Language Lessons

I'M MOVING!!!  Packing up my shit, tucking my cat under my arm and f*cking off!!!  Getting the f*ck outta here, man.  Damn straight.  I'm grabbing a globe.  I'm going to spin the f*ck out of it, then jab my finger down on it.  Where my finger lands, that's where me and my cat, Monkey, are going to call home!!!

Actually...  I'm not really moving.  I can't think of anywhere I'd rather live than here in Toontown.  Maybe if I had one of my dream jobs, I'd consider another location to call home, but here in reality, I'm staying put.

If I was going to move away, off to a far off land..., let's say Fucktopia.  You'd be god damned sure that I'd learn the language.  The absolute basics of the Fucktopian language, at the very least.  Hello's.  Good-bye's.  Where's the f*ckin' bank?  Police.  Doctor.  As well as, basic sentences and phrases.  .

For example:  If I were working in a factory setting and a fellow came along and asking assistance in lifting and moving something too heavy for one fella to handle, I'd hope to understand enough to help the poor bastard out, instead of standing there with my dick in my hand, smiling like a retard, nodding and repeating "Hi!"  I think it's necessary to have, at least a basic grasp of the language used by those who reside where you choose to reside.  It's only respectful for those around you..

Let me clarify this more clearly.  I'm employed at a local factory that produces farm implements.  A majority of those employed at the facility are of Filipino decent.  Fresh off the boat, brought here to Toontown, specifically for employment here.  A fairly large percentage of those immigrated folk, can't even speak a lick of English, which makes working along side of some of them rather frustrating.

The facility, where I'm employed, is split into two plants.  An east plant and a west plant, each producing a different implement or two.  Today, a fella from the east plant was ill and I was instructed to go over and cover for some of his duties, one of which was to transport a rack into the assembly line and transfer emptied paint racks from the stand to the rack.  Some of the paint racks are small and light enough to handle alone, but most of the others are really f*cking heavy and require two people to lift and carry them.

The first few were fine.  I'd drive along side of the stands and pop each side onto the rack.  Others though... Wow.  Un-f*cking-believable, how heavy these things were.  So I walked up to one of the workers standing there, staring off into space and asked, "Hi!  Could I borrow you for a second to help me move this rack, please?"  To which the daydreaming foreigner smiled and looked straight at me and answered, "Hi," followed by a long-ass pause, where he continued to smile and nod.

I walked back to the painted rack, thinking he was following behind me.  When I turned, I noticed no one was there and the daydreamer was still standing there smiling and nodding.  "Hi!  Hi!  Hi!"

If this occurred just once, I'd understand.  One lump of shit overlooked in the sandbox, but this happened two more additional times.  Not to sound rude (too late), but I guess I should've looked for a round-eyed f*cker to lend me a hand.

At least these folks had the decency to smile.  Some of the Filipino folks in the west plant just stand there and stare at you like you have a piece of snot caught in your beard.  Giving you, almost, a look of total disgust.  As if I were the one who just stepped off the boat.  Even people who've been here, in Canada, for a decade or two, can't speak any of the language.  How stupid is that?!

Comedian, Andrew "Dice" Clay once said: "If you can't speak the language, get the f*ck out of the country!!"  More truer words have never been uttered by anyone before or since then...

A Thin Line Between Bravery and Stupidity

I thought para-sailing and para-skiing was crazy enough.  One big gust of wind and you're sucked way up into the air.  I think there's even been, on occasion, deaths as a result of occurrences like this.  Then a friend on Facebook shared a link of these f*ckers "para-sledding".  Attaching parachutes to snowmobiles, which allows both the machine and rider to glide high up into the air.  Holy f*ck, man!!!  That's f*ckin' crazy!  It's not enough that snowmobiles nearly go the speed of light.  More than fast enough to send Marty McFly back in time, but now an additional element of danger has been introduced.

Admittedly, in watching the sixty second video, it does look pretty fantastic.  I'd love to try it... IF.  IF I had a snowmobile that I didn't care about and IF I were brave/insane enough.  There's a thin line between bravery and stupidity.

