YPKY-MF!!

It's been my personal tradition for the last... I don't even know how long, to sit down, usually on Christmas Eve, snuggled warmly under a quilt watching my Christmas movies.  The line-up includes Die Hards 1 and 2, preceded (some years) or followed by Lethal Weapon.  Both have come under fire, this year, for not actually being "Christmas movies", but rather action movies that happen to take place at Christmas time.  Perhaps this is correct, but the tradition of watching these films and how they put me into the Christmas spirit, is not lost in this argument.

A customary movie that plays on (just about) every channel, is the Frank Capra classic, "It's A Wonderful Life".  The film which stars the late James Stewart who plays George Bailey, a man down on his luck and contemplating suicide, when an angel intervenes.  The angel takes (George) on a journey demonstrating the many positive impacts his existence has had on others around him.  I've never seen the movie, but I understand that in the end, everything turns out well and George returns home to celebrate Christmas with his family.

One can argue, and as I understand it, many have, that this film, though considered a Christmas tradition, isn't actually a Christmas movie, but simply a story that takes place on Christmas Eve.  That, withstanding, the same defense can be made for Die Hard 1 and 2 and Lethal Weapon, as well as "Running Scared" (Billy Crystal, Gregory Hines), "Getaway" (Ethan Hawke, Selena Gomez) and a plethora of others.  Even "Gremlins" is a film that only takes place at Christmas, but is hardly a Christmas-themed movie.

Let the naysayers have their way.  Most people who argue stupid points, won't listen to reason, anyway.  I say, "Wish them a 'Merry Christmas and shut the f*ck up'!!"  I don't give two shits.  My tradition is going to continue.  Granted I have so many movies to choose from, it gets difficult to watch everything in one sitting, so this year I'm going to edit some of it.  I believe the playlist this year will be as follows:

1. DIE HARD
2. DIE HARD 2; DIE HARDER
3. LETHAL WEAPON
4. GETAWAY
5. THE NIGHT BEFORE

And if there's time, I may squeeze SCROOGED, in there.

I'm shirking the usual pizza and going with another concoction, topped with a shit load of bacon, in case any of you were wondering...

MERRY CHRISTMAS, to all.  And to all, a good night...!

Bad Aftertaste

Nobody likes being sick.  Unless you're a kid, staying home from school and missing the big algebra exam, it's just about one of the most trying times of a human\s existence.  Between the sniffling, running nose and irritating blinding coughs, it's truly quite a bothersome ordeal.  My personal Hell is the coughing.  There are times that I get on a stria that is difficult to decipher whether it's a string of individual coughs strung together or simply one hellaceous cough.  Either way, the end result is the same.  I begin to get light-headed, accompanied by a severe headache that borders on a migraine level.  Getting sick completely sucks.  The only positive that comes from it, is the constant coughing is a good workout for the abdominal region.  I've had bouts of influenza and pneumonia where it felt like I'd just completed about a thousand and two sit-ups.

One memory that I have of being sick, is re-instilled every time I see a commercial for Buckley's Cough Syrup.  Several years ago, I was invited to accompany a friend to his parents house in another city.  It was an overnight excursion and as luck would have it, I became very under the weather.  I was quite ill, with all the fixin's that accompany such an ailment.  Runny red nose and a heavy cough from Hell.  My friend assured me that he had "just what the doctor ordered" by way of combating the illness that was striking me down.  Buckley's Cough Syrup.

I've never been a fan of cough remedies of any sort.  They'd always tasted horrendous.  Even the cough syrup that was administered to us kids, growing up, which was aimed at tasting "good", tasted quite bad.  So I was reluctant to try this remedy when my friend offered it to me.  However, in a show of solidarity, he opted to take some, too.  So I reluctantly agreed.

The directions for an adult dosage called for two tablespoons.  "The trick is," D_____ explained, "Don't swallow the first tablespoon."  He informed me that I was to take the first tablespoon and leave it in my mouth until I took the second tablespoon.  "Because," he went on to explain, "It tastes SO bad, that it's unlikely you'll take the second tablespoon."

He was correct.  The taste of Buckley's Cough Syrup is SO unbelievably bad that there was no freakin' way that I would have committed to taking a second administering of that awful concoction.  On the bright side, though, just as the slogan promises, it DOES work.  Overnight, my cough had pretty much disappeared entirely.

It tastes awful and it works.

In the years since then, I've battled many bouts of sickness, knowing full well the benefits of Buckley's Cough Syrup, yet I've never made any effort to add it to my non-existent arsenal of cold remedies.  Part of me is chicken shit.  A frightened child wrapped in the body of a grown male, afraid of two tablespoons of awful tasting medicine.  It's pathetic, really, when you think about it.  In the meantime, I still have that simple memory which I reflect on a few times a day, when I see that commercial, and it never fails to make me smile.

6.8 Million Reasons

The other day I was flipping through my Twitter feed.  It's a practice I do to pass the time, especially when I'm at work, killing time on my breaks.  Everyone who works there keeps the television channels tuned into either sports or news.  I haven't any interest in sports highlights, and even though the news can be interesting and even inspiring for this blog, a fifteen minute news cycle gets a bit tedious at best.  So I was flipping through Twitter when I happened across a posting from @TMZ, who was reporting on the latest Johnny Depp / Amber Heard divorce news.  It was stated that Amber was set to receive six point eight MILLION dollars from her divorce to Johnny Depp.  I found this number to be outrageous, considering the duo had only been married for a couple of months.

I couldn't pass up the opportunity to comment on the situation and set forth to tapping away on my smartphone, like an angry Donald Trump taking a late night dump.  "$6.8M?? Weren't they only married for like a month or something? I'm not gay, but I'd marry $6.8M payday.  Even half that...😕"

It was a comment that came quick and straight off the cuff, but in retrospect, I probably would.  I'm really not gay at all and even if I was, I'd never go for someone like Johnny Depp.  He's greasy and gross.  However, that withstanding, I've also uttered the words; "You'd be amazed at what kind of bullshit I could put up with if I was getting a good payday out of it."  Granted, those words were spoken in reference to an actual paying job and not marrying me a sugar daddy.

The more I thought about the process, the more appalled I made myself.  I'm sure for a $6.8M payout, there'd be certain, duties that would have to be performed, none of which I'd be too enthused about, but when you compare them to $6.8M, suddenly the shock wears off a little.

The thought sickens me as I type these words, but a marriage has to be consummated in order to be legally binding.  I'd have to get blinding drunk and/or high to block out every ugly sin that would commence on the wedding night and with fingers crossed, we'd never have to revisit that horrifying experience, again.

People would talk, because that's human nature.  TMZ would be all over that shit and when asked to comment, I'd merely smile and utter $6.8M, bitches!  I don't think there's a man alive who wouldn't take a moment to reconsider life choices, for a $6.8M payout.

"Rumour is..., ya had to f*ck a dude..." some random guy would comment.

