any further, there is one guy that I have to introduce. Jeff was our photography professor. Not only was he our prof, but also he was just as or possibly more childish than most of us students were, cause he really wasn’t that much older than some of us.
Time and again pranks were pulled out of our repertoire on poor ol’ Jeffy. And in his defence, he pulled some good ones out of his hat as well. Especially this one, but you see…this worked out to our favor and NOT his…
Every Halloween the NBCC Woodstock College Radio station CHCR (would become CKXY) hosted it’s fundraising event known as “Halloween Havoc.” - a weeklong fundraising event with a number of different Halloween themed activities. A pie auction was one such event where the person of your choice was auctioned off to the highest bidder and placed in old-fashioned stocks. Once said “prisoners” hands and head were secured, those who won were able to rub whip cream in any available orfice in the prisioner’s head. That included nose, ears, mouth, and it wouldn’t be any fun unless it was rubbed thoroughly through their hair.(believe me, getting whipped cream out of your ear canal is no fun at all.)
The event of all events during Havoc week was the slave auction. Very similar to the pie auction where people were sold off to the highest bidder, but instead of whip cream in the eye or ear nose..., whomever it was that won the auction “owned” that particular slave for the rest of that day and would have them do their bidding. For instance, Nick had to skip through the halls for the afternoon singing "I'm a little teapot."
In the weeks approaching the slave auction, Jeff would often remind myself as well as my fellow journalism co-hort/partner in crime Homer (Dave) that “our asses would be his at the slave auction.” This statement was often met with a few friendly but very foul retorts.
You see, there were just so many things that Homer and I did to Jeff, it was tough to be sure what it was that set him off in such an immature and unprofessional manner. But as usual, knowing Jeff, it was probably just to be a bastard. And oh baby he didn’t disappoint.
Auction day finally arrived, and CHCR staff notified us when we were going on. We had known for days, mainly because Jeff was more than willing to remind us at every available opportunity that he signed us up. Even walking through the Comm Arts wing, we were stopped by a number of students or staff saying that they were going to win us and do their worst. As journalists and Comm Arts students, we were pretty well known within the college ranks, probably because of our impromtu wraslin matches in the middle of the cafeteria, so there were a few people as well as other instructors who would have loved to get their hands on the two of us.
Who do we see in the hallway next but Jeffy, and what he had in his hand stopped us dead in our tracks.
“I told you you’re asses would be mine,” he stated with a boyish grin on his face.(Besides the fact that most of his hair was retreating from his face, and in a hurry.. Jeff looked quite young. Which made him a piece of eye candy for the female persuasion and the odd male…you had to know Jody D.) It wasn’t the grin on his face that worried us, cause we had seen him look like an idiot before. Nope, it was the chequebook he carried in his hand that caught our attention.
The bastard meant business.
There were only a couple of people before us, and then the time came. In front of an estimated 150 people, Homer and I took our places on the bench/auction block. With so many people in the cafeteria, we weren’t exactly sure where Jeff was lurking…but we knew he was out there. He wouldn’t miss this for the world.
The bidding started at $20, and then rose to $25. The chequebook flies in the air and we hear Jeff yell out “Forty dollars!” The bidding war went on way longer than we were expecting, and I believe before our future master gave his last bid, other students and college staff raised an amazing $115. But no one was beating him on this day. (All monies raised during the weeklong event went to the speech pathology unit at the local hospital so we were more than willing to put our prides on the line for such a good cause.)
“One hundred thirty!” The cafeteria went nuts, and we were sold. Next thing we see Jeff coming out of the crowd with a black Moosehead Premium Dry duffel bag and that oh so familiar geeky smile. On his way past us he only utters one word.
“Bathroom. “And disappears through the men’s door.
At first we thought we were going to be playing janitor and have to clean the bathrooms all afternoon, cause that would be something he would do. We followed him through the doors and were barely two steps inside when he instructed us to “disrobe.” As we were taking our clothes off, and between the odd gay joke thrown in his direction, he pulled out the most horrendous woman’s clothing I had ever seen in my life. And obviously old clothes his wife would never wear again.
His revenge, to humiliate us by dressing us up in drag and have us prance around like little women for the rest of the afternoon. And yes, incase you are wondering, it did mean going to our classes like that as well.(Ha Ha, you should have seen the look on poor ol Bernie’s face.) Besides my goatee I was sporting a full length rose patterned number with a frilly white-laced V-neck collar and a black wig (at least the wig and my beard matched, other wise I would have felt foolish). I sort of felt like a tool until I saw what Dave would be wearing down the runway. A multi-colored blouse with a hot pink knee high skirt and a brown wig. I didn’t feel so bad then.
It was show time. Time to reveal our feminine sides to the throngs of people waiting in the cafeteria. We walked out of the bathroom, met by complete silence. The odd thing was the auction was still going on. Mila Jovovich and Christie Brinkley had nothing on us. I kid you not, for at least 10-seconds, not a word was spoken, even Brucie, my roommate and MC for the event was speechless, and if you knew him you would know how big of a task that really was.
Finally the place erupted in laughter and applause. Jeff was in all of his glory, well for a couple of seconds anyway. He thought that he would be able to humiliate us, and we could have given him his glory, but we were even bigger bastards than he was, so there was no way that was happening.