Years ago, I borrowed a snowmobile, which I had a mishap with.  (It may have been on a Wednesday*)  The incident involved a tinted helmet and a rather solid snowbank.  I hit the snowbank, got bucked off the machine, laid out flat, and the snowmobile kept going.  A few months later, I had another accident that was much worse, which resulted in my getting my third and MUCH worse concussion.  All this was on relatively flat land, as I live on the prairies.  Now imagine the shit I'd get into IF I were to attach a f*cking parachute to it?  Trouble with a capital "HOLY F*CK!!!"

Lava Soap

It was the movie "Pulp Fiction" that I had first heard of this product.  It was in the scene after Travolta accidentally shoots a guy in the back of their car and need to hide out at a nearby friend's house.  He and Samuel L. Jackson are in the bathroom washing all the blood and brain matter from themselves when Jackson discovers bloodied up towels, left by Travolta's character.  He'd apparently wet his hands, but failed to remove all the bloody material, thus transferring it to the formerly white towels.

"Didn't you wash your f'ing hands?" he asks Travolta's character, or something close to that, to which Travolta responds that he did, but inquires about lava soap when he's pressed to do a better job of cleansing his hands.

I was always unable to find this elusive lava soap until some time later, when I worked at a retail business who began selling the product.  I was stoked, believe you me.  I bought some and it was incredible.  The absolute best soap available anywhere.  No matter how dirty or greasy your hands might get, lava soap will cleans those buggers spic-n-span clean.  I don't know about the blood off ones hands, as I've never found myself an inconvenient situation like blowing Marvin's brains out the back of his skull in the backseat of my car...

The only drawback to this incredible product is, if you leave it in a pool of water, be it merely splashed moisture that has collected on the edge of the sink, it will "melt", in that it will reduce from a solid into a mushy mess.  Other than that, it's f*cking incredible.

Eventually though, for some reason, the store where I worked was discontinuing the sale of this soap, which is retarded, as nothing, and I do mean, nothing, compares to the capabilities of this soap.  So before the general public could pounce on the unbelievable sale price of the soap, I gathered up and stockpiled every last bar I could muster and purchased them all myself.

So here I am now.  Some years and three jobs later.  I still have my stockpile of lava soap and my job now presents me with dirtied hands when I come home.  I could wash them there, sure.  The pumice soap they have there is adequate, but it's citrus-based and often leave my hands itchy and scratchy, due to my allergy to citrus, I'm sure.  But I'd much rather come home and use my beloved lava soap.  I love this stuff that much.  It does a wonderful job and it smells pretty good, too.  My cat, on the other hand, has a difference of opinion.

I can't tell if he likes it or doesn't like it.  He will meow really really loud, following my departure from the bathroom.  I guess the scent is still in the air.  Then he follows me to wherever I'm lurking, and will be very affectionate, at first, then he begins to attack my hands.  I washed my hands before going to bed last night and he tackled me as I relaxed and was falling asleep.  It was crazy.  I thought he wanted to play.  We sometimes wrestle back and forth, but he was getting visibly frustrated.  He was huffing, as he does when he's mad and he was whipping his tail back and forth with purpose.  My hands today, especially my right hand is all scratched up.  I don't know what the effects of the soap are on fresh wounds, but I'm willing to take the good with the bad. 

Now if you'll excuse me, my cat is currently attempting to gnaw at me.  I think it's going to be necessary to go layeth the smacketh down on his rudy-poo candy-ass.  Oh.  It's on!  It's on like Donkey Kong!

The King of Wishful Thinking

It is amazingly stupid, what passes for viable news, sometimes.  Two big stories emblazoned on the media right now, is the Lance Armstrong "juicing" confession that he made to Oprah Winfrey, in her desperate attempt for ratings on her dying O Network.  The other is Notre Dame football star, Manti Te'o allegedly being the victim of an elaborate hoax, in which he carried on a lengthy romantic relationship with a woman who not only died, but apparently never existed to begin with.

As for Lance Armstrong, I really don't see the big deal if he used steroids or not.  Cycling really isn't a sport, per se, so where's the harm?  Athletes and athletic companies continually test to find more aerodynamic and lightweight materials to give themselves a competitive edge, why is a chemical substitution frowned upon?  On drag strips all across this continent, you have people racing their cars with blowers, turbochargers, and Nitrous Oxide Systems (NOS) to give a winning edge, so injecting a substance into one's body should be an acceptable option, too. Besides that, the guy lost one of his testicles to cancer, for f*ck sake.

