The Road To Dystopia

It was a Sunday, late afternoon.  I'd gotten off work and was invited to a nearby bar where a collection of fellow employees were gathering to watch a WWE (then WWF) Pay-Per-View.  I don't recall many, if any of the matches on the card as only one epic match comes to mind and it was SO over the top, literally, that it shadowed everything else.  I've heard in interviews by the participants of the match that followed, Stone Cold Steve Austin versus The Big Red Machine, Kane, that when they saw the preceding match, they all but gave up on trying to make their match memorable.  The match I speak of is none other than Mankind (Mick Foley) versus The Undertaker in a Hell In A Cell match and if you know your history, you know exactly the match I'm referring to.

While exchanging blows atop of the steel cage, at what seemed like a spur of the moment decision, Undertaker grabs a hold of Foley and tosses him off the top of the cage.  To say this was the defining moment of the match is difficult to say as what would follow was equally as devastating and exhilarating to watch all at the same time.  It's a story that's been told a million times, at great length and detail by both participants so I'm not going to bother.  Google it.  It's quite a spectacle.

The reason I mention this moment in sports history, is that I wasn't present to witness this as it unfolded.  I've only watched this in replays for my entire existence, just as you are seeing it happen in the GIF to my right.  For as I had stated, we were in a bar and we had all ordered food and just as I was paying the waitress who happened to be standing between myself and the video screen so my only reference to the moment itself is the whole crowd roaring in disbelief.  It was truly a historical moment that I will never get to reflect on.

I am proud to say that I was present and accounted for, both in body and mind, to witness the Birth of Austin 3:16.  It was the 1996 King of the Ring Tournament, back when it meant something.  Now, I can't recall all the details, they are somewhat fuzzy, but the Coles Notes version is Stone Cold Steve Austin had gone to the hospital for an injury sustained earlier in the day, but when he returned he was told about an interview that Jake The Snake Roberts had given earlier aimed at his pending match with Austin.  Roberts, who at the time was a recovering addict in a 12-Step program was adding proverbs and alike to his speeches and this further aggravated a powder keg of a human being and long story short, Stone Cold stomped the hell outta the man.  In the interview that followed with former Freebird, Michael Hayes, Austin began chastising Roberts, "You talk about your Psalms and your John 3:16.  Well AUSTIN 3:16 says I just whooped your ass!"

You always hear people retell of what they were doing or where they were when historical moments go down.  I remember being a kid in school hearing about the assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan.  I recall coming home from a music festival to learn that Princess Diana had died in a tragic motor vehicle collision.  I remember vividly what was happening when I heard that Andre The Giant had died and I remember being parked on the side of the road, my eyes fixed on the radio as the commentator reported that the first Tower had collapsed in New York City on September 11th, 2001.  So when the opportunity came for me, a Canadian, to sit down and watch the Presidential Inauguration in 2021, I made it a point to watch as it was HISTORY happening in REAL TIME.

The Inauguration, to me, was monumental.  The United States and, let's be frank, the entire world was affected by the Donald Trump "presidency" and not in a positive way.  They were dark times, I feel.  Especially, considering the handling of the pandemic, but I'm not here to complain about the obvious, but when the Democratic Party thwarted the intentions of the Dark Republic, there was an air of hope.  That the storm had passed and better days lay ahead.

This was not the sole reason for my tuning in.  No.  This was a historic moment.  America was getting their first female Vice President.  An honourable woman of stature, grace, intelligence and compassion.  I felt America had gotten it right, for a change and as she raised her hand to accept the Presidential Oath of Office, I had tears streaming down my face.  Tears of joy and pride.  Thoughts that maybe things would be okay and in the months and years that followed, things did get better.  Things did seem okay, even with the darkness on the horizon, we as a world collective felt the dark times were behind us all. That the four year hiatus between 2017 and 2020 was nothing more than a tarnished memory and an asterisk in the history books.

Knowing not to count my chickens before they hatch I didn't believe the 2024 election would turn out the way it did.  The Blue Wave seemed real.  The voices were being heard and hope was on the horizon.  I knew that Kamala Harris had a fight ahead of her and who knows, maybe if she'd had the two or more years to campaign like her opponent, she would have faired better.  While I was preparing to celebrate, I was dumbfounded by the overwhelming outcome which was....  Words cannot describe the level of frustration and confusion that I possess.  I know common sense hasn't really existed for quite some time, but holy fuck.

Think about this:  A convicted criminal is not allowed to vote in any election, yet a convicted criminal has been elected as the 47th President of the United States of America.  What the fuck is wrong with the logic of these voters.  And it's only now that the truth behind the rhetoric that Trump and his MAGA maniacs were spouting IS confirmed.  All the "lies" that they denied are now being confirmed by those same people and the voters are realizing this now, 48 and 72 hours later, they wish they'd checked the other box.  Sorry, there are no mulligans here.  I genuinely feel bad for those who voted for Harriz/Walz and lost, but I hold them as equally responsible because they could have done more to educate those who were clueless.

Following his victory in 2016, I began to reference the Mad Max movie series.  I remember watching these films as a kid and wondering: What must have happened in the world to scorch the earth like this.  Then the Trump/Pence regime began and it began to become clear as to what sort of governmental management would cause a violent dystopia like that depicted in these films.  I hope and pray that it doesn't get this bad, but when you consider the stance and campaign promises that Trump and Vance has made for the future of the United States of America, a violent society isn't that far from belief.

