Out of the Black

I remember those old TV shows where someone would be driving home after an evening out with friends, but they'd never arrive at their destination.  Something nefarious was set in motion from the moment they sat behind the wheel, for there was a dark figure hiding in the backseat, who would accost them and eventually do horrible, terrible things to them.  As a young boy, I never understood how this was even possible.  "How did they not see someone hiding in the rear of their car, just inches from where they'd be seated?  Admittedly, these days, I will get into my truck, never peering into the backseat compartment.  The space back there, mind you, can be cramped and anyone of significant size would find it difficult to hide there.  However, I don't always drive my own vehicle and one such event occurred two nights ago and it's affected me in so many ways.

As a transit operator, my view of what is behind me is limited.  Many times, when I thought I was alone and began singing to a favourite song playing on the radio, I am surprised by the 'DING' of the stop request.  With all the security features that protect us drivers, sometimes you can't always see what or whom is seated directly behind you.  This is a huge problem for me as I've had many nightmares of questionable people stabbing me from behind.  It's a level of anxiety that I deal with on a daily basis.  So at the end of my shift, usually when I'm about to return the the garage, I'll pull over to the side of the road, secure my bus and walk the length of the bus, checking for lost articles or people left onboard.  The bus is always empty and I can shut off all the interior lights and be on my way.

Tuesdays are especially problematic for me.  I run an afternoon shift of the 40s.  Routes, 43, 45, 44 and 4.  The forties head out to Evergreen, Arbor Creek and Willow Grove and I do it all on a 60 foot articulating bus.  The size of this vessel can be a little overwhelming when you consider it's size, but in actuality, it's pretty easy to maneuver.  However, there isn't enough time to complete the routes in a timely manner and I often find myself 45 minutes to an hour behind, usually by no fault of my own.  First time was because I didn't have a working transit master (GPS) and I was unfamiliar with the routes.  Working off the book, it becomes increasingly difficult to read as the night grows darker and the interior driver light, overhead, is a freakin' joke.  The second time I drove the route, there was a car accident that blocked one of the two lanes heading into Sutherland and both occupants of the cars abandoned their vehicles, thus backing up traffic for hours. The last time, two days ago, the brainiacs with the City, chose to close College Drive, again, backing up traffic for nearly an hour.  It took me, in my elongated bus nearly an hour to travel three blocks and cross the College Drive bridge.  This put me behind almost an hour, so it was dark by the time I was rounding out my last loop, Route 44 (Willow Grove).  By this time, the transit master has gone blank because it thinks that I've completed my routes and it's gone to sleep, rendering me lost to figure out the route on my own.

As I approached one of my final stops before heading for downtown, I was stopped by a fellow operator who knows that I shouldn't be out so late, especially with the articulating bus.  This bus is mainly used for peak times when there's the potential for the most riders.  By this time I only had a handful of riders.  Krista, the fellow operator, boarded my bus and instructed all my riders to transfer to her bus, explaining that (I) was finished for the day and that she'd deliver them the rest of the way.  Krista walked to the articulating part of the bus, checking for everyone and urging them to transfer to the other bus.  I was double-parked, blocking the traffic behind me and neglected to do my own walk-through, believing that Krista had, indeed, cleared everyone for me.  I thanked her, shut off all my lights and continued on my way.

If you've read this far in my tale, I think you may know what is coming. 

Please bear with me.

I turned up my radio and began my arduous trek back to the garage, which is located outside the city on the west side.  Because there's a glare from the interior lights that reflects off the front glass, I like to shut off all the lights to allow me to see the road more clearly and when you're dealing with black ice as the temperatures drop to below freezing at night, especially driving a sixty-foot articulating bus which is notorious for jackknifing on frozen surfaces, I'll take all the helpful advantages that I can.

I was traveling south on Circle Drive at the posted speed of 90km/h, being mindful of the glistening ice crystals reflecting off the asphalt, in a pitch black bus when out of nowhere... A hand grabs my shoulder from behind.  My heart rate jumped from normal to a million in less than a second and I screamed at the top of my lungs and I swear that if I wasn't wearing my seatbelt, I would have exploded and skyrocketed out the top of the bus.  I began screaming at this person, telling them that they scared the shit out of me and asking WHY she didn't get off when she was instructed to?  She never answered she was almost as startled as I was and stepped back, disappearing once again into the darkness that shrouded the interior of the bus.  Frankly, it's a miracle that I maintained control of the bus on this icy surface.  I pulled onto the 8th Street exit and continued to berate this poor frightened woman.  I followed my tirade, immediately, with apologies for my reaction, again scolding her for grabbing me rather than speaking up and for not coming forward when the lights were first shut off, which was probably about ten minutes before this time.  I got her squared away at another stop that would take her the rest of her way to the downtown terminal, then continued on my way, taking an alternate route back to the garage, all the while, grasping at my chest.

Can a person literally be scared to death, I pondered as I struggled to calm myself.  I managed to get myself back to the garage, a choice that I continue to question to this moment, because what occurred next is still bothering me to this juncture.

When I came into the supervisors window, I saw the acting supervisor who asked if I was alright.  I was white as a ghost, had difficulty catching my breath and I was clutching my chest.  It was decided at that point that I should take a seat and 911 was called. 