That might be something to debate in the media and the judicial system, but as for the latter, Manti Te'o having a fake girlfriend who died.  I don't understand why that is considered ground breaking news.  For the last couple of days, on CNN's sister station, Headline News (HLN), the story has been running nonstop.  My opinion is of the position, WHO CARES?  I don't even understand it all.  He (Te'o) apparently met this girl online and carried on a relationship which eventually turned into a boyfriend/girlfriend type relationship in early 2012.  This part is understandable, to a degree.  I think it's a helluva lot easier to fall for someone through text than it is in person.  That wouldn't work for yours truly, as I'm much more of an asshole in print than I am in person.

Manti's "girlfriend", Lennay Kekua, apparently had a bad car accident last summer, but survived.  Then she experienced further bad luck, by being diagnosed with Leukemia which hospitalized her and she eventually succumbed to the brutal disease.  (It sounds like this "chick" has shittier luck than me...)  Manti Te'o had grown so in love with Lennay, that her passing was quite overwhelming.  After that, I don't know what prompted the media to investigate deeper into the existence of Lennay Kekua, but it was quickly discovered that the girl that Manti Te'o was so madly in love with, never actually existed, and therefore the shit storm ensues.

Now it's speculated that Manti, himself, perpetrated the entire ordeal.  Humiliated, he denies all allegations.  But who really gives a f*ck whether he did or not?  Where's the harm in whether he imagined a relationship or not?  If in the process, he inspired some of his fans to donate money towards the research to cure cancer, where's the f*cking harm?  Whether the girlfriend in question, exists or not, cancer is still a motherf*cker of a disease.  I say lie to everyone 'til you're blue in the face, if it means bringing an end to this plague.

Scads of males everyday, go online, find "questionable" (and tasteless) pornographic videos, and for an average of 20 minutes, according to a recent study, pretend to be in a tawdry affair with a skeezy skank.  It happens.  Internet access makes it easy.  No one's proud of it, but it exists.  More so in Washington D.C., according to the research, but it does occur everywhere...

With much more important issues in the world.  Continuous poverty and unemployment; war in the middle east; whether or not North Korea is aiming any nuclear weapons towards North America; or most importantly right now, gun issues, like why is it so easy for the mentally unstable to acquire weapons, or why it's necessary and important for people to possess not one or two guns, but a complete f*cking arsenal of weapons, all because the constitution declares it.  (Talk about "artistic license".)

Even in the time that it's taken for me to tap out these few words, I've overheard some stupid stories covered on the television that I've left on in the other room.  I suppose when you run a 24-hour news channel, you need to air a lot of fluff to fill those empty spaces.

The comment I read in researching this story that I found the most absurd was "Even though Kekua never existed, Te'o's grandmother Annette Santiago did pass away on September 11, 2012."  As if someone would be cagey enough to fake the death of a family member.

Shitastrophe

Wednesday's have always been a questionable day for me.  Without trying, if I have a nasty day, prone with mishaps and bad luck.., not that people ever "try" to have a bad day.  However, whenever I've had a bad day, if you look to the calendar, you'd be best assured that it was Wednesday.

For instance, when I had that unfortunate incident with my [then] alcoholic father, where I had my nose broke among other scrapes, chips, and bruises...?  THAT was a Wednesday at 7pm.  Many of the job firings that I've experienced throughout my troubled past, always happened on a Wednesday.  The bad car accident when I was a kid, where I plowed my '74 Nova into a 1977 Ford Mustang II*, occurred on a Wednesday evening.  Even later on, when I had that real bad accident, where my car, seemingly, got sucked off the street and into a row of parked cars.  That happened during a nasty blizzard, which also fell on a Wednesday.

(*What the hell was Ford thinking when they designed the Mustang II??)

Most Wednesdays, though, are survivable.  A majority pass by without so much as a hiccup.  Therefore, you can't set your watch by my misfortune.  However, as stated above.  IF I am having a shit day, it's Wednesday.

One might presume that it'd be Monday that would be unlucky.  Coming back to work after a nice relaxing weekend, but this is not the case for me.  Whilst others are groggy and disheveled, I'm usually joyful and in fine fettle.  Being at work may not be my first choice of destinations, but I'm not harbouring and ill-will against it either.

