The Years Between

It's the first day back at Lister Hall, a warm September morning; Mom and Dad have left and I'm arranging my clothes, my computer, my toiletries and other necessities in my traditional room, 139 Kelsey Hall. I arrived early, but soon I hear other voices out in the hall and I go out to greet many familiar faces from previous years along with some new to Main K. 

I join friends old and new in the lounge, its beat-up furniture showing the years, the television a heavy 32-inch monster. After catching up, I decide to head back to my room to read--only to find that Lister Hall's rooms are now self-locking, and my keycard, wallet, ID--everything I brought with me is in that room. 

I take the short walk from Kelsey Hall to Lister Hall to get some help from the security people. But along the way, I become confused. 

"This doesn't make sense," I think. "It's 2022. Why am I still in university? Why is it taking me so long to get my degree? Wait a minute, I DID graduate--in 1991." 

Security gives me a replacement keycard and I return to my room to ponder my peculiar problem. I mention it to some of my Kelsey friends, but they don't seem to understand what I'm saying. And my body is all wrong; I'm thin and I still have all my hair. By the calendar on my wall, I'm 21 years old. 

I look in the mirror and I see my eyes widen as I realize something terrible is about to happen, sometime between 1990 and 2022. And I'm the only person in a position to stop it. 

But now I'm here, in my other life in 2022, fat, balding, and about to turn 53. And there's no guarantee that tonight I'll transition back to 1991 to fix anything. This has left me with profound anxiety, because from my reference point now, the terrible thing has already happened. Or then again, maybe not, if I take care of it in that other now, sometime in September 1990
and the years between. 

Here She Comes

I first became aware of Bonnie Tyler's "Here She Comes" when I watched the Giorgio Moroder musical version of Fritz Lang's Metropolis on Superchannel in the Main Kelsey lounge of Lister Hall at the University of Alberta sometime in the late 1980s. At the time, the Moroder version was the best cut of the film available; since then, miraculously, virtually all of the film has been restored to something very close to its original form, and that newly restored version will probably stand as definitive for a long time to come, if not from now on. However, the Moroder version still has its charms, and "Here She Comes" is certainly one of the highlights. 

What's That You Say, Mr. Robinson?

The last time I saw Jim Robinson, we were in our early 20s, still in school. I'd met Jim at the University of Alberta during my second year of university and his first; we stayed on the same floor in Kelsey Hall. Jim completed his education at the University of Calgary, so we really only shared the university experience for one year - but what a memorable one. I wound up visiting Jim in Calgary a year after he left Edmonton, but since then our paths went in different directions...until tonight. Jim reached out to me on LinkedIn a couple of days ago, so we met up to share some memories and bring ourselves up to speed on what had happened to us in the intervening years.

Naturally, I told Jim about Sylvia and developing a writing career and all the stuff you've seen on this blog, while Jim shared his exotic adventures in China, where he met his wife (another Canadian, from Ontario), and stories about his young family, mutual friends, and of course the incredible changes in politics and technology that have taken place over the course of the intervening years. It was very gratifying to discover that the connection we had back in university has stood the test of time; it felt very natural to slip into conversation with Jim, something that doesn't always happen when people have been separated by a gulf of years.

It was great to catch up with Jim, and we've made plans to meet in Calgary or Edmonton or both in the near future. To wrap this up, let's have a look at the last time I saw Jim, way back in Calgary in 1989...

Poles Apart at the Polls

On Monday night, my old friend Joanne came over for a visit. It was great to reconnect with someone I haven't seen in probably fifteen years.

Joanne and I attended the University of Alberta together, and even lived on the same floor (Main Kelsey) of Lister Hall for a couple of years. And of course, we were in the U of A Star Trek club together.

Joanne had some great stories to tell about her journeys, and one of them is even available on the web. Read The Alberta-France Divide in See magazine to learn Joanne's thoughts on French democracy, and how it differs from our own democratic life here in Alberta.

Joanne didn't plan to be in France during their elections, and that reminded me of my own accidental exposure to another sort of election, years ago, in Singapore. During the Christmas/New Year season of 1996/97, I went to Singapore to visit my friend Parvesh, another Main Kelsey resident and U of A graduate. And like Joanne, I arrived while the campaign was at its height.