I am not a religious person by any means, but I may reconsider that belief in the coming years.  I am literally sick to my stomach and fearful.  That's not a healthy way to live.  As a Canadian, especially one whose country at the moment is at a crossroads itself with less than honourable representation in Ottawa, I fear for the future of Canada and if truth be known, I would not put it past Trump to turn and take inspiration from his buddy Vladimir Putin and invade Canada for our resources.  Oil, Water, Potash and Maple Syrup.  The last was meant as a joke, but given how much of the golden syrup is supplied to the world, I would not be surprised if that Tangerine Tyrant would, in fact, invade Canada.

I'm going to close my eyes, clasp my hands and praise the positive.  It's just about the only hope I have left.

Nutty Professionals

The evening ended much like every other has, this past summer, falling asleep in the armchair in front of the TV.  Prior to my departure into dreamland, I had been watching the latest "Battle of the Brands" (c/o UpUpDownDown on YouTube) where the two hosts, Austin Creed, aka Xavier Woods in the WWE and Tyler Breeze, a former WWE Superstar.  In the video, as they are preparing their individual Raw and ECW matches they get to talking about all sorts of subjects.  One subject in particular that has recurred over the past year or so, was whether or not Creed had seen the 1996 version of "The Nutty Professor" starring Eddie Murphy.  They make no mention of the original 1963 version starring Jerry Lewis.  To be honest, I doubt these young fellas are even aware that Murphy's Professor is a remake.

I will openly admit that I never found the Eddie Murphy remake to be all that funny, but Tyler Breeze sure believes that it's one of the funniest movies ever, if not THEE funniest.  Creed had never seen the film, nor had intended to do so, but after repeated urging, Creed finally succumbed to pressure and watched the film. 

The two discuss the film briefly before Creed explains to their streaming viewers the premise of the Nutty Professor film, associating it with an episode of the ABC comedy, "Family Matters" in which the nerdy character, Steve Erkel takes a potion that magically turns him into the suave Stephan.  A similar storyline to the original Nutty Professor where a geeky Jerry Lewis drinks a chemical concoction that turns him into Buddy Love, a handsome and charming ladies man, a direct opposite to the professor.  Murphy's version is about a self-conscious overweight man who turns himself into a sexy suave ladies' man.  Both films and the Erkel episode are all loosely based on the 1886 novella, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde" by author Robert Louis Stevenson.

Of course, while the duo are setting up their games, there's music playing in the background and the music for Dude Love begins to play and like a bolt of lightning from the Heavens above, I was suddenly stricken with a stroke of brilliance and theorized that the Three Faces of Foley, Mankind, Cactus Jack and Dude Love are similar to the Nutty Professor and Jeckyll and Hyde stories. 

For those unaware, retired professional wrestler, Mick Foley, portrayed three characters throughout his legendary wrestling career.  Cactus Jack, Mankind and Dude Love and in my hypothesis; Cactus Jack was the perfect specimen in the fact that he was tough and good with the ladies.  Cactus is comfortable in his body and nothing will phase the man.  

Mankind, while being tough as nails, unafraid of anything including monsters and beasts as well as barbed wire and thumbtacks, but there was an awkwardness to Mankind.  Around people, he didn't seem comfortable.  You'd never see Mankind hanging out in catering with the other wrestling superstars, but instead in the darkened corners of the boiler room or hiding in the rafters.  Though Mankind didn't mingle well with his brethren, he was especially elusive to the fairer sex.  Though never witnessed on film, I speculate that Mankind shied away from the ladies.

Enter Dude Love.  Dude was every bit as tough in the ring as Cactus Jack and Mankind, but he was also really good with the ladies.  Often, Dude Love could be seen with a lovely lady on each arm.  Foley's version of the ladies man, however, differed greatly from his Nutty Professor counterparts, for The Dude was always charming and respectful, while the two versions of Buddy Love would turn out to be narcissistic arrogant assholes.  Traits not portrayed by Mick Foley, no matter what the instance.

I've never watched the 1963 version of the Nutty Professor and I'm almost certain that the humour showcased in that film would not hold up for my twisted sense of humour, these days, nor do I believe that another viewing of the Eddie Murphy version would change my mind on how terrible I found the film.  As for Mick Foley...  Well, I had the pleasure of meeting the man a few years ago, shaking his hand and posing for a photo of the living legend.  I sometimes muse at the fact that he "stole" my gold marker.  I had brought a special GOLD Sharpie for his autographs, as I had brought a number of items to be signed.  Books and action figures.  He asked if I was planning to resell the items I was getting autographed, as that's something that people do, but I assured him that they would not be leaving my possession ever.  I may have even mentioned being buried with the items.

It is often said that you should "never meet your heroes" as you're often disappointed in who they actually are away from TV or whatever the case may be and while, this has happened to me before (Lita - and I hold a grudge), Mick Foley was probably one of the nicest people I've ever met.  Probably one of the nicest people on the planet, if I'm being honest.

The Man. The Legend.
 Mick Foley

Lurking In The Shadows

 

I like this photograph of my cat, Monkey, taken from behind as he gazes upon his court.  The light casting a mighty shadow so that we fail to see the intricate designs of his striped back, replacing it with darkness and mystery.

The other morning as I drove to work, I'd just rounded the corner from my street onto the main drag that takes me westward.  Like so many mornings before, I saw a couple rabbits scampering across the street into the adjacent park.  It's a large park, large enough that a small group of rabbits could probably live long happy lives there without ever having to leave the safety of it's perimeter.  "Be careful, rabbits." I always say.  In addition to the lively scampering of this indigenous wildlife, sadly I also see many tattered corpses that didn't fair too well crossing the boulevard.