Today, however, I suspected was going to be "one of those days", right from the get go.  It began when I woke up a 4:30am and was unable to fall back asleep until roughly five minutes before my alarm screeched loudly.  Not a real big issue, as this does happen on occasion and on any day of the week, although it's usually reserved for work days.  I'm sorta lucky that way, I suppose.  Next was when I went to leave for work.  I was finally leaving in a timely fashion, stoked that I might find a decent parking spot, for once, not too terribly far from the entrance at work.  However, when I pressed the button to raise my garage door, it wouldn't budge.  Instead, it just groaned at me, "Awwwwww?".

Almost five years I've lived in this house.  Almost five years where this situation has never presented itself.  It was unseasonably warm yesterday, hitting 4 or 5 degrees above zero (Celsius), so I knew there would be some melting, but I've never experienced my garage door freezing to the concrete driveway.  Never in a million years, would I have thought that would happen, but it did.  So I had to struggle with that for awhile, forcing me to be later than I wanted for work.  I managed to clock in with a measly five minutes to spare.

Next was one of the fella's being ill, and my having to fill his spot.  Not a big deal, as that seems to be my "unofficial position" nowadays.  Unfortunately, though, because I get moved around so frequently in this workplace, I tend not to retain much of the job requirements for each section and/or area, so I progress slower with the job and tend to upset many of those I'm trying to service.  I was not familiar with B___'s requirements, and to make matters worse, I had an "incident".

I drive a forklift.  A major setback, for me anyway, is obstacles in the way.  People will often illustrate what tasks they want done, but fail to move most of the debris and shit out of the way for me to performs these tasks in a timely fashion.  Today was no different.  I was instructed to bring some railings in from outside, but when I opened the big overhead door, there were two tuggers parked in the way.  (A tugger is a small electric-powered machine, designed to push or pull extremely heaving objects, much like a tug boat is a tiny vessel used to move giant ships into port.)  If these tuggers were parked in-line and off to one side, that would have been manageable.  Instead, they were parked side by side.  Not cool.  So rather than exercise good judgement and request that someone move the obstacle, I raised the railing up in an attempt to pass over the tugger.  Bad idea!

While I was careful to not clip the overhead door with the mast of my extended forks, I was not so lucky with the blower fan housing immediately after the door.  I clipped the corner of it, forcing it to swing hard into the overhead door, thus snapping both cables and leaving the door stuck, in an open position with a cold wind blowing in from the north.

I had to explain what happened to the area supervisor, then to my supervisor (multiple times), then to his supervisors (again, multiple times), and so on.  It seemed that as simple as the mishap was, very few were able to wrap their head around what had actually happened.  It was simple, I even left a small dent in the blower housing that could clearly be seen from the floor below.

I was expediently rushed to the Human Resources office where I was made to take several tests.  I had to blow into a breathalyzer, which came up 0.00% alcohol.  I doubt I'd have any alcohol left in my system from my birthday celebration back in 2011, which is the last time I got drunk.  Plus, who the f*ck gets drunk before work at 7am? (Although, this incident occurred a little more than two hours later, at 9:20am)  Next I had to swab my mouth -- top, bottom, left and right, as well as both sides of my tongue.  This was testing for drugs in my system.  Crystal meth, pot, cocaine, and a couple others I've never heard of.  I thought, "If I were on coke, that'd make me more alert, wouldn't it?"  I never had the balls to ask, plus I recognized this was a serious matter, and a jovial outlook would be frowned upon.  After two more swab attempts and about twenty minutes, I was cleared.  I hoped that they were going to send me home, but I guess they wanted to punish me, so they sent me back to work.  ((SH!T))

Just after lunch, I had some hard candy in my mouth, and like a retard, I crunched down and managed to crack one of my molars along with the lime-flavoured candy.  I guess that, right there, is the proverbial f*cking cherry on top of my shit sundae.  NOW, I find myself having to take tomorrow morning off, to get my tooth fixed.  Thankfully, it doesn't hurt.

Thankfully, I made it the rest of the afternoon, without any major incidents, although my day was riddled with small mishaps.  When the horn sounded marking the end of the day, I couldn't have breathed a bigger sigh of relief.  I drove straight home, parked in the garage, whose door opened without hesitation (phew), and with fingers crossed, my evening should be very relaxing.

