Newton Place Knicknacks

I didn't live in Newton Place for long, but it's where I watched the last season or so of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. I remember hardly anything about the layout of the apartment, and I have very few photos of my time there. This is one of them. 
 

The Good, the Bad, and the Needs Revision

Midway through one of my political science courses at the University of Alberta, my professor pulled me aside for a chat after class. 

"What happened with this essay? You've done very well on your exams, so I know you can do better than this. It reads like a Time magazine article." 

For a second, I was confused. I don't remember exactly what I said, but it was something along the lines of "Isn't that good?" 

"No, no," he said. It's well-written, but it lacks depth. There's no real analysis here, it's just a shallow summary of the subject matter. You need to dive deeper, think harder about the subject matter, do some extra research, develop your own thoughts." 

Those may not be the professor's exact words, but that was their spirit, and they hit me hard--because I knew he was right. Sometimes, when I'm not motivated or invested or I've left an assignment to the last minute, I can get lazy and produce material that doesn't reflect my full potential. It still happens on this very blog! 

A little over a decade later, my friend Bruce (then my supervisor), criticized a story I'd written for our gardening magazine in much the same way, comparing it to a freelance article I'd written about Superman. The words he used were different, but his point was the same--and like my professor, Bruce was right. 

During my time at the University of Alberta and at my corporate writing jobs across the years, I've written plenty of stories and speeches that I'm quite proud of. But there's also a large collection of pieces I know could have been better. 

I feel especially bad to have let my professor and Bruce down, back then, and I'm sure those weren't the only instances when a teacher or colleague or client was disappointed by my work. 

It makes you wonder if writers of, say, Hemingway's caliber have drawers full of old articles and stories that they look upon with a bit of self-loathing. 

On the bright side, it's a real pleasure when you stumble upon a work you've forgotten and think to yourself, "Hey, I wrote this? I did, and wow, it's pretty good." 

When I look back on my career, I hope I can say I wrote more good stories than bad. 

Validating Our Worst Selves

As sometimes happens, I had a pretty lousy week (by the standards of my particular forms of privilege). I missed a day of work, the news was getting me down, I'd accidentally inconvenienced a couple of people, I wasn't getting much sleep, I had no drive to accomplish household tasks--the sorts of problems that really should be taken in stride. Instead, by Thursday I'd worked myself into a state of fierce self-loathing. 

Today I felt much better, thanks almost entirely to simply cuddling with Sylvia through Thursday night. As we drove to pick up groceries today, I made light of my maudlin mood of the days prior, mocking myself by saying things like "Oh, I've been so mean to people over the years" and "I've been a complete idiot so much of my life" and "I've accomplished nothing." I said it in a tone that tried to suggest I knew such feelings were silly, but Sylvia saw through me, as usual. She admitted that she sometimes felt that way too, but then she said something that hit me like a bombshell: 

"Why do our negative thoughts get all our internal attention and validation?" 

Yes! Why? All my life I've validated my worst feelings about myself while at the same time dismissing or devaluing the positive assessments of other people. I'm not alone in this. 

I wonder what percentage of human beings validate their bad feelings about themselves, and what percentage enjoy a healthier, more balanced view--not narcissistic, but a view that accepts their good and bad qualities without feeling undue self-loathing or overweening pride. Furthermore, I wonder that genetic traits or environmental conditions make the difference between mental health and depression and other disorders. 

I've written a few times about how much I loathed my first job after graduating from the University of Alberta: driving a truck full of automotive parts to different garages on the south and west sides of Edmonton. I had that job for three years, applying for other jobs all the while, and the longer I was there the more I began to believe that I'd never do better. (To give myself some credit, I recognized, even as an ignorant twentysomething, the inherent value of any job that in some way helped the community; I didn't feel as though I was "above" the job, just that it didn't suit my interests or skills.) 

For several months of this three-year period, I was living with my parents and commuting to Edmonton with Dad. After one particularly rough day, I confessed to Dad that I thought there must be something wrong with me because even after years of trying, nobody wanted to hire me. (I'd gotten the truck driving job thanks to Dad.) 

"Earl, that's bullshit," Dad said forcefully, startling me a little. "You're a very smart kid, but these are tough conditions. It won't be long before you find something much better suited to all the things you can do." 

Dad's no-nonsense clarity helped quite a bit that day, and he was right; it wasn't long before I moved on to better things, though not without some amusing misadventures. 

