That Time I Got Arrested: Worst. Robbery. Ever.

I was sixteen and easily influenced. An unpopular, slightly overweight kid trying to hang out with the cool kids. Between having access to a car daily, and being a total pushover, I managed to start hanging out with some of the bad, cool kids of Fall River.

It was at the end of grade 10, just close enough to summer vacation to have that exciting feel in the air. One Monday morning, I ran into one of the Fall River cool, Ryan. “Hey, Mike, we’re going to skip class and smoke a J.” (a J is a joint, for those that aren’t familiar with Fall River cool lingo) I was to be the designated driver. Designated because I was the only one of the five of us with a car.

Anyone who’s ever smoked up knows how mediocre ideas can gain significant weight when you’re stoned. “Hey, I got an awesome idea” says Christian. “I’ve still got a key to the house my dad used to live, and the guy that lives there now is a big pothead. We could go into his house when he’s at work, steal all his beer and weed, and go out the front door!”

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The Botched Threesome

(Edit: It’s possible that somewhere down the line, my mom will figure out that I have a blog, and read some posts. So, if you’re my mom, and you’re reading this, please stop reading now and click here to read about bunny rabbits.)

We’ve all had one of those nights. That threesome that almost happened, but not quite. Maybe you were out with your girlfriend and her best friend. Or you were out on a date and ran into an ex who seemed to get along a little too well with your new girl. But there’s always something that goes terribly wrong.

Japan, 2005

For me it was a complete fluke. I was at a bar in Fukuoka called the Happy Cock. Despite the suggestive name, it was not a soap land or a kiss bar. Just a happening club with a dance floor. The place was lit up with those rare gems — sexually confident Japanese girls — and of course a fair share of foreign girls with too many drinks under their belts.

I open conversation with a girl near the bar – a situational “opener” about her Weezer t-shirt. I mention I have seen Weezer in concert, in Fukuoka in fact, and suddenly we have something in common. She is reasonably drunk and appears attracted to me (she grabs my arm and won’t let go), and uses our coincidental shared experience as an excuse to dance with me and later make out. I meet her friend, a cute Asian-American girl. I think I notice, even through my veil of six gin and tonics, that she is possibly attracted to me too.

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Hitchhiking Canada, Age 20. Part 2: The $50 Bowjob Question

Last we left him, our hero had accepted a ride in northern New Brunswick, with a 50-something truck driver named Ed , on his way north of Toronto.

Ed looked like your typical older truck driver. Three days worth of stubble, 50 pounds overweight, and a plaid shirt and trucker hat. Ed and I talked about all the usual topics for a few hours, and exchanged travel stories. I find that people usually like to reminisce about the old days when they used to hitchhike themselves. Ed told me about his first hitchhiking trip when he was seventeen in Newfoundland:

“My mom sent me down to the store to get some smokes, eh. An my buddy jus’ so happen to be standing ‘ere in front of the store with a big ol’ bottle o’ screech. An’ so we get to drinkin’ an’ — it seems like a good idea at the time, yaknow — and we decide to go for a hitchhikin’.”

“Well, I guess we got a little too into the booze, ’cause I can’t remember actually leavin’ the island, or even the people that woulda picked up a couple o’ drunk kids like us, but when I woke up… When I woke up it was a week and a half later and I was in Edmonton. I guess we had quite the bender! And the hotel room was all smashed up, and a girl was passed out on the floor with my buddy… And I tried, really tried to remember what had happened and how we had got to Edmonton, but I could only get bits and pieces, eh.”

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Childhood Memories: Hampy the Hampster

I remember being like eight or nine years old and there was a family party at our house. All the adults were upstairs in the kitchen and the living room, drinking, while the kids under 16 were in the playroom in the basement. Hampy, my little sister’s pet hampster, was in one of those little clear plastic balls that let them roam around without worrying they’ll go too far.

Us kids were watching a movie when my dad’s uncle Rodney (the kids called him ‘uncle Rod’) came in. He was about 70 and more than a little senile. He looked at the little brown opaque plastic ball rolling towards him. He said “you kids and your soccer…” and kicked little Hampy’s ball clear across the room. There was a loud crack of plastic and gyprock as it hit the wall. “You kids stay out of trouble, now….” uncle Rod said as he left the room. All the kids were speechless. The ball was still except for a little rocking motion and Hampy layed motionless for a few seconds. Then he got up, looking dazed, and wobbled a couple of inches forward. My sister picked up the ball and took him out. “He’s okay!” She yelled, with a big smile on her face. Hampy, nervous, but looking in fine health, looked up at us while his body shook a little bit like he was cold.

One week later, Hampy mysteriously died. Now I’m no hampster doctor, but I have my suspicions the two incidents may have been related.

And that’s why I don’t play soccer anymore.

You, massage?

When Kim and I arrived in Northern Thailand we decided to take a long break from the road. Driving every other day or so was taking it’s toll on our bodies, so we decided to take a little R&R break. I signed up right away for a week learning Thai massage, but Kim’s version of re-cooperation was to join a Mui Thai kickboxing class and do a week-long solo bicycle trip through the mountains… (yeah, I know. She’s a little crazy…)

The culmination was for Kim and I to do an intensive weekend oil massage course together and then take the motorbike up to the border of Thailand and Myanmar for a few days.

That time I almost died: “Stand By Me”

I remember being nervous walking past the high school principal on the way in to see our school hockey team play. I had replaced most of the Coke in my pop bottle with rum, and I had taken a few big swigs with some friends before coming in. I was 16 and it was my first time sneaking alcohol into a school event. I was something of a late bloomer. After the game, it was a small town tradition for everyone to go to the MacDonald’s on the other side of Beford for a bite. And because our team had won the game, there was an excitement in the air – anything could happen.

My friend Matt, being a natural small risk-taker, told me he was going to walk the shortcut down the train tracks which ran right behind MacDonald’s. “C’mon man. You’ve never taken the tracks? We’ll get there way before anyone else.”

We walked past the streetlights to were it was dark — to the tracks. I found it difficult to walk on the railway ties and talk at the same time because I was a bit tipsy. Every few steps I would loose rhythm and my foot would slide between the ties and trip me up.

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Upon Meeting The 100% Perfect Moncton Girl

No money, no ATM card — definitely no credit card. That was what I had decided for the trip. I felt like I needed the challenge. Hitchhiking to Montreal every couple of weeks was starting to feel routine. The adventure was wearing off a little. I decided I would bring only my guitar and clothes. If I was going to eat, I had to play my guitar – busk – for it.

I was hitchhiking to Montreal, but I left so late the first day I only made it to Moncton, a two hour drive away.

It was about seven p.m. when I got dropped off in Moncton. I walked down Main Street to an underpass, where the down town seemed to fade into residential, then back to where I started — the restaurant with the big lobster in front. There wasn’t much going on in this town. It looked like it might be a difficult night to busk, and I thought about the possibility of a hungry night without dinner. Was it a bad idea not to bring money? I was starting to doubt my adventurous side.

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