Eulogy For Mom

I’d like to begin with a quote. “All she ever wanted to do in life was dance.” That’s how The East Hamilton Journal described my Mom back in August 1992.  From the age of 4 when she started taking classes and picked up a baton for the first time, Colleen Cork Earl had already defined her future.  And what a future it was.

She practiced relentlessly, over six hours a day for years, a decision that would have serious consequences down the road.  But the results were undeniable. “800 trophies, awards and medals”, The East Hamilton Journal reported.  That’s ridiculous.

Listen to some of these accolades: a two-time Miss Majorette of Canada, Miss Majorette of Ontario, multiple Kiwanis scholarships, the Junior World Champion, the American Juvenile Champ, the Duchess of St. Louis, the Top Twirler of The Day in Utica, New York.  Honestly, if I listed every event she excelled in, we’d probably be here all day.

She certainly never let it get to her head.  You wouldn’t ever hear her describe herself as the greatest baton twirler of all time but she probably was.  No matter how high she hurled it, Mom prided herself on never letting it drop.

When she won Miss Majorette of Canada for the second time, Mom met the Prime Minister John Diefenbaker.  There’s a great framed photo we’ve had for years of the two of them together on that fateful day.  You may have seen it on Facebook. 

But she didn’t have any fondness for the man.  She had a good reason, though.  He kept asking what her name was.  No matter how many times she told him, he always forgot.  It annoyed her to no end.  She never let it go. 

Mom’s talents ultimately got her on Television.  In 1959, she had the distinction of being one of the Tiny Talent Time originals, a small group of dancers known as The Happy Tappers who performed at the beginning and end of every episode during her numerous appearances on the show.  They also danced during live commercials holding signs for the show’s sponsors.

Mom loved telling the story about a certain cow that got a little too nervous on camera and well, let’s just say you had to be careful where you tapped.

As Mom became a teenager, she grew out of Tiny Talent Time and started appearing on other shows like Mickey-A-Go-Go on CHCH and It’s Happening for CTV.  Producers didn’t like her hair colour so she dyed it bright red.

It was the CTV experience that pretty much soured her on TV altogether.  Mom wasn’t tall enough in the eyes of the producers even though she was pretty much the best dancer they had on their shows. And it just wasn’t the greatest working environment for young women.

But she adored Robbie Lane, the longtime frontman for The Disciples, who was a fixture on the show and they became lifelong friends. She later appeared with him on The Robbie Lane Show where she earned about a hundred bucks a week kicking it up in go-go boots.

While on TV, Mom also joined the Hamilton Theatre Guild and appeared in numerous live productions throughout the 60s and 70s.  You name a famous stage show and she was in it, usually as a dancer or in a small role.  We still have all the original programs.

One of her castmates was a young lady named Brenda Copps who later became our family doctor and went out of her way to take care of my Mom, especially during her cancer years.  We’re grateful to her for all that she did to keep Mom going for as long as she could.

Mom would be the first to admit she wasn’t Streisand when it came to singing.  But humour was her secret weapon.  Her biggest role was Minnie Fay in Hello Dolly! The Spectator’s theatre critic described her performance as “a hilarious, unbeatable highlight.”

“She’s a delight to watch,” he raved.  “She milked the part for every laugh it was worth without ever overdoing it.”  She even got her own bio in the show’s program.

As much as she enjoyed performing, though, her heart lied elsewhere.

At some point in the late 1960s, Mom got her teaching diploma which meant she wasn’t allowed to compete anymore.  When she wasn’t teaching in a bunch of American States, she started her own business:  Colleen’s Dance Studio.

From September to June, she would work six days a week, Monday to Saturday. And then came the recital.

She originally called it Colleen’s Variety Show.  High school auditoriums would be rented and the places would be packed.  I think Mom preferred this part of her professional life because she had complete creative control and it was personally fulfilling for her to see the best of her young students grow and evolve, and succeed on their own talents.

Mom knew how to stretch a dollar, especially while making costumes for the kids. Even though they didn’t cost very much to put together, the dancers always wore something they felt comfortable performing in that also made them feel glamourous.  She even made me look good.  Although maybe the purple ruffles were a step too far.

Now this is the most amazing thing about my Mom’s career as a teacher.  She would personally choreograph every single routine the kids would do on recital nights.  Throughout the year, she would introduce a new move at the end of every class until she had a completed dance for them to rehearse.

Even though she wrote down every step in her binder, she memorized every single routine every single year.  Most years, there’d be, I don’t know, maybe 30 to 50 acts in a single night.  In 1988, there were 70.  So half were performed on night one and the other half on night two, just like WrestleMania.

Mom was always a nervous wreck. If she was a wrestler, they’d call her The Ultimate Worrier, but she was also a problem solver.  The really little kids would always forget their routine and so there was Mom, off to the side of the stage, performing their dance by memory as they looked over trying to mimic her moves to the great amusement of the crowd who knew exactly what was going on.

It was a lot of work but Mom got so much out of the experience.  I have fond memories of the end of the night as one kid after another would embrace her and thank her as she clutched a whole slew of flowers they had just given her at the curtain call.  She was always touched.

And then it all went away in 1992.  For years, Mom had been keeping a secret.  She was in a lot of pain. The first thought was arthritis. Then, maybe it was repetitive strain injury. Eventually, she was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. She went through numerous treatments: hydrotherapy, physiotherapy, water exercises, splints on her wrists.  She refused to take prescription drugs because she didn’t want to deal with the side effects.

Thankfully, she did get some relief but not enough to keep her business going. So, she did the next best thing. She passed the torch to a couple of her best students:  first Kathy Young Milligan and then Erin MacDonald Newton.

As a tribute to the name of the dance teams Mom put together of her top talents in the 80s, Kathy renamed the business Silhouette Dance Company and then when Erin took over, it became Expressions Creative Dance which still exists today.  So Mom’s professional legacy lives on.

When she wasn’t dancing, Mom worked as an usherette at the old Hamilton Forum where in the late 60s she met a hockey fan named Ron.  They married in 1973 even though he rooted for the Habs and she supported the Leafs.

They watched a lot of hockey together.  It’s how they bonded.  And then I was born in 1975.

Mom was, by her own words, an over-the-top mother.  She had to be.  I was small and often sick.  It took years to figure out what was wrong with me.  It wasn’t cheap to feed a kid health food but Mom always did it cheerfully and without complaint.  And if I was being bullied, which happened a lot, look out.  She’d even scare Brock Lesnar.  Just like my Dad, she was my chief protector.

My Mom was tough.  She abhorred con artists, especially telemarketers, which is why we started screening calls, and she was unafraid to stand her ground when the circumstances warranted it.  Good luck trying to sell her something she didn’t want.