Sylvia's question today has helped me realize that I need to investigate why I've given so much weight to the ways I've failed other people, the ways I've failed to live up to my expectations of myself, the ways I've hurt others--almost always unintentionally--and yet, NOT always unintentionally, and when you hurt someone, what do your intentions matter anyway? 

This is turning into a screed, so I'll conclude with this: If you've ever had feelings like mine, I hope you'll give yourself a break. Believe people when they say nice things about you; don't devalue their judgement or support. I'm going to do my best to take my own advice. 

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. 

Populated Dugout

Here's yesterday's dugout filled with the characters and soccer ball that came with it. The manager is in a blue suit, while the team's support staff are dressed in yellow and green to match the dugout/team colours. Unfortunately the dark skin tones are so dark that you lose any detail in the face; I need to figure out a better colour pick for darker-skinned folks. 

Dugout

I painted this dugout in University of Alberta colours. My first attempt was pretty bad, just a mess, with many visible brush strokes, uneven colours, etc. But I persevered and added several more coats, all thin, and then dry-brushed different shades of yellow and green overtop of the original contrast paint layers. I think I managed to give this a more realistic feel than when I started. 
 
This dugout came with four minis, which I have yet to paint. 

First Year Schedule at the University of Alberta

While digging out more stuff to recycle or throw away, I came upon a 1987-88 day timer with precisely one thing written in it: my course schedule for my first year at the University of Alberta. 

Philosophy 240, Religious Studies 200, English 200, and Political Science 200 were all first-year intro courses for those particular fields. History 280 was, I believe East Asian history from...something to 1500. Anthropology 250 focused on--I think--racism. Or at least that's what I remember most about it. 

Ironically, my best subject that year was Religious Studies; I earned a 9 out of 9 on the old stanine system they used back then. I really liked the prof, and he liked me, inviting me to guest lecture a couple of times. Man, it was weird when I used to do stuff that involved other people and volunteering and so on...
 

An XElent Computer

We retired the Atari 400 after several years of yeoman's service, replacing it with the more powerful Atari 130XE in the summer of 1987. This was the computer that carried me through my first two years of study at the University of Alberta, and it was also the computer that, combined with the Atari XM301 300-baud modem, pulled me into the world of electronic bulletin board systems, or BBSes. Before the Internet became a mainstream service, BBSes were the destination for early adopters of the world of online communications. Edmonton's BBSes were limited to discussion rooms and primitive file sharing, and most of the ones I visited could only support one visitor at a time, since most people back then had only one phone line. 

My favourite games supported by this computer probably would have been Rescue on Fractalus, Ballblazer, Preppie, Karateka, and Star Raiders II. 

Sean and I retired almost all of our Atari hardware a couple of years ago to help create more space at Mom and Dad's place. I rescued this manual, among other Atari detritus. I was going to recycle it, but Sean will take the materials into his care instead. They're certainly fascinating artifacts of a lost era. 

Paperclip

Here's the manual for the software that got me through the first two years of university: Paperclip. Paperclip was pretty primitive compared to modern word processors, but it did precisely what I needed it to do: made it possible for me to type and print my assignments instead of writing them longhand, which would have surely doomed my chances at graduation. 

Paperclip came with a unique form of copy protection: the Paperclip Key, a small grey dongle you plugged into the Atari 130XE's joystick port. Without the dongle, the software wouldn't operate. It took me years to wonder idly if the key was just an electronic switch that made the computer think a joystick button was being held down. So I pulled out the key, plugged in a joystick, held down the fire button, and lo and behold the software worked. A determined pirate could have copied the software, plugged in a joystick, and held the button down with electrical tape. Still, they wouldn't have gotten the manual, and for all the bother why not just buy the software...

Dinner at Von's

Here's a photo I haven't seen in quite some time; it's a shot of several residents of Main Kelsey dining out at Von's for our annual floor formal. Sitting to my immediate right is Wayne Reti, and to his right is Chris Vining, who later served some time as Mayor of Cold Lake. Near the back you can see longtime Lister Hall resident and journalist Rob Vogt; across from me, in glasses, is Daryle Tilroe, who I knew from Leduc; and to his left, Colin Peters. The other faces are a bit too obscured for me to make out.

Oh, if you don't recognize me because I was thin, I'm the guy at middle left in the suit pulling his glasses halfway down his nose. 

Faculty of ENG

Electronic News Gathering, that is. Well, not really; I'm simply lugging around the VHS camcorder that Grandma and Val gave the family back in the late 80s or early 90s. Here I am in 1990 or 1991, caught in the act of preparing to videotape some Lister Hall shenanigans at the University of Alberta. Behind me stands Iain Getty, who I reconnected with decades later during the brief period we were both working at ATCO Electric at the same time. 