Dave and I ate the situation right up; we acted like perfect ladies. Sitting with our legs crossed, curtseying at every available moment, and tee-heeing at even the stupidest jokes. Keith, a fellow journalist was taking snapshots of us for the college newspaper. Dave and I were standing side by each, doing our best model impersonations when Jeff decided to poke his head in. Before he had a chance to move, we planted a big wet kiss on either cheek. The kiss was partly to rub in the fact that the whole situation wasn’t bugging us and also to see what his wife’s reaction would be when she saw two kiss marks.
It was then he knew that his plan to “have our Asses” had failed. And did we ever revel in it. We were even considering staying in costume for the rest of the day and heading to JR’s for ladies night. I am sure Mike the bartender would have loved that. And if it weren’t for the idiot local yokels of Woodstock, we probably would have tried, but we would have been beaten within an inch of our lives as soon as we walked out the door.
What started out as a normal October day back in 1997, turned out to be something it wasn’t intended to be. A real life version of the movie To Wong Fu –Thanks for Everything Julie Newman..
Before I go any further, there is one guy that I have to introduce. Jeff was our photography professor. Not only was he our prof, but also he was just as or possibly more childish than most of us students were, cause he really wasn’t that much older than some of us.
Time and again pranks were pulled out of our repertoire on poor ol’ Jeffy. And in his defence, he pulled some good ones out of his hat as well. Especially this one, but you see…this worked out to our favor and NOT his…
Every Halloween the NBCC Woodstock College Radio station CHCR (would become CKXY) hosted it’s fundraising event known as “Halloween Havoc.” - a weeklong fundraising event with a number of different Halloween themed activities. A pie auction was one such event where the person of your choice was auctioned off to the highest bidder and placed in old-fashioned stocks. Once said “prisoners” hands and head were secured, those who won were able to rub whip cream in any available orfice in the prisioner’s head. That included nose, ears, mouth, and it wouldn’t be any fun unless it was rubbed thoroughly through their hair.(believe me, getting whipped cream out of your ear canal is no fun at all.)
The event of all events during Havoc week was the slave auction. Very similar to the pie auction where people were sold off to the highest bidder, but instead of whip cream in the eye or ear nose..., whomever it was that won the auction “owned” that particular slave for the rest of that day and would have them do their bidding. For instance, Nick had to skip through the halls for the afternoon singing "I'm a little teapot."
In the weeks approaching the slave auction, Jeff would often remind myself as well as my fellow journalism co-hort/partner in crime Homer (Dave) that “our asses would be his at the slave auction.” This statement was often met with a few friendly but very foul retorts.
You see, there were just so many things that Homer and I did to Jeff, it was tough to be sure what it was that set him off in such an immature and unprofessional manner. But as usual, knowing Jeff, it was probably just to be a bastard. And oh baby he didn’t disappoint.
Auction day finally arrived, and CHCR staff notified us when we were going on. We had known for days, mainly because Jeff was more than willing to remind us at every available opportunity that he signed us up. Even walking through the Comm Arts wing, we were stopped by a number of students or staff saying that they were going to win us and do their worst. As journalists and Comm Arts students, we were pretty well known within the college ranks, probably because of our impromtu wraslin matches in the middle of the cafeteria, so there were a few people as well as other instructors who would have loved to get their hands on the two of us.
Who do we see in the hallway next but Jeffy, and what he had in his hand stopped us dead in our tracks.
“I told you you’re asses would be mine,” he stated with a boyish grin on his face.(Besides the fact that most of his hair was retreating from his face, and in a hurry.. Jeff looked quite young. Which made him a piece of eye candy for the female persuasion and the odd male…you had to know Jody D.) It wasn’t the grin on his face that worried us, cause we had seen him look like an idiot before. Nope, it was the chequebook he carried in his hand that caught our attention.
The bastard meant business.
There were only a couple of people before us, and then the time came. In front of an estimated 150 people, Homer and I took our places on the bench/auction block. With so many people in the cafeteria, we weren’t exactly sure where Jeff was lurking…but we knew he was out there. He wouldn’t miss this for the world.
The bidding started at $20, and then rose to $25. The chequebook flies in the air and we hear Jeff yell out “Forty dollars!” The bidding war went on way longer than we were expecting, and I believe before our future master gave his last bid, other students and college staff raised an amazing $115. But no one was beating him on this day. (All monies raised during the weeklong event went to the speech pathology unit at the local hospital so we were more than willing to put our prides on the line for such a good cause.)
“One hundred thirty!” The cafeteria went nuts, and we were sold. Next thing we see Jeff coming out of the crowd with a black Moosehead Premium Dry duffel bag and that oh so familiar geeky smile. On his way past us he only utters one word.
“Bathroom. “And disappears through the men’s door.
At first we thought we were going to be playing janitor and have to clean the bathrooms all afternoon, cause that would be something he would do. We followed him through the doors and were barely two steps inside when he instructed us to “disrobe.” As we were taking our clothes off, and between the odd gay joke thrown in his direction, he pulled out the most horrendous woman’s clothing I had ever seen in my life. And obviously old clothes his wife would never wear again.
His revenge, to humiliate us by dressing us up in drag and have us prance around like little women for the rest of the afternoon. And yes, incase you are wondering, it did mean going to our classes like that as well.(Ha Ha, you should have seen the look on poor ol Bernie’s face.) Besides my goatee I was sporting a full length rose patterned number with a frilly white-laced V-neck collar and a black wig (at least the wig and my beard matched, other wise I would have felt foolish). I sort of felt like a tool until I saw what Dave would be wearing down the runway. A multi-colored blouse with a hot pink knee high skirt and a brown wig. I didn’t feel so bad then.
