Directionality

Christmas Day, this year, came off almost without incident. Some of the foods prepared for the feast contained nuts 'n' shit, which would otherwise put me in the morgue, but all was avoided. While slumbering on the sofa, strategically placed before the 58" plasma, I did almost go into a diabetic coma, because my sweet little two and a half year old nephew, Jake, was repeatedly shoving After Eight thin mints into (and halfway down my throat) as I slipped in and out of consciousness.

My mom was there, at my sisters house as well, coughing and hacking every few minutes, striking a sharp note that would wake the dead, and causing my brain to hurt profusely. For a woman who boasts about never getting sick, she sure gets sick a lot.

For Christmas, I gave her an electric shovel, which is actually a smaller version of a snow blower. I bought one for myself a few weeks back and though it's a little small for the amount of real estate I have, I thought the size would be perfect for doing the walkway at my mom's house. However, the incredible box the blower came in, was too big for her car to take home, so I told her I'd swing by the next day, Sunday, to deliver and put the device together, as it comes in pieces.

The next day, Boxing Day, I slept in. Deservedly so, as I was up until 3:30am on Christmas Eve, wrapping the considerable number of gifts I'd purchased for my family. I called my mom's house about eleven o'clock in the morning, and got no answer. Peculiar, I thought, but perhaps she too, was sleeping in. I called again just after lunch, without getting an answer, then again at around 3pm. Finally, she answered, but she didn't sound like herself. She sounded hoarse, like usual, but she sounded more confused and desheveled. She claimed she was unable to hear me. However, I managed to convey the message that I was coming over straight-away.

I arrived at my mother's house, which is located in one of the lesser parts of town. A place I have dubbed, "The Hood", "Alphabet City", and a few other less than flattering names. I've not liked the fact that she lives in this neighbourhood, despite her assurances that the area isn't nearly as bad as the news would make it sound. She's quick to colour over the fact that she's been assaulted by riffraff in the area more than a couple of times in the years that she's lived there.

I got up to the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked, a practice that both my sister and I have repeatedly scolded her for doing in the past. And not only was the front door unlocked, but it was ajar. The storm door was closed, keeping the warm air in, however, it does not provide much in the line of security. So I stepped through the door without any resistance, snowblower box in hand, but I dropped it when my eyes caught the horrific sight.

The light coloured carpet which runs from the living room to the bedrooms at the far end of the house, were spattered with dark crimson-like stains. Running from the kitchen, down the hall and around the corner into the bathroom midway down. It was horrific at first glance! I rushed down the hall, thinking the worst, and discovered a slumped over body on the bed in the master bedroom. "Mom!" I shouted, getting no response. I repeated the call a couple more times, then with my cell in one hand, ready to call 9-1-1, I shook her with the other, and she finally came to.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, when I discovered she had not been violently assaulted or murdered by one of the scum-suckin' vermin she calls neighbours. Although the stains in the carpet tell a completely different tale. The scene looked like something from the television show Dexter. Using my best CSI and crime drama investigation skills, I could tell the initial attack happened in the living room and the directionality of the spatter stains indicated that she had rushed to the bathroom. A likely scenario in any assualt, whether committed by an assailant or an accidental injury done upon one's self. "What the f*ck happen?!?" I asked, point-blank.

She vaguely explained in her confused state through the use of jibber-jabber and broken english. She told me that she was sitting in front of the TV, went to get up and was greeted with a dizzying spell so violent that it caused her to vomit wildly. While stumbling and falling all the way down the hall to the bathroom, a "few" drops managed to elude her hands which were pressed up against her mouth, before she was able to get to the toilet.

Even though her words were hard to understand, I asked why she was speaking so funny. She then revealed to me that in the haste of being sick, the bottom plate of her false teeth fell out into the toilet, and that she'd flushed the toilet before she'd realized that her teeth were missing. I fought hard not to laugh out loud, but that shit was just too f*ckin' funny! I asked her why she would flush before first looking at what she'd "tossed up", citing that as disgusting as it is, it was a practice I'd always done. Mostly as a way of seeing what exactly I ate that made me so ill, but in this case, for my mother, it would have been a handy way to see her teeth smiling up at her from the foaming bowl.

I got her a glass of water, and strategically placed a bucket next to her bed, which was quickly used. I put together her snow machine, all the while giving her advice on what she should have done differently and how she could have avoided be so sick. Even going so far as to discover possible culprits which may have caused the sickness.

The day before, at Christmas Dinner, she had contributed a coleslaw which disappointingly (for her) no one touched, except for her. Then today she's violently sick. "Where'd you get the recipe?" I asked. From a magazine, she told me, to which I added, "There you go! That's why you're sick! You're always experimenting with shit you read about in magazines!"