The EMTs arrived within about 20 minutes and my heart rate had not slowed.  They hooked me with more than a dozen sensors and tested my heart, to make sure I wasn't having a heart attack.  Thankfully, I was not.  They urged me that I should go to the hospital for further testing and in retrospect, I wish I had taken them up on their offer as in the two days since this incident, I've had an uncomfortable pressure in my chest, which increases with fatigue.  I joked to a co-worker, that I believe I may have "blown a gasket".  I'm going to call my personal physician today for a follow up.  Last thing I need on my plate, now, is a fucking heart condition.

Tuesday night, all I wanted to do was go home, hug my cat and be thankful that I was still alive.

Apparently this woman, who was dressed all in black, was seated at the very back of the bus, out of the view of both myself and Krista, the other operator who'd vacated my bus.  The woman, I believe, didn't speak very good English and may not have understood the words that Krista was speaking, but to sit in the back of this bus, in total blackness, not knowing where she was going or what was happening, is still inexcusable, no matter what country she was born in.  Then to just grab someone, in absolute silence, was just evil.  She may not have intended her actions to be considered as such, but it was a terrible thing to do to anyone.

Ninety-nine point nine times, I check and clear my bus before returning to the garage.  The one fucking time I don't, this happens and it's affected me mentally and physically.  It's a lesson that I will not forget and like most life lessons, it's one that I've learned the hard way.

Sky Fall

Today was the first snowfall for the late autumn season and watching the snow fall from the sky, I was happily reminded of my cat, Monkey's, first experience with falling snow.  More on that in a moment.

Previous readers of this nonsensical blog, will be aware that I injured my brain in a fall a few years ago and while most of my faculties returned unhindered, my memory, sadly, has not.  Most of my long-term memories are gone and I struggle daily with my short-term memory.  So when I recall something that was previously lost, I celebrate the moment in some way.  Tonight, I'm writing a blog about my cat's first experience with the white stuff, as well as some of my childhood memories.  So sit back.  I'll try to make it brief.

From the time I was a teeny infant to my mid-to-late teens, I remember going to bed and waking up to a few inches of beautiful puffy wet snow.  As kids, we'd don our winter boots and coats and run outside to play in the white stuff.  It was a more simple time and the first snowfall would always put smiles on our faces.

In my twenties and thirties, I often recalled going to watch a movie at the old Rainbow Cinemas at the Circle Park Mall.  Go into the theater after driving through a downpour only to exit the movie to discover snow covered cars in the parking lot.  The air was eerily quiet considering how close we were to Eighth Street.  All one could hear is the sound of the wind and the crispy sound of snowflakes landing on other snowflakes.  It was almost magical, until you got into your car and reality suddenly flashed back into the present.

In grade school, at Boughton Elementary, we'd arrive in the morning and the city kids (myself and a hand full of other kids, lived on a farm, so we were bussed into the city), were already hard at work stomping out the wagon wheel pattern for a game we'd play.  Essentially, if a child were standing in the middle, they were safe, but if you stepped out of the center onto the tracks that made up the wheels or the spokes, a marauding player tasked with tagging the runners out.  I was never very good at not getting caught, but even more terrible at tagging people out.  It was kind of a silly game, but fun for a time before computers or game consoles. 😄

A few years ago, I drove school bus.  In fact that's what prompted me to pursuit my current vocation as a city transit worker.  Anyway, not to diverge from the subject at hand.  There were some newly landed immigrants who rode my bus.  They were Middle Eastern and in all likelihood, had never laid eyes upon snow, but watching these little children smiling and laughing as they played with the puffy snowflakes as they drifted downward from the sky, was absolute magic.  Words cannot explain how special that moment was.

As I drove away from the school, I spied those kids still laughing with big smiles on their faces as they played in the snow.  They clearly loved it, unlike another little fella who was panicked at the first snow fall.  He was only a few months old, at the time, so it was expected, I suppose, although it never donned on me until it happened.

I was downstairs watching TV when I heard Monkey run from the front of the house to the kitchen in the back of the house.  I overheard a small murmur, before he ran back to the front of the house.  He continued to do this several more times over the course of a few minutes.  His murmurs and meows growing more and more intense and stressed with each pass.  Finally, he ran downstairs to where I was, looking up at me from the floor, I could tell something was wrong.

I followed him upstairs and this was when I discovered that it was snowing.  Again, like in my youth, big puffy snowflakes, stuck together, falling from the Heavens and all the while, my boy, Monkey, was freaking the f*ck out and rightfully so.  To this sweet little creature, the sky was falling.  To this day, I refer to that moment as Armageddon. 😃

Those days of innocence are long behind us, now.  Nowadays, when it snows or rains, Monkey simply looks at me with disgust, blaming me for the weather instead of fate.

Can you believe he was ever this tiny?

Let's Face It!!

Let's face it!  Kids are stupid!  If they were so dumb, they wouldn't be in school from age five to eighteen and more.  To think that a kid will know what they want to do for the rest of their lives at age sixteen or seventeen is ludicrous.  When I was a wee little kid, I wanted to grow up to be a fire truck.  Not a fireman or the fireman who drives the big ladder truck, but the ladder truck, itself.  Why?  Kids are stupid, that's why.  At such a young age, especially these days, kids are quite unaware of how much work is required to achieve life goals.  I spoke with a former co-worker yesterday, who said they're having problems keeping staff at her place of work, citing one girl turned in her ID card, stating that she didn't know "work was this hard", then quit.

