Show of Gratitude

 

To tip or not to tip? That is the question of the day.  When is it appropriate to tip for services rendered and when is it okay to offer a gratuity at all?  This seems to be a debate that arises every now and then.  Gratuities have become so expected that some businesses have the option on the payment device, where you have no option, but to leave a tip, whether deserving or not.

When I enter a business, like a restaurant, I already have a base tip in mind for what I'll give to my server.  Then in my mind, like the reels of an old alarm clock, that tip amount either flips forward for a higher tip or backwards for less, all depending on how my companions and I are treated.  Whatever the company I'm sharing dinner with wants to leave is up to them.  I only know what I'm prepared to leave.  Of course, I read the room and if I receive shitty service because my server is overworked and busy with a shit-ton of tables, I take that into consideration, but overall, it's all attitude.

Just last evening, I decided to check out a new burger joint that I've been passing by for a few weeks.  I chose to take my food out.  I paid for my order and right away the debit machine prompted me to pay a 10%, 15% or 25% gratuity.  "No Tip" was not offered.  I protested, as I don't see the need to tip someone who takes your order.  They didn't go above and beyond.  In fact, this girl was just...  Blank.  I don't know if she just didn't want to be there or if she was on something, but a tip was not deserved for the interaction I had.  Plus, I ordered no pickles and got pickles.  She instructed me to stand to the side, at the pick-up station, so I did so.  A few minutes later, another gal comes along and verbally scolds me for standing there, ushering me off to the far side of the tiny dining area.  The burger and onion rings that I ordered were, albeit, fan-f*cking-tastic, but the service was pure shit!!  I'll probably go back, for the food, but no monies other than the food purchase, will leave my hands.

Same goes for pizza.  I always opt to pick up my pies, as delivery cost is exorbitant.  When I go to pay, they always expect a tip.  I'm not paying someone extra just for doing what is expected of them.  If I got delivery, then yes.  Of course, I'll tip.  I'm a professional driver, so I'm quite familiar with the obstacles and stupid drivers out there.  A delivery guy (or gal) should be compensated for the extra stress on their sad little lives.

In a perfect world, all the servers should be compensated with their paychecks.  Supplemental gratuities, shouldn't be necessary or expected, but many businesses just pay their help minimum wage and who the f*ck can live on minimum wage.  In some U.S. restaurants and bars, the wait staff only earn money through gratuities from their patrons.  Other businesses, have the wait staff split the tips they earn, with the kitchen staff, who didn't do shit, except their f*cking jobs.

In the end, y'all are going to do what you want to do.  It makes no difference to me.  I'm not here to try and sway public opinion one way or another.  This is simply my belief on the matter.  Go above and beyond, you get tipped well.  Give a shitty attitude then expect to be heavily compensated?  Eat shit!!

 

Years ago, when I used to frequent the bars, I'd tip very well. Especially as the night grew darker and darker and the drinks kept coming.  The tips I gave out mirrored how inebriated I was.  The drunker I got, the more money my waitress would make.  Even more so, if she were a hottie.  I don't drink anymore.  I can't afford it.  I don't enjoy it and Covid has pretty much killed the nightlife scene around this city, anyway.  Plus, all the bars I went to have either been torn down or turned into gay bars.  F*ck is there ever a lot of gay bars in this city... 🤔 What the f*ck??

Sorry.  Got distracted.  😵

Tips and gratuities...  I don't know. Do whatever you want.  I don't think they're always necessary.  You be you, Boo and I'll be me, a cheap cynical bastard.

 💸

Wordage

 

I enjoy drafts.  Listening to All Fantasy Everything, hosted by comedian, Ian Karmel, he and his friends draft everything from best Taco Bell items to Favourite Music Videos to Best One Word Movie Titles.  The podcast has existed for many years and they've not lost on topics to draft.  Way more than can be covered in the opening paragraph of some blog that nobody reads.  Suffice it to say, it's something that I've found personal joy in doing my own drafts and sharing them on Facebook.  I've even shared some with Ian and the AFE podcast.  A couple months back, I concocted my own draft, which I shared with Ian via Twitter and he liked it so much, though he never specified it, I think he may (if he hasn't already) pose that as a subject to draft on All Fantasy Everything.  It'd be fun to find out their picks.