"Yes, but it was Johnny Depp."

Just about anyone would hum and haw at that and likely slough it off.  "He's greasy, but he's a hell of an actor."

It turns out that Johnny Depp and Amber Heard were married for more than just a couple of months.  It was a little over a year.  That's a few more ass poundings than I'd be willing to go through, but like I said, I'd be willing to get married for half of the $6.8M payout...

Apparently, she claims she'll be donating the monies accrued to charity.  Full disclosure.  I wouldn't.  Marry a dude for a year and give all the money away?  F*ck that.

A Debilitated Heart

A young co-worker, just eighteen years in age, but wise beyond his years, approached me the other night.  He had a look of seriousness on his face, asking a serious question and not wanting one of my usual smart-ass quips.

L_____ is, as I said, wise beyond his eighteen years, and we've engaged in some inspiring subjects while restocking the coolers at work, but this subject, as it does with many, was stumping him and it was easy to understand why.

"How do you know when a girl is really into you?" he asked.  For a moment, I was sincerely touched, but remembering that my luck with the fairer sex has not been what anyone would categorize as, ideal.  Before I could answer his question, he added, "I asked this girl out for a coffee and she said, 'Hell yeah!'"  I confounded.  Even in my (extreme) few successes, I'd never gotten a 'hell yeah" as a response.

I paused for a moment, attempting to recall some fragment of useful information, but alas I had to confess that my knowledge wasn't up to par.  That no tidbit of information from me would bear any fruit of usefulness.  "I don't know," I explained, "Usually when I ask a girl out for a coffee, she somehow hears it as 'Can I have sex with you?', although I'm really talking about a warm refreshing beverage."

He thanked me for listening and continued on with his tasks, leaving me to dwindle on my past.  Silently I reminisced about the many rejections I've received over the years, concluding on two that I couldn't distinguish between as being the worse rejections.  Later on, I approached young L_____ and asked for his opinion.  Like I said, he's wise beyond his years.

"I asked one girl out for coffee and she answered with a resounding 'NOPE!!'  No hesitation.  No thoughts on the matter.  Not even so much as eye contact.  I barely got the question out and it was a 'nope' with a hard 'P' sound." I explained.

"Well that was harsh." he said.

"The other rejection," I continued, "The girl paused, scrunched up her face and uttered with disgust, "Eww. No."

L_____ was taken aback, then started to calculate in his head which rejection was truly the worse of the two.  He went with the latter, stating that the exclamation of disgust was definitely worse.  All these years, I'd always considered the first as worse, as no consideration was placed into the decision, but upon reexamination, I'm going to have to agree with my young friend.  Pausing to think about it, then shrieking with fear and disgust, does seem more offensive.  Damn.  My life sucks...!

I've always suffered from seasonal depression.  My sadness and loneliness seems to culminate during the winter months.  Professionals have explained it to me that it's the lack of sunlight and that the sky always seems so dull and grey.  I've always disagreed, stating that it's because all the shit that most couples enjoy together, happens during these months.  My spell usually begins just before Halloween and extends off into springtime.

I've gone on to explain that Halloween is a time that is most enjoyed with a partner.  Go out to a bar or a party and have some fun and laughs.  I'm usually a designated driver, instead, often looked over by party patrons.  Next is my birthday.  I've never had a girlfriend or significant other to share my birthday with.  Probably explains why I prefer to hide away and ignore everything when November 29th rolls around.  After that, it's Christmas.  Everyone around me is bragging and showing me what they got for their loved one and all I can do is fake a smile and feign interest, wishing I had someone special to share the holiday with.  I did have someone special many many years ago, but she died in a car accident days before Christmas, so the season has always been a little tarnished for me, though I don't dwell on the negativity as much anymore.

I've never had a New Year's kiss.  While everyone around me is smooching to Auld Lang Syne, I'm left looking at the floor, reminiscing about the one year that I did have a girlfriend on New Year's Eve, but because she didn't like public displays of affection, I was rejected.  A few years later, I'd be celebrating the New Year with some friends at a house party, one woman spoke up and said, I'll give everyone a New Year's kiss, but not Jeff.  Talk about a proverbial kick to the junk.

St. Valentine's Day is next.  I got a dancing gorilla with a top hat once from a friend at work.  I kinda had the hots for her, but nothing every grew from that.  (Ironically, she was the one who uttered - "Eww, No.")  I still have that dancing gorilla today and on St. Valentine's Day, I press the button and watch him dance for a few seconds.  It makes me smile and feel special for a moment... I've never had anyone special to buy flowers or chocolate for.  No one to take out on for a romantic dinner.

I have had a few successes with women.  I'm not a complete loser.  I'm mostly a loser, but not completely.  However, on closer examination of what worked to get those successes, I haven't got the foggiest idea.  One or two of them were alcohol-related, so anyone's guess is as good as any.  A couple successes more were the result of off-the-cuff smart-ass remarks.  Endeavours that have not been successfully repeated.

I'm often told that I'm a nice person, but beyond that, I don't know what is wrong with me.  I know I'm not interesting.  I don't do anything interesting.  I don't have any hobbies that I can share with people.  No extra-curricular activities that can strike interest.  I haven't any passions that anyone deems interesting.  I'm afraid I'm a lone wolf, destined to walk the world alone.

These days, life is especially tough.  I've not been able to secure gainful employment since being laid off from CNH in June of 2014.  I see many of my co-workers around and about and they've all found jobs to supplement their lifestyles, while I've been "lucky" enough to get hired onto a back-breaking minimum wage job that is slowly killing me from the inside out.  I've sent resumes to countless employers and even have an employment coach trying to help me out.  It seems like the more resumes that are sent out and the more rejections I get, the more useless I'm feeling about myself, every day.

I'm glad I have my cat, Monkey, otherwise I don't know where I'd be, if I were to be at all.

My birthday is on Tuesday.  I plan on staying home, with Monkey.  We're going to watch TV.  Share some laughs..., then I have to go to work that night. 😞
Damn!  My life sucks...!

My boy, Monkey.

Black Ice - What Lies Beneath

In the past, I've sometimes found writing this blog to be therapeutic and a viable way to work through whatever issues that may have been plaguing my thoughts at that particular time...
I hope this helps me, today....

Without revealing my chronological age, I can verify that I've been driving for quite some time.  Living in Canada, you learn to drive a vehicle in several different ways to successfully combat the several different road conditions you may encounter in any given season.  Springtime tends to bring a lot of rain, causing roads to be slick and wet during the day, only to turn icy at night when the mercury drops below zero ℃.  Summer isn't too bad, I've found, but as soon as the leaves turn colour and the snow begins to fly, that's when we, driver's need to be more weary.