She survived a car accident, two robberies, numerous bullies, a New Year’s Eve mugging, a bomb threat that was probably a cruel hoax, countless falls as she gradually lost strength in her legs, a gall bladder attack, a burst appendix, her heart stopping during her cancer surgery in 2021 and a Covid infection that lasted three to four months that we didn’t even know about until she went to St. Peter’s.  It was the return of her stubborn cancer that sadly spelled the end.

Even though she was miserable in that hospital bed not able to eat the food she enjoyed at home, for a short time she still managed to watch her beloved Leafs on a hospital TV and started calling us everyday for a quick chat.  When she stopped calling, I called her.  She had countless visitors, including me and Dad. She was never alone, especially in her final moments, which were heartbreaking.  Even the nurses, who she all knew on a first-name basis, spent time with her.  She was that loved.

Mom made friends easily.  And they would stay loyal to each other for decades.  Whether it was fellow baton twirler Sandy Baker and her husband Pat Quinn, dozens of church folks from Delta and Livingston, including my godmother Millie, her water therapy pals at St. Joe’s Villa and Westmount or the Alzheimer’s Support Group Mom joined after Grandpa got sick, Mom loved them all.  And they loved her in return.

Even the friends she had lost touch with would reconnect with her at some point decades later like one of her favourite teachers Doreen Bradt who’s also a talented artist and Sandi Watts who actually helped put Mom back in touch with Doreen.

Her oldest friend was probably her first:  Johnny Paulowich, her favourite dance partner, who she first met when she was 4.  There he was, 70 years later, visiting her at St. Peter’s.  They never lost touch.  I’m glad he got to see her one last time.

There were many laughs, phone calls, lunches, dinners, emails, gifts, cards, letters, trips and a lot of welcome visits, especially in her last year when she needed so much support to get her through an impossible ordeal. 

Mom treasured her friends just as much as her family.  She was a great sister to Joyce, Bev, Ev and Steve, always offering support when they needed it or anything else she could do to help them out.  And she adored her nieces, her nephews, and her great-nieces and great-nephews, always spoiling them like crazy.  And they adored her in return.

Mom was an active member of Delta for decades.  She was a Sunday School teacher, a steward, an usher and a greeter.  She was a beloved member of UCW’s Unit 8 becoming the membership & corresponding secretary for the UCW executive. She audiotaped the services which were sent to housebound congregants. She helped count the offering money. She was The Bag Lady for numerous church sales, The Card Lady sending out sympathy cards and she joined Pastoral Care calling lonely elderly members who couldn’t come to church anymore.

A few years after she retired, Mom helped some of the older Delta kids put together Copycats, a series of pantomime shows.  Mom once again found herself in the role of choreographer.  When I was looking through her stuff recently, I found a purple binder.  Inside were all the lyrics to the songs and the complete routines that were used for the 2000 show.  She never threw it away.  That was Mom.

I will miss her so terribly.  But at the same time, I’m grateful she’s no longer suffering and depressed.  It was horrible to see her that way.  She deserved better.  She did so much good in her life.  For her family, her friends, and for all her communities.

Those last visits at St. Peter’s were tough but I don’t want to remember her in that state. I prefer the image I have of her before she got terribly ill.  The smart, resourceful, warm-hearted goofball who was easy to talk to and so comfortable to be around, excluding the times I made her mad, even though we always made peace and laughed about the temporary tension.  She was a great mom, a loyal friend, a loving sister and aunt, a generous spirit, a peerless talent.

Cancer may have claimed another victim but it can never erase the history of a wonderful person. She was and is an inspirational lifeforce, someone who lit a spark in the many who knew her and invited into their lives, treasuring every moment, especially now that she’s gone. Yes, there is sadness and grief but take comfort in this everyone. Her generous spirit will never die.

I can’t tell you the number of times Mom encountered a former student long after she retired.  There were more than 1500 she taught and sometimes they arrived in the most unexpected ways.

We used to have a roofer for a neighbour.  His wife took lessons from my Mom when she was a kid.  At Delta Secondary, there was this guy named Sam Slade who got on stage in our auditorium and had all the girls screaming in ecstasy at his gyrations.  My Mom taught him those moves.

And then there was the PSW who came to visit just before she was transferred to St. Peter’s.  As I let her in, she said, “You know, I used to take lessons in this house.”  Then she saw Mom.  “Oh my God, Colleen!”

I’m convinced Mom taught everybody in this city.

For those who believe, she’s at one with the angels now, making sure they know their first position from their fifth, their step ball change from their grand jete, that they properly stretch beforehand, all while still yelling at the Maple Leafs when they lose.  Those bloody Panthers.

Thanks to Mom being a pack rat, so much of her life has been preserved in words, pictures and video.  So many memories for all of us to treasure.  And what glorious memories they are.

(Special thanks to Rev. Jess Swance, Evelyn Cork, Brenda Campbell Ellison, Kathy Young Milligan and Janis Webster.)

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Saturday, May 27, 2023
5:42 p.m.

Why Do You Hate Me?

What did I do to earn your wrath?
Why are you walking this hateful path?
Your contempt for me is shocking and sad
Not enough love from Mom and Dad?

It’s puzzling and strange to say the least
I’m being attacked by an invisible beast
I know your name and where you’re from
Your desperate insults are incredibly dumb

You live in the dark, I’ll stay in the light
I’ve never met anyone so full of spite
The only solution was to put you on block
Now I’m immune when you maliciously mock

It’s been 10 years since you launched your campaign
Are you still disgruntled and full of disdain?
You lack decency and a reason to be
Everyone in that room would not disagree

You’re a coward and a fraud, a tiny little man
A one-note hack who’s not in demand
You’re so ashamed of your first given name
You changed it to Chalupa. How fucking lame.

You said I had herpes and should shut the fuck up
I won’t stay quiet and I’m clean, buttercup
Repeating the same lie will never make it true
How eternally grateful I’m not pathetic like you

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
5:17 p.m.

What Happened To The Best Of OMD CD I Ordered From Amazon.ca?

For the last three Christmases, a good friend of mine has given me an Amazon gift card.  In order to redeem it you have to have an active account.  Since my old one was apparently discontinued (probably because of a defunct email address and years of inactivity), I had to start a new one.  (I should clarify that my parents were the ones who used the old one and not very often, at that.)

No problem.  It takes two seconds to sign up.  Adding a gift card balance is just as quick and simple.

After searching Amazon.ca for music long coveted on my CD wishlist, I was able to spot some elusive titles I had been unable to nab at local record shops for years.

Back in early 2016, you only needed to purchase $25 worth of merch to get the free shipping & handling deal.  So, I bought a couple of titles right away.  And then, when I discovered they accept a Visa debit card, I was able to buy two more later on in order to use up the rest of the balance, also with free shipping.  Anything over my limit would be withdrawn from my seriously depleted account.  (Hey, experienced blogger looking to get paid over here.  Offers welcomed.  Send email or a DM.)