Cruz FM, here in the city, also does a draft.  It's done by morning DJs, Stacie Cooper and Clayton Kroeker.  Usually only local things or items from the province are drafted, but it's still fun to listen to and vote on who the winner is.

All this influence and I've come to the point where I'm going to do another "one-off" draft that, to my knowledge, has not been done yet, but may in the future if someone likes it.  Today's draft is going to be my FAVOURITE WORDS.

Before moving forward with my list of favourite words, I feel it necessary to compile a short list of the words I don't like.  Absolutely detest them.  The first word that I don't much care for: FAKE.

I absolutely hate the word: Fake.  It has such a negative connotation associated with it.  I think it's association with professional wrestling is where it garnered the most hate from me.  Reducing the efforts of what those men and women do in a wrestling ring, to "fake" is a slap in the face to their talent and athleticism.

The next word that I absolutely detest and the irony is not lost on me, is the word: HATE.  My dislike for this word is a thousand percent.  It's a word that should be stricken from the books, as it invokes the worst in people.

Another word that deserves to be stricken from the record is the word that isn't really a word.  PROLLY is for stupid people who can't spell probably.  In a world where auto-correct controls all of our communique, it's hard to argue that prolly should exist.  Yet thousands of dummies continue to use it and it drives me crazy.

Last word I detest and probably the most controversial, is the name of a Canadian Resort.  Banff.  I've always, since I was old enough to speak, have hated that name.  The letters sounds for N and F should not be placed right next to each other and as a result, I'm not confident that I can pronounce it correctly and thus makes me feel like a f*cking idiot!!  Change your name!!

This is a nice segue into my draft for the words that I absolutely LOVE.  These are my favourite words and I try to use them on a regular basis because they're fun and useful. 

Number One (and I suspect would be the most popular word): FUCK!  I really like the F-word.  It's so perfect and universal.  There's a video or audio track out there that I'll try to find and post with this blog when I put it up, that goes through all the many uses of the F-word.  From a noun to a verb to adverbs to you-name-it, fuck can be used for it or to describe it.  I use it frequently.

Numero dos: TREMENDOUS, meaning extraordinarily great in size, amount, intensity or excellence.  For example, my love of the F-word, is tremendous.

Third pick is: EXTRAVAGANZA.  I'm not sure why I ever started liking the word.  I believe it started a couple decades ago, when I'd be calling up the local bars to see if they were going to show the wrestling pay-per-views.  Only when I'd call the various establishments, I'd ask if they were planning to show the "wrestling extravaganza" rather than the PPV.  This, to my knowledge, is the only time I really used the word.  To this day, I don't believe I use it for anything other than in the company of a wrestling event. 🤔  Hmm.  Still a fun word, though.

My fourth pick is one that I began using many many years ago, when I would hang out with Dustin K___ and a bunch of people whom I worked with at the time: DISCOMBOBULATED.  Verbiage was big with these guys and when discombobulated came across our purview, we were enamoured.  More so when the word made an appearance on an episode of The Simpsons.  Looking at the word today, I've come to realize that it's not just a fun word to say and use, but it would seem it's also the a state of mind that I frequently experience.  I've had meltdowns in the past, where I was so confused about something that I did a million times but for a few fleeting minutes, I couldn't grasp the logic of how or what I was doing.  I recently had a moment like that at my current job, but after a few deep breaths to calm my nerves, I was no longer discombobulated and was once again, focused.

Fifth and final pick is the word: INDULGE.  I only recently discovered it's charm and grace.  Meaning to yield to an inclination or desire; to yield to satisfy or gratify.  Essentially surrendering to what brings you joy or satisfaction.  There may be too much of that in the world, but in moderation, I think it's fine and people should practice more.

This concludes my Draft of Favourite Words.  That list again:

1. Fuck
2. Tremendous
3. Extravaganza
4. Discombobulated
5. Indulge

I feel it necessary to make a couple honourary mentions, that never quite made the list, although this first mention was on the list for a short while, before being replaced by "indulge".  That word is: MOIST.  The reason I enjoy it is mostly because most people hate the word.  Moist.  Mmmmoist.  Mmmmm... Moist.  It's so fun to say, but more so when you see people squirm at it's mere mention. 😂

Another word would be: FART  The only reason for this one is that the sound of the word also matches the sound that it describes.  It's like the word orange can only describe the fruit that is the same in colour.  They're made for one another.  Much like only fart can accurately describe flatulence.  Say flatulence to a kid and they'll cock their head to the side like a confused mutt, but say "fart", they'll laugh and know exactly what you're talking about.  Plus....  Let's be honest.  Farts are fun.