Black ice is our worst enemy.  It's the thin layer of ice that blankets the road, which is nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, unless you're lucky enough to catch a faint glimmer of it.  A faint reflection of ice crystals catching the light at just the right angle, bouncing back to your pupil.  Most, sadly, ignore this and continue to drive just as they had been all summer long.  I've always credited myself as a better driver than these kinds of people.  I've always considered myself a better driver than most people, even on my worst day.  Last week, I had the absolute worst day of my driving career.

I'm not saying that I've never had an accident.  I've had a few misfortunes in my life.  I once lost control and crashed a small Chevrolet Chevette into a row of parked cars.  That was a terrible accident and I was severely injured at the time.  Most people, upon seeing the damage done to the car, questioned how I wasn't hurt more seriously.  It was a nasty one, I will admit, but afterward, I had no qualms about sitting behind the wheel.

This accident that I had on Thursday night/Friday morning, was unlike anything I've ever experienced.  I can say, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I'm afraid to drive.  I ventured out Sunday, but I was frightened by the aggressive drivers around me.  The big 4x4 trucks speeding up behind me.  I thought for sure, one of them were going to corral me into the ditch.  Last night I ventured out to buy some milk, which took me about four hours to get up the courage, as it'd been raining all day long.  The temperature was above zero℃, so there wasn't any icing issues, but it has snowed overnight and there are some errands that I sloughed off yesterday, that need to be done today.  As I look out the window, I can visibly see the ice and snow compiled on the city streets.  I don't know if I can go out in that...  Worse yet, I have to work tonight, which means venturing out in the cold winter night and driving that same route, passing that same corner where I lost complete control last week and slammed into the side of that silver GMC.

It took me about four hours to gain the courage to drive to the corner store for milk, yesterday.  I dread having to go to work, tonight...

I see on television, people who suffer severe anxiety following a terrible accident, and I've always mocked them.  Now I'm feeling about the same way.  I was feeling worthless before this occurred.  I feel even worse, now. 😣

I never found this to be therapeutic, this time 'round.
In fact, I feel a little worse off, now...

Working For The Weekend

As a child, I don't recall the seasons passing as quickly as they do, today.  If memory serves, the first day of school would arrive on a brisk autumn day, where the ground would be moist underfoot, by mid-morning.  The smell of wet wood and decaying leaves would fill our every breath, during recess, while a menagerie of scents and smells would invade our lungs in the classroom.  Chalk, paper and the rubbery hint of spent erasers.  That's what I remember most from school, at least.

These memories exist most prominent because they lasted for what seemed like an eternity.  First grade seemed to take forever to maneuver through, as did the second grade and the third and so on.  In fact, the years just seemed to drag on forever and ever.  I never once experienced the passing of time as quickly as I do as an adult.  I wonder if the same goes for school teachers..?

I woke up this morning, clicked on the computer and was shocked to see that the date already reads November 15th.  I remember the year just passing from 2015 to 2016.  It seemed, literally, like it just occurred a week or so, ago.  Granted, I remember the summer months, vividly, but they passed SO quickly.  In the blink of an eye.  Thanksgiving came and went even quicker than that, as did Remembrance Day.  Next is my birthday, followed by Christmas then it'll be a whole new year coming to pass.

I think I figured out the mystery of why time passes so quickly for Adult Jeff over Kid Jeff.  As a kid, you live life frivolously.  Going to school to hang and play with friends, never wanting the day to end, where as an adult, generally, we can't wait for the day to end.  We arrive at work, checking the clock and making that mental note that we only need to survive until our first break.  Then it's only an hour and a half until lunch time.  Thank God there's that break after lunch.  Following that, the daydream of how to get home while avoiding as much traffic as possible.

Everyone's working to get to the weekend and in doing so, we're neglecting to look around to see life passing us by.  I know I'm guilt of this trait.  I've been doing this so long, I've forgotten how fun life can actually be.  The moment I look on the calendar and realize that I have to return to work, I actually feel a piece of my brain, a part of my humanity, die.  Fizzle out like a spent candle and smolder into nothingness.

I can't believe the year is nearly over.  I can't believe it's less than two weeks until my birthday, where I'll be denying the passing of another chronological year.  Worst yet, I can't believe my four days off are over and I have to return to work, tonight.  F**k!!

Lemonade and a Shit Sandwich

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

What the f*ck is that supposed to mean.  When you have a string of bad luck, you should then embrace that bad luck?  That's f*cking stupid.  If life does nothing but serve up shit, ya don't make shit sandwiches.  You simply have to grin and bear it.  Granted...  If life continues to be nothing besides shitty, you should pretty much look at the constant.  That familiar face you see in the mirror.

I've had a shit ton of bad luck in the last few years.  I've been grinning like a motherf*cker, but it's starting to really wear on me.  I continue to put on a brave face and walk head-on into the abyss.  Lately, things have been starting to turn for the positive.  Starting with the job I got working for the city over the summer.  A decent wage for a fairly easy job.  Very little stress involved, aside the last couple of days when I caught that idiot co-worker sleeping on the job rather than working.  She threatened to get some guys to come and "talk" to me.  Other than that, I liked it, but it came to an end, then nothing.

I got a call about a month later and got hired with some shady cleaning company, but I wasn't too enthused about it.  I've never had a job that I wanted to quit before I'd even started.  Then, thankfully, last week I got a call from a local grocery store who hired me after a favourable interview.  I gladly called -- er, I mean, emailed the shady cleaner boss-guy (as he never bothered to give me a phone number.... or his last name) and let him know I wasn't going to take the job he offered.  The work I've been doing at the grocery store, is fairly easy, although I've been working primarily in the frozen food department, all the while fighting off the flu that I had recently.  A lethal combination.

I got a telephone call this past Wednesday for a job interview with some courier or warehouse job that is close to my house, the grocery store is half way across town.  Not a bad drive at 10:30pm, but hella long coming home in the morning.  Traffic is insane.

I like the work at the grocery store.  It's easy, requiring little thought.  The people at the grocery store, for the most part, are nice, but the pay is f*cking shitty.  Did I mention that wage is only a couple cents above minimum wage?  There's a night premium on top of that, too, but together, it adds up to pathetic.  Hopefully, the interview I have with this new place will go over swimmingly and I can quit the grocery job.

I broke my back in three places in January of 2014 and have done very little, by way of physical labour in the months and years since that day.  The grocery job is killing my back... for a couple cents over minimum wage...  I'd assume this warehouse job may be more of the same, but (hopefully) for a better wage.

I'm holding on to hope that eventually the City Transit will give me a chance and I can prove my worth there.  I know I can drive those buses and for the wage they pay, I won't mind where I have to drive.  Even if it's through 'the hood'.  It's amazing what I'll put up with for a high paying wage...  Maybe, that's what the saying means.  When people are continually shitting on you, just smile because you're getting paid a f*ck-ton of money for doing it!! 

Race Relations is a Two-Way Street

"Indian Giver" is a racist term.  It means to give something freely, but then take it back later.