It was show time. Time to reveal our feminine sides to the throngs of people waiting in the cafeteria. We walked out of the bathroom, met by complete silence. The odd thing was the auction was still going on. Mila Jovovich and Christie Brinkley had nothing on us. I kid you not, for at least 10-seconds, not a word was spoken, even Brucie, my roommate and MC for the event was speechless, and if you knew him you would know how big of a task that really was.
Finally the place erupted in laughter and applause. Jeff was in all of his glory, well for a couple of seconds anyway. He thought that he would be able to humiliate us, and we could have given him his glory, but we were even bigger bastards than he was, so there was no way that was happening.
Dave and I ate the situation right up; we acted like perfect ladies. Sitting with our legs crossed, curtseying at every available moment, and tee-heeing at even the stupidest jokes. Keith, a fellow journalist was taking snapshots of us for the college newspaper. Dave and I were standing side by each, doing our best model impersonations when Jeff decided to poke his head in. Before he had a chance to move, we planted a big wet kiss on either cheek. The kiss was partly to rub in the fact that the whole situation wasn’t bugging us and also to see what his wife’s reaction would be when she saw two kiss marks.
It was then he knew that his plan to “have our Asses” had failed. And did we ever revel in it. We were even considering staying in costume for the rest of the day and heading to JR’s for ladies night. I am sure Mike the bartender would have loved that. And if it weren’t for the idiot local yokels of Woodstock, we probably would have tried, but we would have been beaten within an inch of our lives as soon as we walked out the door.
Chapter 4- The First Parties
Chapter 4- The First Parties
Wednesday night in Woodstock as a JR’s night. As a matter of fact, most nights could involve some sort of alcohol. Monday nights were student night at Dooly’s, Tuesday’s were pool and pitcher nights at The Riverside Pub. Thursday most of the gang went to The Loft for wings and very bad singing. Friday and Saturday nights, there was usually a house party and then you’d head to JR’s.
But before I knew about all of that it was orientation pubcrawl. We’d start at the college, then most of the group went to Bleachers and drink their two free drafts (if you got a clean glass, it was considered a bonus), while the rest of us went to Dooly’s. The people who went out made sure that everyone knew everyone else. We were still getting to know each other, but everyone was getting closer as the drinks went down. Then we went to the Riverside, or should I say, they went to the Riverside. That place was the only one that was Idling, so Luc and I went to Makin’ Donuts next door, till the gang decided that it was time to head to JR’s.
I’ve mentioned JR’s a few times, so I guess a description is in order. It was the only dance club in Woodstock. Three levels, upstairs was The Loft, a pub style restaurant that served really great food along with the best Honey Garlic chicken wings this side of Montreal. The middle level was the actual club; a dance floor about 20 by 10, with a small stage, a few tables and a decent sized bar. This was also the sight of the cause of many a nasty morning, The Shooter Wheel. Downstairs there was a another bar, a few more tables, a few pool tables and pinball machines, a bit of a lounge if you wanted to get away from the people upstairs. Once you were a regular here, I never have been treated better in any bar or club then I was at JR’s. The staff was friendly, and once you got to know them, they just became another member of the large group of friends, if they weren’t working, more often then not, they’d show up just to party with us.
We all survived the pubcrawl, although some didn’t feel like it the next day. On Friday night, Dave, Dave and Bruce were all having a party, and I got an invite. Well, it wasn’t an invite at all, it was “We’re having a party and you’re coming up”. So away I went.
I wasn’t the only newbe there. My Classmate, Joey was there. We kind of stuck close most of the evening, even hitting on a pair of girls that I thought we didn’t know. However, I come to find out later that one of them was Joey’s ex. Later on that night, everyone decided to go to the bar. Neither of the girls were looking to head to the bar, so Joey and I, being the gentlemen that we are, decide to walk them home before I head to the bar.
We drop the girls off and then begin the trek back uptown. Chatting the whole way, we’re walking past the Esso, which is a popular hang out for the locals, mainly local high school students, as I come to find out later. As Joey and I are walking by, two very attractive young ladies call us over. Joey looks at me, I look at Joey and we both say what the hell.
Over we go, talking to these girls in the car. Now keep in mind, I’m just about to turn 19 and have about a year and a half on Joey. The girls ask us what we’re up to that night. I said I was heading to the bar while Joey was going home. After a bit, one of the girls asked how old we were. After telling them, Joey asked how old they were. They told us to guess. I said “Well, you’re sitting behind the wheel, so that makes you at least 16 (I was hoping for 17 at least) The Answer, “nope, we’re both 14”.
I shake my head, slap Joey on the back and say “Best of luck to you, my friend” and head to the bar to talk about how close to proving the old saying “15 gets you 20” Joey and I had been.
Wednesday night in Woodstock as a JR’s night. As a matter of fact, most nights could involve some sort of alcohol. Monday nights were student night at Dooly’s, Tuesday’s were pool and pitcher nights at The Riverside Pub. Thursday most of the gang went to The Loft for wings and very bad singing. Friday and Saturday nights, there was usually a house party and then you’d head to JR’s.