Not long after I started at C.__.__., I had an unfortunate experience.  It was a chain reaction, much like today, but more extended.  I nudged a small box with the front tire of my lift.  That box moved into a cart, which bumped another cart, that swayed a large dry-erase message board, that was not secured to anything, which then swung downward, into the side of a computer station, and from there, gravity took over and the computer and (top heavy) monitor, came crashing down to the floor.  The whole matter took a couple minutes, as I had already driven off, oblivious to the domino effect that was tumbling about behind me.  That series of inconvenient events, my friends, happened on a motherf*cking Wednesday...!!!

Hear Me Now, Thank Me Later

The previews made the movie "Looper" look quite interesting. I even found myself posing the question of what I might do, if I were faced with the same quandary.

The movie, Looper, takes place in the not-too-distant future.  Thirty years into the future of that time, Time Travel has been invented and immediately outlawed.  However, criminal elements in that thirty-plus year future, have taken possession of time travel as a means of getting rid of their enemies.  Time travelers can only move backwards in time and so when a target arrives from the future, hit men in the past kill them and dispose of the bodies.  The main character, Joe, played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt, is very good at his job.  He gets a time delivered to him, he shows up, and blows a hooded target away.  Easy-peezy.  Until one day, an unhooded target appears, and he discovers it's the older version of himself, played by Bruce Willis.  Old Joe, escapes certain death and trouble ensues for both young and old Joe.

The premise of the movie, I found to be unique.  The fact that the film makers were able to make Joseph Gordon-Levitt appear so much like a young Bruce Willis, was quite uncanny.  He was able to duplicate all of Willis's minor squints and quirks.  That part I liked.  As for the rest of the film.  Uh-uh!

I read the praises in the movie poster above and I can't help but wonder, "Did these people see the same movie as I did?"  Looper is definitely NOT the "most exciting film of the year", nor is it a "super-intense thrill ride".  As I said, I found the story to be unique, but I'd hardly consider it a "brilliant masterpiece".  I agree with the statement that it was slick and stylish, even slightly cool, but Looper is absolutely NOT "This decade's The Matrix"!!

So if I were faced with a similar quandary, what would I do?  I'd look myself straight in the eye and tell me to see this film at the cheap theater.  Watch it for a mere three or four dollars, rather than shelling out $27 for the Blu-Ray, because you read a bunch of raving reviews, because this movie blows!!!  The movie might play better on a large screen.  Who knows?!?  I would imagine the Piper Perabo scenes would've been more enjoyable on a 22ft by 52ft movie screen...

If you haven't seen this movie yet, get it on pay-per-view.  Save your money, don't buy it on DVD or Blu-Ray.  Not even if you see it in a bargain bin at Wal-Mart.  You'll thank me in the end.  Trust me.  You'll thank me...

What's The Matter, Slugger?

There's another story in the news about some kid, who after feeling bullied, brought a 12-gauge shotgun to school and shot a kid.  Thankfully, he was stopped by a teacher and a school counselor before he had a chance to turn the gun on two more intended targets.

After tragedies like this, the movie theater catastrophe last summer and the slaughter of twenty school children before Christmas, I don't understand why people, gun enthusiasts included, don't see that there's an obvious problem with firearms.  "It's our right to own guns!" they say, "The Second Amendment* says so..."

(*Second Amendment of the United States Constitution)

Isn't it funny how there's 27 amendments in the U.S. Constitution, but people seem to only remember that one, or the first when they want to shoot their mouths off, or the fifth when they wish not to incriminate themselves in a court of law.

When these tragedies occur and all the zealots are exclaiming there Second Amendment rights, I'm a little confused as to why NO ONE HAS REALIZED that the Second Amendment was proposed in 1789 and enacted in 1791, when a gun consisted of loading a lead ball into a barrel packed with batten and gun powder.  Of course it would've made sense to own more than one rifle.  Especially with the threat of foreign invasion looming over your head.  If the suggestion would've been made to the forefathers of the great nation of the United States, that one day there would be guns made that could shoot off 25 bullets within two seconds* of time, their unusually small and narrow minds would've strung you up for heresy.  I guarantee, however, that if there were a time machine available and any one of the founding fathers were brought to modern day America, that Second Amendment would read a little differently.

(*I just watched an episode of Mythbusters, where a Tech 9's magazine (25 bullets) was emptied in just 2 seconds...)