I got to thinking, driving up the street, listening to whatever was on the radio at the time, "What DO rabbits do all day?"  Good question, right?  The sun breaks through the morning dawn, shining light down on the world and these rabbits awaken from their slumber and begin foraging for food.  Do they do that all day long?  Just eat, sleep, and shit.  Then my thoughts came back to something, or someone, dear to my heart.  My boy, Monkey.  What does he do, all day long? 

Same thing, only there's four walls and a roof protecting him from the elements and possible predation.  That aside, he lives the same mundane life as those rabbits.  Eat, sleep, shit, repeat.  Only advantage Monkey has over the rabbits, aside from the structure that he resides in, is guaranteed meals and snuggle time with yours truly, Daddy.

There are times, however, when I'm home and I cannot find that cat anywhere.  It's like he just vaporizes then reappears when it's convenient.  It's magical.  Does Monkey have special abilities that he's hiding from me?  Am I not trustworthy enough to keep his secrets?

The other night I was having trouble going to sleep.  For the fourteen years that Monkey has been alive and living with me, we always go to bed at the same time, snuggle a little before I doze off and he retires to his corner at the foot of the bed.  So when I wake up in the middle of the night, I can glance down and see his shadowy form snoring in the corner and all feels right and I'm able to fall back asleep with ease.  On this particular night, just three sleeps ago, I woke up and Monkey was nowhere to be seen.  I got up to get a drink from the fridge and in my travels, failed to see Monkey lying in any of his preferred spots that pepper the household.  It wasn't until nearly a half hour later that I felt him jump onto the bed, murmur a little meow of acknowledgement and returned to his corner, like nothing had transpired.

I rolled up next to him and started stroking his back, from neck to tail and chatting him up.  I asked questions like "Where do you go?" and "What are you doing?"  Then mid-query, I realized something imperative.  If you look at the distinctive markings on Monkey's face, it's almost too obvious.  Much like Clark Kent wears a cheap pair of glasses to hide the fact that he's actually Superman, Monkey hides his secret identity by looking like a cute kitty cat with that unique triangular white patch on his face.

(Please forgive me for getting off-topic, but HOW stupid are the people in Metropolis that they can't see through that shitty disguise?)

I'm lying next to my cat, on top of the covers, stroking his fur and listening to his gentle rhythmic purr when I realized, "I've never seen Batman and Monkey in the same room...  I wonder.  Is it possible?"  All those nights when I came downstairs because he was absent and I did see him, seated on the back to the armchair, gazing out over his world, looking for neerdowells and riff-raff, poised to leap into hand-to-hand combat at a moments notice.

If you take a moment to really look and analyze the pictures of the Caped Crusader versus Monkey, you'll have to agree the resemblance is uncanny.  I think my cat is a superhero, watching over and protecting his land.  If he chooses not to share that life and burden with me, then I'm sure Monkey has his reasons.  Perhaps it's out of love and wishes to protect me from those who wish to do him harm.  I can appreciate that and I thank him for the security he provides.

No More Mister Nice Guy

On the first day of January, twenty-twenty-four, I made a New Year's Resolution, much like most people pledge for the start of a new year and much like those people, that personal change has fallen by the wayside and is no more than a fleeting goal that just seemed too insurmountable to maintain.  My resolution seemed to be simple.  It was all internal and never depended on anyone's input.  Or so I thought.  On January 1st, of this year, I promised myself to be more positive.  To have a better attitude.  To not stress over the small shit.  I stated that I would be nicer to people and to be much kinder to myself, meaning I would end the self-deprecation that I often find myself doing.  It's a defense mechanism used by bullied kids for, what I would assume, ions.  The strategy of making fun of myself before the bullies had anything to say.  On the surface, one would believe that by stating (obviously false) shortcomings about oneself, that the bullies would be discouraged from making fun of you themselves and that it would hurt less.  I can say from experience, that this works for the moment, but over time it becomes a terrible habit and I wouldn't recommend it.

After much deliberation over my current state of affairs and I've come to realize that, while I have, for the most part, ceased to make self-deprecating comments about myself, that on the whole, I am not a nice guy.  In stating this observation, I can hear in my head the voices of a handful of friends and colleagues who may disagree and input their belief, "Nah.  Don't be so hard on yourself.  You're a good guy."  I get it.  I'm not claiming to be an asshole 24/7, but I'm not the nicest fella to a lot of people, which stems, in my opinion from a personality trait that I've been meaning to write a blog about, but haven't up to this point.  Who knows?  Maybe this tirade will inspire me to write that literary piece next.

I am fairly certain that I did manage to maintain a level of positivity for more than a month and I never really felt anything negative until late February, probably following the head-on collision, when I began to falter and meander off the track of having a good attitude and I believe it was work that forced me to spiral into the abyss of negativity and anger.

As a transit operator, we get to re-sign different routes to work over a two or three month stint.  It's nice, because you're not necessarily forced to repeat the same mundane work year-in and year-out, like so many jobs I've endured in the past.  A new driver will have less desirable choices over the more established and seasoned drivers with years of seniority, but I've moved up the ranks over the last couple years and while I don't always get the golden routes, I do okay.  This last sign-up, I chose what I thought was the lesser of all evils when I signed it, but I've quickly learned that I was incorrect in that assessment and come next sign-up, I will not be taking this route again.