But before I knew about all of that it was orientation pubcrawl. We’d start at the college, then most of the group went to Bleachers and drink their two free drafts (if you got a clean glass, it was considered a bonus), while the rest of us went to Dooly’s. The people who went out made sure that everyone knew everyone else. We were still getting to know each other, but everyone was getting closer as the drinks went down. Then we went to the Riverside, or should I say, they went to the Riverside. That place was the only one that was Idling, so Luc and I went to Makin’ Donuts next door, till the gang decided that it was time to head to JR’s.
I’ve mentioned JR’s a few times, so I guess a description is in order. It was the only dance club in Woodstock. Three levels, upstairs was The Loft, a pub style restaurant that served really great food along with the best Honey Garlic chicken wings this side of Montreal. The middle level was the actual club; a dance floor about 20 by 10, with a small stage, a few tables and a decent sized bar. This was also the sight of the cause of many a nasty morning, The Shooter Wheel. Downstairs there was a another bar, a few more tables, a few pool tables and pinball machines, a bit of a lounge if you wanted to get away from the people upstairs. Once you were a regular here, I never have been treated better in any bar or club then I was at JR’s. The staff was friendly, and once you got to know them, they just became another member of the large group of friends, if they weren’t working, more often then not, they’d show up just to party with us.
We all survived the pubcrawl, although some didn’t feel like it the next day. On Friday night, Dave, Dave and Bruce were all having a party, and I got an invite. Well, it wasn’t an invite at all, it was “We’re having a party and you’re coming up”. So away I went.
I wasn’t the only newbe there. My Classmate, Joey was there. We kind of stuck close most of the evening, even hitting on a pair of girls that I thought we didn’t know. However, I come to find out later that one of them was Joey’s ex. Later on that night, everyone decided to go to the bar. Neither of the girls were looking to head to the bar, so Joey and I, being the gentlemen that we are, decide to walk them home before I head to the bar.
We drop the girls off and then begin the trek back uptown. Chatting the whole way, we’re walking past the Esso, which is a popular hang out for the locals, mainly local high school students, as I come to find out later. As Joey and I are walking by, two very attractive young ladies call us over. Joey looks at me, I look at Joey and we both say what the hell.
Over we go, talking to these girls in the car. Now keep in mind, I’m just about to turn 19 and have about a year and a half on Joey. The girls ask us what we’re up to that night. I said I was heading to the bar while Joey was going home. After a bit, one of the girls asked how old we were. After telling them, Joey asked how old they were. They told us to guess. I said “Well, you’re sitting behind the wheel, so that makes you at least 16 (I was hoping for 17 at least) The Answer, “nope, we’re both 14”.
I shake my head, slap Joey on the back and say “Best of luck to you, my friend” and head to the bar to talk about how close to proving the old saying “15 gets you 20” Joey and I had been.
chapter 3 -- St. Valentines Day Massacre -- Woodstock Style
chapter 3 -- St. Valentines Day Massacre -- Woodstock Style
Valentine’s Day is a day that some (usually the attached and female among us) look forward to. To the rest of us, It’s just another day all be it one surrounded by hearts and chocolates, just to remind us that we are lonely and single and no one wants us.
OK not really, but Valentine’s day was a little depressing for some of us, so we decided to do what we always do when something depresses us, We drank. So, at my apartment, gathered Devon (who was attached, but the girlfriend was out of town, more on that later), Lil’ Dave, Lance, Erin (forever known as Big-E, or Biggie. The only female in the group) and myself, most of us dedicated to the ideal of intoxication, and the bashing of the opposite sex. The best part was whenever Biggie said anything; all the guys could do was agree.
Later on in the evening, Lance, who had disappointed us all by not drinking, mentions that there is a party at Anthony’s. A guy that hangs around a bit with us, he played a little bit for the college basketball team, even though, none of us had no idea what he took, He was a nice guy and fun to party with. All of a sudden, Lance’s not drinking looks like a godsend, as he’s the only one with a car. We all pile in, and head up to the party house.
By this point, I was just a bit past the point of buzz, and in to the “Look at all the pretty lights” phase. Arriving at Anthony’s place, looking around, it was a nice place. But a bit up a hill, and as the donut story shows, drunken college students and hills don’t mix. But we make it up with little trouble.
The house is full with people, some we know. RedDawg Wells and Dwayne, along with John, filled out the group contingent. Also there were a lot of young ladies around. I remember saying to Dave; “No Good can come of this”
We come in the front door, and introduce ourselves to Anthony’s parents, grab a drink and head downstairs. That’s when I really know that no good was going to come from this.
She was standing holding the wall up. I tap Dave on the shoulder, and say I’ll see you later, and Dave, who by this point has seen me when I’m drinking, is thinking I’ll see you in a few. He did, but not the way he was thinking.
I go over and say hello and we start to talk and, It was going well, I thought. Let me put a disclaimer on this. I don’t remember her name, or really anything about the conversation. What I do remember, is after talking for a few minutes, she grabs my hand and leads me upstairs to the living room.
We get there, in front of the picture window. I begin to say something, but never get a word out, as she plants one right on the lips, and I think, “Well, what the hell” and continue with what she started.
I don’t know how long we were like that, but it’s funny what you remember. As I was there, locked lips with this young lady, all I can hear, clear as a bell is Dave’s voice saying, “Where’d Chris Go?” followed by a pause and then “Is that…can’t be…OH MY GOD!!” Sure enough the boys came around and we were surrounded. “When you coming up for air?” and those comments come flying. Finally, the embrace ends and she leaves the room, looking rather pleased with herself.
