Mr. Winky's Big Day Out

After much concern regarding a health issue, I finally consulted my doctor. Given that it dealt with such a personal subject, I'd been hesitant up to that point to mention anything, but on that day, I finally decided I'd had enough.

The doctor ran a couple tests in house and decided that it wasn't anything associated with my having Type II diabetes.  I breathed a sigh of relief on that point, however I wondered what exactly was the cause of my problem.  A few more tests were ordered up by my physician and on my way I went.

A couple days later I retrieved an official looking letter from my mailbox.  Typed on letterhead from the Saskatchewan College of Physicians, the note informed me that I was to attend an ultrasound appointment, followed up by a Cystoscopy a couple weeks following that.  I've had many ultrasounds over the years for a plethora of injuries I've sustained.  I knew there was nothing to fret about in regards to that, but by name alone, Cystoscopy sounded invasive and complex.  I read on in the letter, which vaguely described the nature of that test.  Thank the heaven's for Google, as I looked up the definition of Cystoscopy and was horrified by what I learned.  Long story short, the doctor freezes my downstairs area then shoves a camera in through my pee-pee.  Ho-ly-f*******ck!

So for a few weeks I had that to look forward to, even going so far as sharing on Twitter that while people would be outside enjoying the hot summer weather, your's truly was going to be in the hospital, legs up in the stirrups and a camera being raked through me like a piston hammering through the cylinder of a small block Chevy.

Today was the big day.  I swallowed my pride and all my fears.  There was nothing I could do now, but to face the music and deal with this adversity like I do every other roadblock in life.  In fact, while I sat "commando" in the waiting room, a thin cotton fabric being the only thing separating "me" from the menagerie of odd looking persons in the room with me, I noted a parade of attractive nurses strolling past.  "I wonder if one of them is my nurse." I thought to myself, then realizing how embarrassing it would be, them eyeballing me in my state of vulnerability, or worse, my rising to the occasion.  It might be flattering, on some level, but highly inappropriate and embarrassing.

Soon I heard my name being called.  The nurse introduced himself as Emanuelle.  A him, I thought, this was going to be less embarrassing.  Emanuelle appeared to be an African transplant.  His accent was thick and I had him repeat his name, as I failed to catch it the first time.  He had long hair that was twisted into thin dreadlocks and it was tied back and spilling out from under his nurses cap.  It was at this precise moment I realized that I was going to have to write a blog about this.

Mere seconds ago, I was worried about popping wood in front of my nurse, and now I see my nurse is actually a young virile man.  A strapping young fella. An African-American young fellow and immediately my thoughts went to the stereotypes of young African-Americans and the incredible girth that they sport, "down there".   Although he is likely very professional in his application of medicine, this dude is likely going to snicker when he sees my insignificant appendage.  I know the comparison goes without saying, but it's still a bruise to the old ego.

He had me sit on the gurney to wait for the doctor's arrival, who entered the room almost immediately.  I'm relieved to see that he's of Asian decent and before any question of his fitness as a physician enters my mind, my self-consciousness wanes away believing that as insignificant as I'm going to be stacked next to the black guy, I gotta be monstrous over the Asian doctor's peanut.

I was instructed to lie back on the gurney while the nurse was going to clean and sanitize my area.  Again the thought of an uprising interrupted my usual thoughts.  Baseball, I thought.  Baseball.  The most boring sport on TV, that'll keep me "relaxed".  If I thought getting wood in the hands of the female nurse would be embarrassing, it'd go double, triple...,  a million times more embarrassing in the hands of a dude.

Next the doctor brought over the device that would he'd be doing the exploratory with.  I looked at him and said, "I don't think that's going to fit."  He smiled and assured me, "It'll fit.  Don't you worry."  This caused me to breathe heavily.  I laid back and stared at a poster on the ceiling.  It was a monkey with the caption "I've gotta learn to relax."  The nurse, Emanuelle, knelt down next to my head and pointed up at the poster and said, "Look at the monkey.  Take deep breaths and exhale through your mouth."

"Monkey?" I said, "I thought that was a mirror."  Emanuelle chuckled and patted me on the shoulder as he rose to his feet.  The procedure then began.  The freezing went in and ironically burned like a roman candle.  It felt like hot lava being pouring into me, a single droplet at a time.  The scorching sensation soon dissipated, but not for long.