I'm not going to gain any popularity by voicing an opinion on this subject, I'm sure.  I may even garner some hateful threats, reminiscent of the scandalous blog about Chewbacca having homosexual feelings for Han Solo.  People tend to only read what they wanna read.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a hundred percent certain on the historical records regarding the love/hate relationship between Canada and it's indigenous population, but as a citizen, I do harbour some feelings and attitudes towards the rhetoric that I see in the media.  Most times, I keep my thoughts to myself, because if taken out of context, which most often opinions are taken out of context, my beliefs may come off as insensitive or even racist towards First Nations people.

I'm just one (of many) who are growing increasingly tired of past transgressions of our ancestors being thrust onto our modern day doorsteps.  The arrogance of the white man as he stepped off wooden ships onto an untamed world, lush with forest, grasslands and primitive peoples, could have been and should have been handled with more grace and understanding.  The long game should have played a factor into the relationships between European settlers and the indigenous people.  I'll grant you that fact.  The relationship, however, was a two-way street.  For as many infractions made by whites, I'm sure there were some reneging on the part of the First Nation peoples.

My father owned a slick black 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible when he first moved to Saskatoon.  It was a car originally from Arizona and he loved that car.  As a young man with a new family, he had to sell the car to purchase a newer, more reliable car, as many young men of responsibility need to do and he sold his precious ride for a mere $400.  It was something that he long regretted and often looked back with seller's remorse.  He never once voiced an opinion that the buyer duped him out of his car.  That he was ripped off, nor did he ever once consider returning to the buyer to take back his car.  He never blamed others for his regrettable choices.

Grant you, when he sold the car, $400 was a reasonable amount, just as giving up some land to white settlers for some blankets and booze or whatever the exchange was, was fair trade two or three hundred years ago.  Looking back today, four hundred dollars for a future classic automobile, seems like chump change, as does the exchange of currency for land seems undervalued.

The river runs far deeper than that.  There's the subject of Cultural Genocide.  The apparent obliteration of native culture, language and beliefs by French colonists.  There's materials describing the heinous acts of First Nation children being forcefully removed from homes, forced to live in Residential School System.  At the time, it was viewed as a valuable process of assimilating the young Indian children into the West European/Canadian culture and way of life.  The method was labelled "killing the indian in the child".  The children were not allowed (and often punished) for speaking their native language or practicing their own religion or culture.  The primary goal was to convert the indigenous children into Christianity and to "civilize" them.

That was wrong.  I had nothing to do with it.  I'm not Christian nor am I French-Canadian, but that aside.  The whole ordeal was wrong.  I apologize for the insensitive nature of our history.  That's the thing, though.  It's history.  Just as the United States can't go back and erase the blunders of slavery.  Or Germany can't rewrite it's own contributions to the Jewish Holocaust.  We, as Canadians, can't go back and rewrite our own fucked up history.

For decades Canadian Prime Ministers and the Federal Government have been incessantly apologizing for the shortcomings of our ancestors.  Apologies have been made, financial restitution has been made multiple times.  Programs put in place to make the lives of indigenous people easier and to assist in moving forward.  First Nation art and culture has been embraced and thrust into our immediate society.  Hell, I can't drive anywhere in this city and not see any of the aboriginal art on display in one aspect or another.  I even have one of those little stone men things in my living room (although I fail to see how this is considered art...  Just sayin'.)

Art?  Seriously?

At some point, enough has to be enough.  To improve the relationship between aboriginal peoples and the rest of Canada, efforts need to be made on both sides.  If situations are bad in small Inuit communities, then funnel some of that casino money into improving the situations.  Use the programs put in place by the Canadian government to better yourselves.  For crying out loud, "Status Indians" get FREE post-secondary education, a financial tab that can run up to several tens of thousands of dollars, sometimes hundreds of thousands for us non-indian citizens.  I mean, what the fu---?!?

I've been unemployed for most of the last two years, because I fail to meet certain visible ethnic attributes.  I haven't let that get me down (entirely), but instead took the initiative to acquire other training to make myself look better on paper.  That was all completely out-of-pocket.  No subsidies to help me educate myself.  I'm not complaining.  It is what it is.  The tools are in place to better their lives.  There's really no excuse.

According to a National Household Survey conducted in 2011, people who had Aboriginal identity made up just 4.3% of the national population.  Of those incarcerated in our prisons, approximately 71% of them are Aboriginal.  There seems to be an outcry of injustice, but when you watch the news or pick up a paper, it's primarily indigenous people committing the crime.  Most of which, I believe, is native-on-native crimes.  Doesn't excuse the fact, but it's still a fact.

I don't hope to correct any injustices to First Nations in this article, nor do I believe it'll change anyone's outlook on the situation.  I damn sure doubt any First Nation people will read this blog and jump up in declaration, "Damn it!  He's right!  We HAVE been unreasonable!!"  Mostly, I needed to vent.  If we're being honest, I doubt anyone will read this blog at all.

Race relations in this country is a two way street.  When I was a kid, my parents split-up.  My mom took me and my sister away from the farm and moved into the city.  The apartment building that we wound up in, was primarily native people and within one week of getting settled, I answered a knock at the door and was greeted with a fist in my face.  The Indian male forced me back into the small apartment and proceeded to beat the ever-lovin' shit out of me.  I can remember vividly, being curled up in a ball, struggling not to swallow the teeth that had just been smashed in my mouth and receiving a further pummeling of my back.  When it was all said and done.  I was informed that "he" was the big bad Indian on the block and to not forget it.  To this day, I don't see how this was a method to improve the relations between our cultures.

That beating wasn't the only time I feared for my safety.  On two separate occasions, one in Prince Albert and another over by my mother's house, I overheard the comments, "Hey let's jump whitey."  The Prince Albert incident, I continued to walk down the street, pretending I hadn't heard what I'd heard.  The time in the city, here, I was with my mom, and I suspect that may have been why the lads chose not to gnarl this white boy.

I'm not saying that whites have never beaten the shit out of a native or two.  I'm sure it happens, but as I stated.  Race relations are a two-way street.

This week Prince William and Kate Middleton are set to land on Vancouver Island to tour the island as well as, the Yukon Territory.  Of the many festivities scheduled during their visit, they're also going to be confronted on the issues of cultural inequality and past transgressions against the indigenous people, including the estimated 150,000 children who were placed into state-run schools (by French colonists).  I'm not sure what they (First Nations) is hoping to achieve by these accusations.  Apparently, "SORRY" isn't good enough.

Comedian Christopher Titus once stated in one of his stand-up specials that: When you point a finger, three more point back at you.  Meaning no one is completely to blame.  Some burden of responsibility needs to be taken by yourself, as well.

When Western Europeans landed on this great country, indigenous people extended a hand of friendship and the Europeans proceeded to take advantage of the primitive folk and screwed them over at every chance.  Whites made repeated deals of "fair" trade and treaties of peace, only to renege and f*ck the First Nation people over again and again. ... Kind of gives new meaning to the term "Indian Giver", doesn't it?