On paper, Route 60 is easy, but in reality, it is SO stressful.  Not the scheduling, but the riders.  I don't want to be flagged for insensitivity, but if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...you know.  Duck!  Many of these folks are of a questionable ethic.  Most are super-poor and super-duper-angry and will not hesitate to take their frustrations out on a driver.  It's very difficult to maintain a good attitude when constantly being bombarded by criticism.  It's like when I was a kid, being cornered in the kitchen and yelled at by my alcoholic father who would use every putdown he could concoct to fire at me and, at the time, I knew these accusations to be false, after constant hate-bombs being dropped on my head, false or not, a weakened mind will succumb to those accusations.  So in this instance, while constantly being called a racist, I know this to be untrue, yet it does wear a person down over time and sadly, this chipped away my defenses quick.

I am not a nice guy, over all, and yes, I hear those opposing voices in my head, but I'm a better actor.  I can successfully mask malcontent so those around me are blinded by what's really going on.  Hell.  I've been wearing a mask for decades.  Not a single person I know would confirm that I am depressed almost all of the time.  Saddened by my lot in life.  Bothered that I haven't achieved this or that.  I sometimes feel I don't contribute enough.  I am weakened by the idea that I am unable to take care of my mother in her golden years.  I hear her voicing her concerns about her life and burdens and I feel helpless, further spiraling my psyche.  I hide my shit really well.

I've found videos on YouTube that claim to fix this or enhance that quality about yourself.  They advise that the viewer simply get settled, relax in a comfortable position and play the video, whose sound and music is infused with subliminal messages of affirmation and goodness.  I'm guilty of trying several of these videos in a desperate attempt to cleanse myself of the hate and sadness that I feel pumping through my veins, replacing my shitty attitude with warmth and empathy.  I want to be nice, it's just so hard to do when I'm surrounded by idiocy.  It wears me down, dude!  The videos and subliminal messages are of some concern, however.  How do I know that the affirmations are factual and they're not actually convincing the thousands of desperate souls who have viewed the videos to give up their life savings and shit.  Or perhaps, because I'm entering the experience with a piss-poor attitude already and that attribute combined with the messaging all get twisted in a spaghetti ball of confusion.

I know not what the answer to this dilemma is.  The best I can do is identify when I'm having a dark moment, acknowledge it, find a splinter of positivity and hope it's enough to bring me into the light once again.  There is power in positivity.  I have felt it.  I have had periods where I was happy and joyful and the world was my oyster.  Waves of good fortune would come my way, leaving onlookers in the wake of disbelief.  It's just the question of HOW to maintain that attitude.  I don't know what that method is, yet, but when I do, I will share.  As for now, I only have another six weeks of driving that shitty route, then I will bale on it like rats off a sinking ship.  Sounds selfish, but it'll be someone else's problem and I hope they're able to deal with the negativity on that line better than I can.

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.

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Tormented

Growing up, I was small.  A skinny little kid with bad asthma.  A weakling that the bigger and tougher kids viewed as easy prey.  I can remember being picked on and teased on the school bus, many times by those who would turn around and be my best mate once we were off the bus.  Growing up is a confusing time, to say the least.

My school, at the time, only went up to Grade Six.  Grades Six and Seven were to take place at another school a few blocks away where I, again, was bullied by the bigger and now older kids.  One kid, Jimmy, was fourteen or fifteen years old, still in the seventh grade.  I remember Jimmy having it in for me, then he "moved" away for a few months.  When Jimmy returned, he was all smiles and nice to me..., for the first day, then the terrorizing commenced.  Later we'd come to learn that Jimmy hadn't moved away so much as he was incarcerated for the duration of his absence.  I guess this was my first glimpse into the darker side of life.

High school was no different.  I entered high school, again, as this skinny little weakling which drew the attention of another bully.  This time it was a seventeen or eighteen year old kid with a shitty little hint of a mustache growing on his upper lip, who took an interest in, not only bullying me, but tormenting me to the point where I was fearful to attend school.  Of course, this was during a time when 'if you were too afraid, too fucking bad, you're going to school'.  So I would often be late for my classes because I had to take the long way around the school to get to my class.  It was quite hellacious for me, as I recall.

This memory, the memory of being tormented in high school only recently returned to my conscious, triggered by an event that took place on Monday morning, as I rode the 86 bus to the Circle Park Mall where I like to spend time before taking over my afternoon work piece.

I sat near the front, in a side facing seat, quietly playing a game on my phone, a pastime I do to pass time on the otherwise boring trip eastbound down Eighth Street.  At the Midtown Plaza stop we picked up more passengers, one being a greasy dirty looking individual who sat in the side facing seat across from me.  I avoided eye contact, focusing on my game instead.  A few minutes pass and the figure across from me, says "Hey!"  I looked up, meeting his gaze, "I do not condone you taking my picture."

"Okay." I replied, "I'm not taking your picture.  I'm playing a game."  Then I resumed my gameplay and never followed up.  I could feel him looking at me, though, which made things uncomfortable.  Especially, a few minutes later, when he spoke up, getting my attention once again.  "Hey!  I don't want my picture taken!"  To which I informed him that I was still playing my game, even flipping my phone around to show him the screen, which was nothing more than multiple shelves with products on them, the purpose being I have to sort them in multiples of three.  It's quite challenging. 

Believing that should quell the situation, I resumed gameplay again.  However, the situation was not resolved, even with the visual evidence to prove it.  "HEY!!" he yelled again, now even more agitated, "I said DON'T TAKE MY PICTURE!!!"  That's when I kinda lost it, speaking louder to match his volume, "I told you, I'm NOT taking your picture!!  I don't know you!!  Why would I take your picture?  I'm playing a game and minding my own business!"  "F*CK YOU!!!" he yelled, "You're moving your phone to take my picture."