Just a few days after ordering, all my requested items showed up at my house.  Fantastic.

The following Christmas, Amazon.ca jacked up its free shipping & handling minimum to $35, so I ordered everything I wanted in one shot.  All my requested CDs showed up relatively quickly although my Matthew Sweet hits compilation could not be opened without breaking the case.  I don’t know how it got so stuck but once my dad got it open, I discovered the liner notes, the back cover and the disc were in perfect shape.  Thankfully, I had a spare case to replace the broken one.

That brings us to December 27th of last year.  Three days earlier, my friend once again generously gave me an Amazon gift card.  I ordered 4 CDs.  Two arrived on January 2 while another showed up the following day.  The fourth, The Best Of OMD, was scheduled to be delivered on January 4.

It never arrived.

So I vented in a tweet on Twitter which was spotted by the helpful folks who run the Amazon Help account.  They asked me if I had been sent an email about this.  Sure enough, in my in-box, was this notification:

“We recently learned that we may miss your delivery promise for your Amazon.ca Order…and apologize for the inconvenience. You’ll still receive the item and you can track the status of or make any changes to your order under Your Orders on Amazon.ca…”

When the disc didn’t arrive on January 5, I was told by the Amazon Help folks to sign in to my account and talk to someone with direct access to my order.  It took a few tries but I got on the live chat there.  I was told the following:

“It seems, the shipment was possibly delayed by the carrier due to huge holiday deliveries. The carrier has apologized and states that ‘We’re working hard to process and deliver record holiday parcel volumes as quickly as possible. In some cases, customers may experience a delay in delivery. We continue to devote extra resources to serve you and apologize for any delays’. Usually this does not happen, please accept my sincere apology for this bad experience with us and I hope you can understand our limitations as well as of the carriers.”

I was then informed that I would receive a $5 “courtesy credit” that will go towards my next purchase.  And also this:

“I have requested a redelivery of your order on priority. The maximum time carrier would require is till Monday.”

To make sure I understood completely, I replied, “I appreciate that. So, just to be clear, [the CD] should be here no later than Monday?”

“Yes, correct. Thanks Dennis for understanding.”

It didn’t arrive on Monday.

After trying for over an hour to get back to the live chat (I later got an email from an Amazon rep who had seen me sign in even though I couldn’t see anything on my end), I gave up and wrote an email.  Just before bed late last night, I received an apologetic message from a different rep:

“As the estimated delivery date is already passed at this point, we can only presume that the package was lost during shipping. I sincerely apologize for the incorrect update.​”

I was to receive a full refund for my order (which was confirmed today).  They couldn’t replace the disc because The Best Of OMD was only sold through MegaHitRecords Canada (a third party) and not through Amazon.ca.  (They only “fulfilled” the order.)  I could always try again and re-order the CD (Ha!) or if the original disc magically appeared out of nowhere one day, I could let them know and just pay for the damn thing.  I could also refuse it (why would I do that when I want it?) and have it returned.

At any event, while I appreciate the credit, the restored portion of the gift card balance and all the apologies, I still would like to know what the fuck happened to this CD.  Because there is a Canada Post tracking number for the delivery, you can also track its progress on their site.  But much like Amazon, there’s no further update beyond December 28.

According to Canada Post, “The shipper [MegaHitRecords Canada] has created a shipping label for this item and has sent us electronic information.”

That’s followed by this alarming notice:

“If no additional updates are showing in Track, it means we have not yet received the item. We will track the item once we receive it.”

Wait.  Canada Post didn’t acquire my ordered disc?  (They only got the label to put on it?)  Then, where the fuck is it?

I’ve sent a message to MegaHitRecords Canada and hopefully they’ll have some answers for me soon.  (I’ll update if I hear anything back.)  What’s so puzzling about all of this is that 2 of the other 3 discs I ordered that did arrive as scheduled were also fulfilled by Amazon through other 3rd-party sellers with zero difficulties.

Furthermore, MHR has a 99% approval rating on Amazon.  One pleased commenter wrote yesterday, “fast delivery all good!”

Don’t tell Bernie but I’m part of the 1%.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Tuesday, January 9, 2018
6:55 p.m.

UPDATE:  MegaHitRecords Canada responded yesterday apologizing for the undelivered CD but didn’t provide an explanation for why this happened in the first place.  (It remains a baffling mystery.)  I was told it was Amazon’s problem now since they fulfilled the order.

Originally, I was going to wait things out and see if the CD would actually show up within the next few business days.  After all, my most recent Internet bill was late.  Usually, I get it about a week or so before the payment is due.  Instead, it arrived on January 2nd, two days after the due date.  (I paid it immediately.)

But after thinking about it and discovering there was only one copy left of The Best Of OMD on Amazon (which is now curiously sold directly through them, not MHR Canada as before), I broke down and decided to buy it.  Thanks to that $5 credit I received and another helpful Amazon rep who made sure I still got the free shipping, I used my gift card refund to pay for it.  Now I should still have close to 4 dollars left on it (right now it’s zero) but at this point, all I care about is finally getting this goddamn CD in the mail.  I got the two-day shipping so it should be here on Monday.  Here’s hoping.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Friday, January 12, 2018
1:16 a.m.

UPDATE 2:  Great news!  The second copy of The Best Of OMD CD I ordered arrived earlier this afternoon at my front door.  I am so relieved.  Many thanks to Amazon’s excellent customer service and all the folks running the @AmazonHelp Twitter account for all their assistance.  As for what happened to the original copy I ordered, it looks like it will forever remain missing.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Saturday, January 13, 2018
4:54 p.m.

Alone In The Shade

I wanna get paid
But I can’t get hired
I wanna get laid
But I’m just not desired
I’m growing dismayed
Frustrated and tired
I’m not making the grade
And I’m feeling more wired

I’m fed up with being played
I’d rather be inspired
It’s so much easier to evade
Let this anxiety be retired
They just aren’t swayed
Even after I enquired
They want me to fade
Has my luck finally expired?

Alone in the shade
Shaken and perspired
Execution stayed
But too late to be rewired
How do I persuade
While hopelessly mired
I thought I had it made
Now I don’t know what’s required

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Friday, March 10, 2017
4:04 a.m.

25 Years After Seeing Back To The Future Part III In A Theatre, I’d Much Rather Watch Movies On DVD

I used to love going to the movies.  It used to be so much fun.

When I was little, my parents alternated between taking me to the latest action blockbusters, animated features and live action family films at various theatres around the city.  Battlestar Galactica was the first film I ever saw in the summer of 1978.  I was 3.  (I need to rescreen it because I don’t remember it at all.)  After that, it was all Disney & Warner Bros. cartoons, Muppet movies, the first Ghostbusters, Raiders Of The Lost Ark, Superman II, Back To The Future and Star Wars sequels.  It was heaven.