This is the part of the story that I reveal that we’d been at the party for about 5 minutes
Come to find out later on, that she’d had a fight with her boyfriend and he said that she’d never find anyone else that would have her. So the first guy that came along, happened to be me. No gory details, cause, there ain’t none Oh well, once again, couldn’t score when they pull the goalie.
You’d think that would be enough for one night, oh no. It was just getting started. After my little episode, I decided to sit down and have a few more drinks, as it had sobered me up a lot. It’s something that happens to me; I can go from very drunk to sober in a hurry if something is going down. Talking to some of the amassed crew, some I knew, some I didn’t. I realized that I hadn’t seen Dave and Devon for a while. Wondering what was going on I decided to take a walk around. I look in a corner, and there they are, and it looks like Devon’s getting a raking. Turns out that Devon who had a girlfriend, who was a very good friend of ours, was “macking” on some chick at the party, and Dave and I, after I got the story were making it clear that was not a good idea. It almost got physical, as Devon had this habit of thinking he was Superman when he was drinking. But after a bit of discussion. It was settled and Devon was safe for another night, but in hindsight, we probably should have nailed him when we got the chance.
Is that enough for one night? What book have you been reading? Later on in the evening, it comes to our attention that the host of the party, Anthony, has fallen down a flight of stairs and has broken his elbow, as it turned out. So he goes to the hospital, right? One problem, it’s not bad enough for an ambulance and no one, including Anthony’s parents can drive, except for our driver that night, Lance, who made a trip in to town in Gumby as a drunk taxi and an ambulance that night.
In the end, everyone survived, the evening. But we were never invited back to Anthony’s place. I wonder why that was?
Valentine’s Day is a day that some (usually the attached and female among us) look forward to. To the rest of us, It’s just another day all be it one surrounded by hearts and chocolates, just to remind us that we are lonely and single and no one wants us.
OK not really, but Valentine’s day was a little depressing for some of us, so we decided to do what we always do when something depresses us, We drank. So, at my apartment, gathered Devon (who was attached, but the girlfriend was out of town, more on that later), Lil’ Dave, Lance, Erin (forever known as Big-E, or Biggie. The only female in the group) and myself, most of us dedicated to the ideal of intoxication, and the bashing of the opposite sex. The best part was whenever Biggie said anything; all the guys could do was agree.
Later on in the evening, Lance, who had disappointed us all by not drinking, mentions that there is a party at Anthony’s. A guy that hangs around a bit with us, he played a little bit for the college basketball team, even though, none of us had no idea what he took, He was a nice guy and fun to party with. All of a sudden, Lance’s not drinking looks like a godsend, as he’s the only one with a car. We all pile in, and head up to the party house.
By this point, I was just a bit past the point of buzz, and in to the “Look at all the pretty lights” phase. Arriving at Anthony’s place, looking around, it was a nice place. But a bit up a hill, and as the donut story shows, drunken college students and hills don’t mix. But we make it up with little trouble.
The house is full with people, some we know. RedDawg Wells and Dwayne, along with John, filled out the group contingent. Also there were a lot of young ladies around. I remember saying to Dave; “No Good can come of this”
We come in the front door, and introduce ourselves to Anthony’s parents, grab a drink and head downstairs. That’s when I really know that no good was going to come from this.
She was standing holding the wall up. I tap Dave on the shoulder, and say I’ll see you later, and Dave, who by this point has seen me when I’m drinking, is thinking I’ll see you in a few. He did, but not the way he was thinking.
I go over and say hello and we start to talk and, It was going well, I thought. Let me put a disclaimer on this. I don’t remember her name, or really anything about the conversation. What I do remember, is after talking for a few minutes, she grabs my hand and leads me upstairs to the living room.
We get there, in front of the picture window. I begin to say something, but never get a word out, as she plants one right on the lips, and I think, “Well, what the hell” and continue with what she started.
I don’t know how long we were like that, but it’s funny what you remember. As I was there, locked lips with this young lady, all I can hear, clear as a bell is Dave’s voice saying, “Where’d Chris Go?” followed by a pause and then “Is that…can’t be…OH MY GOD!!” Sure enough the boys came around and we were surrounded. “When you coming up for air?” and those comments come flying. Finally, the embrace ends and she leaves the room, looking rather pleased with herself.
This is the part of the story that I reveal that we’d been at the party for about 5 minutes
Come to find out later on, that she’d had a fight with her boyfriend and he said that she’d never find anyone else that would have her. So the first guy that came along, happened to be me. No gory details, cause, there ain’t none Oh well, once again, couldn’t score when they pull the goalie.
You’d think that would be enough for one night, oh no. It was just getting started. After my little episode, I decided to sit down and have a few more drinks, as it had sobered me up a lot. It’s something that happens to me; I can go from very drunk to sober in a hurry if something is going down. Talking to some of the amassed crew, some I knew, some I didn’t. I realized that I hadn’t seen Dave and Devon for a while. Wondering what was going on I decided to take a walk around. I look in a corner, and there they are, and it looks like Devon’s getting a raking. Turns out that Devon who had a girlfriend, who was a very good friend of ours, was “macking” on some chick at the party, and Dave and I, after I got the story were making it clear that was not a good idea. It almost got physical, as Devon had this habit of thinking he was Superman when he was drinking. But after a bit of discussion. It was settled and Devon was safe for another night, but in hindsight, we probably should have nailed him when we got the chance.