Admittedly, I was less than nice to her regarding the situation, treating my ailing mother more like a stubborn teenager. When she complained of being cold, I gave her crap for sleeping on top of the covers, rather than climbing right into bed. She never even bothered to cover herself up with a blanket on top of the bed. Reluctantly she climbed in. I placed her phone by her bed and left to go home. All the while, however, guilt started setting in on me. Guilt about treating her so poorly after being so violently ill. "What if she'd had a stroke or something? Why was she so dizzy and unable to walk? Why was she deaf in her left ear? Why the hell didn't she notice her teeth were missing before she flushed the toilet?"

I called her back at about 8:30pm, and by nine o'clock, we were registering her in at the St. Paul's Hospital. After a three hour wait (a new experience for me as I've NEVER had to wait for medical treatment in my life), we had about a three minute meeting with a doctor fella, with a thick accent about what the causes may be. Inner Ear. Like the congestion from a head cold, where phlegm and mucus builds up in your sinus's, sometimes the same happens in your ears, or more specifically, your inner ear, thus throwing off your balance, causing one to get dizzy, unable to walk in a straight line, or even projectile-vomit, depending on what that person had been eating, which in this case, my mom had confessed to getting up in the morning and eating a great big helping of the coleslaw that no one had eaten at Christmas dinner.

"What?!? Coleslaw is a side-dish!" I scolded her,"Never eat that shit by itself!"

The cure for what was ailing my mother? Two or three drops of olive oil in each ear ever three to four hours. And yes! The very same olive oil that some put on their salads. Freaky, huh? Thank god for the 24-hour Shoppers over by her house. I was able to get some organic olive oil and a dropper to apply it for her. Talk about a scary f*cking Christmas.

Reindeer Games

As if being named Rudolph wasn't bad enough. A name that sound remarkably similar to Adolph, a name forever ruined by that Nazi c*cksucker, but then the little reindeer, with the odd nasal feature, gets repeatedly picked on by his peers.

A conglomeration of reindeer who should be revered and respected by all who celebrate the Christmas season, and this nasty f*cks are picking on and bullying a little runt of a reindeer, all because his nose glows red instead of being cold and black and draining nasal fluid and snot all over everything. I mean seriously! You ever have the misfortune of eyeing up an animal of a bovine nature? Whether it be a cow, a moose, a bison or a reindeer, them bastards are forever oozing shit outta their noses. And these reindeer are celebrated in song? What...ever!

So here we are. Present day. All year long, Santa's reindeer team are keeping fit by playing games and other similar activities, all the while, shunning the poor little reindeer known to all as Rudolph. Then, with Christmas Eve finally upon them, their faced with insurmountable odds. A fog has rolled in, and NOT just locally at the North Pole. But due to global warming (I suspect), the fog has blanketed the entire Earth. Santa's annual task of delivering toys and joy to children of all ages around the world, is threatened. Until, the idea of using Rudolph and his shiny red nose as a method of guiding the sleigh and eight tiny reindeer around the world.

Oh! Well suddenly guess who's kissing Rudy's soft little brown ass? The eight reindeer and that fat bastard Santa, who despite knowing the other reindeer were shitting on the poor little guy all year long, chose not to step in, citing that the constant ribbing would help make Rudolph stronger and tougher. Now, with their livelihoods on the line, and quite possibly their very lives, Rudolph is suddenly the handiest thing since bread came sliced.

Well, it just shows that Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer is a better person than I, as he set aside all his hurt and disgruntled feelings and decided to help the crew out on that fateful night. I, myself, would have pointed a finger at all of them and told 'em to "go f*ck themselves", adding that if I wasn't good enough to gallup around with the team before, why the hell am I so f*cking special now? Because of my ruby red nose? F*ck that!!! But no. Rudolph set aside his greivances and set forth, guiding all onward and upward.

Alas, Christmas was saved! All the little boys and all the little girls of the world over, got to wake up early on Christmas morn, greeted by shiny new sleds, baseball gloves, dolls, and Easy-Bake ovens. Upon their return to the North Pole, all the reindeer suddenly loved the little guy, shouting out with glee, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, you'll go down in history!!!"

Yeah! Right! A worthless piece of shit yesterday, not even worth the spit draining from their noses, and today they're all riding his coat-tails. Hoping to score just a little piece of the fame that Rudolph has coming to him from that day forth. Donner and Blitzen and Goofy or whatever the f*ck the other one's names are, never had any songs written about them. They appear only as a footnote in the openning lines of Rudolph's song.

But the one thing I always hoped that would've happened after Rudolph returned from that fateful trip was: After all those fail attempts to play the reindeer games, then finally being allowed to participate, I'd always hoped that he'd play the games, then quit almost immediately, pointing out "Ya know...? These games are actually, pretty f*ckin' gay!!! I don't want to play them anymore..."