By my early teens, when I wasn’t seeing the odd film with mom or dad I was going to the show with friends from school.  To be on our own without adult accompaniment was liberating.  It helped that most of us lived within walking distance of a single-seater and an eight-screen multiplex, both gone now, sadly.  We didn’t go often in the summer but when we did, it was always fun.  Lots of laughs and tomfoolery aplenty.

In the beginning, I was just a casual observer, a film fan who wasn’t all that critical and simply enjoyed getting out to see a much anticipated new release while having a good time with friends and family.

But in the summer of 1990, something shifted.

It was a Friday morning just before 11 o’clock.  The scene:  second period Grade 9 science glass.  While Mr. Petlura was rambling on about something we were supposed to be paying attention to, I overheard a couple of friends engaged in private conversation.  Back To The Future Part III was opening later that night and they were making plans to go see it.  Having loved the first two (I must’ve seen Back To The Future a half dozen times in the 80s), I wanted to go, too.  I was in as long as I had the money and was willing to stand in line for 90 minutes or so.  No problem.

After school ended that afternoon, I asked my mom for the money.  She gave me a 10.  At 5:30, two pals came to my house and we were off.

You might be thinking why in the hell did we show up at the closed theatre one hour and 45 minutes before showtime?  Simple.  We figured cinema eight was going to be packed that night and we wanted to guarantee ourselves three seats.  Curiously, when we arrived just a few minutes after leaving my house together, we noticed a dozen or so people were already waiting.  As we wasted time chatting and being silly, more and more moviegoers arrived, waiting right behind us.

At one point, we talked about a certain employee of the theatre, a tough, blond woman who charged teens the full adult price for admission which was, if I’m remembering correctly, $7.50.  We all wanted to get in for the child’s fare:  $4.  If she was there and she asked us our age, I think we all agreed to say we were 13.  If she knew we were 14, we’d have to cough up the extra $3.50 a piece.  (In my case, it didn’t really matter.  I was covered either way.)

As the theatre prepared to open its doors, the nerdy, bespectacled manager suddenly got on the loudspeaker to inform those of us who were hoping to see the first showing of Back To The Future Part III that there was a little bitty problem.  The film hadn’t actually arrived yet.

We were dumbfounded.  You could hear the collective groaning of the already impatient crowd.  As the manager told everybody else they could go in and buy their tickets for any of the other 7 films playing that night, we had to keep waiting outside like pariahs.

Every few minutes or so, he would get back on the loudspeaker to announce that yes, the film was still not there yet.  He must have done this at least 3 or 4 times altogether.  It got annoying after a while.

7:15 p.m. came and went and still no word on the arrival of the film.  Then, the big announcement.  The print was finally there.  Unfortunately, there was now a new problem.  They were having problems setting it up in the projector.

By this point, my friends and I had been standing outside for nearly 2 hours.  Thank goodness we were young, it was a warm Spring evening, we had plenty to talk about and we were dying to see this movie.  Otherwise, we probably would’ve just gone home.

Just before 7:30, the manager made his final announcement.  They sorted out all the issues with the projector and they would now admit people into the theatre to see the movie.  Thanks to all this needless nonsense, the screening would finally take place sometime before 8 o’clock.  Thank goodness I ate supper before I left.

Upon entering the building, we all shuddered as we saw the blonde employee seated inside the ticket counter.  We knew what to do.  One by one, she asked us our age after we requested our tickets.  And one by one, we persuaded her we did not have to pay the full $7.50.  That hurdle cleared, we had our tickets ripped by a pimpled usher and we finally took our seats inside cinema eight.

Over the next 2 hours, I was riveted.  Little did I know, this night would change my life.

That summer, I would go on to see 24 additional films at two different multiplexes with and without friends.  (The original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was the first film I ever saw alone.)  By the fall of 1990, as I prepared to enter Grade 10, I went into my first meeting of the school newspaper knowing what I would be writing from that point forward.  I was going to be “The Movie Critic”.

For the rest of my time in high school and my entire three years of college, I went to the cinema as often as I could, mostly alone because my friends did not want to see everything I wanted to see and writing a whole bunch of reviews for student publications in the process.  I was bummed at first by the constant rejection (I remember crying into my pillow over one particular incident) but then, I realized it was better to see them alone.  I wasn’t interrupted by farting, burping, incessant giggling, ear flicking, loud eating, annoying slurping and distracting whispers.  I could better concentrate on the film I was watching.  It was glorious.

Sometime in the mid-90s, however, I started to lose confidence and in subsequent years became more anxious and uncertain.  To this day, I don’t know where all these doubts were coming from but by 1997, it was no longer fun (nor affordable) going to the movies full-time, so I stopped.  I would occasionally go with my best friend on birthdays and other special occasions, off and on, for the next two decades (the last trip was last November), and while I always enjoying hanging with him, no matter what, because I enjoy his company it’s just not the same.  The confident, happy go lucky guy I was when I was a teen disappeared a long time ago.

In 2000, there was a slight theatregoing revival for me.  Despite now suffering from panic attacks and heart palpitations, I managed to see about a dozen or so first-run films before my local multiplex shut down for good in October 2001.  Thankfully, over time, my severe anxiety would be greatly reduced, the palps would cease and later screenings were far less stressful.

But in the last decade or so, it’s been way more fun watching films on DVD and videotape.  Honestly, how can it not be?  I now have access to closed captioning (I’ve become a lazy listener), I can pause, rewind and restart as much as I want (I do this way too often because of my insecurities and doubt), I have volume control and, when I get hungry, thirsty or have to piddle, I can take breaks.

At the theatre, there is no pausing, there is no rewinding and there are no restarts.  While sound effects, particularly for action pictures, can be excruciatingly ear-splitting, sometimes the dialogue is so quiet or so swiftly spoken you can barely hear it.  You only get one shot to catch it, so if you miss it, tough shit.  And if you have to put one in the bowl right this second, no projectionist is going to immediately stop the film so you can take care of business.

I remember going to see The Phantom Menace at my local multiplex with a bladder that never seemed to be empty.  After several pre-show tinkles (including the numerous ones I had at home before I left), during the actual movie I held out an hour before running like The Flash to make yet another ginormous yellow deposit.  Also not helping was Jar Jar Bings’ indecipherable patois.  Thanks to a much calmer screening on widescreen VHS with subtitles a few years later, although I still didn’t care for the film at least I understood what he was saying.  My bladder was thankfully more agreeable that day.  Far fewer tinkles.