Is that enough for one night? What book have you been reading? Later on in the evening, it comes to our attention that the host of the party, Anthony, has fallen down a flight of stairs and has broken his elbow, as it turned out. So he goes to the hospital, right? One problem, it’s not bad enough for an ambulance and no one, including Anthony’s parents can drive, except for our driver that night, Lance, who made a trip in to town in Gumby as a drunk taxi and an ambulance that night.
In the end, everyone survived, the evening. But we were never invited back to Anthony’s place. I wonder why that was?
Chapter 2- Meeting the Gang
Chapter 2- Meeting the Gang
After getting through the weekend, and meeting my roommate, Luc, It was Tuesday and time to start my college career. Making the long walk that morning, My stomach was doing flips, as I didn’t know what to expect, being out of my comfort zone.
Arriving at the college, I ran in to Steven, a guy that I knew from home, having worked with him at Fundy Television. Happy to see a familiar face, I made my way to the gym, where the opening exercises were going to be taking place.
There I met some of the group that I would be sharing a classroom and studio with over the next two years. Justin, a mountain of a person, with the longest hair I had ever seen on a guy. Geoff, the seemingly most together of our little crew. Tyler, the most experienced entertainer, as we would find out over and over again. Kim, the hard rocker of the group. Laura, she comes in to the story later on. Joey, the youngest of our class at 17. Among others.
I remember thinking that this could be fun, I already knew a few people, and most of the people seemed to be friendly.
While I would get to know and become close with the people in my class, I knew that I would have to get to know some people on the outside of my class to make the most of this situation.
Valerie, another person I had worked with at Fundy, was also in Woodstock in the video production. She had moved in with someone who had been there the previous year, Kim C. They were having a party that night, and Val invited me over and I said, “To hell with that, I’m not going alone” and brought Luc with me. I met a few people that night but hadn’t really connected with anyone, but it was a good time and gave me a few more familiar faces.
The next morning, it was a tradition at the college that during orientation week the teachers would cook breakfast for the students. I wasn’t going to miss a free meal (I may have been new in college, but I understood that a student’s favorite word is free), so away I went. Got my tray, some bacon, eggs, pancakes and sat at small table with a paper to read. Not too long after that, two of the guys I had met the night before, Dave and Dave, asked if they could sit down with me. I, of course, said sure. With their trays they brought the pancake syrup. A couple of minutes, my instructor, Wayne, who later on would come to be known as the voice of god, bellowed out in the middle of the cafeteria "Where's the syrup."
"Chris stole it," said one of the Dave's, almost immediatly getting me in trouble with my instructor on my first day in the college. Wayne then sauntered over and took the syrup off the table and said the words that put this whole book in motion:
“Mr. Doyle, I’d be careful. Those two could be trouble “
After that, not many days went by that we weren’t causing trouble as at least a trio.
I was kind of adopted into their existing group, along with some other of the first years. One of which was Lance. Poor Lance, I would go as far to say that he was the most corrupted at the end of it. I remember the first complete sentence that I heard out of his mouth. Sitting on the benches in front of the vending machines, with a few people around, just waiting for class. I introduced myself, “I’m Chris”, “Lance”; just then two absolutely drop dead gorgeous ladies walked by. With that, Lance looked at me and said, “Man, I really need to get laid” With that, he got up and walked into the teaching theater. I sat there, kind of shocked for a few seconds, and for the first but not the last time when it came to Lance, just shook my head.
One of the existing members was Chuck. In my second year, Chuck returned and we became the best of friends but one of the funniest memories of Chuck is the first time I saw him. First day, I’m sitting on the bench in the cafeteria, there are a few other first years around but it’s kind of quiet, as we really don’t know each other yet. All of a sudden, a loud bang comes from the bottom of the stairs, and an obviously drunken man is coming up the stairs. One of the second years behind us asks him how he’s doing. As all of this is going on, the principal of the place, Mac Clendenning is coming down the hall. Chuck is almost up the stairs, and just as Principal Mac comes around the corner, trips on the top step and screams, as he’s throwing a beer cap “I’m fuckin’ loaded”. Mac looks at him, shakes his head and continues on his way. I am somewhere between shock and death via laughter. I think to myself, again for the first time, but not last. “You know, maybe I should take notes and write a book on this stuff”
After getting through the weekend, and meeting my roommate, Luc, It was Tuesday and time to start my college career. Making the long walk that morning, My stomach was doing flips, as I didn’t know what to expect, being out of my comfort zone.
Arriving at the college, I ran in to Steven, a guy that I knew from home, having worked with him at Fundy Television. Happy to see a familiar face, I made my way to the gym, where the opening exercises were going to be taking place.
There I met some of the group that I would be sharing a classroom and studio with over the next two years. Justin, a mountain of a person, with the longest hair I had ever seen on a guy. Geoff, the seemingly most together of our little crew. Tyler, the most experienced entertainer, as we would find out over and over again. Kim, the hard rocker of the group. Laura, she comes in to the story later on. Joey, the youngest of our class at 17. Among others.
I remember thinking that this could be fun, I already knew a few people, and most of the people seemed to be friendly.