Season's Greetings, everyone!!!!
And Have a VERY Happy New Year!!!

PAL

Ironically, I once worked for a company whose initials spelled the word P.A.L. And as fun and miserable as that job could get at times, I truly believe that it was there where I met some of my greatest friends. Both life long and in passing.

It was definately the longest job I was able to keep, having stayed there a couple months shy of a nine year tour of duty. And it was during this time that I experienced some of my greatest highs and lows. Both physical and otherwise. I witnessed the passing of an era, moving the store from a cramped space to a new location with what seemed like an abundance of space, but would soon prove otherwise. I saw the three managers move in and out of power. I saw many good people move on to better places, and many useless shits never seem to move a muscle. And though I no longer work in that vocation, I do miss some of the folks. Luckily, however, the ones I truly care most about, continue to be good friends since my departure from the store. So much that we continue to get together for social occasions.

One fellow in particular though, Leon, is moving on to greener pastures. While staying with the company, he is following his heart and moving out the British Columbia, to lend a hand with the birth of a new store in a continually growing entity of a business, but also to be closer to his family who'd moved out there in the previous few months. I had the privilege of being with him for the last few weekends of his tenur here. He came out to witness my making a spectacle of myself on my birthday, two weeks ago. We went out to Warman to visit with other friends we'd both worked with, him at present, me in the distant past. I got to see him get plastered at a going away party this past Saturday, and I got to accompany him to his work's Christmas party Sunday evening at the Western Development Museum.

What was most touching about the Christmas party was seeing how beloved a person he had become over that past eight years or so. I could see some with tears of pride as they presented him with gifts of appreciation and even a grand trophy, clutching a makeshift hydraulic cylinder in it's raised fists. (Leon is a Hydraulic's Specialist with the organization, his reputation exceeding his so much that the manager of the new store hired him on the spot, without an interview. That is most impressive, me thinks!)

He was visibly over-whelmed, as he is a young man who wears his heart on his sleeve, but he maintained his composure and thanked everyone, everywhere, for all the accolades. He is incredibly humble, and this is why he is the proverbial "good guy". Good guys don't come around very often, but when they do, you want to make sure they stay in your life one way or another.

Late last night, as I dropped him at his house, and he so graciously presented me with a couple items that would not be making the trek to B.C., I told him if he ever came back to town and needed a place to crash for a couple of days, to not hesitate and give me a call. I could tell he was genuinely touched.

The dictionary defines "pal" as a very close friend, a comrade, a chum, but what this entry lacks is a picture of Leon, as he is most definately the personification of the word.

I don't usually share people's names in these blog entries, but felt I should do so for Leon, as it's been a real privilege meeting and getting to know this man. And whatever adventures you find and follow in your new mountain home, know that you are always welcome back here on the prairies too.

Have a good life Leon!

Let Us All Not Forget

November 11th has always been of great importance to me. I am forever grateful for the sacrifices that men and women, better than me, have made in the name of freedom. Remembrance Day, in my opinion, should be a mandatory day off from everything. School and work. A day to reflect and give thanks for all that you have and for those whom you love. A day off, more so, than even Christmas. Christmas is too commercial and has all but lost it's true meaning, while Remembrance Day, (or Memorial Day, Veteren's Day, or whatever other day your country may designate to honour your freedom fighters), remains pure in its message.

The Bigger Picture

Yesterday, I wrote a little entry about nudity. Admittedly, it wasn't very good. "They all can't be gold." I professed. Admitted to quietly acknowledging previous nude discoveries of famous people. Even admitted that male nudity, while making me extremely uncomfortable, was still alright in my books, provided the nudist in question actually had the body-type to expose to the world. All these facts were recorded, just as they have been here once more, and yet, the majority of the feedback wasn't focused primarily on the weak-ass writing, but blasting me for posting the photography of Lindsay Lohan, and I'll paraphrase for everyone's convenience. "Get rid of that spoiled wh*re."

"Spoiled wh*re"? What the hell? That's getting a little personal, don't you think? Now, admittedly, I have followed some of the drivel that major news networks have plastered over the airwaves, concerning Lindsay Lohan. Even that battle-axe, Nancy Grace, on CNN's sister network, HLN, had more than her fair share on attacking Lindsay Lohan and her recent graces with law enforcement and her time in and out of prison. I've watched some of it, but questioned most of it, citing with all discombobulation about it being considered as "newsworthy". If Joe Blow had a run-in with the cops and was sentenced to jail, (and I'm more than certain that that has happened a time or two), I doubt he'd be getting any newscoverage on any of the major news networks. But the remarks that I've read over the course of last evening and the first part of this day, I actually feel bad for Lindsay.