It’s experiences like that one that now make me more irritatingly obsessive about having a full bladder during a movie.  (It’s why I try to drink as little as possible beforehand.  Not recommended, by the way.)  The longer the feature, the more concerned I am about being distracted about having to piss like a geyser.  It sounds silly, I know, but that’s my reality.  (I give letter grades to every film I see and sometimes write full reviews in this space.)  At least during a DVD screening at home, I can pause and pee as much as I like.  It drags out the running time of the film but at least I’m comfortable.

I feel for anyone today who loves movies like I do but chooses to go see them during their theatrical release.  The high ticket prices alone (over 10 dollars now, even during matinees) are enough to make you want to wait for the DVD every single time.  (Thank goodness my Costanza period gives me an excuse not to go on my own any more.)  My friend, a good and generous guy, often treats me the rare occasions we go to the cinema and while it’s always appreciated (like I said, we always have fun together), I miss the days when we just had pizza and played Xbox games on his giant home theatre screen.  With my 40th birthday just two weeks away, God knows I’ve been spoiled enough in my life.

On May 25, 1990, when I enjoyed seeing Back To The Future Part III for the first time at my local multiplex with him and an old schoolmate, I had no idea how life changing that experience would be.  I have always loved movies but four months after that screening, I started writing reviews for my school paper which made me love the good ones even more.  Despite a three-year break in the late 90s, I’m still writing them here today.

Part III hasn’t held up (I saw it on DVD last year and give it a marginal thumbs down with affection) but the first two Back To The Futures most certainly do (although I enjoyed the first one a lot more as a kid).  Throughout my life, of the approximately 2000 movies I’ve seen overall, about 1600 or so have been given letter grades.  (I hope to rescreen & grade the rest down the road.)  Many of them were seen in a theatre while the rest were viewed on videotape and DVD.

As I prepare to enter middle age (Jesus, I’m old), from this point forward, I’ll continue to get caught up with the history of cinema from the comfort of home.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Monday, May 25, 2015
11:58 p.m.

Fearful Lens

I dreaded the days I would encounter your hate
You so rattled my senses I couldn’t think straight
You invaded my space and pushed me around
It was next to impossible to stand my ground

You made me feel resigned instead of empowered
It was never comfortable being a coward
You enjoyed stabbing my reputation with lies
Until the truth bled out and blinded your eyes

You took advantage of my physical limitations
You made me feel low with your withering imitations
In your heartless mind I was worthless scum
Thank goodness we all discovered you’re incredibly dumb

You used to be the epitome of all my fears
Until that day you wore plasticine on both your ears
You were making headphones that got seriously stuck
Everyone was laughing, you ignorant fuck

Remember that time you stole my hat
And threw it over a fence in seconds flat?
Or that time you stuffed snow in my brand new toque
I came down with such a fever I couldn’t help but puke

No matter how many times you were told to stop
You wouldn’t relent, you were like a crooked cop
I only survived with my dignity intact
When I changed schools as a matter of fact

The last time I saw you was in the checkout line
A moment of terror briefly crossed my mind
But you were oblivious to my presence there
And I wasn’t about to attract it with a frozen stare

Decades have passed since your tyrannical reign
I wonder how you function with such a tiny brain
I doubt you would ever offer to make amends
I no longer view you through a fearful lens

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Sunday, May 24, 2015
7:04 p.m.

A.F.

My big crush on you lasted a full seven years
When it ended I didn’t collapse into tears
You fell from the heavens right into my life
My ridiculous plan was to make you my wife

I was thin and short, goofy and weird
Accepting your rejection is what I always feared
So I never asked you directly for a single date
Mere contemplation would make me hesitate

I knew deep down I was wasting my time
An unworthy suitor for a human so sublime
I hoped to stand out from the admiring flock
Instead of just smiling when you chose to mock

I stupidly declared we were already one
You corrected the record by stating we were none
Your anger didn’t scare me, it gave me a thrill
Finally, a conversation and I couldn’t keep still

You told me to stop spreading this pitiful lie
We would only be together when pigs learn to fly
Your untouched beauty drowned out these cruel sounds
I danced with delusion for several more rounds

Up to a point, you were friendly and polite
You waved in my direction when I saw you out at night
But beyond this convention, I was expecting too much
Clinging to false hope became a childhood crutch

Then came the dumbest decision of all
Writing you a letter sometime in the fall
I emptied the contents of my vulnerable heart
But claimed intimidation and it all fell apart

We were rivals in class fighting for the top
I was usually second, you were the cream of the crop
You cleaned up the awards and I took a bath
Except that one time I claimed victory in math

No matter how hard I tried to pretend
There was no attraction and you would not bend
We had little in common and no reason to mingle
I lacked the physicality that would’ve made you tingle

To athletes and jocks, I could never compare
If only they were generous and had confidence to spare
I never felt whole, I never felt enough
Every single time, you saw right through my bluff

When I finally realized these feelings had died
I felt a strange resurgence of my long lost pride
There was no longer a need to seek your approval
If I pushed even harder, you would’ve ordered my removal

The last time I saw you I was thankfully invisible
Your bond with your son was clearly indivisible
I hope you found love, peace and joy
You were hot as fuck when I was a boy

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Sunday, May 24, 2015
4:07 p.m.

Lena Dunham & The Importance Of Childhood Boundaries

30 years ago, I attended a birthday party.  It was for my best friend at the time who was a classmate in primary school.  We were inseparable, often going to each other’s houses to enjoy each other’s company.  We laughed & fought often as young kids our age are bound to do.

She was turning either 8 or 9 at the time.  Of the dozen or so classmates who were invited to come celebrate with her and her lovely parents, I was the only boy.

After we scarfed down some delicious pizza at a local restaurant, we went back to her family home.  Before she opened her gifts in the living room, we all ran up the stairs to her tiny bedroom to kill time.  In the middle of incessant giggling & chattering, one of the girls (not my best friend) suddenly asked a provocative question:

“Anybody wanna see my vagina?”

The specific details about what happened next are difficult to perfectly recall.  All I remember is that someone turned out the lights & when they came back on, this girl wasn’t wearing any bottoms.  All the other girls screamed as we all stared.  It was very uncomfortable for me.  And it was about to be even more so.

After she proudly put her underwear and bottoms back on, every girl in that room then demanded I give them a peek, as well.  I could feel the collective intensity of their gazes.  I started to sweat.  I said no.  They insisted.  I still said no.  For the first time in my young life, I felt immense pressure to do something I did not want to do.

Knowing full well they would not stop pushing me, I made a compromise.  I would show them my penis briefly but only with the lights out.  They accepted.  In the dark, I reluctantly pulled down my pants, my long johns and my briefs.  (It was winter time.)  I will never forget the screams.  It was one of the most mortifying experiences of my entire life, let alone my childhood.

