JB's Warehouse & Curio Emporium

Packing for a move inevitably causes glimpses of your past to resurface, especially when you have packrat tendencies. Sifting through a pile of papers atop my record shelf, I found a golden yellow folder cover in newsprint-smudged fingerprints. Inside were multiple copies of several stories I wrote for the University of Guelph's newspaper, the Ontarion , during my final year in academia. I suspect the articles in the folder were intended to be attached to job applications, which I sent plenty of as I tried to sort out my future and avoid a forced return to the Windsor area. Among the clips was this piece, my first feature-length foray into urban issues, published during the summer semester after I graduated. My work for the Ontarion had been almost exclusively arts-related or the weekly archival roundup, though I had started to slip in the odd news story (such as covering hearings for a student occupation which occurred while I had been abroad). When this article was publishe...

While cleaning out a box that had been buried in the depths of my bedroom closet, I found several clippings from the year I was arts editor at the Ontarion . The piece above, printed in the fall semester's edition of the Contrarion (joke issue), was a poke at one of my least favourite duties: editing album reviews. While there were many reviewers who did a good job of assessing the pros and cons of a given album, others made me believe they had no opinion at all. These reviews either pulled out the cliches listed above or, worse, simply listing the tracks without any indication of whether they liked the disc. I knew there were people just wanted the CD and had to go through the formality of writing something...but still. Even "song two had a nice tambourine solo" would have shown some thought.

6:30 p.m. last night. Dithering time. I had indicated that I would show up for a pickup soccer game over in Riverdale friends had organized, as long as it wasn't pouring rain out. I listened to the number of drops hitting the air conditioner. After contemplation, What would it hurt to drive down to the game site in Riverdale and see if anyone was there? At worst, what would be a week's delay for the first time I would kick a soccer ball in a decade? *** After discovering I was hopeless at baseball, my parents signed me up for soccer when I was 9. The teams I played for varied in ability - the only incident I remember was a game where I was on defence and wound up being the only one to chase after an opponent on a breakaway, while my fellow defenders carried on a conversation. The game lost its appeal when Dad forgot that he was supposed to sit on the sidelines, not attempt to coach me in the middle of the action. It may have come unconsciously, since he coached basketba...