I confess that I actually do feel bad for the actress and all the avenues that she has traversed in recent years. I recognize some of the symptoms, as I've battled many of those demons myself. The only real difference between the two of us, is where we were at the time and the choices that we made on how to deal with it.

Lindsay Lohan has had a fairly successful career in the entertainment industry, from a very young age. I've not seen most of her work, but the couple of things I have seen, she has shone prominantly. She was extraordinary in 2004's "Mean Girls". I even caught "Herbie Fully Loaded" a few months back, and as corny as the film was (and all the Herbie movies were corny), Lindsay really captivated the audience in that as well. However, with her early success, came early stressors.

Her father, for most intense purposes, is a "real piece of work". And by that, I mean, the guy is a real shit-bag. At every turn, I'm sure that f*cker was riding his daughters coat-tails, pushing and prodding her to do this and to do that, steadily stacking more and more pressure on the young girl. I'm sure for every cheer he gave his talented daughter, there was probably two or three jeers against her. Every child seeks approval from their parent, and everytime that she fell short in his eyes, probably added to her self-loathing.

I commented that I recognized the symptoms. That I was a lot like Lindsay, and I do not dispute this fact. While I wasn't a young performing phenom like Lindsay, I managed to receive other pressures from my father. Growing up, it seemed like nothing I ever did, was good enough. That for everything I felt pride in, was never good enough in the eyes of my father. Where Lindsay obviously received mental anguish at the hands of her dad, mine did the very same thing, even over-stepping those boundaries and laying fists on me. Every kid seeks the approval of their parents, but when you get physically beatdown, something enters your mind, and no matter how you twist and contort the reality of the situation, you can't ever make any sense of it all. Logic seems to elude you at every turn.

It's all in how you choose to deal with this blinding sorrow. I never thought to move to drinking or abusing drugs. Thankfully, I knew that such practices would only mask the problems. They would never solve them. So I sought out movies and television. Temporarily escaping to other realities saved my life. In Lindsay's case, I suspect that because her background was in acting, and that it seemed to be a part of the problem, rather than the solution, she sought out quite different avenues in order to numb the pain and sorrow she was experiencing. She takes that, coupled with some bad influences around her, and soon the girl is getting drunk, doin' god knows what f*cking drugs, and ultimately begins to poison herself. Then just as cockroaches scurry away when the lights come on, so do her "friends" at the first sign of trouble.

In all the news footage I'd seen of poor Lindsay Lohan facing her accusers, not once did I ever see any of her friends standing up with her, shaking their fists, demanding that Lindsay was not the one to be blamed here. The same arguement could be made of the media feeding the fire of bad publicity on Lindsay. Instead of inquiring as to why Lohan feels she needs to go to these unhealthy extremes, they'd rather pour more gasoline on the fire and add an air of controversy.

Lindsay Lohan is only 24 years old. It can be argued that she should know better, but I doubt that she's had much of a childhood as it is. There's something about the entertainment business and it's effects on children. They force them to grow up before they are ready. Sure, Lindsay's 24 years old, chronologically, but inside that 24 year old body, beats the heart of a little girl seeking her father's approval, and not receiving it.

Thousands and thousands of people battle their demons everyday, in a variety of ways. Most of them don't receive media coverage, but I bet there's a good portion of them who have people who care about them. For the most part, I doubt Lindsay has that. So as far as calling her a "spoiled wh*re", that's just cruel. Kicking someone when they're down, instead of offering a hand up.

I feel bad for Lindsay. I wish I were more of an important person in the world, so that I could offer that helping hand, but I'm not. But anyone who gives two shits about the girl, should offer a kind word. Illustrate to her that there's more to life than her old man.

As for my demons with my dad. I came to terms with all that shit long ago. My dad was an alcoholic. An alcoholic with mean anger issues. Fly off the handle at the drop of a hat. "Jeckyll & Hyde", I called it. When he was sober (Dr. Jeckyll), he was awesome. He was generous, understanding, funny, and a pure joy to be around. When he got the liquor in him, he was the exact opposite (Mr. Hyde), and he'd turn into the scariest monster anyone could ever imagine. Thankfully, later on in his life, he gave up the bottle. Sobered up and once more, was a great joy to be around. Sadly, I lost my father to cancer in 1999, and not a day goes by that I don't think about what a great guy he was. I hope for Lindsay's sake, she can get past all of her demons too, and be the sweet loving young woman that millions of fans once fell in love with, again.

Have a nice day, people. And in regards to Lindsay Lohan (or anybody having an off day) remember to just f*cking relax, because chances are, there's something to the bigger picture, you just have to peer through the trees.