These terrible decisions are also true of those young folks who decide to get all tattooed up.  I'm a fan of good tattoos, but I believe they have to make sense.  Be artistic, yes.  Be meaningful, yes, to a degree.  Be logistically placed, yes, of course.  Be placed upon one's face?  F*ck no.  Unless you're a tattoo artist, a rock star or a lifelong convict, there's no place for face tattoos, and even then, I question the logical decision to do so. 🤔

Unless you're extremely lucky, like former gang member, Jeremy Meeks, who was arrested in 2014 as a result of a "cease fire" campaign by the Stockton (California) Police Department, for weapons violations.  The PD eventually posted Meeks' photo, along with some other convicted felons, on their Facebook page and the LIKES began flooding in and eventually garnered the young felon with a modeling career, from which he's never looked back on his criminal enterprises.  That was a fluke.  A one-in-a-million chance that paid off.  If the Stockton PD hadn't posted his photo, chances are, the young man would have returned to his criminal roots and would likely have been in jail or deceased on this day.

Today's celebrities should be leading by example, not inspiring those who worship them, to make ill-planned body modifications that would not benefit anyone not in their industry.  Face tattoos should be discouraged.

I am a tattoo connoisseur, although I haven't gotten one in more than a decade.  It just hasn't been financially feasible in the past few years.  I once had the belief that I didn't want a tattoo below my elbows, so that I could still get a decent job.  Then my friend Darcy passed away and I thought the best way to commemorate his life, in a way that I would always remember him, I placed a tattoo on my lower arm.  This allowed me to repeat my fond memory of Darcy when asked about the tattoo.  As good of a friend as Darcy was, I would never have posted a memorial tattoo of him on my face.

Perhaps I'm just an old fuddy-duddy, now, complaining about all those tattooed kids, but that's furthest from the point.  I just don't believe that face tattoos are a smart decision.  Case and point: This fellow to the right of this paragraph.  Loved the rap group Insane Clown Posse, so much, that as a young man, he had the group's face paint tattooed permanently onto his face.  A decision that he's come to regret in recent years, as he's never been able to establish a decent job.  Even one of the member's of ICP, commented on the idiocy of this man's decision, on an episode of Your Moms House Podcast with Tom Segura and Christina Pazsitzky (Christina P).  Whoever put that tattoo on this young man's face, (A) did a shit job of it and (B) should have refused to put the tattoo on his face.

Tattoo artists should have some say in the placement of said tattoos.  Aside from just being an artist, I believe tattooists need to be a sort of guidance counsellor, too.  It's their art on display, after all.  They should want it represented in the best light, not something looked upon daily with regret and disdain.

Another case and point:  This seventeen year old discovered the music of rapper, Tekashi 69, and as an homage to his favourite rapper, decided he was going to get all the tattoos of his hero.  He's just a child, making childish decisions, not taking into account the results of these rash decisions.  What makes this case even more jarring, is that his mother paid the bill for her child to look like the former gang member, turned American rapper.  This kid is in Russia, so either he's been drafted to fight in the War With Ukraine or his been imprisoned.  I'm leaning toward the latter, to be honest.

I have just three tattoos, myself.  The first one I ever got, was of Alistair Fiend from Motley Crue's Dr. Feelgood album.  It's an incredible tattoo placed there by a young apprentice who went on to get a job with Dark Horse Comics in New York City.  I wish I could remember the fella's name.  The second is an ICP tattoo, but it's of the Hatchet Man on my left calf.  Then the third is the memorial tattoo on my left forearm.  One day, I'd like to get a picture of my little boy, Monkey, over my heart.

Kids are stupid.  They don't know about cause and effect.  Not nowadays.  People coddle their children so f*cking much that kids don't know what the world has instore for them.  That every choice they make has consequences.  As established grown ups and mature individuals, we have a responsibility to help guide the younger generation, despite their having chips on their shoulders that they know what's best for this or that.  They don't.  They're dumb.

If there's any hope of the younger generation leading our world into the future, they can't have any past bad decisions haunting them as they maneuver their way into the future.  I have hopes that the future will be bright and hopeful, like in Star Trek.  Clean and law-abiding, not dirty and scorched, like that of Mad Max, although the latter seems more and more likely with each passing day. 😕

I'm not against self expression.  Everyone should be allowed to stand out in their own special way, but there should be a line that shouldn't be crossed over.  Perhaps it's not wrong to emblazon oneself with face tattoos, but it's not widely accepted, either.  I know that if I were hiring for a position in my company, it'd be very difficult to choose a highly qualified person with shit plastered all over their face, rather than the clean looking person who is underqualified.  After all, this is a person who would be representing my company.  The face that the public sees and I wouldn't want my product being represented by someone who has dozens of micro-tats placed all over their face like shredded confetti.  Maybe I'm just an old fuddy-duddy, nowadays, but there has to be some kind of order replenished in today's society.

There's a kid who gets on my bus every once in awhile.  He's maybe 17 or 18.  Face tattoos all across his forehead and cheeks.  He doesn't appear to have much of a future.  He just roams around aimlessly, hopping this bus and that bus, without any real destination.  I sometimes will see him laid out on the side of the road, staring aimlessly up into the sky.  He's a young man.  No apparent future, but to get high everyday and roam about without anywhere to go and any responsibilities.  I fear this is the destiny of many people who choose to get face tattoos.  I'm not insinuating that the two necessarily go hand-in-hand, but they're in the same vicinity.