Way Down In The Village

My mom is a sweetheart.  A kind hearted soul without a malicious bone in her body.  Generous to a fault, that goes unnoticed, sometimes.  I feel guilty coming to realize this so late in life.  I enjoy spending time with my mother, nowadays.  I realize that our time together, in the grand scheme of things, isn't going to be that long.  I don't wish this to sound like she's taken ill, because she has not.  I'm confident that she'll, in most likelihood, will outlive me.  That withstanding, I feel some guilt in how I've treated my mother in the past.

As I've already stated, and anyone who's ever crossed paths with my mom, will know that she is a sweetheart.  However, my mom is as gullible as she is sweet and in my youth, played a terrible gag on my mother one late evening.

I was at the home of my sister and her first husband, Grant.  Another of his friends, Kevin L., was present when they concocted this funny joke to play on my mom.  It was late evening, as I recall, and Grant's pal, Kevin, dialed up my mom's phone number.  It was probably around 10pm.  Groggily, my mom answered the phone, her voice cracking as she said, "Hello?"

Immediately, Kevin breaks into character, speaking very formal-like, as a police constable.  He informed her that I'd been arrested and that it was necessary for me (Jeff) to be bailed out that evening.  That's when he handed me the phone to elaborate on the story we were feeding her.

Still sleepy, having just been woken up by this terrible prank, she asked what was going on.  I played along, embroidering a twisted, yet simplistic yarn of how I had been driving home, via 20th Street.  Normally, this was not a route I'd normally take, given how scary the neighbourhood is at night.  It's scary during the day, but night time really brings out the cockroaches, even back then.

"I was sitting at a red light," I explained, "When this woman jumped in my car.  I told her to get out, but she refused.  Then the light turned green and I had no choice but to go through."

I really painted the picture for my mother, churning her imagination into a frenzy.  "I'd gone a couple of blocks," I continued explaining, "When suddenly I saw flashing red and blue lights in my mirror."

My mom was really becoming vocal at this point, interrupting me before I could explain why I had been (supposedly) arrested.  I cut my tale short, but simply adding, "I was arrested for soliciting a prostitute."

"WHAT?!?" she screamed into the phone, "What am I supposed to do?"  It was at this point that Grant, my former brother-in-law, took control of the phone, posing as another officer.  Grant had a very distinct voice and we figured that my mom would catch on that this was a gag when he began his pitch.  

"Ma'am, your son was picked up on 20th Street West, under the suspicion of solicitation of a prostitute.  You're going to need to bring $400 downtown if you don't want your son to spend the night in jail."

"Where on 20th Street?" my mom asked.  I'm not sure as to why this was an important tidbit of information, but Grant quickly panicked, answering, "Awe, shoosh!!  Way down in the village."  Then he proceeded to toss the phone in my hands and run across the room, as if to hide.  Grant was a strange idiot, who despite concocting this pranks, was a terrible liar.  He couldn't keep the facts straight on any story without trying to elaborate then failing miserably.  The fact that he was able to fool my sister over his infidelities for so long, is a complete mystery.

I continued to pull the proverbial wool over my mom's eyes, suggesting that she call my dad for the bail money when she told me she didn't have the cash available on short notice.  I only suggested my dad's involvement because I knew him to be at work and virtually impossible to reach until morning.

Definitive sobbing of worry and sorrow could be heard over the phone and that's when we came clean about the farce, confessing that it was all just a ruse and that I hadn't been arrested and that everything was fine.  The sadness had disappeared from her tone, but she never laughed at the premise, nor did she voice any opinions.  I'd really riled her up and probably removed a few years off of her life because of a stupid prank that, in retrospect, wasn't actually all that amusing to begin with.

Many of the little tricks that I've done in my younger years, seemed important or funny, at the time, but as I reflect back on what memories I can still stir up, they weren't all that funny, after all.  Hopefully, in the years since, that I've become a better son to my mom.  I hope that before she shuffles off this mortal coil, that she will look upon me with pride.  My dad passed away before I could make anything of myself, but I like to think that if he were alive today, he'd finally look upon me with some pride.  