I was only exposed for a few seconds but it felt like years.  The humiliation was palpable.  Anyone could’ve read it on my face, even in the darkness of that confining space.  I felt so dirty and ashamed.

As I immediately pulled up my underwear (which somehow got twisted backwards), my long johns and corduroy jeans, I couldn’t enjoy the rest of the evening.  In fact, I don’t remember anything else that happened afterwards.  I don’t even know what I got my friend for her birthday.  (My Mom bought the gift.)

When I came home, my parents noticed how strangely I was acting.  Mom started asking questions.  I confessed the bare minimum.  She actually stifled a laugh.  She told Dad.  He laughed, too.  I was humiliated all over again.

Curiously, as the years progressed, I would start laughing as well.  I transformed a terribly traumatic event into a humourous anecdote (mainly by exaggerating the vagina flashing & completely downplaying my own emotional devastation).  Or so I thought until 20 years later when one woman I recounted the story to over the phone didn’t find it all that amusing.  In fact, she felt bad for me.  She was saddened by what I went through.

Her reaction jolted me.  How could she not find this funny?, I wondered.  But she really didn’t.  The way she talked about it made me feel like I was a victim.

All of these years later, I finally realized she was right.  The blinders are off and my denial has disappeared for good.  I didn’t “enthusiastically consent” to the idea of flashing my female classmates at that party.  I simply gave in to their relentless demands.  I submitted.  I compromised.  And I felt horrible the entire time.

So, why did I spend the next couple of decades reframing this painful story as something comedic?

Because it made it less painful.  Unfortunately, it also made it less honest, as well.  Stripped to its vulnerable core, this dark, personal trauma really wasn’t funny at all.

And it wasn’t a harmless experience, either.  It had lingering consequences.

In the years that followed, I barely dated.  How could I when I lacked true self-confidence.  At times, I was the walking definition of awkward and I wasn’t always respectful to girls, either.  (As a stupid, insecure teen, I remember grabbing or touching a couple of girls’ asses without their permission.  (They weren’t pleased.)  I haven’t done that since, thank goodness.)  Due to deep physical and mental inadequacies, I always felt less than all the other guys in my classes who were much bigger, even though I had friends, participated in a number of extracurricular activities and was a very good student.  It didn’t help matters that many of the girls I crushed on didn’t reciprocate my feelings.  Looking back, I can’t exactly blame them.  I didn’t have my shit together.

Already fearful of getting someone pregnant and/or catching some incurable STD (I’m allergic to penicillin), I didn’t end up losing my virginity until I was 29.  (My ex was the only woman I’ve ever been intimate with, as of this writing.)  I’ve always had body issues.  (I’m nearly 6 feet tall now but still only weigh about 125 pounds.  I should be 150 but with all my numerous food intolerances (and the fact that getting to that ideal weight would involve having Ryback’s appetite), I’m permanently underweight.)  Most painfully, because of what happened that cold winter night, for more than 20 years afterwards, I had always felt woefully inadequate down below.

I’ve been reflecting about all of this while following the latest Lena Dunham controversy.

The Girls creator recently put out a much anticipated collection of personal essays called Not Your Kind Of Girl.  In a recent National Review article (picked up by a conservative blog), there are passages in the book where Dunham reveals that at age 7 she touched her baby sister’s vagina when she was 1 & when they were a little older she tried to bribe her with candy so she could kiss her.

All of this has led to heated debates online & in the press between her growing detractors and stubborn supporters.  I wish those conversations focused on one key point here:  the willful, unrepentant violation of another child’s personal boundaries.

It’s hard to know exactly what happened here.  Dunham openly calls herself an “unreliable narrator” which isn’t exactly helpful.  What bothers me about what she did write is not only her creepy interactions with her younger sister but also the lack of contrition she feels today for being completely inappropriate with her when they were kids.  Like all those years I tried to make a painful childhood memory amusing to myself and others, the lighthearted tone she uses to recount these stories feels like a major disconnect from the truth.  Dunham portrays all of this as weird but innocently goofy curiosity but that’s not how it comes off to the reader, at least not to me.  Whatever her intentions, she had no right to bother her sister in the manner that she did.  Children being curious about each other’s bodies & touching them without their permission are not the same thing.  Surely, she wasn’t too young to know the difference then and she’s old enough to know better now.

At first, when the revelation of all this caught fire on social media (it was curiously not mentioned in the media prior to the National Review posting), she lashed out rather defensively in what she deemed a “rage spiral”.

Days after calming down, however, she offered this public statement to Time.  Did she apologize for violating her baby sister’s boundaries?  No.  Did she express even a sliver of regret for what she did?  No.  “…I want to be very clear that I do not condone any kind of abuse under any circumstances,” she said.  Her own misconduct not included.

Instead, she apologized for “the comic use of the term ‘child predator'” which she belatedly acknowledged was “insensitive”.  And she said “sorry…[I]f the situations described in my book have been painful or triggering for people to read…that was never my intention.”

Unbeknownst to me until recently, Dunham is a divisive figure in the feminist movement.  (The “child predator” remark wasn’t the first time she’s been accused of being “insensitive”.)  And perhaps, it’s no surprise that a number of prominent, mostly white feminists are defending her recent controversy.  (As they are so fond of saying to everybody else, “Check your privilege, ladies.”)  A certain Cosmo writer lamely dismissed it on Twitter as the result of  “Lena Derangement Syndrome” caused by “the right wing”.  Tell that to numerous minority feminists (along with a number of dissenting white ones) who are rightly angry about these revelations, as well.

As much as Dunham’s die hard sisters-in-arms want to downplay, misrepresent or outright ignore what she wrote and did, there’s no escaping two basic truths.  When she was a child, she touched her baby sister’s private parts without her permission and when she was older she tried to coerce her into being kissed by offering her candy.  Today, it’s comic fodder for a book.  How is any of that defensible?

A year or so before I was victimized at my then-best friend’s birthday party, I was in a school bathroom when a classmate, a weird boy in glasses who was always crying about something and constantly getting into trouble, suddenly groped me.  He grabbed my genitals over my cords.  It was simultaneously painful & peculiar.  I remember looking at him with a puzzled look on my face.  I can’t recall now if I shoved him off or if he let go voluntarily.  But once he did let go of his firm grip, that was it.  He left and it never happened again.  In fact, he would eventually leave the school we attended altogether.  I was 7.  He may have been a year older, I’m not sure now.

Again, this isn’t about mere childhood curiosity.  It’s about disrespecting someone else’s physical autonomy.  The young Lena Dunham didn’t care what her sister thought when she decided to do these creepy things.  She just went ahead and did them anyway.  And judging by what she wrote & how she’s reacted to the criticism, she still doesn’t care.  It’s all just fodder for punchlines in a book.  Hilarious.