I shouldn't care so much, I guess.  I have my shit in order.  I should only worry about my own situation and leave everyone else to their decisions.  Both bad and good.  As long as my tax dollars don't pay for their bad decisions, which I suspect they do, I should just be satisfied.  Satisfied and well aware that: Kids are stupid!

Sucker Punch

 

For years, people have poked fun, mostly in gest (I hope), regarding how much shit I'm allergic to.  These days, it's mostly foods that I need to be wary of, although there are some outside factors that can send me spinning into turmoil.

Allergic to the usual stuff, like nuts and sunflower seeds, which I don't even need to come in contact with.  If someone simply opens a bag or has a sandwich with peanut butter on it, my lungs tend to close up and breathing becomes laboured.  I'm also allergic to things like honey and beer and so many things that I doubt there's room to fit everything.  Chick peas, I learned the hard way, consuming some hummus at a restaurant many years ago.  My throat had closed off completely by the time I'd found a hospital emergency room that was open at 10pm.  This was when I found out that the City Hospital will not allow anyone in, no matter how bad they need medical attention.  Or at least that's how it was, twenty-plus years ago.

The one benefit to these allergies is that most of the foods that vegans and vegetarians (is there really a difference? 🤔) consume, is made with some item of food that I am deathly allergic to.  Sadly, that is the one and only benefit.  I'm allergic to dogs, so I doubt I'll ever be able to have a dog as a pet.  And I'm also allergic to beer, so there's no hanging out with the boys on the weekend, getting f*cked up and acting stupid.  Those who truly know me, though, are well aware that I'm able to act stupid, sans alcohol.

I'm also extremely allergic to perfume.  If women simply dab a little on, it bothers me, but I get over it quickly, but then there are those women who don't believe "just a dab will do", but choose to douse themselves with that nasty shit so that they don't just smell like whatever this shit is, but the environment around them does too.  One such lady boarded my bus on Monday and the smell has sent me reeling.  I've been sick for two, going on three days, so far.

I'm able to bounce back rather resiliently, but when my senses are overwhelmed, I find myself spiraling and I'm not even certain how to get out of the trouble it causes.  For three days, I've been sniffling, sneezing and coughing.  I've coughed so much that I swear my abs must look like a six pack, by now. (I haven't checked the mirror, but I'm happy to assume.)

The most unfortunate thing is I'm unable to go into the local drugstore, just down the street, as the moment you walk into the store, you're blasted in the face by a toxic mix of perfumes wafting towards the open doorway from the perfume counter greeting you immediately, like a slap in the face.  Like getting struck with a punch you weren't prepared for and as often as I visit this branch of Shopper's Drug Mart, I always forget that the perfume counter is right there.

For a company who prides themselves in the "ability" to help the public in need of remedies, they have a strange way of doing this.  Knowing how triggered many people's allergies are from just a whiff of perfume, WHY place the perfume counter at the front of the store?  The pharmacy should be in the front of the store and the perfume counter stuck back in the rear corner, away from the general public.

It's like the bulk store, putting nuts and peanuts at the front of the store.  I walk in there to grab some parmesan cheese, gummy bears or simulated bacon bits and I'm immediately punched in the stomach by rows of pecans, walnuts and peanuts.  Who designs this shit?  They need a firm smack upside the head.  Reboot that brain of theirs.

I remember as a kid, having such violent allergy attacks that it'd require my being placed in the hospital overnight or for a day or two.  I think it was my cousin's wedding that I went to, but had to stay in the Tisdale hospital, because we stayed at my aunt and uncles house, where they had a cocker spaniel.  Sparky, I believe his name was, but that's about all I recall of that dog.  That and he was completely black and would consistently make me sick beyond all belief.  Puffy eyes and laboured breathing.  I'd be hitting my asthma inhaler like a crackhead does his pipe, thus inducing an asthma attack, which for those unfamiliar is a scary situation.  Especially as a kid.  Each breath is a struggle.

As an adult, I've learned many techniques to avoid placing myself in such peril, but unfortunately, my job involves interactions with the public and that's a factor that I'm not in control of.  I can't predict the fool who will board the bus, ask me a question and spit a half cup of saliva on me in the process, just as I can't predict the woman who will dump a bottle of perfume on herself, instead of showering to get rid of her stink.  If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.

The Quest (for Tube Skates)

I've begun to see signs around town inviting young girls and women to come out and join a ringette team.  The sport reminds me of my youth.  Constantly being drug to rinks where my sister would be playing ringette.  I never enjoyed watching her, but her playing, afforded me some trips to different parts of the country, as her team would be invited to participate in tournaments.  The first (and only) NHL hockey game was the Edmonton Oilers versus the Hartford Whalers, waay back when Hartford still had their franchise.  I attended said NHL game, with my dad, who had escorted my sister and her team to a tournament in Edmonton, Alberta.  I don't remember anything about that weekend, except us two cheering for Hartford amidst a sea of Oiler fans.

My sister got involved with the game of Ringette in it's inaugural season.  The Ringette Association had come to our school and put on a demonstration, inviting all the young girls to come out and join a team.  My sister was so excited when she came home, ringette information in hand.  We didn't have a lot of money, when we were kids, but my parents managed to scrounge up the money for the necessary expenses.  The one item that I am reminded of the most, were my sister's pair of skates.

Probably the characteristic I adore most about my mom is her naivete.  There's an innocence about it.  She may knowingly be making a mistake, but she does it anyway.  Sometimes it can be annoying, but usually it's an endearing trait and a cause for a good chuckle.