Fryin' Bacon Naked

I can't recall when or where this topic first broached my mind. Whether it was me and my friend A_____ talking about Jason Segel's extensive nude scene in "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" or if it was somewhere else.
It could've been during one of the extensive list of movies or television programs I've seen. I won't deny the fact that I've seen a lot of famous faces without their clothes on. And like in life, once you've seen someone in the nude, it's pretty difficult to get that image out of your mind. Try and try as you might.
It's pretty bad, for me anyway. Not a movie or TV show goes by, where I don't acknowledge silently to my inner mind, "I've seen her naked... I've seen her boobs..," etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.... I'm sure by admitting this, many of you who know me, may be looking at me in a strange way now. BAH! So be it.

It's obvious I'm not against nudity. Not totally, anyway. Even male nudity doesn't really bother me. So long as the dude takes care of himself. I don't wanna see it. By all means fellas, keep that shit tucked away in your pants. But if it's necessary, then fine. Do it. Be naked and free, for all I care, but do it responsibly. Take care of yourself.

Admittedly, I'm not one who should be throwing stones. Then again, I don't get nekkid, either. Except for when I shower, but then all the lights are off, and I smash all my mirrors. Granted, it can be quite costly, having to replace the mirrors and such, although I really need them as I don't comb my hair. On the brightside, however, I am getting pretty handy 'round the house with all the necessary repairs.

Now I know for a fact, that some feathers are going to get ruffled with this declaration. But it's unavoidable. I see a topic, form an opinion, and I just gots to write it down. Share it with my millions and millions of minions. And if YOU are one of these people, who aren't very impressed. I hear ya. I'm one of you, and I know that the truth can hurt sometimes... Just like fryin' bacon naked!

P.S. The girl in the picture is Lindsay Lohan.... And yes..., I've seen her tits... ;)

Thumb's Opposed!!

I'm a right-handed fellow. I bat a baseball left-handed, as do I shoot a hockey puck, but everything else is right-handed. A few years ago, I had the misfortune of tearing my left bicep. Tore it clean off the bone. During my recovery, however, I never realized how much my left arm came into play to accomplish even the most menial of tasks. It was tough, I have to admit.

Fast forward to today. While I didn't re-injure my bicep, I did manage to drive a staple into my right thumb. It's not the first time I've accomplished such a feat, and while I hope it's my last time, I doubt that it will. And you're probably wonder, just how I managed to accomplish this? I shall explain this to you.

The manager of the department I'm in at work, instructed me to "fix the staplers". In his mind, the three staplers we had on the counter, were damaged. While they were ineffective, it was not because there were any irrepairable damage to them. They were simply empty. So instead of taking a brief moment to refill them, that crazy guy had me "fix" them instead.

No problems! It's nice to be needed. So I refilled the first stapler. A nifty piece which can be a little tricky, as the staples are loaded in upside-down. I can't tell you how many people tried and failed with that stapler when we first got it in the office. The second stapler, also went off without a hitch, being reloaded rather quickly.

The last stapler though... Oy! I tell ya this. This frickin' thing is sooo frickin' old, that it looks like it came over on the Mayflower. It's sooo frickin' old, that Jesus may have used it to send out his dinner invites. I've never tried refilling this decrepit old instrument, but the instructions to do so are plainly marked on the end. Futile, were the instructions, but they were there, nonetheless.

PUSH THEN PULL, the instructions said, without really specifying what should be pushed then pulled. So while my office mate was busy conversing with one of the important folks who occupy the office area, I was grunting and groaning to myself trying to open this old stapler every which way I could, until finally a loud yelp interupted their conversation.

The two of them, simultaneously swung their heads in my direction, asking in unison if I was "okay". I told them that I was, even though I wasn't really. In my haste to open the stapler, I managed to drive one of the existing staples into my thumb. I'm not even really certain how I managed to do so. And if it weren't for the wiry little bastard dug deep into my opposable digit, I'd never have know what I'd just accomplished.

Wrapped snuggly in a bandage from that point on, I've been bumping it and hurting it left and write. Apparently, the pad of one's thumb plays a major role in turning the key to start your vehicle. I did not know that until this afternoon, when I had to devise a new method to turn over my engine, now straddling the key between my forefinger and my "bird finger". (The bird finger being the one that's used in 'flipping someone the bird'.)

I've also noticed that it hurts to pull my pants up. That sucks a lot, especially concerning the fact that I've been losing weight again.

Having to alter my daily practices for a few days though, isn't that bad of a thing to have to do. I'll get by. As for what happened with that ancient stapling artifact? V__ and I filed that one away in File 13. By this time, it should be well on it's way to the dumpster. I say "Good riddance!"

Have a nice day, folks!