I was somewhat troubled by what I experienced. The governing party blatantly threatened people who were thinking of voting for the opposition; government announcements clearly stated that public housing developments and other perks would be withheld from districts that elected opposition candidates. Public figures like media representatives were quietly but strongly discouraged from being seen with opposition candidates. The opposition leader himself was frequently hounded by the police.

I watched election night with Parvesh and some of her family friends, good people who were disappointed but not surprised to see that the ruling party had captured all but two (or it may have been four) seats. (Incidentally, that night I enjoyed one of the best meals I've ever eaten.)

Comparing Joanne's experience with my own, I can't help but compare Alberta's political landscape to both. As a progressive liberal in Canada's most conservative province, you can probably guess which political climate I feel most resembles our own.


When Earl's optimism about democracy was THIS BIG!

Skulking Toward Bethlehem

Late one evening, when I was living in Lister Hall (the third or fourth year), most of the denizens of our floor, Main Kelsey, were gathered in the lounge, watching a horror movie.

I wasn't one of them. I was in my room, probably playing a computer game or perhaps using my 1200 baud modem to read one of Edmonton's electronic BBSes - perhaps the USS Bonaventure, or Freedom. Perhaps I was even finishing some coursework. Whatever I happened to be doing, I was chugging down a Coke, and when I finished, I left my room, empty can in hand.

A large plastic trash can served as the floor's recycling bin. I saunted down the hall, not noticing how eerily quiet it was, nor how rapt was the attention of my friends upon the pale, glowing orb that was the television. No one noticed my unconsciously stealthy approach.

Without a thought, I tossed my empty soda can into the nearly full recycling bin - and the clatter of crashing cans was so loud, or perhaps so unexpected, that everyone in the lounge leapt upwards, shrieking as one, male and female alike, united in terror. My eyebrows popped up as I took a startled step backward, and everyone turned toward me, some holding their chests, others rolling their eyes in a mix of exasperation and relief. "Jesus CHRIST, Earl!" was a common refrain.

"Sorry," I muttered, retreating to my room. I never did ask which movie they were watching.

Third Degree, Burned

Yes, that's me, singing "Love in the First Degree." The video was shot in 139 Kelsey, my dorm room at Lister Hall, which means it would have been during my third or fourth year at the University of Alberta. Judging by the look on my face, I must have been feeling carefree and goofy rather than full of post-adolescent angst - thank goodness. It was an angsty time. Not angsty enough, thankfully, to push me toward what would have been a doubtless humiliating attempt to pursue a career as a vocalist.
The true purpose of this post is to test blogger's new video feature. Embedding YouTube videos is pretty easy, but what the heck - may as well try out all the options. Also, I've unearthed some 8mm footage that might make an excellent supplement for Part III of the Leaf Rapids story...

Vogt Woods

Rob Vogt, Earl J. Woods


Rob and Earl do the publicity shot thing.

Another clever "Vogt-Vote" pun to accompany a couple of nice shots of Rob and I. Sean took these two photos, and I think he did quite a nice job.

Get Out...the Vogt!

My old friend Rob Vogt came up to Leduc for Sean's ball hockey classic! Once a fellow denizen of Lister Hall (and my floor, Main Kelsey), Rob is now a big-time newspaper editor. Go Rob! Here, he displays his journalistic acumen by snapping a photo of newly minted political crusader Earl J. Woods, who is just uncool enough to refer to himself in the third person. Earl J. Woods thinks it's cool! 

Unburied Treasures

Earl Woods, Wayne Reti, Phil Cresswell, Stephanie Gillis, Ravinder Singh, and Jason Taylor-Collett at the end of the 1988-89 school year.

Years ago, Wayne Reti loaned me a package of film negatives, pictures he'd shot during his time at Lister Hall. Much to my consternation, I quickly lost the negatives - or thought I had. I just rediscovered the envelope a few weeks ago, and so naturally I rushed over to McBain Camera to have the pictures processed. There were plenty of gems in the pile, at least if you're Earl waxing nostalgic, and the above shot is one such gem. As my second year at the U of A drew to a close, I spent much of my time taking photos of my floormates of Main Kelsey - and so did Wayne. I really like this shot - I cared very much for each person in the photo, and I hope they're all doing well today. Maybe I'll see them at the Lister reunion being held this spring.