My relationship with my mom is a lot better in recent years.  I think that when she sold her house then came to stay with me for, a month, then three months then almost a full year, that our relationship got better.  Now, when time permits, we get together either at my house or her condo.  We'll have nice suppers and watch movies or TV shows.  We have our menagerie of home improvement shows and TV mysteries when she comes to my house and at her house, we'll cue up a movie or binge watch a TV series.  We just finished up Yellowstone a few months ago, as well as the Justified series.  Right now work has me completely exhausted, so I don't get to spend as much time with my mom as I initially could, but if I can manage my time better, I'm sure we can get back to visiting on a regular basis.

My mom tells me that she doesn't have many friends.  Many of them have lost touch and those relationships have all but severed completely.  Luckily in the condo where she resides now, she's made a lot of new friends.  It's a real sense of community in that building and I like it.  It's good for her.  My mom has always been sociable.  Always capable of making new friends, instantly.  My mom is a sweetheart.  As loyal as they come and not a malicious bone in her body.  All I can do is hope she's happy and I'll do my best to keep her that way.

Golden Years

It may as well be a million years ago, if it were a day.  Memories of my youth are fleeting at best.  They were scarce when I had a fully functional brain, but are mostly gone since my accident.  What I've learned about memories, recently, is while they may be gone, they're not always one hundred percent disappeared.  Some glimmer of them remain, secluded in some dark passageway within our minds, just waiting to emerge into present day, once again.  Earlier this week, I happened to glance over onto 2nd Avenue, downtown, noticing a pile of rubble where the old Baldwin Hotel used to stand.  Then it hit me with a wallop -- Andre the Giant.

There's not much written about the old Baldwin Hotel.  I was unsuccessful in digging up much dirt on the location, short of actually visiting the Saskatoon Library to dig through old archives.  I believe it was built in the early 1900s, stood for nearly a hundred years before falling into disarray and finally demolished.  As a kid I remember going to the restaurant in the basement of the once distinguished hotel, to visit my aunt, Jacquie.  There she'd share tales about her encounters with wrestlers when they'd wander over from shows put on at the old downtown arena.

As a kid, I remember going to the old arena when it was located downtown on 19th Street.  Long since gone, it's footprint looked tiny compared to the incredible size of the arena.  Then again, I was a tiny child, so everything looked gigantic.  I recall going to Blades games with my grandpa.  I remember going to the circus with thousands of other screaming kids.  Seemed like our parents weren't there.  Just dropped us all off to run amuck within it's overwhelming confines.  I remember having full reign over the premises, roaming through all the halls, past the dressing rooms.  I remember encountering a dressing room where all the clowns were, applying their various facial designs.  This is where I came to realize that clowns aren't necessarily a happy bunch.  Many are only as happy as the makeup they apply.  Most are sad, miserable or angry, all characteristics well masked by coloured grease paint.

In addition to the circus and various sporting events and concerts, the Saskatoon Arena would also cater to the cavalcade of professional wrestlers who'd travel throughout the western provinces via Calgary's Stampede Wrestling.  The owner, Stu Hart, was born and raised in Saskatoon, before joining the army and rushing off to World War II, when he returned home, he took up residence in Calgary, Alberta and founded the infamous wrestling company and it's many stars.

Before folding up and closing it's doors in 1984 after being sold to Vince McMahon of the (then) World Wrestling Federation (WWF), there were many big stars who cut their teeth in the infamous Stampede Wrestling.  The British Bulldogs, Davy Boy Smith and the Dynamite Kid, Bret Hart and Jim Neidhart, as well as a few appearances of Andre The Giant.

After nights of bashing the hell out of one another, a gaggle of wrestlers would clean up and mosey on down the street to the Baldwin Hotel and grab a bite to eat.  My aunt, Jacquie would often find herself working on many of the nights with this motley crew of performers would conglomerate for food, drink and wild conversations.

My aunt would marvel us kids with stories of chatting with, chumming around and sharing laughs with the wonderous personalities who'd grace her with their presence.  While I don't recall any of the stories in detail, I do remember Jacquie sharing her amazement with one wrestler in particular, who would nearly eat the restaurant out of every morsel of food they had in stock.  He was a colossus.  Hell!  He was dubbed the "Eighth Wonder of the World" for good reason.  Andre was a bona-fide giant and was billed as such.  Pictured here with Bruce Hart (L) and Dynamite Kid (R), Andre stood at a towering 7'4".  His hands, I'm told, were the size of catcher mitts.  When he shook my aunts hand, it disappeared well within his gentle grasp.