While I would get to know and become close with the people in my class, I knew that I would have to get to know some people on the outside of my class to make the most of this situation.
Valerie, another person I had worked with at Fundy, was also in Woodstock in the video production. She had moved in with someone who had been there the previous year, Kim C. They were having a party that night, and Val invited me over and I said, “To hell with that, I’m not going alone” and brought Luc with me. I met a few people that night but hadn’t really connected with anyone, but it was a good time and gave me a few more familiar faces.
The next morning, it was a tradition at the college that during orientation week the teachers would cook breakfast for the students. I wasn’t going to miss a free meal (I may have been new in college, but I understood that a student’s favorite word is free), so away I went. Got my tray, some bacon, eggs, pancakes and sat at small table with a paper to read. Not too long after that, two of the guys I had met the night before, Dave and Dave, asked if they could sit down with me. I, of course, said sure. With their trays they brought the pancake syrup. A couple of minutes, my instructor, Wayne, who later on would come to be known as the voice of god, bellowed out in the middle of the cafeteria "Where's the syrup."
"Chris stole it," said one of the Dave's, almost immediatly getting me in trouble with my instructor on my first day in the college. Wayne then sauntered over and took the syrup off the table and said the words that put this whole book in motion:
“Mr. Doyle, I’d be careful. Those two could be trouble “
After that, not many days went by that we weren’t causing trouble as at least a trio.
I was kind of adopted into their existing group, along with some other of the first years. One of which was Lance. Poor Lance, I would go as far to say that he was the most corrupted at the end of it. I remember the first complete sentence that I heard out of his mouth. Sitting on the benches in front of the vending machines, with a few people around, just waiting for class. I introduced myself, “I’m Chris”, “Lance”; just then two absolutely drop dead gorgeous ladies walked by. With that, Lance looked at me and said, “Man, I really need to get laid” With that, he got up and walked into the teaching theater. I sat there, kind of shocked for a few seconds, and for the first but not the last time when it came to Lance, just shook my head.
One of the existing members was Chuck. In my second year, Chuck returned and we became the best of friends but one of the funniest memories of Chuck is the first time I saw him. First day, I’m sitting on the bench in the cafeteria, there are a few other first years around but it’s kind of quiet, as we really don’t know each other yet. All of a sudden, a loud bang comes from the bottom of the stairs, and an obviously drunken man is coming up the stairs. One of the second years behind us asks him how he’s doing. As all of this is going on, the principal of the place, Mac Clendenning is coming down the hall. Chuck is almost up the stairs, and just as Principal Mac comes around the corner, trips on the top step and screams, as he’s throwing a beer cap “I’m fuckin’ loaded”. Mac looks at him, shakes his head and continues on his way. I am somewhere between shock and death via laughter. I think to myself, again for the first time, but not last. “You know, maybe I should take notes and write a book on this stuff”
Intro
It’s August 1997, and my parents are dropping me off at the house that I’m boarding at for (the plan was the next two years, it turns in to the next couple of months) In just a couple of days, I’m to start my two year course in Radio Broadcasting at New Brunswick Community College in Woodstock NB.
Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself, I’m Chris Doyle. At the time I was an 18 year old leaving home for the first time. I grew up in Miramichi, a place in northeastern New Brunswick that’s famous for it’s fishing and hunting. For the first 9 years of my life went to school just across the road at Nelson Elementary and then just rural school. Then it was on to high school, about 15 minutes away, At James M. Hill Memorial High School.
It was the kind of a place where everyone kind of knew everyone else, but the social ladder was in place. You were a prep, a jock, a geek or a nothing. I guess I was a little of all, known and liked by most, just not invited to the party on Saturday night.
That’s not to say that I didn’t have fun in High School, I had a blast. I had my group of friends, that I would meet every morning either by the library where we’d stand till it was time to go to classes, or at the lockers, where we’d walk around and drop people off at their homerooms.
You know when you spend all your time with someone, call them all the time and you’re never seen one without the other but your not “going out”? Well, that’s what I had in High School, from halfway in 9th grade to halfway through the 12th. Everyone thought that we’d be married right out of high school. It didn’t happen like that, and it was a scandal when we “Broke up”, but it gave me my fifteen minutes in the sun during that time when most teenagers don’t think that it will ever come.
See, most of the girls I knew saw me first as the “friend”, that led to a situation that most high school boys would be begging for, him and 7 girls everywhere. But it was a curse, as anyone who would be interested in you would automatically think you were “with” one of the girls that was in your circle of friends. Not to say I didn’t have dates in high school, just not as often as some high school movies lead you to believe you should.
After the “Break-up”, I had my “boyz”, but there was something different too. That year, the Grade nines started at high school and I knew a few of them. I started moving away from the old group to this new group that I was being accepted into, full of younger people, and was having more fun then I ever had. These are the people that I’m closest to to this day.
Graduation was coming up, and I had to decide what I wanted to do, I was 17, and didn’t think I was ready to go out on my own yet. So, I enrolled in another year at James M. Hill on a lower class schedule.
Grad came and went, Prom a bit of a disappointment with one more party with the old gang at Safe Grad the night of graduation. That was the last time that the original “Gang” was together.