The Diner Before Callahan's

It's now a dental office, but once upon a time this building just north of the High Level Bridge housed a restaurant I used to frequent with my friends in the University of Alberta Star Trek Club. No, the restaurant wasn't Callahan's - at least not at first - but the one that preceded it. (I shot this photo sometime after leaving university, I'm sure.) Despite all my fond memories of the restaurant that was here before Callahan's, I can't remember its name. Can anyone help me out? 

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. 

The Two Worlds Most Persistent

I wake again in the wrong. Perpetual summer at the University of Alberta, always late in third year or early in fourth year, trying to convince those old friends that I was stuck there, with my life in the present out of reach, my knowledge of the next thirty years or so useless because unbelievable, ridiculous. When these jumps happen, none of those old friends believe that I'm a middle-aged man trapped in my younger body, with a life on the far side of time.

My Atari 520ST, with its connection to local electronic bulletin boards, is useless as a research tool; it has no Internet connection, since the Internet is still a few years away. There will be no Googling "how to undo time travel to my past body."

Frustrated, I walk out the front door and across the golden grass that covers a tall, steep hill. I can see Orson Welles in the distance, and I climb up to see him - so much easier in this young, fit body. He greets me like an old friend, rambling on about dramatic structure, even though he died five or six years ago. That's what jerks me free of this reality--that discontinuity. I wake up back in 2016, only to realize that I should be in 2019...

Butchered by Bottles

It was the summer of 1992. I was driving a parts truck, delivering auto parts for Norwest Automotive, my first job after graduating from the University of Alberta. Upon returning to the store after dropping off some parts to customers, one of the partsmen warned me to be careful around the big cardboard box we used to store empty soda bottles and cans.

He was a burly fellow with curly black hair, with a laconic manner. Almost lazily, he gestured toward the box of bottles.

"Hey Earl, watch out," he said, and as he spoke he leaned into the box, pointing with an extended middle finger. "There's a broken bottle in here and you don't want to EARRGGHHHH!"

I watched, goggle-eyed, as the partsman impaled his index finger on the sharp tip of a shattered bottleneck. He jerked his hand back and started flailing, spattering blood all over the box of bottles, his own clothing, the walls, and the clipped-out SUNshine Girls that adorned them.

At that moment, Ron, the manager, rounded the corner.

"What the hell is happening?" he cried. "It looks like Freddy's final nightmare in here."

I don't remember if I managed to control my laughter or not. I hope so, but...

Man Into Space

Photograph, 1989. 

The Abandoned Thesis

While cleaning up this image today, I noticed something new about it: there's a paper left facedown on the leftmost chair. Was it mine? Did I put it down to take the photo? Was it abandoned by another student? What was the paper about? Had it been graded? Was the grade decent?

I'll never know! 

Empty Lecture Hall, University of Alberta

Just before graduating, I shot this photo of an empty lecture hall, goodness knows why. I guess I knew what I was about to lose. 

The Second Degree

Another episode of The Second Degree, the recurring dream that's haunted me half my life. This time, I was running an errand at SUB when I suddenly realized I'd completely forgotten about three final exams I should've taken months ago. This made me very angry, because it meant that achieving the second degree that I should have finished in the late 90s would be delayed by at least another semester.

In this particular dream world, time passes relatively normally, but I never learn why I'm pursuing a second degree, or even the nature of the degree. Education, perhaps?

I hope the Earl in that other world finishes at some point, because I'm getting very frustrated by his lack of progress. 

This restaurant - seen here sometime in the mid-1990s - sits at the south end of the High Level Bridge, near the University of Alberta campus. Sometime in 1990 or 1991, I went for supper there, along with Carrie Humphrey and perhaps some combination of Paul Allen, Tony Longworth, Ron Briscoe, Steven Neumann, Susan Neumann, Andrea MacLeod, Jeff Shyluk, Allan Sampson and Jim Sandercock: the core, in other words, of the University of Alberta Star Trek club, as it was in the all too brief months before I earned my degree.

The only thing I really remember about that evening out was that Carrie flung ice cubes at one of us and missed, striking another diner. Sheepish apologies were handed out and the breach was forgiven.

I'm not sure why that memory has stuck with me, when I'd much rather remember what we might have been talking and laughing about. Cruel, cruel entropy.