"The sun is behind me!!" I called, "I'm moving the phone to see it!!"  He wasn't buying what I was selling and that's when the bus driver called back to calm the situation.  I apologized as my reaction was not that of professionalism.  I was wearing my bus driver uniform at the time and should represent the City of Saskatoon accordingly.  I explained to her what was going on.  She asked if I wanted the authorities to be notified, to which I denied that it'd be necessary, figuring that the crazy guy seated across from me would accept that I'm a good dude for not having the police engage, but no.  His fury was now elevated.  I returned my attention to my game, but I could hear him seething across from me.  Then he began to utter threats.  "I swear if you take one more picture, I'm going to fucking kill you."

"Is everything alright back there?" Donna, the driver asked, to which I replied, "Sorry for the disruption.  I'm fine, but this gentleman is shooting darts at me with his eyes.  I think he wants to hurt me."  All the while, he's muttering his vile threats of murder.  Suffice it to say, despite my ability to hide my fear at the time, I was terrified.  I knew that the moment I stepped off the bus that my safety was now in question.  

He got off at the Indigo Book Store stop on 8th Street, right next to the Circle Park Mall, my destination.  I was SO overwhelmed with fear that I remained on the bus for the duration of the Route 86 through Rosewood.  I eventually did get off the bus, obviously, then went to the food court, reasoning that there'd be lots of witnesses if this nut job were to track me down and shove a knife in my back.  Yes, this was my reasoning at the time.

I remember looking up at this guy, when he sat across from me in tattered black clothing, with a ratty torn up hood draped over his head.  His complexion was dark, but his soul was way darker.  There was something not right about this particular fellow.  Not just regarding his lack of civility, but his soul seemed absent or tarnished.  He was afflicted with something that was altering his psyche.  Whether it's through substance abuse or devil worship, this man was not human, anymore.

I looked up as he's foaming at the mouth, relentlessly repeating that he's going to kill me.  In retrospect, maybe I should have had the authorities notified, but over the course of my short tenure with City Transit, I've been tackled, attacked and threatened quite a few times, already, as has many of my fellow drivers, so it's beginning to become 'old hat' at this point.  

In the past, I'd take a few minutes to gather my nerves then press on for the remainder of my day.  I tried doing the same with this situation, except the experience unlocked that fear in me that I had as a freshman in high school when that Twelfth Grader took it upon himself to dedicate his bullying to just me.  That overwhelming fear that I might be attacked or maimed or worse at some point, took over my thoughts.  So much so, that yesterday, when I was driving my Route 17, I came to a corner in Stonebridge and recognized this crazed individual crossing the street in front of me.  I was nowhere near the man, when he turned his attention to the bus and began flailing his arms about and cursing at the bus.  I immediately recognized the tattered black clothing, the dark complexion and the crazed ranting.  What stood out most was the glowing eyes.  I realize this sounds absurd, but I swear this is what I saw and for the remainder of my seventeen loop, I was distracted.  Distracted by how I was going to avoid this individual if he was going to be at the bus stop around the corner.

Do I drive right past him, as if I don't see him?  Tough to do, as there's a traffic light right there.  If I get stopped at the light, he will gravitate to the bus, like a shit-magnet.  Then I thought, maybe he won't even be there.  Alas, when I returned, he was there, indeed.  He immediately recognized me when he got onboard.  I kept my gaze straight ahead, sunglasses covering my eyes, but I could tell he was glaring at me.  My farebox was out of commission, having fallen apart earlier in the day with the prior driver.  All the potholes and uneven streets, shook the hell out of the unit causing pieces to fall about.  The angry fellow seemed perturbed by the missing device and slammed his hand down on the remaining structure.

Prior to his getting on the bus, I moved the Assault Barrier glass all the way to the front of the door.  Fat good the tempered glass would have in protecting me, considering the guy now had what appeared to be dumbbell bars in his possession.  I've been hit with a tire iron, when I was a kid.  That was no picnic, what with the sizeable lump it left on my head, so these bars could do some considerable damage to the human skull, I'm sure.

He eventually got off the bus at 8th Street and Clarence Avenue.  I looked on with a heavy sigh of relief as the psycho and his demons wandered off across the Seven-Eleven parking lot.  I realize now that the experience on Monday may have affected me more than I initially realized.  I actually feel terrorized.  But I also feel that this crazed individual was not all human, either.  Whether that be the fact that he's crazier than hell or that he's pouring something down his throat that's altering his humanity.  

I had a meeting with management yesterday afternoon, following my encounter with the crazed individual.  The terror was still fresh and after the conclusion of our initial meeting, I asked 'how I should handle this experience as it's affecting me on a whole'.  The higher ups which included one of the Supervisors who had worked with me during my probation.  He had some genuine concerns with how this individual was directing his anger and torment towards a Transit Operator IN uniform.  I could see by the look on his face that this was news to him.  I think a lot of the assaults and mistreatment of drivers goes unseen and is often overlooked by some of the supervisors and management.  Everyone views the world through rose coloured glasses which hides all the ugliness.

I was told to put in a Worker's Compensation Report, just in case my condition worsens.  I hope it doesn't as I do enjoy my job.  My future, though, is foggy.  I used to think that if I were to die under unnatural causes, it'd be from a vending machine falling on me.  Now I believe I may be stabbed or killed while working.  That's a helluva thought, huh?  But I saw it in a dream and it was vivid as all hell.

