I recently came to the conclusion I was a meat head in University. It was fun and I wouldn’t change it, but I have come to accept the less than chivalrous role I played.

I did not get a pretzel or her number.

I played Rugby, not that there is anything wrong with that; I went to keg parties, not that there is anything wrong with that either; I got into the occasional bar scrap, there might be something wrong with that. My world focused on the three pillars of higher education: rugby, beer and girls. I wasn’t skilled at handling any of the vertices of this dangerous triangle. And despite what my student loan might lead you to believe, school and studying fit into the equation when it was convenient.

I first realized things were a little out of control in my final year of studies. It started with getting my ass beaten in front of a Pizza Pizza, which – in my defence –  was in the defence of a room-mate who got jumped just as I bought a fresh slice. I wouldn’t say that I saved the day so much as I added another body to evenly distribute the ass kicking across. In that capacity, I think I did well. I spent the duration of the scrap getting choked, while I punched a stranger in the testicles. My first fight was not what I expected, and worse still, my pizza did not survive the ordeal.

Would you want to fight this?

I also did some ass kicking of my own. In a barroom brawl I flipped a table that had been freshly filled with drinks, and then topped this stunning cliché by jumping on the instigator’s back like a spider monkey and choking him out on the floor. It’s a long story, but the guy had it coming, trust me.

The year had its ups and downs, but it wasn’t a punch to the head or a prolonged loss of oxygen to my brain that roused me to my realization.

While these extracurricular activities were going on I was taking mind bending classes like Grief, Death and Dying and, my favourite, Love and Its Myths; I was getting full value out of my education. I have no memory of what we studied in either of those classes aside from what you might surmise from the course titles. I do recall writing an essay on the subject of love and the Velveteen Rabbit; I received a very low mark.

The picture says it all really.

My academic life and my personal life were at ends with each other.

What snapped me back to reality was Youtube. A friend forwarded a video to me where the main actor looked exactly like me. The gentleman could have been my twin, but was at the very least my doppelgänger. He was also doing something that I potentially might have done, something stupid: whizzing along on a children’s scooter down a residence hallway to launch off a textbook ramp for the finale; he didn’t stick the landing. Higher learning at its best.

If anybody wants an autographed print just email me at manfountainfun@letsmakeithappen.com

The friend who forwarded the video asked me when I had taken this ‘leap’. If I had known for certain I had performed this stunt I would have been able to swallow my Youtube infamy. What was more shocking was this, I wasn’t sure if it was me. The more I watched the clip the more I was convinced it could be me. It looked like me, it looked like something I would have done at the time, it looked like any university residence hallway where I had gotten up to no good. This was troubling.

I watched the video again and again trying to see the face of this mystery idiot – which might be me – and although I did conclude that it wasn’t me, it was alarming to think it could have, I just had no memory of it.

This was near the end of those years I spent in that pressure cooker of beer and sexual tension called university, but I’ve gone on to make more errors in judgement since. I like to think those mistakes made me who I am today.

I’m a different person now, and I’ve been asking myself the question of how that came to be. We all grow and change, but do any of us know the dates for those formative experiences?

Me after ass surgery and the morphine button. Party time.

In my case, was it teaching English in South Korea and having surgery on my ass that opened my eyes to the world?(that’s a long story, ask and I will tell) Or was it while cycling across Canada when I was left with long hours each day to think and stare at the spandex ass in front of me? Was this where my warped view of reality was violently birthed, from spandex, sweat and wheels or asian ass surgery?

There are other schemes that brought me to where I am today, but the two mentioned above were among my finest mistakes.

Whether it was one single event or the sum of their parts, I have no idea, regardless, I’ve changed. I wouldn’t take back any of the things I’ve done either. Well, that’s a lie, I would, but I wouldn’t take back much. And how could I, all of those peaks and valleys brought me to where I am now, and where I am now is pretty swell – at least in my opinion, and there isn’t any other opinion that matters when it comes to the subject.

This is a long story.

People change, it couldn’t be any simpler. But for a long while, I liked to think I was the exception to the rule. I was the immovable object, or so I thought. While in fact, everything has changed, and by the time we notice it, we’ve missed it, or, I’ve missed it. It’s hard to accept that we’re oblivious to the going ons around us, but I don’t notice my hair growing either.

I drank 750ml of table syrup, there it is. Boom.

At the age of 20 I had yet to learn the lesson that condiments are not beverages, even worse was that I was willing to do anything for a buck.

