This is a story about two boys in the woods at night.
Recently, while visiting back home, myself and a great group of friends attended a housewarming party in the Pond Mills area of London. After several hours of good times and a multitude of alcoholic beverages, it was time to make the trek home. Seeing as Pond Mills is an area that I would almost qualify as desolate (in terms of London's outline), we decided against taking a cab until we'd arrived at a major road on foot. I had a pretty good idea where we were about 20 minutes into the journey, and I knew that we were nowhere near cab territory. I'm talkin' country-road-no-streetlights-in-sight kind of nowhere. Two friends decided they would call a cab and wait. I had other plans.
I convinced my friend Bryan that we were going to make a fucking pilgrimage, like men, like our grandfathers fathers would. There we were, two boys, walking through the woods, approaching the morning light. I had convinced Bryan to make this journey based on the fact that it would be a funny memory and that it's what two Canadian guys should be doing in winter.
This is something I do on a very regular basis. You see, my theory is twofold.
1. There is absolutely no reason not to make memories, or at least attempt to. I would say more that 50 per cent of any of my actions provides me with some satisfaction, whether it's crossing the street on a diagonal or taking the longest way home. Adventure drives me, as does the quest to make a good story. The need to be entertained, or entertain, is at the core of any of my actions and decisions.
2. If you're going to get shit-faced you might as well use it to your advantage. I can't tell you how many friends I've used this line on, only because it makes absolute sense to me. What's the point? Getting drunk is not very easy to do. Yet once you finally achieve inebriation, you just throw that money away (in a sense) by hitting the sheets? (unless you're about to have sex, which is totally different). All of my closest friends have experienced this with me in one way or another. Three that come to mind are scaling buildings (do it safely please), swindling hospital security guards into allowing us to use a shortcut through the lobby, and hijacking a boat in Toronto harbor in order to use the bathroom. Those last two happened on the same night by the way. I could literally write a memoir on every intoxicated (mis)adventure I've had over the years. Call that what you want, but remember I'm the one with the tales.
So back to the woods.
I cannot put into words the feelings I get when on Canadian safari. During this night, we jumped creeks, hopped rusty fences, battled chest-high grasses, evaded headlights, and ascended underpasses - all in an effort just to get home. We laughed, struggled, and helped one another make the journey home, which was a staggering 7 kilometers. In fact, the photo seen at the top of the page behind the header is one of the fields we crossed.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that life is often too easy. It's easy to hop in a cab and be escorted home, and I'm not saying I don't take advantage of that sometimes. I suppose what I'm getting at is that sometimes you have to sacrifice your own personal comforts in an attempt to have some fun and make memories for yourself. It's also to important to remind ourselves that not only is life easy, it's fucking short. The night is young, and so are we. Let's hop some fences already.
*top photo. Bryan and I, Vancouver, 2007
Recently, while visiting back home, myself and a great group of friends attended a housewarming party in the Pond Mills area of London. After several hours of good times and a multitude of alcoholic beverages, it was time to make the trek home. Seeing as Pond Mills is an area that I would almost qualify as desolate (in terms of London's outline), we decided against taking a cab until we'd arrived at a major road on foot. I had a pretty good idea where we were about 20 minutes into the journey, and I knew that we were nowhere near cab territory. I'm talkin' country-road-no-streetlights-in-sight kind of nowhere. Two friends decided they would call a cab and wait. I had other plans.
I convinced my friend Bryan that we were going to make a fucking pilgrimage, like men, like our grandfathers fathers would. There we were, two boys, walking through the woods, approaching the morning light. I had convinced Bryan to make this journey based on the fact that it would be a funny memory and that it's what two Canadian guys should be doing in winter.
This is something I do on a very regular basis. You see, my theory is twofold.
1. There is absolutely no reason not to make memories, or at least attempt to. I would say more that 50 per cent of any of my actions provides me with some satisfaction, whether it's crossing the street on a diagonal or taking the longest way home. Adventure drives me, as does the quest to make a good story. The need to be entertained, or entertain, is at the core of any of my actions and decisions.
2. If you're going to get shit-faced you might as well use it to your advantage. I can't tell you how many friends I've used this line on, only because it makes absolute sense to me. What's the point? Getting drunk is not very easy to do. Yet once you finally achieve inebriation, you just throw that money away (in a sense) by hitting the sheets? (unless you're about to have sex, which is totally different). All of my closest friends have experienced this with me in one way or another. Three that come to mind are scaling buildings (do it safely please), swindling hospital security guards into allowing us to use a shortcut through the lobby, and hijacking a boat in Toronto harbor in order to use the bathroom. Those last two happened on the same night by the way. I could literally write a memoir on every intoxicated (mis)adventure I've had over the years. Call that what you want, but remember I'm the one with the tales.
So back to the woods.
I cannot put into words the feelings I get when on Canadian safari. During this night, we jumped creeks, hopped rusty fences, battled chest-high grasses, evaded headlights, and ascended underpasses - all in an effort just to get home. We laughed, struggled, and helped one another make the journey home, which was a staggering 7 kilometers. In fact, the photo seen at the top of the page behind the header is one of the fields we crossed.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that life is often too easy. It's easy to hop in a cab and be escorted home, and I'm not saying I don't take advantage of that sometimes. I suppose what I'm getting at is that sometimes you have to sacrifice your own personal comforts in an attempt to have some fun and make memories for yourself. It's also to important to remind ourselves that not only is life easy, it's fucking short. The night is young, and so are we. Let's hop some fences already.
*top photo. Bryan and I, Vancouver, 2007
3 comments:
I may have to retract my diagnosis of the dead blog...
So glad to see you're back! I missed your blog posts. Keep it up Andy.
-Katers
When I was fifteen, I got high with my cousin and we decided to walk home. We became lost in a corn field with no corn in it and chased by a dog.....fuuuck.
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