In previous blogs, I've stated how I was bullied in school growing up.  I never once considered grabbing a shotgun from home and blowing those kids away.  Of course, I lived on a farm and rode a school bus into the city, where I was schooled, so it would've been quite an ordeal to smuggle a rifle to school unbeknownst.  That or the fact that, even to this day, I have no idea how to load a shotgun with shells.  I believe my dad kept the shells up on a shelf and I was too short to reach them anyway.  But I digress.  The thought of blowing them away, never even entered my highly imaginative mind.

As I recall, one time, while cornered by a bully, I did grab a large stick that was close by.  That seemed to fend them off long enough to escape to safety.  This memory prompts me to wonder why these troubled kids, don't just resort to bringing a Louisville Slugger to school to take care of business.  A baseball bat would prove to be much more personal when attacking their attackers.  Shooting them from a distance, seems like the cowardly way out.  

Of course, we live in a world that needs to direct blame on someone else, rather than owning up to our own gaffes.  Just as guns get the blame for school shootings, so would pro wrestling or baseball be blamed for a kids whacking off kids with a Louisville Slugger and not the fact that the social cliques in our schools are seriously fractured.

I realize that these statements make it sound like I'm condoning school violence.  I'm NOT!!!  Really!!  Believe me, the whole premise of using "vigilante justice" to get even with school bullies, is completely alien and retarded, in my opinion.  Especially in an era where "anti-bullying" is very trendy.  All a troubled student need do, nowadays, is go to a school counselor or teacher and report the bullying incident.  If the school official fails to take the problem seriously, the bullied teen can simply add the words, "I'm feeling 'shooty'...!"  That ought to grab someone's attention.

I've always thought communication was malformed and unreliable.  In most cases, referring to my own experience, the reports go unresolved and lost in the jumble of everyday lives.  These days, communication is a vital necessity.  Whether it be with a teacher, a parent, or whomever.

The student, that I mentioned at the top of this page, who was shot by that kid with the shotgun, is in hospital recovering.  Hopefully they will survive this ordeal and won't be permanently affected by the ordeal.  The teacher and counselor who distracted and disarmed the shooter are, today, understandably shaken.  At the time they didn't know if he would add them to the list of casualties (or worse), but knew something had to be done to stop him.  They don't want to be referred to as "heroes", although their acts were heroic.  And as for the kid who brought his shotgun to school, officials say he will be tried as an adult.

Ironically, he felt victimized and bullied, hence his acting out so violently.  If convicted, he will go to prison where he's going to really be bullied by fellow inmates, bullied up his ass.  That boy's going to be someone's bitch, this much is certain...

All That Jazz

I just finished watching the first season of "Homeland", which is a critically-acclaimed ShowTime series that stars Damien Lewis (Life, Band of Brothers), Claire Danes (Romeo + Juliet, Brokedown Palace) and Mandy Patinkin (Chicago Hope, The Princess Bride).  The show is about a marine who was held captive by Al-Quaeda for eight years, who is finally rescued and brought home.  He's hailed a hero by nearly all, except an elite few, who have information that an American POW has been turned.  The entire first season has them and us, the audience, debating whether this information is true, that he's plotting some sort of terrorist event on U.S. soil, or if the info is false, and this American hero is being further persecuted.  The premise sounds like fantastic television viewing, doesn't it?  However, I was unable to really get into the program for the first four hour-long episodes, due to, what I believe, was the score of the show.

For those unaware, the "score" refers to the music that assists the dialogue and action on the screen.  In some cases, the viewer is unaware that there's even any music playing, though it plays an intricate part of the viewing experience.  For example, if you watch a scary horror flick with the sound shut off, the horrific images seem less frightening that they do with the sound turned way up.  Musical cues force the mind to follow the direction of the play.  However, the chosen music for "Homeland" was jazz.

I know very little about jazz, so I'm not going to knock it.  There's a lot of big names, throughout history associated with this musical style and it seems to be popular with lots of people, but I found it to be overwhelming in some instances, almost to the point of distracting me from what was going on in the show.  Not to toot my own horn, but I regard myself as being fairly astute when it comes to noticing nuances and interesting facts in my television and movie viewing, but admittedly, I found it difficult to maintain my attention.  It wasn't until the action began to outweigh the musical score, that I was able to ignore the shitty music and become intrigued with the characters and story.