The purpose of this blog was not intended to instill hate or racial insensitivity.
It would be defeating the message of equality if this were the case.

Death To Them All!!

Like a scene from The Amazing Spider-Man, the web extended across the entire opening of my garage.  I feared to speculate exactly what the spider was hoping to entangle in such an extravagant monstrosity of webbing, but found it even more troubling to have to rush to find a viable entrance into the garage.  Time was of the essence and I found myself doing that familiar dance in my driveway.  The combination of twisting, turning and struggle to rid myself of clinging strands of webbing.  I was only gone a couple of hours and upon my return home, the busy spider had repaired all the damage from where I'd infiltrated.

I've often struggled with the logic of WHY we need spiders?  They eat all the insects and flying bugs.  Alright.  I'll give you that one.  WHY do we need so many god damned insects and flying bugs, then?  What purpose do they serve?  They help plants to feed and grow.  Okay.  I'll give you that one, but WHY do we need so may damned varieties?  No answer?  Gotcha!!

This is further proof that there's no God.  If there is, there's no logic in why shit is the way it is!  Case and point; The Platypus.  A beaver with a duck bill who lays eggs.  The drugs must've been free flowing that day.

There's NO NEED for spiders.  Seriously.  Get rid of them all.  If we need spiders, then keep one species.  We don't need separate spiders for the forest, then another for the desert and another for urban environments then another for...  It's bullshit.  Just one.

I freakin' HATE spiders and I don't know many people who do like them.  There are those few who like to have them as pets.  I still scratch my head on the idiocy of that choice, but PEOPLE!!!  Choose another pet!!  For instance, get a gerbil.  They're small, furry and creepy looking.

What about Spider-Man?  They're fun movies to watch and comics to read, but that's all make believe.  I'm talking real life.  I'm sure you can get the same charm and charisma from a hero bitten by a radioactive gerbil.  Besides, when I'm watching the Spider-Man movies, a part of my brain is thinking about all the god damned webs left unattended in New York City.

I find tend to find a lot of spiders in my house.  I don't know how they get in here, nor do I know what they hope to catch in my basement.  With exception to a few ants, my home is essentially insect-free.  There's nothing to catch here, but my annoyance and anger.  However, like the ants that I discover, I make a deal with each and every culprit.  I tell them that IF they're able to survive being flushed, then they have an open invitation to live in my home for as long as they wish to stay.  Thankfully, no one has survived and even if they do, I'm quick to re-neg on my deal.

Worst of all, is my poor house.  I live in a four-level split and it's riddled with spider webs all over the siding.  I don't have the means to hose them off, at the moment, so my house is beginning to look like the Haunted Mansion on the corner.  I'm not real enthused about the whole situation.

I just finished having a back-and-forth debate on the impending doom / American election.  As a Canadian, I'm unable to vote, but I'd proudly back whichever candidate if one of the campaign promises was to obliterate the world of spiders.

Be Calm. It Was Just a False Alarm

I'm not going to lie to you, but it's been kind of a tense few weeks for yours truly.  About three weeks ago, in preparation for a visit to my diabetic counselor, I was sent for blood work, to monitor various levels of my blood in my daily battle with Type II Diabetes.  Within a couple of hours, I received an urgent phone call from my doctor, in reference to the test results.  Normally, I don't concern myself too much with such trivialities, but when a physician, especially one as busy as mine, takes time out of her busy day to place a personal phone call, one has no choice but to sit up and take notice.  She informed me that my platelet count was abnormally low and that I should return for another blood test the following week.

In the olden days, before the internet, news such as this would cause the mind to race in a thousand directions, imagination taking over and running thousands more scenarios.  These days, with the advent of the worldwide web, a diagnosis is available at one's finger tips and I wasted no time typing "low platelets" into Google and was not very encouraged by the results.  Web MD listed a few culprits, including Leukemia and Colon Cancer, but I wasn't experiencing any of those symptoms, so I quickly discarded them.  However, I was intrigued by the list symptoms for Prostate Cancer. I'd been experiencing some oddities in the weeks prior and Googled those symptoms which brought up Prostate Cancer as a possible cause.  Now seeing the ugly name rear it's head, once more, I became a little more concerned.

By and by, I never let it get me down, believing "It is what it is".  In years past, I've always believed that if I ever faced off with cancer, that I could and would beat it, so these past few weeks were definitely a test of that belief.

The following week came and I returned to the clinic for a follow-up blood test, only this time, I never received a follow-up phone call from my doctor.  A week came and went, followed by a second and still no telephone call from my doctor.  "No news is good news." they always say, and so I continued on, like there was nothing to worry about.

I saw my doctor, today, for my usual monthly visit and we touched base on the "low platelet" issue.  She chalked it up to a mistake made by the lab, as it's not normal for one's platelet count to fluctuate such a drastic amount within a few days of testing.  We each breathed a sigh of relief, mine much heavier than hers, I'm sure.

I've had a lot of close calls, in recent years, close calls and near misses that I've had to face on my own.  I know I have a small circle of friends that, if I needed to, I could lean on someone's shoulder.  However, I'm not the sort to trouble others with my bullshit.  When I broke my back a couple of years ago, that was a tough ordeal to get through on my own.  I'm not going to lie, but I managed to get through it.  When I had pneumonia, before that and X-rays discovered what was described (to me) as a "black mass" on my lung, I'll admit that was a heavy burden to shoulder, too.  All-in-all, recent years have really been taking their toll on me, emotionally, but god damn it, I'm grappling each one, wrestling it to the ground and rising above it all.  I'm like the Batman, only without the cool threads or the kick ass car.  I'm an excellent survivor.

What Lurks Beneath

The forecast called for dark clouds and rain on the long weekend, but miraculously, the clouds parted, allowing the bright sun to shine through, warming the land beneath it's glow.  Unfortunately, dad had to work this weekend, leaving mom at home with their three young kids.  Sara, the eldest, Jeremy the middle child and little Zack.  Opting for some fun, mom agrees to the pleas of the children to go outside to play.  "Let's go down to the park." she suggests, to the kids, referring to the park located near downtown.

There's lots to do at the park to occupy the creative imaginations of children.  There's the swings, a large slide, shaped like a castle.  There are zip lines and a massive fort made of wood and plastic, surrounded by drifts of silky sand.  It's everything to tucker out three rambunctious children.

The fact that it's a long weekend, coupled with it being early in the morning, no crowds have grown, yet.  The park is virtually empty, allowing the kids to run and chase one another, playing tag and other fun tasks.  Mom relaxes on a nearby bench with a book in hand, occasionally glancing up at her kids and smiling, as she turns the page.

"Mommy?" Jeremy asks, "What's this?"  She looks up to respond to her middle child, laying her eyes on the cylindrical object being held between his fingers.  A mask of panic shrouds her face as she instantly transforms into protective mama bear mode, leaping towards the child, dropping her book in the sand.