In addition to all the equipment my sister was required to have before stepping out on the ice for the first time, my sister needed ice skates. Traditionally, at the time, girls skates consisted mainly of figure skates, with the jagged toe.  For safety reasons (obviously) figure skates were not allowed.  I remember being drug along on the adventure of driving all over town, searching for a pair of girls tube skates in my sisters size.  High and low, this way and that way, my mom followed lead after lead to find these skates for my sister.  Then finally, just before my mom was going to surrender to defeat, she found a pair.  They were perfect.  The right kind.  The right size.  Everything.  They even had faux fur around the top of the skate.  My sister was over the moon with joy, proud of her new skates and excited to begin a new adventure.

Fast forward to when she shows up to join her new team in learning the art of the new game, RINGETTE.  My sister is so proud of her new skates, she pulls them out and almost puts them on display for all the revel in her skates.  To her surprise, all the other girls had regular "boys" black tube skates.  I don't know how that revelation affected her young psyche, but she played that entire first season with those white tube skates with the faux fur around the top.  We didn't have a lot of money, so she had to keep them until she grew out of them.

My mom could have ended her shopping day early, by simply buying the boys black skates and everything would have been fine, but she chose not to look outside the box, instead dragging her reluctant son and anxious daughter around town looking for a white elephant, of sorts.

School Daze

 

It's that time of year again.  Back To School.  It was, believe it or not, one of my fondest memories about school.  It wasn't the actual return, although the idea of reuniting with friends and forming new comraderies was nice, the part I enjoyed most, was the anticipation of the return.  Like the countdown of a clock, the excitement would grow.

I grew up on a farm outside the city, so summer vacation was quite limited, unlike the kids who grew up in the city.  I didn't have a neighbour two or three doors down that I could hang out with all summer.  My closest friend lived about five or six miles down the highway.  Biking to his house would later become an option, but as a youngster, it wasn't safe to venture down the highway alone, even back then.  So my summer vacations were comprised of pretty much staying home and entertaining myself.

When the prospect of returning to school began to permeate, it was an exciting premise.  Reuniting with schoolmates, seeing some new faces, forming new friendships.  Playing games and having fun with actual people and not just in my own head.  The one aspect that I found more enjoyable than this, however, was the shopping for school supplies.  It was a joy that continues to this day.

Recently, I found myself in the stationary aisle at one of the big box stores, my eyes focused and scanning the many shelves and hooks at all the wondrous items.  Hundreds of pen styles and colourful markers.  Even today, I continue to buy shit, storing them all in a basket in my home office, rarely even opening them to use.  I have stuff, here, that I've paid good money for, stored away and have never looked at since it's purchase, except only to remind myself that I have it, when I go searching for another item.  When Target closed up their stores, I went in there and cleaned house.  I bought a shit-ton of discounted items, which I then stored up in my home office and haven't laid eyes on since.  Pens, paper, markers, rulers, paint, staples, paperclips...  You name it, there's a chance that I may have it.

When I was a kid, the joy was the same.  Books, binders, loose leaf, crayons, etcetera.  It was crazy.  Crazy cool and crazy fun.  I felt that the choice in scribblers and binders would define me as a person.  Help me standout from the crowd.  Make me special, perhaps.  Maybe another student may admire me or be impressed by something that I had, that they did not.  I was hoping to be admired, I think.

We never had a lot of money when I was growing up, so I appreciated everything that I got.  However, the year I was allowed to have the 48pk of Crayola's, I was over the moon with excitement.  I felt like a Rockefeller.  Striding into school with my bag of goodies and unpacking my bounty for all to see.  Anticipating the excitement of the neighbouring child looking over and reveling the appearance of the illustrious 48pk of crayons, which shadowed their pitiful 12 or 24pk crayons.  The very children who should have showered me with glory, instead commented on my 48pk, saying, "Those are nice, but have you seen Scott's 64pk of crayons?"  Suddenly, the wind had suddenly disappeared and stopped filling my sails.  I was foiled by the new kid.

Scott was the new kid.  He had arrived in school late the previous spring, but all-in-all, he was still the "new" kid, as there wasn't anyone newer to replace him.  Scott had come to our school the previous year, arriving on a day when I was at home sick.  When I came to school, I asked to play with a friend, who told me NO, telling me that the "new kid was more fun".  That damaged my fragile ego as a seven year old.  After that initial shock, I felt like I was having to catch up and continued to feel that way for a very long time.  I never became friends with Scott.  I don't know if it were out of resentment or if it was just that he was a cocky little shit.  To this day, I couldn't give you a definitive answer.

Scott's family had migrated from Europe.  One of the Scandinavian countries.  I can't remember which one, but he did bring his father's wooden shoes to Show-And-Tell one time, so whichever country that was.  His family had money, obviously, because the 64pk of Crayola's was not cheap.  It was the package that had the pencil sharpener in the back so your crayons would always perform at their pique best.

I was always a shy kid, so anytime I thought I could be special and liked by the other children, was a positive thing, but when I continued to get shit on and foiled by those who would eventually come to bully me, school wasn't all that much fun.  I can't imagine the enormous pressure kids must have nowadays.  What with social media and all that other bullshit.  I had it easy by comparison.  In some ways, though, I still feel like that shy little boy who wanted nothing more than to be liked and make friends.  These days, I have a few friends.  Not many that I spend an evening with socially.  Time, family and distance has all but robbed me of those joys.  I still cherish every single relationship that I've made.  Wish I could see some people more.  Share some laughs.