I guess I can see (or hear) some of the attraction that people have in this musical genre, as a lot of the beats were uplifting and fast-paced, but it is definitely not my genre of music.  The city where I currently reside, holds a Jazz Festival every summer, to which I never attend, but I understand it's quite popular as traffic seems to be completely f*cked.

All-in-all, I got through the season and it's left me craving for more.  I'm not sure when Season Two will hit the store shelves, but I'll be there to pick it up when it does.  There's one thing that I am thankful for, in regards to the score of "Homeland", and that it wasn't backed by country music.  That shit will just turn you gay!!!

Dreamscape

Sometimes life just seems more fun and interesting on "the other side".  When I close my eyes at night, I'm whisked away to a distant, yet sometimes familiar place, where I'm everything I ever hoped I'd be and am accepted by all as an equal or better.  Unlike my waking hours when it seems like all I am is a number.  Something, not someone, to be used and abused for all I'm worth, then discarded like a piece of trash or a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

I'm not crying up a storm, here, sobbing "woe is me".  I'm satisfied, somewhat, for my lot in life.  I find my job fulfilling, though unappreciated most days.  It's just everything else that I wish I could have different.

When I dream at night, it seems like all my hopes have come true.  I'm popular with the ladies, even sought after on occasion.  Hell, I'm popular with everyone.  My opinions and ideas matter.  It's freakin' awesome.  Sometimes I think, if I didn't have so many responsibilities here, it'd be nice to slip into a coma.  Life seems more fulfilling and interesting "over there" anyway, and adventurous.

I remember a dream I had a few years ago, where I was white water rafting with the WWE's Undertaker (whom I was referring to by his real name, Mark Callaway), Stephanie McMahon, and Triple H (Paul Levesque).  We'd stopped for lunch at a small cafe along the river, and when I went to use the restroom, I was jumped by three hoodlums who wanted my ball cap. (I guess not all is perfect in this world...)  Mark, or I mean, Undertaker was quick to help a buddy out and stomped their asses into the ground.  Yahoo!

My dreamscape is a wondrous place.  It sort of resembles Heaven in the movie "What Dreams May Come", a far and spacious place, uncluttered by modern amenities, yet there are pockets of familiarities.  City streets that somehow exist but don't clash with the beauty of the landscape.  They're invisible until you look around and see you're surrounded.

Last night, for some reason, I dreamed about work, but it wasn't my workplace that I recognized.  It was completely different, yet my co-workers were all there.  I was working along side one of the blokes I worked with this week, and instead of treating me like a useless f*ck as he was doing yesterday, he treated me as a equal even requesting my opinion on a pending project.  My ideal scenario, wouldn't be to dream of work for the rest of my existence, but there's worse things to be dreaming about.

For instance, there's a recurring dream I have from time to time, where I'm stuck in this house or building.  The structure itself changes ever once in awhile, but the premise remains.  I can run, walk, whatever, there's no getting out.  No matter the route I choose, different every time, there's no escape and I end up back where I began.  Of all my dreams, this one, I fear, is the closest to my real life.

Not to mention the nightmares that I have sometimes.  I'm fast asleep, but an uneasy feeling wakes me up.  I look up and see a small girl clad in a white dress, standing in the doorway of my bedroom.  She's motionless, quietly staring at me as I sleep.  My cat is usually nowhere to be found, which is understandable, as I don't really want to be there either.  I don't do anything and I say nothing.  I close my eyes again and go back to sleep.  Now I'm fairly certain this is a dream and not an actual occurrence.  As far as I know, there's never been a small child who resided in this house.  Plus, I've had this dream on a number of occasions at a number of my residences.

I guess I just view these dreams as a form of escape.  When life gets me too down, here, I can close my eyes and escape to someplace wonderful.  I did the same as a kid, too.  My childhood was not that easy.  Growing up in an alcoholic home, life is rarely easy.  I didn't have it as bad as some kids, but I felt the brunt of a lot of hate and mistreatment.  I guess that's why I fell in love with the cinema, as a young kid.  I saw it as a way to escape from my day-to-day life, and be somewhere or someone else.  I guess that's why as an adult, I continue the practice, watching way too much television and viewing a f*ck-of-a-lot of movies.  At last count, I can't remember how many movies I have in my collection.

That being said, I can see on the wall that I need to get some shit done and bills to pay.  After all is said and done...; Life is but a dream.., sweetheart.