I’m proud to say that I had enough dignity to not perform this feat for free. Although I didn’t do it for free, I didn’t do it for much either. Twenty dollars was the price tag on my dignity and I was paid with a handful of loose change.

I drank all 750 ml of that table syrup for twenty dollars and not a penny more.

The next day my efforts were rewarded in full. I felt like I was on the wrong end of month long drinking binge. It was the sugar crash of the century. I had won the battle, but the syrup won the war.

Don’t get me wrong I still throw caution to the wind every now and then. Sometimes I’ll stay up late on a work night and when I’m feeling particularly daring I’ll skip flossing for a day.

These days I stay away from digestive theatrics, but what undignified act have you done for a sock full of quarters?

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The last meal before our attempted smuggling run, confidently displaying our pre smuggle smirks.

It was august 2005, Jared, Neil and myself were driving through the states to get to Halifax where Jared was attending University. Our plan to drive through America was three fold, first and foremost fuel is substantially cheaper south of the border in spite of American’s complaining more. Secondly to avoid going through Quebec, and finally to procure vast quantities of cheap liquor. This was a tasty insensitive given that all three of us were still very much in the binge drink university, party till you puke state of mind.

Our plan was simple drive through the states, buy alcohol, come back to Canada. Flawless in it’s simplicity, or so we thought. Unfortunately, given a lack of research, general laziness and complete naivete, our poorly hatched plan was doomed from day one.

On the initial crossing into America and subsequent stop at duty free we were already heavily encumbered with liquor. When we went to leave the state of Maine for the province of New Brunswick, our haul was approaching prohibition proportions. The saying go big or go home took new meaning, we were going big and we were going home. Who knows, maybe that’s where we went wrong.

Exact quantities aside, we pulled up to the customs booth and told our ‘story’. We anticipated that customs wouldn’t bother searching anyone at the Maine-New Brunswick crossing. This assumption could not have been more wrong, in fact they searched nearly everyone. To make matters worse the story I told them was inconsistent and shaky at best. They were not buying the snake oil I was selling that day. I claimed that we each had one bottle of liqour, having just bought more than that, and that we were in America for the required 48 hours. If we had been in America for this duration we would be entitled to bring said quantities of alcohol back into Canada. We were not in America long enough, and our haul of alcohol ambitiously surpassed the legal limit for importation.

We were instructed to park in one of the bays so our vehicle could be searched. We sat inside while they searched. A variety of incriminating goods were found. For instance, all the alcohol that we didn’t claim. That on it’s own was fairly damning. The thorough officer on our case also found a Canadian newspaper within the car dated as such that made it impossible for our story of being in America for 48 hours true.

The officer called us up to the counter, and showed the evidence to us and demanded an answer from me, the driver at the time of border crossing. My response, “Busted!” and what else was there to say, the jig was up. I’ve seen enough law shows to know when the the fat lady was singing for the criminals and if you play their game it always earned the bad guys leniency. I just never expected to be the bad guy.

We were instructed to sit back on smugglers row while he clicked on his keyboard and continued to search our car. He found more alcohol. He inquired as to who’s alcohol it was, looking at Jared and Neil, I responded, “You can chalk me up with that one.” Even though we were finished my sense of humour was not. We waited what seemed like far to long for our punishment to be anything but the worst case scenario. Everyone who passed us gave us that criminal gaze. One older woman who seemed to be an expert on the ‘art’ of smuggling was passing through and out of professional interest inquired as to what we had done. We explained, she laughed, “I was caught with 40 litres once, you’ll be fine!” Unfortunately the kind words of this seasoned veteran did not comfort my posse or me.

Conveniently situated beside the guilty smuggler sitting area we could conveniently find all the brochures describing how completely and utterly screwed you were, sorry we were. After in depth research things were not looking good. The officer in charge would finally conclude his work and call us over and hand over our punishment. To our shock and surprise, there was no fine. All the alcohol was confiscated, obviously, but it seemed there was no real punishment. We asked, he explained. We were red flagged at Canadian customs for the next six years. This boils down to being searched every time any one of us entered Canada and had our passport scanned. They were not kidding, every time to date that my passport has been scanned my belongings have been thoroughly sifted through. Sometimes they even ask, “Do you know why you are red flagged?” As if I don’t know why I AM red flagged. I find that question offensive. We fought the law and the law didn’t just win, it beat us to death with it’s championship trophy.