In other news, Sylvia continues to spoil me, work continues to become more and more stressful, and I'm getting regular exercise. So it's a mix of good and bad. Isn't it always?

My wheelbarrowful of gifts now includes new shirts and underwear, handy office items such as Post-It notes, batteries and a new photo album, and far too many goodies.

Sean came over on Friday for supper and a round of Zombies - you can catch his very entertaining writeup here.

Later this week (I hope), I'll post my analysis of two movies in a very small but fascinating genre, and my brother's incredible schematic of a home dilemma I have yet to solve.

Stay tuned!

Harry's Ribs

...often leads to unfortunate circumstances.

Many years ago - I believe it was 1989 - Philip Cresswell and I returned to the lounge area of Main Kelsey, our floor at the University of Alberta's Lister Hall dormitory. We found a fellow floormate, Harry, lying facefirst on the floor, his shirt hiked up to his armpits. Harry was a small fellow, and his youthful exuberance often led to a certain overindulgence where alcohol was concerned. So Phil and I simply left him where he was, and sat down in front of the TV, flipping channels, chatting away.

But then we heard a grunt, and when we looked over at Harry, we saw his ribs start heaving up and down. We feared the worst, and soon enough, poor Harry regurgitated all over the carpet.

"Can he drown in his own vomit?" we wondered? Better safe than sorry, so we each grabbed an ankle and pulled him across the carpet, leaving a slimy trail of rancid bile. Good deed accomplished, we returned to our seats - only to hear that grunt again, and to again witness that telltale, accordion-like movement of Harry's ribs. This time, the vegetables came up - a perfect salad, it seemed to us, hardly digested at all. We were amazed at Harry's ability to so segregate his puke, and dutifully dragged him another metre or so, out of danger, his face and hair only slightly mussed.

Phil and I debated what we should do next - it seemed cruel to just leave him in the middle of the floor, especialy when drunken louts like Apollo or Darcy might stumble over him - but then Harry awoke, grumbling, and stumbled off to his room. A happy ending!

Bad News

Yesterday I found out (along with everyone else in Alberta) that my employer (well, one of them), Lieutenant Governor Lois Hole, has abdominal cancer. She seemed hale and hearty when I saw her just a couple of days ago, so the news is pretty shocking. Beyond her value as a human being, I find myself distressed because she's one of the few voices that consistently speaks out for progressive values in this most right-wing of Canadian provinces. I hope that her treatments go well and that she's back on the job soon.

In lighter news, I finally finished watching the last of my Star Trek: The Next Generation DVDs tonight, just in the nick of time; the first season of Deep Space Nine will be released on Tuesday. It was a strange experience, going through all 179 episodes again, squeezing seven years into one, each episode bringing back memories of where I first watched it. When the show premiered in September of 1987, I was just starting university, and I wound up watching the episode over at Jeff Crozier's place in Beaumont. Jeff worked with me on the high school newspaper back at Leduc Composite High School; in fact, I just remembered that he took over as editor after I graduated. There were other people there, too, other newspaper staffers, a couple of girls whose names I can't for the life of me recall. I think that was probably the last time I saw Jeff.

I remember watching "Best of Both Worlds" in the lounge of Main Kelsey, the floor I lived on at Lister Hall. It was the end of my third year, May of 1990, and the episode ended with that great cliffhanger: Captain Picard has been transformed into Locutus, and Commander Riker gives the order to fire on the Borg ship, which will surely kill Picard. Fade to black...and everyone in the lounge screamed, "ARGH!" Because, of course, we'd have to wait until September for the conclusion. And so we spent our summers recovering from the school year, taking low-paying jobs to pay for next semester's tuition, and we gathered again in the lounge when Part II finally aired.

The Next Generation went on for three years after I left the U of A, and the last season, the seventh, aired while I lived at the Bleak House of Blahs. Hmmm...the circle is complete. Until tomorrow...