Broken

I ventured out this morning headed to the nearby Wal-Mart.  Amongst my travels inside, I made my way over to the Electronics Department, as I often do.  It's like an instinctual path I take when I come to the Preston Crossing location.  Each store has it's unique route, but this one always takes me in the North entrance, where I then circle around past the self-checkouts, before hanging a right to head down the center aisle.  This brings me to the junction where it's a left turn to electronics and a right hand turn to the pet supplies.

I have no interest, really, in the electronics department, other than finding a movie or TV series on DVD for a reasonable price to add to my collection.  Today I found no such deals, but I did happen across a young lad with his mother.  They were getting assistance from the clerk who was removing a Nintendo video game from the locked case.  The look of jubilation on the little boys face, was priceless.  Even the mom, who was attempting to ease his excitement, shared that look of joy.  She'd probably worked hard for the money to purchase this game for her son.

The scenario reminded me of the documentary I watched last night, "Count Me In".  A doc about drumming, percussion and what inspired these musicians to embrace what it is to be a drummer.  The documentary included some rare home videos of these, now grown professional musicians, receiving their first drum kits as, in some cases, toddlers.  One girl, in particular, was so overjoyed when she unwrapped her kit, that she fell into the box, sobbing with tears of happiness on a level like I've never witnessed in my life.  A moment so precious, that it brought tears to my eyes.  

On a personal level, I can only recall my cat, Monkey's first Christmas, where I successfully hit a cat fort in the garage on Christmas Eve.  We'd gone to bed and I got up quickly and rushed down the stairs.  I thought for sure Monkey would have followed me, as he always did so, at the time, but this night was perfect.  He stayed put on my bed.  I placed the fort next to the front entrance, where it has remained to this day, over thirteen years later.  The next morning we came downstairs and he never noticed the new furniture.  It was me who had to stop us in our tracks and vocalize, "Hey buddy.  What's that?"  I said pointing to the new addition.  The cat actually stopped, looked over and I saw an actual feline WTF moment.  I rushed upstairs to grab my phone to take pictures, but in the thirty seconds that I was gone, he'd already destroyed the feathers that hung below the fort.  There were feathers everywhere, including some smaller ones still floating in the air.  I was ecstatic that he was finding so much joy in this new experience. 😊  I love that kid.

Witnessing the joy of that boy getting a game that he's wanted for who knows how long?  Maybe it was only a few minutes or maybe it's been since Christmas?  Who knows, but the experience wasn't any less special.  Then suddenly, like a stray bullet from a drive-by, I was struck with a memory that broke my heart so much that I nearly lost it in the store.  I fought back actual tears as I recalled a time from my youth, when my mom gifted me a toy out of the blue.  The look of joy on my mom's face when I was taking the toy out of the package and began playing with it.

As stated in previous blogs, our family never had a lot of money when I was growing up.  I never sensed that we were poor and given some of the stuff I saw when I was at school, we definitely had it better than some of the other kids in my grade, but we weren't flourished.  One day, I came home from school and my mom gave me a Riddler action figure.  I already had a Batman and Robin.  Maybe a Joker, too.  I know I had a Spider-Man figure, but the Riddler was a flashy new addition.  I played with that like there was no tomorrow and the joy on my mom's face as she witnessed the glee coming from her eldest child, was incomparable, unless you consider the look I got the next day.

I was so excited about this new toy that my mom allowed me to take it to school the next day for Show & Tell.  I can't recall what I had said in the presentation, but it was enough to entice a fellow classmate to approach me about the figure.  Craig S. was a crafty young fellow, who had every toy you could imagine.  I don't know what his parents did, but it seemed like they spent a lot of their money showering their kids with more toys than any kid could play with.  Craig approached me with this flashy spacecraft toy from the TV show Buck Rogers in the 25th Century.  This kid had a way with words and somehow talked me out of my brand new Riddler figure in exchange for his Draconian Marauder.

That afternoon, I returned home and was playing with this new-to-me toy when my mother discovered me.  She asked where this toy came from, having not recognized it as one of my regular toys.  I told her that I had traded my Riddler action figure for this toy and the look of disappointment and heartbreak that overcame her face was devastating to witness.  A feeling of shame overcame me and I put the Marauder toy in my room and took it back to school the next day with hopes of trading back for my Riddler figure, but alas.  It was took late, as Craig had already bamboozled another child out of their toy for my Riddler figure.  The kid in question was a sickly boy that I was afraid to approach, at the time, and so I reluctantly kept the spaceship, but the scar of what I had done to my mother was forever.

Without much money to our credit, my mom, out of the pure goodness that lives in her heart, went out and purchased something with the hopes that her child would find joy with only to discover that her kid selfishly gave it away in exchange for a worthless space toy from a shitty TV show.

Just the knowing that I disappointed and hurt someone I care about is beyond heart wrenching and, though it was a memory previously lost, it's back in my conscious, now, and it hurts my heart every bit as much right at this moment as it did that day as I sat on the floor of our kitchen. 💔

Drift Away

 

Though he was never a musician, my dad loved the drums.  He loved a good beat and rhythm and one of my fondest memories (to pop back in my head) was one evening when I was little.  There must have been music playing.  Probably a Saturday night, because if my dad wasn't working, he would be home playing his records and enjoying more than a few spirits.  I can't recall what the exact scenario was, but I remember I was sitting in the chair and my sister was on the sofa across from me.  I must have been tapping away in time with the music, which caught my dad's ear.  Next thing I remember is my dad, with a huge smile across his face, teaching me to keep time as well as using different surfaces around me to make different sounds to better accompany the music playing.  He then turned his attention to my sister, attempting to teach her the same.  All I remember following that was his frustration because my sister just couldn't get the beat down.  