Located nearby, I was sweeping leaves out of a drainage grate, a task that normally only takes a couple of minutes, this day, I found myself extending my presence collecting up an overabundance of leaves and sand.  I could hear the kids laughing in the distance, which is always a welcomed sound.  The laughter and glee was momentarily interrupted by a concerned mother, who approached me with a small item clenched between her thumb and forefinger.

"Do you have anything for sharps?" she called out.  I turned my attention to her and was mortified by what she had in her possession.

During my orientation, there was mention of syringes and how they're often found on the playgrounds of our city.  It vexed me that there was now a danger where, if due care and attention was not exacted, there was a chance I could die.  The process of treatment was described in great detail and it was not for the faint of heart.  It really drove home the importance and immediacy of the dangers that lurk out in the world.

So far, I'd been lucky, having not crossed paths with anything as heinous as a syringe, but as I stared at the object in this young mother's hand, I have to admit I was horrified.  The needle appeared clean, as if it just came out of a box, but the end of the needle point was stained with dried blood.  I couldn't help but think how something that appears so small and insignificant could harness a disease powerful enough to kill whomever was unlucky enough to come into direct contact with it.

She handed it off to me, dropping it into the dust bin I had on my person.  She thanked me and returned to her children, who were still laughing and playing nearby, oblivious to the dangers that were lurking about.

The fear I felt now turned into rage.  I couldn't believe that some f*ckin' junkie piece of shit would [willingly] endanger the safety of others, more specifically, children, by hiding their spent syringes in the sand pit, rather than walking them the couple dozen yards down to the receptacle provided nearby.  Granted, whatever shit they just pumped into their vein, probably hindered their actions immediately following, but why the need to do it in the sand pit, to begin with?  Why not go be a f*ckin' loser junkie down by the receptacle bin?  There's nice trees and shit there, to engage their imaginations.

I was told by my co-worker that the city provides a service whereby they provide needles to junkies, free of charge, with hopes that they'll ply their nasty habits, responsibly.  This idea only infuriated me further.  I couldn't believe that this city, where I was born and raised, where I'm proud to call my home, supports the drug habits of these junkies, rather than getting them the assistance they so desperately need.  That's horse shit!

I'm sure this won't be my last encounter with an addicts discarded syringe.  This really opened my eyes and made the problem real.  I always knew it was a factor, but there's something about coming face-to-face with the evil that makes the danger more three-dimensional.

Jeremy got off lucky, as did his siblings and his mom.  No one was poked with the dirty needle, so no one will have to visit the hospital and be on the receiving end of a plethora of painful needles for the next six months.  The drug epidemic in our city, nay, our country, is getting bad.  And those participating are exercising poor judgement.  Why they choose to hide their dirty needles in the sand pit of a children's playground, far exceeds my imagination or logic.  I'll never understand it, just like I'll never understand why these fools turn to illicit drugs in the first place.

Hopefully, with fingers crossed, none of the children who come to any of our fair city's parks will get stuck by a delinquent needle.  But be warned, it's a real danger lurking out there, somewhere.

**While the family described above, was real, some artistic license was
made leading up to their visit to the park.  The names are all fabricated.**

Desperate Measures

What would you do for a Klondike Bar?  I don't know what I'd do for a delightful ice cream treat, but I do know what I'd do for a quarter!

Since the end of June, I've worked for the City of Saskatoon.  More specifically, the swimming pools.  I've worked at the Mayfair Swimming Pool, almost daily, mostly vacuuming the pool.  It's amazing the crap that I find dwindling at the bottom of the pool.  A shit-ton of band-aids, more hair than I can accurately relay onto my readers, but suffice it to say, that when combined, I could almost created my own St. Bernard.  I also find a lot of stones, hair ties, jewelry and some spare change.

It's mostly dimes and nickels that I discover at the bottom of my strainer when I clean the vacuum at shift's end.  Pocketing them, I consider it a small bonus for a job well done.  One day, I was pleased to find a loonie ($1 coin, for my non-Canadian readers).  I celebrated by buying an ice cream cone on the way home.  Today I found a dime, then moments before I was about to shut 'er down for the day, a small silver disc caught my attention in the deepest part of the pool.  "I think that's a twoonie." I said to myself, then set in motion the task of retrieving it from the watery depths.

The vacuum was extra clogged with hair and band-aids, so sucking up the coin proved futile.  I was slightly defeated, but had other tools in my arsenal.  Hell or high water, pardon the pun, I was going to fetch this monetary prize.  I tried the pool net, but the lip is too brunt, making it impossible to snag it.  Next, I affixed the broom head to the telescopic pole and proceeded to "sweep" the coin from the deep end to the shallows next to the stairs at the other end of the pool.  There, I thought I'd have an easier time to grab it.  Failure was imminent, but not an option.  Next I grabbed a small broom and dust bin, hoping to sweep the coin, which I could now see was just a twenty-five cent piece.  That little bugger would not budge, as if it were suctioned to the bottom of the pool.

By this time, my co-worker came over to see what I was fighting so desperately to retrieve.  "Oh.  It's just a quarter.  Leave it.  Someone will grab it." he said, with a snicker.

"Someone IS going to grab it," I said, "And it's going to be ME.  I've worked too hard to just walk away."  It's true.  I worked harder to get that quarter than I did for the previous three hours of work.  Finally, I rolled up my short sleeve and told my companion, "I'm going in."  He told me I was crazy.  That the water was too deep for me to reach the coin, but I was not about to accept defeat.  I laid down on my chest and plunged my arm in.   He was right.  What appeared to only be a couple of feet, turned out to be about three, but I'd come too far.  I plunged my arm in deeper, only this time I got wet.

Glancing down, my shirt was now drenched from my neckline down to about mid-chest.  "Awe, f*ck it!" I said and went for the whole enchilada, plunging my face into the pool.  With my eyes closed, I flung my arm around desperately, but unable to locate the coin.  I had to open my eyes.  "There it is!" I think I yelled, my voice obscured by the chlorinated water.  I grabbed at it, but couldn't pick it off the bottom.  "F*cking fingernails!" I thought to myself.

I lifted my head out of the water, for a quick breath and plunged the top half of my body in.  Fighting with this stupid quarter, pulling it to the side of the pool to raise it high enough to grab it.  My legs flung about, trying to steady the rest of my body, preventing me from falling in, completely.  Somewhere in the struggle, my left shoe flew off my foot and across the concrete pad.  I don't know what I looked like to my compatriot, but it was sure to be a pathetic sight to look upon.

Finally, I stood up, arm raised high above my head, with a single twenty-five cent piece held tightly between my fingers.  Water fell off of me, like water off a duck's back.  I was soaked, but never more proud of a job well done.  Proudly, I limped over to the building, where my shoe had come to rest, slipped it on and marched back to the pump house, where I removed my shirt to wring most of the water out.