Dumb Ass

I'm not a fan of Justin Bieber by any means.  I find him quite annoying and after seeing a video of him blowin' off a fan a couple of years ago, I've since thought of him as a prissy prick prima donna, citing "If it weren't for those fans, you'd be a f*ckin' nobody, lost somewhere in Canada.  However, with all that said and done, I gotta give credit where credit is due.

I'm in no way praising his musical prowess, as I doubt he's very musical, or able to sing very well.  I must take this opportunity to say, though, that I have no f*cking idea what the hell he sings, nor could I accurately identify any of his songs if I were to hear them on the radio. (Thank god for satellite radio and Howard Stern, for sparing me from hearing the waves of bubblegum shit that's considered "music" nowadays.)  I did see him perform on New Year's Eve, but thankfully the hosts of the party I was at, had the volume turned down, and I was only forced to see this self-indulgent little shit dance around like a cheerleader.  All that being said, I did say I was going to give "credit where credit was due"..

Credit where credit is due.  Actually, as it turns out, he's free and clear of receiving the credit or the blame for what happened (in his name) on New Year's Day.  Apparently, the pop star, overcompensating for his short stature, five foot six inches, owns a flashy new Ferrari, which was seen racing about the streets and freeways of Los Angeles.  Hot on it's tail was a paparazzi photographer with high hopes of catching the dwarf-like crooner in a compromising situation.  Sure enough, the CHP (California Highway Police) pulled the Italian sports car over.  Turns out neither the driver nor the co-pilot were Justin Bieber, but rather a couple of his douche bag coat tail riders who were out for a joyride.  Unbeknownst to the paparazzo who was bootin' it across the busy highway to get a better angle for his photograph, wound up getting schmucked by an oncoming automobile and killed.

So I've seen in the media and heard on the radio, that people are trying to blame Justin Bieber for this fool getting his ass rundown.  What the f*ck?!?  Motherf*ckin' Bieber wasn't even there!  Granted Bieber is useless as f*ck, but why blame the kid for someone else being a f*ckin' moron?  Over a f*cking picture of a kid getting a speeding ticket.  I've gotten more than my fair share of speeding tickets since getting my driver's license, and while I'm not saying I'm a teen pop star with whom all the kiddies wanna get with, if some stupid son-of-a-bitch got laid out by a Buick while I was stopped for a ticket, their death would not be my responsibility.  Nor should Bieber get blamed for this idiot's death.

The f*cker (photographer) should've known the risks of having such a cheese ball job and chasing after celebrities, so if the f*cker dies (which he did), then the f*cker dies.  It's as simple as that.  To quote yesterday's blog, "Que Sera Sera, Whatever will be, will be".  More simply put, if you're gonna be dumb, then chances are..., you're gonna die.  Dumbass!!!

Whatev's

Most of the day I had the Doris Day classic, and I use that term loosely, Que Sera Sera, playing in my head.  The longer and more torturous it lasted, the more and more I realized the song is really negative.

The first part has Doris singing about her childhood, asking her mother what she's going to be as an adult, "Will I be pretty?  Will I be rich?"  Her mother seems to "phone-it-in", by responding "Whatever will be, will be".  Her mom isn't supportive or anything.  "Oh honey, you're beautiful and smart and you can do anything you put your mind and heart to..."  But, f*ck no, her mother simply tells her to "wait and see".

Next, she talks about falling in love and asking her beau, what the future holds.  "Will we have rainbows, day after day?"  Here's what her man tells her.  "Que sera sera.  Whatever will be, will be."  Basically, he saying to wait and see, which is a subtle way of saying he might have to cheat on her if she gains weight or get overly annoying.

Lastly, the song has her, in a motherly role, repeating the shitty child-rearing that her mother incurred on her. Her boys look to her and ask, "Will we be handsome?  Will we be rich?"  She replies that they'll have to wait and see.  "Whatever will be, will be," as apparently the future isn't our's to see.  I guess goal-setting or education didn't play a huge role in the Day household.

Throughout history, all sorts of songs have been deemed "classic", although I can't understand how something as f*cking stupid and annoying as "Que Sera Sera" is a f*cking classic.  A real head-scratcher than one.  Released in 1956, there was SO much better music than that one.  Elvis had three number one hits, for crying out loud...