What I initially believed would be equated to shards of broken glass being etched into my wiener, via the Google explanation, the discomfort associated with the procedure wasn't quite as violent or painful, but it wasn't a joyous experience either.

After all was said and done, the doctor informed me that everything checked out.  My bladder and all points in between checked out and appeared healthy.  I can now breathe another heavy sigh of relief, but can't help but wonder what the cause of my issues are.  The doctor suggested watching my diet.  Yay..!  A diet already limited by allergies, could soon become even more concentrated.  Pretty soon, I'll be sucking nutrients out of a f**king tube, like the astronauts do.

I sat down on the toilet, following the exam, and tried to urinate.  The freezing had really taken hold, I couldn't feel anything except something that felt like rusty razor blades.  I tried repeatedly, but believe that I'd failed.  I got up and looked into the bowl.  Something came out, to my surprise.  I hope I don't have any "accidents" on the way home, I thought.

Stay Strong, Lafayette

It's Thursday night.  It's summer.  It's too hot to stay inside and watch television.  Besides, there's nothing but reruns on, anyway.  Outside, it's too humid to tackle yardwork or go for a walk in the park.  Maybe hitting up a popular movie is the ticket.  A valid excuse to get out and socialize with friends and share a laugh or two.

You fight traffic, then struggle to find parking near the theater.  Pay for a ticket, buy popcorn and a soda, before settling in to watch the previews.  Your only concern is that no one taller than you sits in the seat in front of you and that no one plays with their phone during the movie.

It was a little over three years ago that there was a violent incident at a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado.  It was a midnight showing of the last Batman film, The Dark Knight Rises, so when a man appeared in the darkness dressed in tactical clothing, patrons thought it was a part of the show.  A special added treat to the movie's premiere.  Delight was quickly replaced by panic when the assailant opened fire on the crowd.  In the aftermath, twelve were dead and seventy more were injured.  The gunman was picked up outside the theater by police.  Subsequently, this past week, on July 20th, 2015, he was found guilty of twenty-four (24) counts of first-degree murder and one-hundred-forty  (140) counts of attempted first-degree murder.  Sentencing at the time of this composition has yet to be announced.  I believe Colorado has the Death Penalty and it'd do everyone involved a favour if the guilty party is promptly executed.  That's my opinion, anyway.

Three years has passed and I guess, we as a whole have become relaxed and complacent, once more.  Relaxing in our belief that the incident in Aurora three years ago, was a fluke.  A single event that wouldn't or couldn't be repeated.  Sadly, this is not the case.  Just as we once believed the Colombine High School shooting to be a one-time incident, we've sadly had many more in the fifteen-plus years since.  It is with great disappointment and sadness that I discovered that once again, a gunman has entered a movie theater and taken it upon himself to play God.

This time it is a movie theater in Lafayette, Louisiana.  Twenty minutes into "Trainwreck", the new Judd Apatow comedy starring Amy Schumer, a lone gunman began shooting into the crowd.  It's reported that of the one hundred plus people in the theater, three have died, including the gunman from a self inflicted gun shot, and seven more injured.  Thankfully, the number of dead and wounded isn't comparable to the tragedy in Colorado, but even if there is one person is injured, that's one too many.

The fact that this asshole, a 58 year old man, according to news reports, killed himself, begs the question, why did he not just kill himself without killing others?  Of all the reasons to desire historical recognition, it'll never make sense to me why these insane people need to do so with such havoc.  Survivors of the tragedy in Lafayette, as well as those in Aurora, Colorado, are affected, too.  While they don't have an imperfection blemish on their skin, the emotional baggage that is associated with an event like this, is equally burdening.  Survivor's guilt.

Very little has been shared with the media regarding the gunman in tonight's shooting.  Authorities say that he did have some criminal history, but the incidents were from some time ago.  Whether he was convicted of a violent crime yesterday or forty years ago, the fact that he had a criminal record at all, should have predicated that he not be in possession of a firearm ever again.