My aunt would pass away in the late eighties.  A brain aneurysm, which put her in a coma for a very long time before my grandpa made the difficult decision to remove her from life support, thus ending her suffering.  I remember him making that decision, speaking to the doctor over the phone in my very own living room.  The sorrow on my grandpas face on having to make that choice, but it had to be done.  My aunt suffered from migraine headaches for most of her life.  I do, as well, which always had me concerned for my own well being.  I don't suffer as frequently as I once did, having undergone an experimental treatment which had the headaches virtually disappear completely.  That is until I took that fateful tumble and completely destroyed my brain as it once was.  The migraines have returned, thankfully not as frequent as they were.

My aunt passed away quite young. Still in her thirties, if I recall correctly.   Andre the Giant would pass away young, too.  Only 46 years old when his heart finally gave out.

Gone are they, just as the old Baldwin is gone and the Saskatoon Arena.  Many of the aspects of the downtown area of the city is gone or reimagined.  There are towering business buildings where "The Barn", as it was affectionately referred to as, once stood.  Across the street from there, used to be a car dealership, if I remember correctly.  My dad bought a car from there, but now it's only an empty parking lot.  Where the parking lot is in the photo above, now stands the Scotia Center Movie Theater, formerly known as The Galaxy Theater.  I wanna say that "Folks", pictured in the lower right of this photo, still stands, but I think my memory is pulling tricks on me.  I can't remember. 

We, as a society, are so quick to destroy, rather than refurbish, replenish and reserve.  Built in 1937, I'm sure the arena couldn't be saved, just as the Baldwin Hotel couldn't be saved.  All that once was prestigious in the downtown district has now gone to ruins.  Plagued by the homeless and the downtrodden.  Seems like the city would rather throw money at new development rather than take care of it's lost citizens.

As a transit operator, I've been witnessing the city in a brand new way.  Like shining a black light on a hotel room, I'm discovering hidden truths about our fair city and it isn't looking good.  I've watched "The Walking Dead" since it's debut in 2010 and viewing the folks who line the streets in the downtown isn't too far from the atrocities seen on the television program.

So many memories, lost to the annuls of time.  Was it a better time, then? Were they truly golden years? Who can say for certain?  It was different.  More innocent.  Or maybe it was just me.  Viewing the world through rose coloured glasses.

A Mosey Down Copperhead Road

I've been toying with the idea of trying something like this in the recent past.  Doing a deep dive into the lyrics of some of the songs that I enjoy.  Try to makes some sense of it all, because on closer inspection, some of the shit I enjoy, musically, doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  Or maybe it does and I'm just blowing smoke out of my ass.  Who the hell knows?  First up, is Steve Earle's 1988 classic, "Copperhead Road".  I constantly hear it on the radio, and I enjoy it as much as I'm sick of hearing it.  Now sit back and enjoy my idiocy for a moment.  Maybe this will work.  Most likely it won't.  That's my confidence level, at this juncture.

Main character is John Lee Pettimore, the third.  Saying it this way, makes him sound more distinguished than the penniless shlub that he actually is.  He comes from a long line of moonshiners who concoct their swill up the holler down a local road called Copperhead Road.  A busy life, making moonshine.  So busy that John's grandfather, John Lee Pettimore the first, only makes it into town a couple of times a year.  Not a real people person, I guess.  Doesn't possess the gift of gab and gets annoyed making small talk with strangers.  Or I presume, anyway.

This aspect of the song reminds me of when I worked at Princess Auto.  I'm sorry to get off topic, but it's only for a moment and I think it's pertinent in some way.  I was working one day when this kid, maybe 16 or 17 in age, asked me a question.  I gave him a quick answer, but he looked confused.  He explained that he came from a wee little town and never made it into the city more than maybe once a year.  Inquisitive as I am, I had to ask where he came from.  Delisle, he said.  Instantly I figured he was full of shit.