What would I do for a Klondike Bar?  I have no f*cking clue.  But for a quarter, I'd plunge my head into a swimming pool and look like a f*cking idiot, doing it!! 

Holy Shnikeys!!!

For years I've heard reports of people calling 911 on a number of fast food restaurants when less than appropriate service was given.  Offenses ranging from breakfast no longer being available to Mickey D's running out of McNuggets.  All these years, upon hearing of these incidents, I was left scratching my head, bewildered by the stupidity and naivety of people's use of the emergency number.  Earlier tonight, I finally came to understand the frustration these people must have experienced.

It's been, at least, a couple of months since my last visit through the drive-thru at McDonald's.  Although buying fast food is hardly within my budget, I've been doing well in not wasting cash, lately and didn't feel like slaving over a hot stove and grill for sustenance tonight.  I was craving apple pie and decided, on the fly, to step into the nearby McDonald's to grab a quick meal deal and some apple pie.

I was shocked when I entered the restaurant, as they've all but done away with counter staff, replacing all with giant video screens, ushering patrons to point and click on what food purchases they crave.  I quickly went to my usual meal, the Quarter Pounder with Cheese and was shocked to learn the price had skyrocketed.  I'd been through the drive-thru a couple of months ago and the cost of the burger meal was a shade over the six dollar mark, but today the screen shone $9.85 back in my face.  That's nearly a four dollar rise.  I figured this was a mistake and went to the one and only counter person left in the establishment.

She was of a, shall we say, landed immigrant persuasion.  There's nothing wrong with that, but English was not her native tongue and had no idea what my concern was.  Confused, she ushered the shift supervisor over to assist me.  Sadly, his English was equally as poor.  I'm thinking that McDonald's had placed the video purchase kiosks in, specifically so people didn't have to battle the substantial language barrier with their kitchen staff.  I explained my concern that it was impossible that the price of a quarter pounder would jump nearly four dollars in less than two months, but through his broken English, I was able to learn that not only had the price of all the food at McDonald's had risen, but it had done so, several times over that two month time period.  I was shocked.

I was flabbergasted, vocalizing my disdain.  I pointed out that I could get a burger across the street, at Wendy's for less money and it would cost less.  He blankly stared at me, incapable of comprehending what I'd just said.  "So you want the quarter pound burger, sir?"

"No thanks!" I said, adding that the price was a rip-off to their customers.  "All I really wanted was apple pie.  Do you know if Wendy's across the street has apple pie?"

"I don't know what they sell there, sir.  Do you still want the quarter pound burger?"

"No, I don't want the burger.  That price is bullsh....  It's complete bull." I said.  "I want to swear, right now, it's so wrong!  Why did the price go up so drastically?  It's obvious you don't need the money for counter staff."

He parted his lips to reveal a crooked smile and answered, "No sir.  It's to adjust for the exchange rate."

"Exchange rate?  But Canadian McDonald's get all their meat and supplies from Canadian suppliers."

He continued to smile at me, "Do you want the apple pie?"  I asked how much and found that aside from the $1 drinks, the apple pie was the only other reasonably priced item on the menu.  $1.65 for two, albeit tiny, apple pies.

I paid for my fruity pastries and drove across the street to the Wendy's.  There were two police cruisers parked in the lot and I was tempted to report the robbery that McDonald's was committing on their loyal patrons, but didn't go through with the farce as I'm not a f*cking lunatic, but I did come to understand the frustration those people must have experienced in their unfortunate dealings with those fast food restaurants.

The burger wasn't any cheaper from Wendy's, but it tasted a helluva lot better than McDonald's ever could on their best day.  At least I got a Vanilla Rootbeer from Wendy's which was worth the extra couple of bucks, in the long run.

A very long time ago, I had decided to boycott McDonald's.  My goal was to not step foot inside or eat any of their food for a ten year stretch, and if my nephew hadn't been born, I would've made it to that goal, but unfortunately, in his youth, he wanted to go to McDonald's and my goal fell short by. literally, about six months.  After that, I continued my visits, as the prices were reasonable, though the food was shit.  Today, the food is STILL shit, but the prices are even shittier.  I feel another boycott coming.  Maybe this time I'll shoot for twenty years!

Impromptu Visit

Years ago, I found myself startled awake from a deep sleep.  Nightmares have never been something I've been prone to.  That's not to say I haven't experienced them, but not at the frequency that I know others have had.  On that particular night, I recall consuming a chocolate Easter egg or bunny before turning in for the night, and I immediately attributed the scary dream to the chocolate intake that evening.  Weeks later, I tried an experiment to see if I could get a repeat performance and while the dream that I had wasn't on par with the fright experienced that first night, the dream that I did have, was messed up nonetheless.

As I stated, I've had nightmares from time-to-time, but not like some unfortunate souls who are bombarded on a nightly basis.  Not to say that the few that I've had, haven't been frightful in their own right.  Usually, the dreams I have, concern the paranormal.  I see ghosts and apparitions in these dreams, but hardly ever anything to cause me to awaken in a panic with beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks, but serious enough to cause me to "sleep with one eye open".  Last night, though, as I began to fall asleep, I experienced something that felt borderline real.

I dreamt that I was on a city street, but not the one where I reside.  It was dark and the buildings around me appeared to be grey and blue in the dying light.  I was alone, when suddenly I was knocked to the ground by an unseen force.  The effort to turn over onto my back was easy as this thing, this entity, spun me over with a simple swipe of this jagged claw.  The creature appeared to be the blackest black I'd ever seen, darker than the shadows that surrounded us.  It had a faint blue aura outlining it's darkness and it's eyes...  It's eyes were the only source of light, albeit dark and grey as the same time.

It snarled at me with a mixture of anger and anguish as it leaped on top of my prone body and began swing it's jagged clawed arms back and forth, slashing me apart, howling and growling throughout the horrific ordeal.  I did my best to shield myself, but was failing miserably.  I can recall being confused and horrified throughout the attack.  Genuinely fearful for very own survival.  Then I woke up.

I looked around the dark room, realizing it was just a dream.  That I was, in fact, in the safety of my bedroom inside my house.  I looked beside me and the space was empty.  I immediately called for my cat, Monkey, to come and "protect me".  In the meantime, I closed my eyes, once more.

My eyes were only closed for a few seconds, an elongated pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkened room better, but when I opened my eyes, my gaze was met with the demon creature that I'd just dreamt about.  Only this time it was in my room, standing before my bed, inches from my face. It stood just under four feet tall, completely devoid of colour.  Darker than the darkness around it.  This time it looked down at me, flashing a jagged smile, as if it were about to finish the job it had began inside my dreamscape.  Just as it raised it's furled claw to take it's first strike, my cat, leaped onto the bed, passing through the darkened creature, which immediately dissipated into a vaporous cloud.