Contributing To The Deliquency Of A Minor

I am bewildered. Less than a month ago, I took my feline friend, Monkey, into the vet to have his "boys" removed. I felt a little guilty about the process, because I'd never want someone to take me for that procedure by tricking me with a promise of "going to Disneyland", but if I'd have told him the real reason we were leaving the house that early morning, I doubt he'd have agreed to it.
None-the-less, the procedure went off without a hitch. He came home, every bit as happy as he was before we left that morning. He did have a small look of confusion, however, when he'd whip his leg back during bath time, and the process took him less time than he did before, but he quickly got past that.

Maybe a week or so went by. He wasn't anymore calm than he was pre-op, as he continued to bite and scratch just about as often. But there was one more attack he had added to his repertoire. He began to latch onto my leg and wrestle with it. My leg was safely beneath my bedspread, so I never worried about any scratches or bites. He did seem, however, unusually aggressive. Clamping his jagged little teeth down hard, then kicking and adjusting his legs. Given my love of professional wrestling, I took some comfort in the idea that he was now embracing one of my loves, instead of his usual guerilla attacks on me. So to play along with this scenario, I'd flail and buck my leg, knocking him loose quite often. He always sit back, study his target, then pounce once again. Then, just like he had before, clench his teeth down hard, and begin kicking.
Early one morning, instead of allowing me to sleep in, which I like to do on the weekend, I was awoken by the cat, who's always an early riser, pouncing on my leg and again, kicking and flailing his legs. I tried to reason with him, hoping he'd f*ck off and tend to one of his other projects, like running in circles, looking out the front window, or maybe grabbing something to eat, but he'd have no part in any of that. So again, I'd buck my leg as he clenched and kicked. Only this time, he stopped kicking at one point. I looked down at him to see what he was doing, and that's when it hit me. I noticed his little bottom pumping up against my blanketed leg. The little f*cker was... Well. Doing just that. He was f.. Humping my leg.

Disgusted at the idea that he would find my appendage such a sexual turn-on, I quickly bucked him off my leg, calling him a "homo" in the process. He sat back, looking at me with such offense and disdain, and harbouring a massive chub. He attempted to resume humping my leg, but I had no part of that. "F*ck you!" I said to the little fella. "Homie don't play that shit!"

For days and days afterward, he continued to try to "wrestle" with my leg, and everytime, I'd shove him off, accusing him of being a homosexual. A label that he's still not happy with me calling him.
Finally, the other morning, tired with continuing to shove him off me at every pass, I came up with a brilliant idea. I would get him a surrogate. A sexual-device that he could "wrestle" with, and hopefully, would help him forget all about my enticing left leg. So last night I put the plan into effect.
I'd stepped out, making a run to Wal-Mart to pick up a few sale items I'd circled in the latest flyer. After filling my cart, I darted over to the toy section, with hopes of finding a cute fuzzy little feline that might turn my cat on. Alas, my efforts were not met. Up and down all the aisles in that toy section and I failed to find what I was looking for. But before I'd abandon all hope, I found a suitable facsimile. A cute little white bear on one of the endcaps. And it was on sale. Just $5. Five bucks to end my nightmare of my cat splooging all over my bedspread. Granted the little guy's fixed, but I'm not familiar with veterinarian medicine. I remember doctors on television saying that a man who receives a vasectomy, still runs the risk of impregnating his wife in the early stages after his procedure. I didn't know if there was a chance of my bed-spread being impregnated with my cat's demon seed, and I didn't want to chance it. That's a mess that I just did not want to address.
So five dollars was (and is) a small price to pay to avoid such an awkward situation. "And besides..." I thought to myself, reading the tag on the bear, "All proceeds go to fight breast cancer." The proverbial "two birds, one stone". I like my bed spread the way it is and I'm also a fan of boobies. Win/win!

However, as I looked down at the bear in my hands, a wave of guilt overcame me. It's those blasted Toy Story movies. I don't know if those movies are based in some kind of reality. That the toys all come to life when outside the peripheral view of humanoids like ourselves. Did I really want to subject this cutesy little teddy bear to a barrage of violent sexual predation at the hands... er, paws of my pet cat, Monkey? So I did hum and haw at the premise for several minutes while standing before the shelves of charity bears, but in the end, I purchased the bear. Toys coming to life, after all, is proposterous.

So I brought my purchases home, and no sooner did I retrieve the bear from the bag, than was my cat interested in it. I placed it on the floor and looked on. I didn't want to watch, but like a brilliant car accident at a light, sometimes it's too difficult to look away. Besides. I remember my sister's dog T_____ humping his Cat In The Hat when he was a young pup. That was ALWAYS funny shit, and though on a much smaller scale, her dog being a St. Bernard, I thought the premise of my cat f*cking a teddy bear would be hilarious.
He wrestled with it a little. Pouncing and attacking it from different angles, but soon the little white bear failed to pique his interest and he abandoned it. I even... YES, I took some initiative to buck the the bear around similar to how I did with my leg on those early mornings. This got his attention some, but he'd lose interest just as quick.