Delisle is a small town, yes, but it's like twenty minutes from the city and it barely has anything in it.  A Co-op gas station, a hotel bar, where me and my pal used to get hammered and stumble back to his place. The town also has a liquor store - IN the Esso gas station on the sound end of town.  "Don't Drink & Drive, but IF you do, you may as well fill your gas tank up over here, too, while you buy your booze!"  There may be a golf course, too.  Anyway, there's f*ck all in Delisle and the idea that a family can self-sustain in a tiny armpit of a town like this, is a complete farce to me.

When John's grandfather did peek his head out from Copperhead Road, he'd grab  the shit he needed then f*ck off back to the woods to continue perfecting his craft.  Granddaddy must've been making some serious cash, as a revenue man came to town seeking the man out.  Wanted to ask him a few questions, I guess, about where he was getting all this money to pay for copper line and yeast, I suppose, and followed the man down Copperhead Road.  It was well before John Pettimore III was even a twinkle in his daddy's eye, but apparently, the tax man never returned from Copperhead Road and no formal investigation was ever commenced.  Guess the Pettimores wielded a serious sword in town.

The next generation to follow in granddaddy's footsteps was John Lee Pettimore, Jr.  I don't know what his father, John Lee Pettimore, Sr was running his shine in, but it must have been shit compared to what John Jr was about to bring to the table.  John went to a state sale and bought himself an old Johnson County Sheriff's car.  A big block Dodge that he and his brother rebuilt the engine on, to go even faster than it's original output, then shot a coat of primer on it to cover up the Sheriff's badging on the outside.  I always thought it would have been smarter to keep the badging, to throw off anyone suspecting them of running booze.  What do I know, though.  I'm not a criminal so I can't possibly understand the criminal mind.

Well, unbeknownst to the Pettimore clan, there was a raid on Copperhead Road and in his haste to escape, via his new-to-him Dodge, John Jr crashed and died.  You could see the red glow of the burning moonshine for miles and the smell of burning whiskey filled the air.  It was quite a sight, I'm sure.  John Lee Pettimore III wasn't filled with awe from the spectacle, but with concern.  Concern for his mother who got the news from the local sheriff that her husband, Little Johnny's dad, had succumbed in the crash.  Poor kid.  The only role model he ever had, a shitty one, but a role model all the same, was now gone.  What was the boy to do?

Two options to do in a small southern town, when you're as dirt poor as the Pettimores were.  Commit petty crimes and get your ass incarcerated or join the army and head to Vietnam.  John III chose the latter, citing that he would have been drafted anyway.

John doesn't move up the ranks of the army, while stationed in Vietnam, but he managed to keep his head down, do the job that needed to be done and survived two tours of duty.  All the while, he's keeping mental notes of the guerilla warfare tactics of Charlie.  Tactics and strategies that he'd later put into practice when he returned home after the war.

Ditching the efforts of making moonshine, which wasn't a lucrative business, anymore, John III decided to start growing marijuana.  Having never learned the art of making good moonshine, anyway, growing the herb by combining the seeds from Colombia and Mexico, then plant it in the rich earth up the holler down Copperhead Road, where his father and grandfather had their successes with the moonshine. Now, through some hard work and very little tears, John was able to make a strain so sweet, so good that it took America by storm and made him a rich man.

Johns success didn't fall on deaf eyes, though.  Much like in the past when the State police raided his father's stash down Copperhead Road, the U.S. D.E.A. (Drug Enforcement Agency) began flying choppers overhead, spying on the operation, trying to get eyes through the thick brush that lined Copperhead Road.  Did they dare send troops in on foot?  If they did, they were in for a hell of a surprise.  John Lee Pettimore III wasn't the stupid country bumpkin they perceived him to be.  He didn't just come home and stumble onto a fortune in the weed business.  He put some heavy thought into the operation and he wasn't going to lose this shit without a serious fight and in fight mode he was.  Suffering from PTSD from his time in Vietnam, the constant barrage of choppers flying overhead, John was having nightmares.  He was prepared to put up a good resistance.

Song ends before we find out the conclusion of the DEA's involvement, but rest assured, some of the DEA's foot soldiers likely wouldn't be walking right after that invasion, if they were able to walk at all.

This concludes my breakdown of "Copperhead Road".  Not as amusing as I'd originally concocted, but for a first effort, it might be....  Meh.