The room was empty.  What little light there was, lit up the room enough for me to recognize that it was just me and the cat who remained.  The remark I'd made earlier, pleading for the cat to come and "protect me", actually came to fruition.  He really did save me, I think.

The cat curled up on his corner of the bed, I folded my arm around him and whispered, "Thank you."  I closed my eyes and we slept peacefully, side-by-side, until morning.

I don't know what the cause for the impromptu visit was.  I don't know what the creature was or if it was actually real.  I do have a vivid imagination, but have never scared myself into a frenzy, before.  I never ate any chocolate before bed.  In fact, I had some chicken and rice about two hours before.  A healthy late night snack rather than a sugary one.  Only time will tell, I suppose.  If I survive the next encounter with this demonic creature, though I'm hoping never to cross paths with it again, I will certainly share that experience in this blog, as well.

    

(Image is similar to the creature that attacked me in my dream, only that one had long pointier ears.)

The Yo-Yo Effect - Struggle For Survival

Everyone's lives have ups and downs.  Life can be a wild ride, much like a roller coaster.  Exciting at times, scary and terrifying at others.  My life isn't any different than any of that, but my ups and downs have always seemed to go from one extreme to the other.  Plateaus as high as Everest followed by lows as deep as the Laurentian Abyss.  Thankfully, as my most bleakest of moments, when survival seemed trifle and frivolous, there was a glimmer.  I glint of light that would catch my eye, capture and entrapping my attention long enough for the dark clouds to clear and life becoming bearable and easier to cope with.  Things that made me smile, rather than retreating into my blackness.  I'm sure many people have these moments of epiphany and clarity, but I bet very few, if any, can recall those "ah-ha" moments or what turned their lives around.  I have three, that I'm willing to share.

My father died, surprisingly, seventeen years ago.  I can still remember it like it happened yesterday.  He was diagnosed with cancer and succumbed to his sickness within about a month and a half.  Growing up and for most of my adult life, he battled the bottle.  An alcoholic, he was extremely angy and violent at times.  I remember coming home from school, seeing his truck was home and knowing that some shit was about to go down.  Alcoholism is a sickness, of sorts.  An addiction.  An escape from the problems that plague one's life.  In retrospect, I suppose drinking heavily was his way of coping with his own rollercoaster life.

We had our differences, fists were exchanged, but to be perfectly honest he flung more fists than I did, if I had any at all.  However, years later, when my dad emerged from the bottle, quitting the drinking, he was the most fantastic person in the world.  All smiles, laughter and joking.  I loved to sit and chat with my dad, and I think he loved reminiscing old stories from his youth.  I heard many of the stories thousands of times and loved hearing the retelling of those stories.  Even today, something will spark a memory of one of those stories and I get a big grin on my face.  So when he died, I felt ripped off.  Robbed of all those years of my dad due to his dependence of alcohol.  I was devastated and soon found myself spiraling into the abyss.  Miraculously, I discovered a musical group that drew me out of my funk.  Allowed me to laugh, cry and scream at the top of my lungs.  Friends around me, failed to see me at my weakest and then when I became able to crawl out of my funk, disapproved of my method.

Through watching professional wrestling, there were a couple of dudes in WCW, the now defunct World Championship Wrestling.  Not only were the guys decent wrestlers, but they were successful rap artists, too.  I speak, of course, of the Insane Clown Posse.  Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope had a song called "Take It", which got my hooked and soon I was buying up all the CDs I could find.  I had officially become a bonafide Juggalo.  I've been a fan for seventeen years and through that time, when I felt my happiness and contentment slipping, I'd pop a CD into the player and give it a listen.  The Amazing Jeckyll Brothers was my introduction CD and I'm honestly surprised that I haven't wore that one out, yet.  It's definitely one of the CDs I'd want if I were stranded on a deserted island.

Fast forward to 2009, when my life went back into the toilet.  Plunged deep into the furthest recesses of the sewer.  It was a time when I can fully admit that I contemplated suicide.  I found myself an embarrassment and a disappointment to friends and family.  No amount of ICP was digging me out of that funk.  I was alone to deal with my situation, struggling to inch my way back to something vaguely resembling normalcy.  I was at home and plugged in the three seasons of TITUS, a comedy TV show that was based on comedian Christopher Titus' life and stand-up act.  Soon I was listening to all of his comedy CDs in the car and in his own way, unbeknownst to him, he saved my life.  Titus never strays from how fucked up his life got to be at times, but he survived.  My life was fucked up, too, in different ways.  No more, no less fucked up than what his life was.  He survived and through his comedy and ability to laugh at the problems, I survived.  No more sadness, feeling of unworthiness and especially, no more suicidal thoughts.

A couple years ago, it happened again.  I'd had an accident at work, resulting in three crushed vertebrae, a mouthful of smashed teeth and uncertainty for what my future held.  I was struggling to go to sleep one night, hopped up on pain medications and lying in bed.  To occupy my time, I was listening to Doug Benson's "Doug Loves Movies" podcast and there was a comedian on the show, whom I was unfamiliar with, but this guy was fun, jovial and had a laugh unlike anyone I've ever known.  My dad had a tremendous laugh when you got him going, but that pales in comparison to this comedian.

I soon binged on as much Bert Kreischer and I could humanly consume.  I found his stand-up on YouTube, discovered his podcast, CORRECTION, Bertcast and I've become a huge fan of his TV shows and everything-Bert.  I bought his book, bought the audiobook, which is funnier, and love everything Bert.  To be honest, Bert Kreischer is someone who continues to make me laugh and keep me stable in life.  That is..., until recently.

My shitty life has plunged once more.  The worst it's ever been.  Everyday I desperately fight and struggle, clenching, scraping and crawling mere inches, fighting just to make ends meet.  This is the absolute worst I've been since the death of my father, seventeen years ago.  I'm so unbelievably broke that my bills are literally a juggling act.  I've compared it to that circus act of spinning plates.  I'm struggling to get thirty plates spinning and just as I think I'm getting ahead, one or two of the proverbial plates come crashing down.  I was unprepared for this level of strife in my life.  Of course, it's this time that I learn that the Insane Clown Posse was coming to town.  Tomorrow, in fact.  When all else seems bleak, I know ICP would help me see the light, but due to financial instabilities I came to terms with not going to see my Juggalo mentors.

The other day, my friend texted me and offered me up his ticket.  Sadly, he's unable to attend and knows how much I'd love and appreciate going to this show.  I'm not a religious person, by any means, but this is like divine intervention.  Like the hand of a higher power reached down and gifted me this opportunity.  My friend, who can't go, who gave me his ticket, is a truly great friend.  We often disagree on some social commentary, but in the end, he's an awesome guy and I aspire to be as generous as he is.

Every time I turn around, it seems like I'm getting violently kicked in the nuts and yesterday I took another major hit to the nuts, but I'm going to see the Insane Clown Posse tomorrow night.  Despite all that's going on right now...  Life is good.