That's kind of how I view some of these new jobs that I've started.  I size people up and wonder, if we'll be friends.  Go out and see a movie or something...  So far, it's a no go, but at least I have some that remain by my side.  Give me the support that I need, for which I thank them all.

Holy shit!!  Can you imagine the dreams being crushed by the kid who brings this incredible collection of pencil crayons to school? 😬

Sammich

Disclaimer:  I know people don't care about my new vocation and are probably tired of my speaking about it, but as an amateur writer of this blog, I can only write about the thoughts and experiences I have on a daily basis.  As such, some of my topics are going to involve my job.  Apologies.  I don't wish to alienate the one or two people who actually entertain the thought of reading my bullshit, but it is what it is.

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As a transit operator, we don't have scheduled coffee breaks, like normal people would at a normal nine-to-five job.  There's no gathering around the water cooler to talk about Jan in accounting and the faux pas she made at the staff party or whatever you folks talk about.  When we have a chance to run in to use a bathroom or grab a beverage or snack, we have to do it when it's convenient to do so.

Yesterday was one of those days.  A seven-plus hour stint on a bus with no air conditioning and very little time to spare between, what I call, "laps", but runs of the route.  It was late in the afternoon when I had arrived at the downtown terminal to drop off riders and pick up new passengers for the trek back to the Confederation Mall terminal.  

Having a few fleeting moments to spare, I grabbed my sandwich out of my lunch box.  Granted, the sandwich did not appear as well-crafted as the sandwich in the photo above, it wasn't ugly by any means, but the very moment I bit into the sandwich, I heard a heavy....  I can't say it was a "heavy sigh", but it was definitely an expression of disgust.  The sound was followed up by a loathing remark, "Ew.  You're eating on the bus?"

I looked behind me to see a young woman in her early to mid-twenties, with dark hair and glasses,  standing with a horrified look on her face.  I explained that we (drivers) don't get to have breaks, so we grab a bite whenever we can.  This explanation wasn't good enough for her, though.  She continued to berate me and the transit system for this practice.

"It's disgusting!!" she said, "In fact, the 2 and the 10 (in reference to the route numbers) are the worst buses in the city.  Absolutely disgusting!!"

I placed the remainder of my sandwich back in the container and returned it to my lunch box and apologized.  "Sorry.  You're right.  I won't bother eating now.  I'll do it when I go home in four and a half hours."

"No, no!" she said, insisting that I eat my lunch, but that it was gross to do so on the bus.  She told me she had examples of why this was such a terrible idea, but "spared me the gruesome details, as she didn't want to make me sick."

In the normal world or any other job I ever had, I would have told this woman where to go 🔥 and how to get there, but I can't on this job.  As the management makes very clear in the training process, "we're representatives of the city and must act appropriately" which I presume includes being a verbal punching bag to the community of which we serve.

I've had many jobs where I probably could have and should have taken breaks to consume a sandwich or snack, but I've always felt that because these jobs were primarily, me sitting, that the point of a coffee break was moot.  Whether I was a courier or mowing grass in a tractor, I never took breaks.  Onlookers would often witness me driving, steering wheel in one hand and a sandwich in the other.  It was never a big deal.  Even prior to this experience, it was never an issue.  People would sometimes comment, but it was always of a positive nature.  "Gotta eat when you get a chance, eh?"  They'd say with a smile.  Not this time, though.

Moving forward, I will continue to grab a snack or eat my lunch when I have an opportunity to do so.  I don't give two shits about what that chick thought.  I only obeyed, because the bus is under constant video and audio surveillance.  If I were to step out of line and tell someone to shut up or ignore a complaint of this nature, I'm sure I'd be hauled into an office and sternly spoken to.  I've heard that some of my fellow hires who began at the same time as myself, have experienced similar visits to the supervisors and management.

I like my job.  I wish to keep my job.  So I'll take the shit and abuse for the time being.  At least until I'm off probation in January. 😉

P FLOYD

 

Saw this gentleman, today, with this personalized plate.  I approached him and making small conversation, inquired if he was a fan of Pink Floyd.

"No." he replied, adding that almost everyone he comes in contact with asks him that.

"They're a good band," he said, "I've nothing against them, but no.  I wouldn't call myself a fan."

He glanced down at his license plate and with a heavy sigh, he said, "My name is Peter.  Peter Floyd and I regret ever getting a personalized plate with my name on it, for this very reason.  Everyone asks if I'm a fan of Pink Floyd."

RUSH Weak

RUSH, the Canadian rock group, formed in Toronto in 1968, but not as the trio you see before you, but as three different fellas, altogether.  In fact, Alex Lifeson, pictured to the right, is the only original member.  The original lead singer/bassist, was replaced with Geddy Lee (center), as was the original drummer, replaced with Neal Peart, in 1974.  All facts that a typical super fan would know, but I am not a super fan.  I'm not even a fan.  Often times, if able, when Rush comes on the radio, I immediately change the channel.

I've never met a RUSH fan, but I know they exist.  On TV, when a Rush song comes, up, the actors all clamor and begin playing imaginary air guitars, mirroring the notes played by Lifeson and Lee.  Personally, I can't for the life of me, understand how or why this triad of musicians ever made it to the level of rock star fandom that they have?  Of course, then again, there's no accounting for taste.  After all, look at The Beatles.  Bunch of no-talent hacks who have a special place in the hearts of millions around the planet.  Perhaps, like the case of The Beatles, it's the music itself.  The lyrics, maybe?  Are the words intricate and special, so much that they bring joy and warmth into a captivated audience?