But what exactly is funny about her stories or mine, for that matter?  Absolutely nothing.

In fact, they’re quite distressing.  If Dunham had written these stories with the intent of cleansing her conscience or even just to express regret for her actions, no reasonable person would have had a problem with that, including me.  Honestly, it would’ve been great if she had done that.  But her agenda was getting laughs, not making peace with childhood mistakes.

21 years after my humiliation at my friend’s birthday party, I was in the park with my then-girlfriend.  It was our first date.  There was a definite, unmistakable attraction.  After having many sexually charged conversations with her online and on the phone for months off and on, it was time for us to embrace the heat.  After some inevitable awkwardness (I was a little antsy and she wasn’t quite ready for that), we moved from a picnic table to a spot beside a giant tree.  In the midst of what turned out to be my very first French kiss (she had to teach me how to do it), she showed me one of her breasts (I think it was the one with the nipple piercing).  Hot.  I returned the favour by voluntarily unzipping my jeans, then pulling them & my underwear down slightly.

She didn’t scream.  She didn’t laugh.  Instead, she looked very pleased.  (I imagined her thinking, “I can work with this.”)  The resuming makeout session got a lot more exciting after that.

For the first time ever, I didn’t feel inadequate or ashamed.  I felt attractive and wanted.  Eight days later at her place, she deflowered me.  It was glorious.  (Too bad the relationship didn’t work out.  After many more conversations & 3 more dates, we broke up two months later.  Despite more online entanglements with several other women, I’ve not had any other real-life physical encounters since.)

I’m not that terrified 9-year-old child any more (although I am, by no means, 100% confident and secure as a man approaching 40) and now I’m far more respectful of people’s personal spaces, especially when it comes to women.  Now that she’s an adult like me, here’s hoping Lena Dunham has finally learned to respect the boundaries of others, as well.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Thursday, November 6, 2014
12:56 a.m.

What I’ve Been Up To Lately

I know what you’re thinking.  Where the hell have I been these last couple of weeks?  Let me explain.

Back in May, I returned to a personal project I’d been dying to finish for years:  cleaning up the family attic.  Because of so many extremely humid days and its absolutely deplorable condition I had to pace myself.  I quickly learned that it just wasn’t possible to work up there on a daily basis.  Too hot (stinging sweat routinely dripped into my eyes) and too gross (hello endless rat turds!).  So I went up there every so often (when I could stand it) while doing other things.

At some point, I came up with the bright idea of bringing some of this long forgotten junk down to my room which was a bit cooler to operate in.  That way, I wouldn’t feel so rushed cataloguing and trashing in a brutal environment.  (The less time I spent in the attic, the better.)  In the end, most of the rest of the boxes of clutter were thankfully dealt with down here rather than up there.

Unfortunately, the always entertaining Summer Olympics slowed me down and I lost a couple of weeks.  The continually humid weather ate up even more precious time.  But when things calmed down, I more than made up for it.  In fact, I’m happy to report that after four months of on-again, off-again working, the attic clean-up is now complete, well, the first phase, anyway. 

Over 700 items have been catalogued while at least 20 bags of trash have been taken away by the city (and several more placed in sidewalk bins on the street).  Truth be told, I probably could’ve gotten rid of even more stuff but that’s where the second phase comes in.  Since most of this crap belongs to my parents, it’s up to them what they want to do about all of this now that we all know what’s still up there.  God knows I won’t miss any of it.

While I was able to find time to write in the midst of this earlier on in the process, it’s been a bit more difficult lately.  It also hasn’t helped that I screened several terrible horror movies not at all worthy of a print review.  (Whatever you do, don’t waste your time with Hellraiser III: Hell On Earth, Shark Night, The Roommate, Hostel and especially the overrated remake of Piranha.  Every one of them is awful.)

Anyway, now that I’m not so distracted, it will hopefully be a lot easier to put together some new items for this website soon.  In the meantime, let me direct your attention to the right side of my home page.  In case you haven’t noticed, some long overdue changes have been made with regards to links.

Originally, I had a blogroll with about ten different sites listed.  Considering the fact that only a few were actually blogs it was a stupid title to use.  Unintentionally false advertising on my part.  Which is why I’ve renamed the list, Worthwhile Websites.  Much better.  Anyway, a few links have been dropped to make way for some newer entries I hope you will check out. 

I’m a big supporter of Glenn Greenwald who recently moved from Salon to The Guardian, the well-regarded British daily.  He continues to do typically stellar work being one of the few professional American writers more than willing to viscerally criticize both Republicans and Democrats when warranted.  I’ve linked to both his Guardian columns (as well as the paper’s homepage) and his archived Salon blog.  Those who wonder why I’m so critical of President Obama need only sample his work.  It’s a big influence on my political poetry.

I’ve also added another link section called Blogger Pals which features both active and inactive sites run by writers I’ve been friendly online with (and either commented on or submitted entries to) over the years.  Considering how much they’ve supported me both publicly and privately since this website’s beginnings, linking to them is the easiest way to say thanks.  And yes, I do at least check the active ones from time to time.  You should, too.

Finally, I’ve decided to include links to all my CD and film reviews on MonkeyBiz.ca.  I’ve been a volunteer contributor for three years and am very proud of all the work I’ve done for them.  It’s a challenge condensing your opinions to just a few hundred words per review.  Your natural impulse is to be as thorough as possible.  (Or longwinded, for that matter.)  So, when you are able to sum up your feelings much more succinctly than usual it’s a personal triumph.  At any rate, you can find all of these critiques linked under MonkeyBiz Reviews (it’s right under the Blogger Pals section).

So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately.  By the way, I hope to offer new pieces very soon.  In the meantime, feel free to peruse any of my archived writings.  There’s more than 650 to choose from.  Looking for something in particular?  Don’t forget to use my search engine.  And if you don’t want to miss out on any of my latest works you can become a follower.

Remember, you can always drop me a line at the email address at the top of this page or simply leave a comment on any of the entries.  That’s all for now.  I hope to be back with new stuff very soon.

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Friday, September 21, 2012
3:17 a.m.

Breaking The Extended Silence

How do you express frustration without sounding unappreciative for all the good things in your life?  How do you convey disappointment without letting it swallow you whole?  Quite simply, how do you just put out there what’s really bothering you?

For the past three weeks, this website has been silent.  There have been no new entries of any kind since May 5th (not counting an update to The Very Foolish Sarah Tressler on May 11th).  One problem has been my mood.  It’s been quite sour at times over the past month.  (I have this uncanny ability to allow negativity to dominate my thinking.  It’s a very difficult trait to let go of.)

Here’s the deal.  I’m a 36-year-old man with no job, no girlfriend and no place of my own.  I still live with my parents, my maternal grandmother and her cat.  I’ve often joked about this current situation being my Costanza period as a way of coping.  But truthfully, I’ve never been happy about any of this.