With the Presidential race beginning to pick up speed, the subject that should be at the forefront of everyone's platform is Gun Control.  It's heinous and offensive how many violent acts occur on a daily basis in the U.S., involving firearms.  People shooting people over $20 or the colour of their shirt or the colour of their skin.  It's insanity.  We have the audacity to claim ourselves to be civil, yet act so barbaric.  It leaves me scratching my head.

Even here at home, in Canada, where we do have gun control, there's still an uprising in gun-related crime.  While my hometown, Saskatoon (Saskatchewan), has never been free of crime, I have noticed a scary increase in gun-related crimes.  It's making me more and more fearful to leave the house to go to the corner store.  That being said, it's not as bad as the epidemic that plagues the United States.  Gun Control works.  Trust me.  You just need to go at it in an intelligent manner.

The second amendment of the United States Constitution protects the rights of all Americans to keep and bear arms.  This amendment was adopted on December 15th, 1791, two-hundred and twenty-four years ago, when the average man possessed a single shot musket that required to be loaded one lead ball at a time.  I'm sure that if the founding father's had possessed the forethought of there ever being guns like the AR-15 or AK-47 or even the Tec 9, just to name a few, I'm sure they would have erased that amendment or at least worded it differently.

Donald Trump has been in the news a lot, lately, mostly due to his negative and borderline insane comments in his bid for the Presidential nomination.  The man is clearly nuts, but deep down, I believe he's equally as intelligent.  You can't become a billionaire by being a complete idiot.  Idiocy usually tends to come after the fact.  That withstanding, I'd be interested in what he has to say about the necessity for Gun Control.  He doesn't strike me as the type to be afraid of anyone, even the NRA.

In the aftermath of the movie theater shooting, Train Wreck star, Amy Schumer sent a comforting message via Twitter: My heart is broken and all my thoughts and prayers are with everyone in Louisiana. The world shares that sentiment, sending positive thoughts to all those affected by this tragedy, tonight.

Dream On

What does actors Ian McShane (Deadwood, Death Race, John Wick), Lindsay Lohan (Mean Girls, Machete) & 90s rapper, Coolio (Gangsta's Paradise) all have in common?  Tell you in a second.

Lately, when I wake up, I have some random song playing in my head.  I've done some reading and it's most commonly known as an earworm.  A small annoyance that most people have and deal with in a number of ways.  Usually, if I have time, I'll dial it up on YouTube and turn it up.  This process works about 90% of the time.  The other ten percent, I'm forced to sing along to the song throughout my day.

Although annoying at times, it's vastly better than waking up to nothingness.  Blindly walking through my morning rituals and heading out the door.  In most cases, I'm still half asleep, I suspect.  There have been mornings, in the past where I will arrive to work and have no recollection of how I got there.  That's truly scary and I believe this happens to a great many people, too.  A steady stream of living zombies, sipping their coffee from a stainless steel mug, while staring at the road ahead, going through the motions that have been programmed into their brains on so many previous mornings.

On a truly perfect morning, I will awaken with a dream still fresh in my head.  If I were a smart person, I'd write this shit down right away, as I've concocted many interesting story and/or movie plots that I am certain would beat out most of the drivel that Hollywood pumps out on a weekly basis.  One time, even, I thought up a video game that would be killer in today's market, but alas, due to unpreparedness, it was lost, along with all those movie synopsis'.

Most times, though, my dreams are just plain f*cked up.  I recall one I had as a child, in which I was scooped up by King Kong and tossed into his mouth like a handful of candy.  That was the beginning of the dream, the remainder was my falling falling falling down to his stomach, along with truckloads of bananas.  F*cking retarded, but I was only six or so, so cut some slack, you judgmental mother....  This morning's dream was not as juvenile as that, but it ranks high in the retarded category.  I had to write it down and share it in the only forum I could, my blog.

The day had begun as most of mine do, these days.  I'm unemployed with no prospects on the horizon.  Somehow, I learn of a movie being shot on location in a nearby small town and before I know it, I'm employed with that movie production.  It's not a glamorous job.  I'm not an assistant to the director or performing in anyway.  Instead, I'm a "babysitter", of sorts, to one of it's stars, actor Ian McShane, famous from the TV show Deadwood and a plethora of movies (check out his IMDb page, it's quite a list).  A part of Mr. McShane's demands is that he is not to be disturbed, at all, by nonessential interaction on-set or off.  My task is to run blocker for him throughout the daytime and another fella takes the night.  My time with the actor is blanketed over with a montage of different scenarios of my performing my duties and either receiving a look of approval or disdain.

