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.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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. 😉