Lyrics

One, two, three, four

Well, my name's John Lee Pettimore
Same as my daddy and his daddy before
I hardly ever saw grandaddy down here
He only came to town about twice a year
Buy a hundred pounds of yeast and some copper line
Everybody knew that he made moonshine

Now the revenue man wanted grandaddy bad
Headed up the holler with everything he had
It's before my time but I've been told
He never came back from Copperhead Road

Now daddy ran the whiskey in a big block Dodge
Bought it at an auction at the mason's lodge
Johnson county sheriff painted on the side
Shot a coat of primer then he looked inside
Well, him and my uncle tore that engine down
I still remember that rumblin' sound

Then the sheriff came around in the middle of the night
Heard mama cryin', knew something wasn't right
Headed out to Knoxville with the weekly load
You could smell the whiskey burnin' down Copperhead Road

Volunteered for the army on my birthday
Draft the white trash first 'round here anyway
Done my two tours of duty in Vietnam
I came home with a brand new plan
I take the seed from Colombia and Mexico
Just plant it up the holler down Copperhead Road

Now the D.E.A's got a chopper in the air
Wake up screaming like I'm back over there
Learned a thing or two from Charlie don't you know
You better stay away from Copperhead Road

Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road
Copperhead Road

Thank you

You Be You, Boo! You Be You!

I glanced at a news article, this morning, that entered my timeline on either Facebook or Twitter.  Whichever the case, it was about an Aussie mother that was complaining about her daughter's teachers abbreviating her daughter's name because it was too difficult to pronounce in it's entirety.  Even written out phonetically, I had no idea how to pronounce it, myself, and I'm pretty good at doing that, if you don't mind me tooting my own horn -- toot toot!!

In the article, it also mentioned that the daughter felt embarrassed about being called the abbreviated name, according to the mother, but I surmised in the comments that the daughter was probably, more likely to be ashamed because her parents were f**king morons and couldn't give her a normal name like Mary or Sharon, but some hippy nonsensical name that can't be spelled, much less pronounced by the masses.

I shared it on my Facebook, as I do with many of the stupid shit I discover on social media.  It got me thinking about names.  My name is Jeff or Jeffrey, a name I detest.  Also a name placed upon me by my late father.  I'm not certain as to why, exactly, but my mom claims that she wanted to name me Jason, but was overruled by my dad who wanted Jeffrey.  Named after a fella he knew, I think, but I can't recall.  What I do know is, I f**king hate the name and I've never met anyone with the name Jeff or Jeffrey, who actually liked the name.

I would have much preferred being named Jason.  It's such a cool name and you can abbreviate in a couple different ways to still make it sound cool.  Jay or Jase are two cool derivatives of the name Jason that still make the named coolness.  Plus, any Jason I've ever met, seems pretty frickin' cool.  I used to work with one, in particular, who if you don't mind me ripping off a line from Ferris Bueller's Day Off:  He's a righteous dude.  Plus, you have all those cool actors, named Jason: Jason Statham, Jason Lee, Jason Voorhees.  Can't go wrong with the name Jason. Ya can't do f*ck all with Jeffrey.  There's Jeff, which sounds very much like a cat sneezing.  You watch!!  Next time your feline friend has a sneezing frenzy, you listen.  Guaranteed, you'll hear my name.  Jeff!  Jeff!   JEFF!! 

I recall the Rob Lowe movie, Youngblood.  A hockey movie that he starred in with his fellow co-star from The Outsiders, Patrick Swayze.  Cool f**kin' movie, but I was quite taken with the name Youngblood.  I often thought that the name would spice up the Jeffrey name.  Jeffrey A. Youngblood.  Alas, I never changed my name, for obvious reasons.  I never wanted to dishonour my father or my granddad or great-granddads memories.  Still a cool f*ckin' name, though.

Over the years, I've come to accept my fate.  Using Jeffrey A. Richards as my go-to professional name.   If I'd followed through with the film school, like I'd initially planned, that's the name I would have gone with, but I failed to follow that dream and instead slid into a pit of mediocrity.  Now I'm just plain Jeff Richards.  A plethora of people too god damned ignorant or stupid to spell my name correctly, so I've discarded it completely.