"Look at your brother!" he said loudly, "Keep time like he is."  She never got the hang of it as the song and record had come to an end.  My dad returned to his spot at the kitchen table.

I don't know how old I was then.  Frankly, I'm surprised something so random, like that, would spring back into my head, unless it was because of the documentary I just finished watching on Netflix.

I've watched a couple documentaries on drumming and percussion.  This one just randomly popped up on my Netflix when I was searching for another title.  The description tickled my fancy, so to speak, and I pressed PLAY.

The documentary interviews a wide menagerie of professional drummers who all discuss techniques, practices and inspirations.  It's really a fascinating documentary and I'd recommend it to anyone.  While I was watching the film, though, a tear came to my eye.  The tear fell down my cheek because I realized my dad would have loved to watch this film.  Maybe even sit with me while doing so.  The commentary he might have added to make the doc even more special.

I'm not a religious person.  I wish I was, but I can't.  I'm too logical, but if Heaven does exist, I hope it has Netflix.  I'd love to sit down with my dad.  Catch up and maybe watch a drumming documentary or two. 😊

Intuitively Speaking

I've watched programs on television that showcased some of their, for lack of better terminology, powers, but I will never fully comprehend those people who possess psychic abilities.  Nor will I ever be one hundred percent convinced of the legitimacy of said power.  All that withstanding, I can't shake this strange feeling from time-to-time.

The idea that a person can accurately predict or reveal secrets, unbeknownst to them previously, from sources from the beyond.  Bringing to light messages and secrets that only the dearly departed and a particular loved one connected to the deceased, completely blows my mind.  The process that an empath or medium can subject themselves to in order to bridge the gap between this world and the next is incomprehensible.  A completely alien concept to me, unless I'm under the influence of something, in which case I'm convinced everyone is psychic and are obviously probing my brain, seeing through the transparency of my alleged sobriety.  Then again, it could just be my own anxiety giving me away. Revealing my secrets.

Until recently, it never occurred to me that I might possess certain proclivities that would allow me certain abilities.  Nothing outlandish like predicting the future or bridging that gap, as I stated previously between here and the afterworld, but it's a legitimate feeling, nonetheless.  I feel as though I may be sensitive to...  Awe, hell.  I don't even know for sure.

According to Google; One who is psychically sensitive is like being highly empathic.  The definition explains that those with this "gift" are very attuned to the feelings and attitudes of those around them, often taking on some of the burden, stress and/or emotions. This attribute can be dangerous as the compilation of so much energy can be detrimental to the host, especially if much of that energy is dark and negative.  If someone is already afflicted with depression, piling on more negativity is definitely not beneficial.

I don't know if I qualify for that category, although I do have that small collective of friends & acquaintances who always seem to be so negative.  The never seem very happy or joyful, but constantly complaining and whining about shit.  I find it exhausting, sometimes, to be around them.  Practically sucks the life out of me.  Like a succubus, only I'm awake during the torturous process.  Is it possible?  Possible that I'm affected extra hard, because I have this third eye, so to speak?

I'm also familiar with that feeling of heaviness, when you walk into a room after two people have been arguing?  It's like an unseen fog that blankets the room, like a veil of webs draped across the room.  The room is electrically charged, but it's negative.  It's heavy and you can feel it weigh you down.

I've mentioned previously in my blog (Jeff's Brain Matter) about my encounters with supernatural forces.  I aim to share more and one of those experiences will be in the next paragraph.

Years ago, I tagged along with friends who were going to a party of some friends who'd recently returned to the city.  The party was in the basement suite of this tattered old building which stood not far from the Woodlawn Cemetery.  The area already feels strange, what with the neighbourhood bordering on the largest cemetery in the Bridge City (YXE).  This night was cool and breezy, which felt nice on my face as I exited the crowded party.  There was something else, though.  I got a strange feeling whenever I was inside.  I felt overcrowded.  It was separate from the people, because as people left the apartment for fresh air, the nearly empty room still felt heavy and uncomfortable.  I left that party, soon after.  I just didn't like the way it made me feel, there.  I would later learn that the apartment was formerly a hospital.  The first one in the Saskatoon area and the basement, where the apartment is situated, was originally the morgue.  To this day, thinking about that party still gives me the creeps.

I've had similar experiences over the years.  Some light and peculiar.  Other shit that's been heavy and uncomfortable.  One such experience occurred when was working nights at the Heritage Inn.  I was the night custodian which had me roaming all over the place in that hotel.  I'd already experienced some weird shit over on the banquet room and restaurant side of the building.  It was weird and unnerving, sure, but what occurred on the third floor of the hotel, freaked me the f*ck out and I avoided the third floor at all costs after this horrific experience occurred.

Recently, I was watching television and saw a commercial for Casino Regina, located in the Queen City.  The advert invited people from far and wide to come to Regina and visit the casino, listing all the amenities in the process.  It really is more than just bells and sirens of winning slots.  There's a very fine restaurant there as well as a theater for concerts and shows.  I've been to Casino Regina a couple of times and was fun both times.  For the most part, anyway.

I've gone to the casino in Regina a couple of times, both being with my mom.  We'd be in town for whatever and figured we'd stop at the casino before leaving that wretched city.  We'd play the penny slots and leave with more than we'd arrived with.  I recall the last time we were there.  It's been more than a decade, now, I'm sure, but we'd arrived and started playing the penny slots, like always.  I had a string of good fortune, while my mom didn't fair too well.  I remember scooping out a handful of coins from my bucket and gave them to my mom to play with.  And play she did.  She won back the money she'd lost and then some.  When we'd had enough, my mom treated me to supper at the fancy restaurant inside the casino.  We had a nice time and before leaving to go home, I stopped to use the washroom.