Referring to The Beatles, for a moment, the songs themselves, weren't and aren't terrible, it's just that when The Beatles performed them, they weren't very good.  At least that's what my senses tell me when they come on the radio.  Although when another band performs these Beatle-classics, the songs sound wonderful, fun and good.  I've never heard any bands covering any Rush songs.  I'm sure they exist, but nothing that has ever made it to radio.  Not to my knowledge, at least.  I'm not familiar with their catalogue, so maybe some songs have leaked into mainstream media.

Like nails being drug down a chalkboard, a sound so harsh, it makes most of those around it, recoil and wince.  This is the reaction I get to hearing Geddy Lee's voice screeching out the lyrics to the bands many "classics".  Lee's voice is high pitched and screechy, resembling the sounds emitted when cats fight.  Even many of the fans of the band, have admitted that Geddy Lee has a terrible voice, yet they still love the performances so much.  It blows my mind and I know that if I put too much thought into it, there's a very good chance that I might suffer a brain aneurysm as a result.

I stated before that I never met a fan of Rush, but I am now reminded that I once worked with a fellow who swore up and down that Rush was the greatest band that had ever lived.  We'd work nights and we'd all bring in music to play on the stereo to break up the usual monotonous silence.  The supervisor would bring a plethora of shit that I hated at the time, but grew to enjoy.  I'd bring in my menagerie of shit that would, more often than not, be met with much hatred and Richard (I believe that was his name) would bring in Rush.  Always Rush.  It got to the point, for me, to retain some sanity, I'd sing along to his music, but I'd make up my own lyrics.  This drove Richard insane, but made me laugh.  So much so, that here we are, nearly two decades later and any time I'm unable to avoid listening to the garbage spewing from the mouths of Rush, I still sing along using my own lyrics.  There's one song in particular.  I don't know the song, but I refer to it as the "Brand New Pants" song.  I think the lines go: I'm a new age man. And I've got new pants."

RUSH, the band has had numerous band members come and go throughout the decades and a vast number of albums.  Lee's shrill vocals have always been an detriment and a gift for music lovers.  I hate it, but many adore it.  Again, there's no accounting for taste.  After all, how is it that Fleetwood Mac is the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame?  I think they have one song that doesn't suck.  I'm getting off topic, sorry.

Twenty-four gold records, fourteen platinum and three multi-platinum records to their credit, placing them fifth overall, behind The Beatles, Rolling Stones, KISS, and Aerosmith.  

Alex Lifeson has been praised for his prowess on the guitar and I only grew to be aware of this fella, when he appeared on Trailer Park Boys and played the song "Closer To The Heart". It was a sweet moment in an otherwise, hilarious episode that pitted Bubbles against Ricky in a debate on who the better rock group was.  RUSH or Helix.  Personally, I choose Helix.  They rock!! ✊ "Give me an 'R'.  'O'. 'C'. 'K'...."  Classic!

Drummer, Neal Peart, has been touted as one of music's greatest performers, his drum kits growing larger and larger with each passing year.  He's been voted as one of the top drummers of all time.  He's also garnered much recognition due to his contributions to the lyrics of Rush's music.  Words so unique that they also ruffled a lot of feathers.  While gaining praise on one hand, he was highly criticized, as well, also earning himself a second-place finish in Blender Magazine's "List of the Worst Lyricists in Rock".  I don't know a whole hell of a lot about many things, but I think Blender Magazine pretty much hit the nail on the head with that one.

Not to speak ill-will of the dead.  Peart succumbed to Glioblastoma, a type of brain cancer, in 2020, canceling any thoughts of a band reunion.  With all due respect to the dead, my ears thank you for that.

Like Global Warming, bitching about it now isn't going to fix anything.  There's no reset button that will allow us to go back in time to the point where everything that was good in the world, will revert back to the way it was.  We're always going to have RUSH and Tom Sawyer will always have brand new pants.

Cyclists Be Wary

I nearly ran over a kid on a bicycle with my bus, Friday night.  Scared the living shit right outta me, along with a couple attentive riders.  The kid, unknowingly sped off, never realizing how close he came to becoming a crimson stain on the asphalt.  I joked that my britches were still dry, but in reality, I spent the next ten minutes taking deep breaths to overcome the high level of anxiety I was experiencing from the ordeal.

I would estimate that about ninety percent of those I tell what I do for a living, all repeat the same comment: F*ckin' bike lanes.  While I agree that the bike lanes do impede progress on some streets, even going so far as to reduce public parking for automobiles, they're not the bane of my driving existence.  My peeve are the cyclists who insist on riding in traffic, immersing themselves alongside speeding motorists.

I don't know if it's a bi-law or whatever, but for some reason, a majority of cyclists ride in traffic, which causes more problems than it solves.  While I agree they probably shouldn't ride on public sidewalks in the downtown area, I can't say the same for the arteries leading out of the downtown.  Streets where there isn't congested foot traffic, I don't see a problem with cyclists riding their bikes on sidewalks.  It's safer for them and safer for us motorists.  There's less stress and ultimately less anger and confrontation.  Or at the very least, those who insist on riding their bikes on street surfaces, should find a less traveled route.  Side streets and such.  Areas where they're less likely come up on the losing end of a fight with the bumper of a car and no offense, but you're goofy looking helmet is not going to protect shit, when that happens.