That little girl in Australia, whose name is impossible to pronounce, may stick with the abbreviated terminology, quite to her mother's chagrin.  Or perhaps, she'll discard it completely and call herself something completely different.  Like the popular singer from the 1970s, Engelbert Humperdinck. Born Arnold George Dorsey, the popular crooner, chose to become Engelbert Humperdinck.  What the f*ck?!?  However, as f*cked up as that is, he chose his own path, his own name and achieved much success in doing so, although I couldn't for the life of me, name any of his songs.  Point is, we needn't be tied down by the names our parents saddled us with.  Life is freedom.  Freedom to be who or what you wanna be.  Whatever makes you happy in this life. 
I like to say: You be you, boo!  You be you! 

The F Word

I try to be light-hearted and jovial in this blog, but sometimes LIFE just kicks me in the nads and suddenly my tendency to laugh at shit is lost.  In my most recent post of Jeff's Brain Matter, I wrote of that chick who tricked me on the Facebook.  Tricked me into thinking I was something that I'm clearly not.  This edition today, may touch base on that, slightly, but this isn't going to be a vehicle to further run myself down.  I just need to vent.  In lieu of lying back on a therapists couch, this medium can be very therapeutic.  I recommend everyone have a blog to work out their thoughts.

Recently, a former high school chum posted some kind of malarkey on the Facebook defending the importance of bees and hornets.  I do recognize that bees are important, but hornets?  I replied that I detest hornets, especially when they fly into my house.  I mentioned that I swat the hell outta them and if they're still twitching, I add salt to their proverbial wound, by taking them out to one of the many ant hills in my yard and I serve them up to the ants to devour that sucker alive.  Circle of life, kind of shit.  She replied to my comment that I was "full of hate".

I don't hate anything, except maybe hate, itself.  On closer inspection, I guess I can add to that, I also hate the F-word.  Not F*CK, but the other F-word.  FAKE!!

I've never been a fan of the word fake, going way back to when I began watching professional wrestling.  While the matches are often scripted or pre-determined, and yes, much of the moves done in the ring are done in a manner to cause the least amount of real harm, accidents happen and people do get hit for real and real injuries occur and sometimes, even worse. 

RIP Owen Hart. 😔

What those men and women can do in that ring, night in and night out is nothing short of incredible and for people to slough it off as nothing more than pretend, is f*cking offensive.

My disdain for fake lies much further across the borders of just professional wrestling.  I hate fake people.  People who pretend to be that which they are not.  People who expend SO much energy into pretending to be someone or something else, instead of working on themselves to be honest to who they are.  By my own admission, I've mentioned that I do mask who I really am from most people.  I don't outright reinvent myself, I just hold back facets of my personality that I don't think mixed company would appreciate.  Is it being dishonest?  Perhaps, but it's not unlike hiding the truth about Santa Claus from our children.  It's a lie, but it's to protect their joy and happiness.  This is similar to what I do.  The only person to see my completeness, a 100% of my personality is my cat and he seems to love me unconditionally so that's good enough for me.

There's a person or several persons on Facebook who pretend to be David Sparks aka Heavy D from TV's Diesel Brothers on Discovery Velocity in Canada (MotorTrendTV in the U.S.)  On Facebook, they will randomly slip into your comments, congratulating you on being a "winner" and invite you to their website, where they will attempt to bamboozle you out of personal information and steal your money and/or identity.  I've never fallen for this fraudulent site, and have repeatedly reported them to the authorities at Facebook, who comeback and claim that they are legitimate.  Meanwhile, Heavy D has posted many times via his own YouTube channel that these sites are fake and shouldn't be followed and to (absolutely) never share any personal information with them.  Facebook turns a blind eye.  F*cking pathetic.  Wish there was a way to police the Facebook police.

This chick that attempted to bamboozle me on Facebook, continued to try and win me over after I busted her on being fake.  "She", if they were even a real she, attempted to tell me that they were a former sex worker and that they left that life.  Meanwhile on YouTube, the very person that she claimed she was, had posted an update to her life in recent months.  On her Twitter, she invited fans to come watch her do a Live Sex Show.  You can't fake LIVE.

Hate is a strong word.  I don't feel comfortable using it.  It's like the word 'love'.  I refuse to say that to anyone, unless I absolutely mean it.  So yes.  If I choose to say "I hate..." then chances are, I really do hate that thing.  I hate liars, cheats and fake people.  I hate the fact that they make me hate.

If people invested as much time and energy into promoting their strong attributes as they do faking their personalities, the world might be a little nicer place to live in.  Don't ya think?