This wasn’t how I envisioned my life when I was much younger.  I was supposed to have a special someone, a great career as a creative person and an independent life.  None of that has happened.  Part of that is my fault for giving up too much too easily when I get discouraged but the rest of the time, I’m not really given a fair shake.  With my 37th birthday coming up in the next little while, it’s impossible to deny this reality any longer.  Something has to change.  I want to be a happier person.

Although my mood has thankfully improved recently (mostly because of the warmer weather and a lot of sympathetic music), I’ve not been terribly inspired to write, another problem I’ve been experiencing of late.  It’s funny.  You can assemble several decent pieces in a row over a considerable amount of time without any fear of losing momentum and then, just as suddenly, your creativity goes on vacation and loses all contact with you.  Regular readers will find this refrain quite familiar.

One somewhat welcome distraction from all of this has been the family attic.  When we moved into our current residence almost 30 years ago, a whole bunch of boxes crammed with assorted possessions went right up there where they quickly became forgotten (with the exception of Christmas decorations which, for many years, came down for the holiday season then were put back up in the new year).  As I grew up, even more junk was relocated to the highest floor in the house.  Nothing up there ever seemed destined to be thrown away.  The pile of crap just kept growing.

In 2004, the nephew of my then-living chiropractor (she died in 2009), who had been recommended to us for the purpose of transforming my mom’s old dance studio into an apartment for my grandmother in 1997 and had worked on numerous home improvement projects since then, talked my dad into “finishing” the attic.  Unfortunately, this turned out to be a terrible idea.

The one-room floor, which was never properly renovated when we settled here in 1984, was artificially transformed into two incomplete spaces.  With my regrettable assistance, the handyman had drywalled one-half of the room (making it feel much smaller) and created a cubbyhole which stored all our crap.  A make-shift door was made out of a sawed off piece of drywall.  Only a screw placed in a hole on the front in the top middle keeps it in place.

Once the door is removed and put to the side, unless you’re Peter Dinklage you have to crouch through the unlit area (there was supposed to be a light fixture installed) using a flashlight in order to keep track of your surroundings.  The confining space is not terribly easy to traverse through.  There are wooden floor beams you have to watch out for or you’ll trip.

Needless to say, my parents were not thrilled with the handyman’s work.  After my mom got into a heated argument with him one uncomfortable summer afternoon over what he was charging us for a deeply flawed project (more than 20 dollars an hour, if my memory is good), he was promptly fired.  He’s not been back since.

About a month or so later, I took it upon myself to begin the thankless task of going through our voluminous attic possessions in order to find suitable material for my former church’s rummage sale in early October 2004.  (I’ve been an atheist since 1996.  Mom still goes.)  I would estimate between 45 and 50 boxes of stuff existed up there at that time.  Over the next three summers, even more items would be removed reducing the overall total considerably.  (Despite initially being upset at me for doing this, my mom eventually got on board.)

A few years ago, the attic became a second home for mice.  You could often hear them carrying on through the walls in numerous rooms in the house, particularly at night.  Ultimately, my dad started buying these little bags of poison that come in a cereal-sized box.  You open up the bags, lay them strategically on the floor where the mice tend to congregate and they’re supposed to mistake them for food.  (The poison is concealed in these little, colourful pellets.)

Because of this annoying development, I stayed as far away from the attic as you can imagine.  But on May 13 this year, the sabbatical ended.  Instead of wanting a purchased gift, my mom wanted me to perform a good deed for her on Mother’s Day.  She asked me to clear everything out of the cubbyhole and bring down all those dead electronics we’d been needlessly hanging on to so they can be eventually taken away by a company that specializes in removing such materials.  (That day can’t come soon enough.)

It was a particularly warm afternoon to be spending any amount of time in the attic of an old home.  Based on past experiences, I was used to that (except sweat dripping into my eye which happened on a follow-up trip).

What I wasn’t anticipating was all that mouse shit.  It was everywhere.  On the main room carpet, in some of the boxes, near a pipe (where my dad had literally seen a few rodents shoot down years earlier) and most especially on the floor of the cubbyhole.  I should’ve worn a mask.

Thankfully, there were no critters to keep an eye on me.  However, there were disintegrated remnants of them in parts of that main room.  The poison worked.

It was overwhelming and disgusting but I had a job to do and by God (how’s that for irony?), I did the best I could under the deeply disturbing circumstances.  (I was also a bit tired from not having a great night’s sleep.)  With the exception of scattered bits of wood, a bag of insulation, some shingles, three boxes of additional wood and another box filled with sawdust and other garbage, all of our possessions were safely placed in the main room.  (The flimsy boxes were too heavy to move and I didn’t know where to place the scattered bits.)  And quite a number of dead electronics found their way to the front porch.

Ever since then, I’ve made two additional journeys upstairs where I’ve discovered more useless equipment (like a very long ghettoblaster covered in old paint drips and drywall crumbs) and have managed to fill and remove at least two full bags of trash.  (Not a pleasant job, by any means.  Sadly, only some of the rat shit was removed.)  But there’s still between 15 and 20 boxes of stuff (among other unboxed items) left to peruse and assess.  (May 30 UPDATE:  After clearing out three more bags of garbage this afternoon, I specifically counted a little more than 30 boxes.  Ugh.)  More than ever, I’m determined to finish the job I started eight years ago.  It will not be easy.

As helpful as this on-again, off-again process has been for me personally (a massive clean-up job really can improve your focus and temperament), it’s also been a complete pain in the ass.  I shouldn’t have to be the one to do this at this point in my life (not that I’m not appreciative of having something to do while my life is on hold).  I shouldn’t be dealing with useless junk that no one else wants to deal with, much of which isn’t mine.  (And this is only one room we’re talking about.)  But because I’m not getting paid for my writing, I’m not dating and I’m still at home, at least I have some useful purpose.  But I’m growing tired of not progressing beyond this stage of my life.

I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do.  The attic clean-up will most likely continue when this stream of hot weather passes us by in a couple of days.  Because it’s much more bearable on cooler afternoons, this process will probably drag on and off for the next several months until the next church rummage sale in September.  (I’m hoping it doesn’t take nearly that long.)  As long as I have a clear objective of how to proceed, the most disgusting room in the house will gradually become slightly more inhabitable and fewer boxes of junk will live up there.

But beyond that, all my other problems remain.  How does a late-blooming, shy person still living at home resurrect a long dormant love life?  How does a blogger expand a readership to the point of attracting the publishing and broadcasting industries’ attention?  And how does a mama’s boy finally grow up to become a man?

Dennis Earl
Hamilton, Ontario, Canada
Monday, May 28, 2012
1:01 a.m.