The last scene of my dream, before I awoke took place in the small town.  It was a cool grey morning, the ground damp from rainfall overnight and the skies were sullen with shades of grey.  I waited for the British actor to be dropped off by his overnight assistant.  I kept the engine running in my late model Honda Civic (which is strange, as I don't own such a vehicle).  I have the heater turned up to ensure Mr. McShane steps into a warm environment.  Although he's from a country notorious for equally shitty weather, I'm taking no chances of setting the man off.

I'm waiting in an empty lot, filled with pea-sized gravel, backed up against the wall of a neighbouring building.  I have an excellent view of the predetermined pick-up spot.  Across the street is the Post Office which doubles as an RCMP outpost.  Next to the small red brick building is a lone police cruiser.  It's a brand new Ford Explorer, the same model used by the police in the city, only it's a dark blue instead of the usual white.  It's at this time that I suddenly realize I have to take a dump.  I know my body well enough to know that this isn't something I should be shirking off to do at a more convenient time.  I check the clock and see that I have a few minutes to spare and quickly rush across the street into the Post Office, which is open because it's also a police station.

I don't see any people, nor do I see a public washroom, but instead I see a janitor's closet.  I peek my head inside the door and am pleased to see a toilet.  It's not been flushed by the previous visitor, but it's only pee so it's not as disgusting as walking in on a bowl filled to the brim with shit.  I do a courtesy flush and go about my business.  When I come out, I'm confronted by a redheaded lady with short hair cropped close to her head.  She's pleasant and doesn't reprimand me for shamelessly fouling their janitor's closet, but instead offers me a coffee and some small talk.

I'm not familiar with this small town, other than it's a few miles outside of the city where I live.  It's located just off to the side and unless you specifically have business to contend with in it, it's just a flash in your peripheral as you whisk by on the highway.  However, the redheaded lady proceeds to tell me about an event that was scheduled to take place that day.  It had a specific name, but I can't remember what it was.  The memory of this dream is already beginning to fade as I type these words.  What I can remember of the day, however, is this.  The day had something to do with Lindsay Lohan.  She had come to the small modest town some years previous and had a day named in her honour.  Although she'd never return to share in the honour, the townspeople celebrated this day, faithfully, in the years since.  I guess small towns need to celebrate whatever notoriety they can get, and I wondered if Ian McShane would be getting a day named in his honour, too, despite his refusal to be bothered by anyone not associated with the picture being filmed.

We sipped our warm beverages as she told me an amusing Lindsay-related anecdote.  I periodically glanced to the street to see if Ian McShane had arrived yet, all the while smiling and nodding my head.  She told me that Lindsay had visited a local hairdresser and requested that she get her hair done like that of rapper Coolio.  Of course, the people of the town were unfamiliar with the rapper and had comedically searched high and low for reference material while Lohan danced about, singing "Gangsta's Paradise".  She laughed at the absurdity, while I smiled and nodded, failing to see the humour.  It was then I saw Ian McShane being dropped off and I excused myself to go meet the actor.

This is when I woke up and decided to share it with my blogosphere.  I wish I could elaborate on this more.  I wish I could remember most, if not all, of my dreams.  As I stated, I've had some brilliant dreams and a lot of stupid ones, too.   If I could recall them all, it'd be an amusing new blog I could share with people.  Share some of my "insanity", so-to-speak.  

Comedian Bert Kreischer is able to do something call: Lucid Dreaming.  This is a process where he can, not only recall his dreams, vividly, but also control his actions in those dreams.  If he wakes up prematurely, he's able to go back to sleep and enter that same dream again and continue to control it's outcome.  I don't know how he does it, but it's something I wish I could do.  Bert Kreischer inspires me in many ways in life and this just adds to the list.

..

I doubt that the actor Ian McShane is the dick that he was in my dream.  Quite the opposite, I'm sure.  Lindsay Lohan, on the other hand, I believe would be that rude (and equally dumb)...

Dream on, everybody.