On June 30, I went to the waterfront to watch the Canada Day Fireworks, planning on meeting with a buddy of mine and his girlfriend as I played the role of the third wheel. When I showed up there was no sign of them, but I see Gail, a friend of mine for years and Jessica, two people from the younger group that I had fallen in with near the end of the year. I thought “this will be all right till the rest of the gang shows up” They never did, and because of it, a relationship began that lasts to now, as Jessica and I have become almost joined at the hip since that night.
During my extra year, I applied and was accepted in to the New Brunswick Community College in Woodstock, about a 4-hour drive away. It a small town in the middle of the bible belt, with (as we quickly found out) one bar, a couple of pubs and not much else.
I guess that leads us back to where we started. After dropping me off, getting my stuff in to my room and taking a walk around the town, My parents left for Miramichi, leaving me to ponder the fact that for the first time, I wasn’t living at home.
I woke up on Sunday morning, and did the first thing that I did every morning, turn on CNN and with that, I learn that my first day in Woodstock would forever be remembered as the day that Princess Diana died in a car crash in a Paris tunnel.
After watching the coverage for a while, I decided to go take a shower and take a walk downtown. When I was there, I saw that the parish priest was my former priest at my home parish. I decided to go to church. After the service in this grand old church, I told Father Sullivan that I would be back. I never darkened the doorstep of that church in the rest of my time in Woodstock.
This is some background on where I came from when I started on the journey with the friends I made and the times I had with them. This book to me is more then a collection of stories of drunk people doing stupid things (Although a lot of it will be and I hope you enjoy them). It’s a story of people who were thrown together who may not have ever met otherwise, and with their different upbringings and experiences, grew into the closest group that you may ever see.
Chris Doyle
Aug 29/02
Oh, I suppose I should introduce myself, I’m Chris Doyle. At the time I was an 18 year old leaving home for the first time. I grew up in Miramichi, a place in northeastern New Brunswick that’s famous for it’s fishing and hunting. For the first 9 years of my life went to school just across the road at Nelson Elementary and then just rural school. Then it was on to high school, about 15 minutes away, At James M. Hill Memorial High School.
It was the kind of a place where everyone kind of knew everyone else, but the social ladder was in place. You were a prep, a jock, a geek or a nothing. I guess I was a little of all, known and liked by most, just not invited to the party on Saturday night.
That’s not to say that I didn’t have fun in High School, I had a blast. I had my group of friends, that I would meet every morning either by the library where we’d stand till it was time to go to classes, or at the lockers, where we’d walk around and drop people off at their homerooms.
You know when you spend all your time with someone, call them all the time and you’re never seen one without the other but your not “going out”? Well, that’s what I had in High School, from halfway in 9th grade to halfway through the 12th. Everyone thought that we’d be married right out of high school. It didn’t happen like that, and it was a scandal when we “Broke up”, but it gave me my fifteen minutes in the sun during that time when most teenagers don’t think that it will ever come.
See, most of the girls I knew saw me first as the “friend”, that led to a situation that most high school boys would be begging for, him and 7 girls everywhere. But it was a curse, as anyone who would be interested in you would automatically think you were “with” one of the girls that was in your circle of friends. Not to say I didn’t have dates in high school, just not as often as some high school movies lead you to believe you should.
After the “Break-up”, I had my “boyz”, but there was something different too. That year, the Grade nines started at high school and I knew a few of them. I started moving away from the old group to this new group that I was being accepted into, full of younger people, and was having more fun then I ever had. These are the people that I’m closest to to this day.
Graduation was coming up, and I had to decide what I wanted to do, I was 17, and didn’t think I was ready to go out on my own yet. So, I enrolled in another year at James M. Hill on a lower class schedule.
Grad came and went, Prom a bit of a disappointment with one more party with the old gang at Safe Grad the night of graduation. That was the last time that the original “Gang” was together.
On June 30, I went to the waterfront to watch the Canada Day Fireworks, planning on meeting with a buddy of mine and his girlfriend as I played the role of the third wheel. When I showed up there was no sign of them, but I see Gail, a friend of mine for years and Jessica, two people from the younger group that I had fallen in with near the end of the year. I thought “this will be all right till the rest of the gang shows up” They never did, and because of it, a relationship began that lasts to now, as Jessica and I have become almost joined at the hip since that night.
During my extra year, I applied and was accepted in to the New Brunswick Community College in Woodstock, about a 4-hour drive away. It a small town in the middle of the bible belt, with (as we quickly found out) one bar, a couple of pubs and not much else.
I guess that leads us back to where we started. After dropping me off, getting my stuff in to my room and taking a walk around the town, My parents left for Miramichi, leaving me to ponder the fact that for the first time, I wasn’t living at home.
I woke up on Sunday morning, and did the first thing that I did every morning, turn on CNN and with that, I learn that my first day in Woodstock would forever be remembered as the day that Princess Diana died in a car crash in a Paris tunnel.
After watching the coverage for a while, I decided to go take a shower and take a walk downtown. When I was there, I saw that the parish priest was my former priest at my home parish. I decided to go to church. After the service in this grand old church, I told Father Sullivan that I would be back. I never darkened the doorstep of that church in the rest of my time in Woodstock.
This is some background on where I came from when I started on the journey with the friends I made and the times I had with them. This book to me is more then a collection of stories of drunk people doing stupid things (Although a lot of it will be and I hope you enjoy them). It’s a story of people who were thrown together who may not have ever met otherwise, and with their different upbringings and experiences, grew into the closest group that you may ever see.
Chris Doyle
Aug 29/02
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