In the end, I woke up to him "attacking" my leg, to which I quickly threw him off my bed, citing his homosexuality and questioning myself why he'd choose my dark bed spread over his new little white bear... Then it donned on me. He doesn't like blondes!!!

A Fly On The Wall

I can recall an interview that Richard Dreyfuss gave regarding his experience with the filming of Jaws. That after they were able to shoot the footage that didn't require the audience to see the animatronic shark, that there was a lot of standing around until the radios would suddenly sound off, "The shark is working! I repeat, the shark is working!" Then the actors and crew would all scramble into place for the scenes to be shot.

Then it was another interview that I'd seen, where the actor (or actress) mentioned that movie-making is 90% waiting and 10% working.
The reason I mention these quotes is, I got to be on-set Tuesday evening, to watch some of the filming of that movie I'd mentioned Monday evening in this very blog. Let me tell you this, folks.., it was pretty spectacular.
It wasn't a scene that had any gun-battles or car chases, that shit's overdone. Instead, it was a bar scene. But to be a fly on the wall and watching the process in motion, for me anyway, was (pardon my language) pretty f*ckin' cool. I was even invited to sit in the background as a seat-filler or an extra. I'm not certain what my exact purpose was, but I feel privileged and honoured to be asked to do it, all the same. I can hardly wait to watch the finished product and boast, "There's my shoulder! There! Right there! THAT is MY shoulder..!"

Probably the biggest surprise for me, though, was what took place on one of the breaks.
The main actor, John Diehl, was chillin' at the back of the bar, where the scene was taking place. He turned and started chatting with an on-set photographer, casually looking at some of the pictures the guy had taken. Then during a pause in the conversation, he looked over in my direction and recognized me. Without hesitation, he called out, "HEY JEFF! HOW'S IT GOIN'?" His voice was booming and it overtook the ambient chatter that was consuming the small pub.
"Good," was the only response I could muster up, "How 'bout you?" That's where the exchange came to an end. I'm not disappointed though. Here's this big time star, who didn't need to remember anything about me, but took the time to say hello all the same. That's just really cool in my books.

I've met a good share of celebrities in my distinguished life. Most have been pretty cool, like John. Some haven't been so cool, and their image to me will be forever tarnished. But for the people who were cool, they will always hold a special place in my memories. Albeit, it would've been pretty nice to have an autographed 8x10 of Mr. John Diehl, that I could hang on my wall, or post in my albums with my other collective, but that's just a trinket really. I have my memories and they'll always be as clear as day in my mind's eye.

I'm sure they're getting sick and tired of my praise and gratefulness, but I'd like to take one more opportunity to thank V__ and C___ Z______, for allowing me into this world, even for just a moment or two. But a special thanks to C___, for including me in Tuesday night's shoot. That was nice. And now my right shoulder will be forever captured on celluloid.

Have a great day, everyone!

Brush With Greatness

The day began as any other Monday morning would. The alarm went off and I was in no mood to move. The consideration to play hooky from work did cross my mind, I'll admit, but alas, I had no telephone. I'd forgotten my cell at work on Friday and had been without all weekend long, so phoning in was never an option.

Thankfully, I drug my ass into work, and I'm glad I did, because the kind woman with whom I share the front office with, sprung a pleasant surprise on me.

Her daughter is a film producer and her company is currently shooting a movie in Toontown. It is some kind of sci-fi flick. I'm not clear on the premise of the story, but it's still a pretty big deal.

So V__, the afore mentioned woman I work with, asked if I'd like to come with her to visit the set. They [the film company] was shooting nearby. I hummed and hawed at the idea, feeling almost unworthy. I'd always fantasized about being a film maker, and I'd actually attended some university on the subject when I was younger. Unfortunately, the school was in Regina, and I lost my funding to attend school, and that dream was soon dashed. Another reason to hate the Queen City, I suppose.

Alas, I decided I would go with her. This opportunity may never bear it weary head again, so I jumped at the chance. Besides which, there was a chance I could meet the star of the movie. Mr. John Diehl (pictured above).
I knew who he was right from the get go, having starred in Miami Vice as Det. Larry Zito. He was also Asst. Chief Ben Gilroy on The Shield, opposite Michael Chiklis. He's been in countless movies and other roles, including A Time To Kill, Stargate, and Stripes with Bill Murray. In fact, the more that I learned about him after looking him up on IMDB.com, the more I admired the actor. He's what one might call, "a working actor". A true artist. Expanding his horizons with every roles he assumes.
So knowing that going into this "chance" meeting, I'll admit I was a little nervous, but when the time came, he was pretty cool.

