Hmm. Oddly enough, every other major life event (well, really OLD one) has been hashed to bits in this little memorandum of mediocrity, but not my sole brush with the world beyond.

Well, it wasn't so much a brush with the beyond as a brush with a light standard.

But let me start... From the Beginning.


Kingston in 1994 was a hellhole.

Okay, not quite. I don't think they'd even started to import squeegee kids yet. It was a year of indecision and loss, of... Actually, that's all bullshit too. A few months out of Carl Eton, and I was pretty much unemployable. I was spoiled by the A&P when I was in high school.

That place, put simply, rocked for a teenager. Good pay, 3 shifts a week, occasional 8 hours on weekends (and you could go down to Paul Bunyan's at the other end of the mall for fries n' gravy with ketchup on your lunch break). Seriously, the pay rate there was so good I've had maybe two jobs in my life that beat it on a per hour basis.

Sure, it didn't quite make up for being a brown teenager in white rice Napanee, but c'est la vie.

So being unemployed for most of the year of 93/94 was a bummer. There was a period on the reservation, which ended poorly, and another period at a gas station, ditto. There was also Puppy Patrol, which was fun, and will be expanded on later.

So, in January, I was looking forward to Redcon (the second last one, if memory serves me right). One of the local gamer guys, a mildly devious fellow named Dave, was teaching me to play Magic. Man, I shoulda stuck with it. I coulda been a contender.

Anyway, I was about to start The Werewolf Game, which was a lot of fun. We started with about 15 players (I had NO idea what I was getting into) and whittled it down to about five. Whittled by apathy, mostly.

Anyway, at the time, I was hopping onto a BBS called New Dimensions. A cute little item from the pre-internet age, it was essentially a retarded local ISP, without the I. There were bulletin boards, chat servers, and a few games, as well as e-memos (it would be wrong to call them e-mail). It was quite fun. Made a few acquaintances there, one or two I could confirm are not dead.

Anyway, one cold wintry Friday night, I was heading over to Good Buddies Mike & Alison's for Vampire. Of course, it turned out Vampire got cancelled that night.

Eh, no big shock. As a strappin' single guy, I could skip the occasional RPG without losing sleep. So, I hopped on over to AJ's Hanger to kibitz with some buds. It was Clarke (Laird & master of ClarkeMcMurray.com),his scary SHARP girlfriend, KC (a charming lady), and Dick. Ah, Dick. Never was a name more appropriate. What, indeed, a dick.

Anyway, there was kibitzing, and someone had the genius idea of going to Ganonoque for Karaoke. Right about there, Yr. Humble Bitter Guy should have said something to the effect of "fuck that noise, bizatch! You see the snow out there?"

Because, you know, it was snowing.

But, no. Clarke & I were going to wait for our nachos to come, and then join the happy crew in Ganonaque. We had the nachos boxed, and took off.

I shouldn't have trusted those Nachos. Truly, they were the nachos… OF DOOM.

The weather was… Well, it was a mid January snowstorm. The flakes were big, damp, and not going anywhere. I also had the pleasure of driving my mom's Chevy Celebrity station wagon. What a chick magnet, let me tell YOU.

It had the Saturday previously broken a record for 'most people' after ferrying 13 folks from a party to an after party. Very slowly. Because, you see, the car had certain issues with winter driving. For one thing, it would skid sideways given the slightest provocation (i.e. snow or ice).

So, in the spirit of foolishness we head of for Gananoque. The snow is falling. Clark decides to pop in Marillion. I'm pretty much a music goob, and have never actually heard Marillion. So, yeah, I say, pop that puppy in.

We're approaching the Husky station on the 401.

Up ahead, I see a cop light flashing. Already cruising at 80 clicks, under 401 speed limit, I hit the brakes to slow the car down even more.

That, ladies and gentlemen, was a bad idea.

The car began to swerve. Control was, well, lost. The car swung side to side once or twice, and then just slid. Sideways. Down the 401.

You know that thing about your entire life flashing past you? Bullshit. Pure bullshit. The only thing that flashed in front of me was the light post that shot towards me at that self-same 80 clicks.

The impact is not in my memory banks. My hands were up (for proof, take a look at the back of my left hand some time).

When I regained consciousness, there was a cop standing there, holding a bandage to my skull. Really, right there I should have realized I was kinda fucked.

My concerns were twofold: Clarke, and the car. Because I, you see, was fine. If the cop hadn't been holding me down, I'd have just popped out of the car and taken care of business myself. But he had that latex encased hand pressing a finger on my skull in what must have been some kind of ninja-cop paralysis hold.

The car and Clarke were fine, the cop lied. Well, about the car. Clarke was fine (his prognosis was 'a little banged up', while mine was "Jesus, look at all that blood!"), but the car… Look, when you slam into a concrete and steel pole at 80 clicks, you're gonna get more than a minor ding. I'm talking no little amount of frame damage.

The chair I was sitting in, to give the audience at home an idea of the impact, was moved over a foot and a half.

Clarke had come to faster than I. He'd seen the shattered wreck that I was, and headed for the Husky to call the police. Of course, the fact that I was already a couple hundred feet from another accident saved him the jog.

Eventually, an ambulance arrived to take me to the hospital. I doffed my lovely winter coat (also coated in one of the bodily humours), and was put at the gentle mercies of a pair of Korean doctors. One of the ER fellows was actually about to go into plastic surgery.

That was a good thing, as at that point I had a significant portion of windshield stuck in my forehead (hence the blood).

This was at the point in my life where I could grow hair past my ears and let the full, luxurious curls dance around my cherub like face. I cannot do that any longer, and THAT is why I shave my head.

The docs gave me a nice shot of "this will make some of the pain go away", and began the extract and shut process. Pull out glass, sew face shut. Pull out glass, sew face shut. Glass comes out, face sews shut.

If you'd like, you can look at the scars. The docs did a GREAT job.

Anyway, after that, I was rolled away for x-rays. Funny thing about x-rays. It's hard to lie still for them after your body has just been the fulcrum for the whole immovable object/unstoppable force discussion. There are, somewhere in Kingston, x-rays of my body curled up in a foetal position on a table.

Shockingly enough, nothing was broken. It sure FELT like I'd shattered every bone that wasn't required to hear, mind you. But that was just bruising on a cellular level.

The docs let KC in to see me after she told them a small fib that she was my girlfriend (heh. I wish). I recall making a smartass remark (good to see THAT wasn't broken) as I sat up in the ER. My dad came by to pick my up in a taxi and drove me home. There were, completely unfounded I may add, suspicions of drinking on my part. That hurt as much as the impact.

Amusingly enough, I got back on the horse (the car drivin' horse) the next week. Monday, in fact. A friend had a car, but had lost his license. So, hey, why doesn't Justin drive? We couldn't think of a reason. So back I got into Carville.

And that, ladies and gents, was how I almost died. But didn't. Why? Dunno. Chance? Possibly, although I could use some of that for a Super Seven draw. Bigger plans from the Almighty? I can hope so.

But here I stand. A decade later and still un-killed.