I have no problem with anyone who chooses to ride a bicycle over climbing behind the wheel of a motor car, but at the same time, I have no empathy for the cyclist when they ultimately do meet face-to-face with an automobile.  I'm a firm believer that bicycles belong on the sidewalk, not in the street.

Most modern sidewalks are built quite wide.  Certainly city planners could make them in such a way that both cyclist and pedestrian could share the space.  They already do so in the newer parts of town with the bike/hiking trails and shit.  No reason why the same can't be done elsewhere, too.

I understand that not everyone can afford a car and at the ever fluctuating prices of gas and diesel, even I have thought maybe another form of conveyance would be best, but in the end, I come to my senses and continue to drive.  That aside, for those who do choose to cycle rather than drive, should do so with an ounce of consideration.  Consideration to those who do require the city streets and the limited spaces available do successfully travel and also consideration for their own safety.  Getting hit by a vehicle is no picnic.  I've had fender benders in my youth and it hurts.  Both physically and mentally.  Getting hit by a Buick while riding your Schwinn is far worse, often ending in death.  Is it really worth it?

IF, and that's a big IF, a person is capable of keeping up with traffic speeds, ie. 30km, 40km, 50km or more, then hell yeah!  Welcome to the fast lane, young chap!  However, if you are not able and we (drivers) forced to follow behind your sorry ass, because you're too stubborn or too proud or too ignorant to pull over to allow us to pass, then you're an asshole.  Plain and simple.

I can't count how many times I've been stuck behind some asshole riding his bike down 20th Street in Saskatoon, with three giant bags of recycling slung over his shoulder, meandering back and forth across two lanes, like he's riding his bike down a summer trail next to a babbling brook.  It's infuriating.  You can't pass the dumb son-of-a-bitch, because there's a fairly good chance he may stray in front of you.

I can't say for sure what is worse.  These drunken idiots on their bikes or the assholes who act like they're a passenger vehicle until they have to follow the rules, like stopping at a red light.  That's when they decide that they're no longer a motor vehicle and now they make up their own rules and plunge forth, cutting through a busy intersection.  I would have to take my shoes and socks off to count how many near-miss accidents I've witnessed as these bicycle short wearing motherf*ckers cut through an intersection of cross-traveling motorists.  On Preston and 8th, alone, I've seen nearly a dozen.  Maybe more in the downtown district.

I haven't witnessed anyone getting smoked, yet, but will likely chuckle when I do.  It'd be justified.  If you're gonna act like a dumb piece of shit, don't be surprised when you get rundown like a dumb piece of shit.

Friday night, it was dark.  Real dark.  The time was around eleven o'clock at night.  One of my final runs for FolkFest.  I was traveling east on Taylor Street, waiting at the lights for some pedestrians to cross Arlington Avenue.  My destination was a mere few feet from that point, when it was clear to proceed, I began to make my turn when a darkly dressed kid, meandered around my bus, nearly getting himself squashed in the process.  I sounded my horn, but the kid never flinched.  Just kept riding, quickly disappearing into the darkness.  It scared the bejesus outta me, sending me spiraling quickly into a state of anxiety.  If I would have hit the kid, it'd reflect poorly on me.  They say in training to be intuitive of everyone around you.  Three hundred and sixty degrees around you, you need to be aware of what everyone may or may not do.  For the most part, I can do that.  I can't, however, speculate the actions of a dumb little bastard who appeared out of nowhere.  

If I would have run the little fella down, would I have felt terrible?  Perhaps.  Probably more so for myself than for him.  I can't feel bad for the actions made by a stupid person.  I would have felt horrible for myself.  I'm still under probation for the next few months and I don't want to lose this gig.  It's pretty cool, for the most part.  I like it and it pays well.  A selfish position to be in, perhaps, but it's nevertheless true.

These words that I type, tonight, won't solve anything.  I will get up tomorrow morning and go back to work.  I'll start up my bus and drive my assigned route and will undoubtedly cross paths with another selfish, overindulgent cyclist who believes the street is for his use only and motorists be damned.  Nothing I say in these few paragraphs is going to change any minds.  More than likely, anyone who's spent any time getting to this point in the blog, will likely side with the cyclists and call me an asshole.  Whatever.  This has been therapeutic. 

There was one bicycle rider that I knew once upon a time.  He was a friend of my mom.  They'd grown up together, going to school.  He'd lived in the city, here, almost as long as she has.  His name was Donald and he was a little person.

Donald used to live in the same neighbourhood as my mom and delivered the flyers to her street.  One evening, Donald was riding his bike down the street.  Being a little person, he wasn't able to ride a regular sized bike, opting instead to ride a child-sized bike.  He had been riding along the parking lane of the street, out of the drive lane, but some distracted fella in a pick up truck, ran over Donald on his little bicycle.  Run him over and proceeded to drag the poor guy for several blocks before the inherent sound of scraping and clanging forced the driver to stop and make the grisly discovery.  Donald, obviously, did not survive.

When I first learned of Donald's demise and how it had occurred, I was extremely disturbed.  The thought of what must've been going through Donald's mind in those final moments of his life was quite disturbing to me on a personal level.  It's not something I'd ever want to experience in my own life.  That being said, if Donald had been riding his little bike on the sidewalk, he'd still be alive today.