When the time came, we arrived at the location and was greeted by C___, V__'s daughter, and one of the producer's of the film. We got our visitor passes and was immediately jetted to the set. There were people setting up the lighting and other technicalities, but just around the corner, were a bunch of folks collected on a big leather sofa running over lines. The fellow in the corner, I did a double-take with. "Holy..." I thought to myself, "That's him! Okay, be cool."
Mr. Diehl (pronounced Deal), got up and came over and said hello to V__, whom he'd met the day before, then he turned to me, and shook my hand. "I'm Jeff." I said. "Hi Jeff, I'm John."

The whole deal was pretty cool. He took a moment to chat, asking what I did, and even commented on how I was dressed for summer when it was so cool outside. There were some other people gathered 'round too and soon everyone was engaged in small talk.
Not long after, John excused himself, as he had to get prepped for the scene they were going to shoot. Then that was it. C___ took us on a brief tour of the location, the C.L.S. (Canadian Light Source) here in Saskatoon, Sk.

Shortly thereafter, I was back at work, commenting on one of my co-workers that I got to meet John Diehl and shake his hand. He didn't care, but I was so stoked about the process that I egged him some, beakin' off "Oh yeah. You're jealous! I can tell."

"No I'm not. I don't care." he said, sourly.
"Yeah you are." I said.

Chances are he doesn't care, but the reason I was so persistant was, a few weeks ago he got to meet Dan Aykroyd and everyday, he's telling me how his friends all hate 'im because he got to meet Dan Aykroyd, even lumping me in there with them. Frankly, I don't give no shits about him meeting the chubby Ghostbuster. Don't get me wrong, I like Aykroyd, I just don't give a shit about this guy meeting him. Long story short, that is.

So now I can chalk up one more REAL celebrity that I've gotten to meet. Albeit, most of the others are pro wrestlers, but that's cool.

They're all just people, like you and me.

Fender Bender

On my home from work tonight, I witnessed the aftermath of a traffic accident. It was what would ideally be referred to as a "fender-bender". The two vehicles involved were a mid-90's Ford Mustang and a raised Ford 4x4 truck, similar in size to the Dodge at the right.

It's unfair to categorize the accident as a "fender-bender" as (1) the Mustang was impacted from the rear; and (2) the front bumper of the four-wheel drive was well above the trunk lid of the car it'd hit.

I was parked at a traffic light, speculating on what may have caused the incident, as I watched the two parties assess the damages. I suppose, in all fairness, the guy in the 4x4 quite likely never seen the small Mustang in front of it, waiting for an opening to merge into in the rush hour traffic. The guy behind the wheel of the big-rig, was probably looking to his left, with the same mission in mind. That and the elevation of his cab, the view would've been blocked.

Seems innocent enough, but I have to wonder. Being that we all reside in Saskatchewan, where there are few threatening hills and practically no mountains, what the f*ck is the need to have such a gargantuan vehicle?

The joke about Saskatchewan says, "if your dog runs away, the land is so flat that you could watch him for three days". A popular misconception for this province. In fact many new visitors are surprised by the amount of foliage and hilly slopes that we have here. Granted it's not that way everywhere. But for the slopes and valley's we do have, having a raised 4-wheel drive vehicle like this seems to be more than just overkill. Having a 4x4 of this magnitude is just another way to measure your douchiness.

I watched an episode of South Park last week entitled "The F-word". The F-word in question, was not f*ck, but f*ggot. They used the word not to describe people of the gay persuasion, but of all the (in the story) bikers who needlessly roar through town making unnecessarily loud noise and ruining life for all those who are forced to listen to it. I think the same goes for these idiots who build these outrageously large 4x4's.

If you live on flat-land, you don't need a super-sized 4x4. My dad used to say he'd never get a 4-wheel drive, because he lived in Saskatchewan. You just don't need it. I disagree with this credo, as the added traction is handy to have in a pinch. The truck I drive now, is a four-wheel drive, only it's a part-time four-wheel drive. The computer controls when to initiate the extra wheels, and when to shut it down. But I would never dream of building my Ridgeline up into one of these douchy 4x4's. Never ever and a day.

As for those who say that they are 4x4 enthusiasts and like to hit the trails on weekends... I don't f*ckin' understand these guys either. They'll go out on the weekend, battle against getting bogged out and stuck in mud, trees, and boulders. They'll burn off a tank or two of gas, then piss and moan about how expensive gas is getting. You guys are f*cked! Absolutely f*cked!

Unless you're competing in a stadium, backed by corporate sponsers and performing to a screaming & cheering crowd who have fist fulls of your memorabilia, then you don't need monster tires on your truck. You are a poser and therefore a f*ck-head.

There ya go! 'Nuff said. That's my brain-matter on that subject. Have a nice day!