I'd visited the Casino Regina once before and as I recall, I had to use the washroom that time, too.  The washrooms are located in the basement of the building.  I felt uncomfortable the moment I began my decent into the lower level.  The feeling downstairs, for me, is staggeringly heavy.  It's like a weighted vest placed over my shoulders and the simplest of tasks almost seem laboured.  Suffice it to say, I got out of there as quick as I could.  Even now, reflecting on the experience, weighs heavy on my chest.

After the TV advertisement for Casino Regina had ended, I was left with that familiar heaviness and then took to the interwebs, calling on Google once more, typing in Casino Regina haunting and yep.  As suspected the aged building has some unearthly residents within it's walls.

Casino Regina now resides in the former home of the Canadian Pacific Railway.   Dubbed Union Station, the building was constructed in 1912, making it one of the founding buildings of the fledging settlement that would eventually become our province's capital city.  After many years of service, the building was eventually converted into a casino in 1996.  Since the opening of the venue, there have been reports of paranormal sightings.  From railway workers appearing and disappearing on the main level, to a woman witnessed roaming about upstairs.  And then there's the basement.

When the building was a train station, the basement level served as a jail.  Prisoners awaiting trial would stay in these cells, as well as those awaiting transfer.  It's said that one prisoner wanting to avoid a lengthy prison sentence, attempted to escape, losing his life in the process.  It's believed that his soul still roams the basement of the casino.  The basement where the washrooms are located.  The basement where I was overwhelmed by the heaviness.

I don't know if there's anything special about me.  It's not something I'd want to pursue.  I would like to verify or confirm that whatever it is, is real, but beyond that, it'd just be nice to know that when I'm experiencing that heaviness that there's a reason for it and not something goofy like a stroke or something. 😂 

 

My Little Red Wagon

It's difficult for me, sometimes, to accurately describe how or what I'm feeling.  Especially as of late, when some things are growing more and more confusing.  It's no mystery that I suffered a life-altering brain injury a few years ago.  I've mentioned it here, in this forum, numerous times.  Explained how I fell.  How I knocked myself out.  How I spent the next twelve months trying to restore my life to the level it was before, only for the experts to drill into me that life as I knew it, was going to be drastically changed.  I work hard to maintain the knowledge and memories I have and pausing to celebrate the ones that come fleeting back.  I had a childhood memory come dancing back into view and I'll share it with you all now. 

I saw a family out in the park the other day.  Dad was pulling the tightly bundled baby in a toboggan, the name Radio Flyer emblazoned along the side in it's unmistakable font.  It was a happy memory, for that child, unfolding in front of me and it sparked a memory of my own. 😊

We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up.  I lived in a trailer for a majority of my life. A seventy-two foot mobile home that was situated just west of our city, which is another memory that I restored lately.  I loosely recall where the dealership was located when my father brought all of us along to look at multiple models for purchase.  I just want to clarify some minor details with my mom, before I write about that one.  However, the memory that I chose for today, concerns the Radio Flyer wagon and the small trailer we lived in prior to the one I lived a majority of my childhood in.

The trailer we had before, was tiny in comparison to what we'd eventually move into.  It was just a two bedroom.  My sister and I shared a bedroom in the front of the house and my parents room was in the rear.  Separating the two spaces was a small bathroom at the end of the hall, next to mom and dad's room, then a small kitchen/living room.  If one were to look at RV camper trailers, today, you'd find more luxury than you would have found in that dinky little dwelling.  Like I'd said before, our family didn't have a lot of money and my dad made due with what he had and if I were to reflect on that time, you'd find a twenty-something, new dad, new fledgling family and just trying to keep everything afloat.  My dad did good.

I remember watching Stampede Wrestling with my grandmother on an old black and white TV that was shoved in one corner of the living room space.  Across from that was a washer/dryer combo machine, that my mother confirmed the other day as being a real memory of mine.  It was so small in stature, that I was confused by it, but my mom confirmed that it was, indeed, a washer that was on wheels and could be maneuvered over to the kitchen sink for the hoses to hook up.  I recall having a poster on the back of my, sorry, my sister and mine's bedroom door, of the Jolly Green Giant, that also served as a measuring implement to gauge our growth.  The one other memory I have of this tiny dwelling, before I get to the main course of this Brain Matter edition, was the night my mom was attacked while she slept.

Being on a farm, it's not uncommon for some of the outside dwellers to come inside.  Perhaps seeking warmth from the coolness of the night or maybe to grab a nibble of a delinquent crumb or alike.  On this one particular night, my mother rose from a deep sleep to a stunning awakening, crying in distress.  Turns out a tiny mouse had ventured into our place, but instead of seeking out a forgotten cookie or a dropped piece of vegetables under the kitchen table, this little adventurer, found itself in my parents bedroom, where my mom's arm had slipped off the bed and was hanging just inches from the floor.  My mom had woken up to something chewing at the end of her finger.  It's crazy to think about just how vulnerable we, human beings, really are when we sleep.

I believe it was a Saturday night and I was all excited.  My dad wasn't home.  Probably at work.  He worked at the Cory Potash Mine, at the time, which involved a lot of shift work.  Something that remains to this day, I believe.  So it was up to my mom to cart this large box into the kitchen.  The box was nearly as big as the entire kitchen.  Eventually the box was emptied and taken into the porch to allow more room to work.  It was exciting.  Me dancing with glee and joy as my mom assembled this flashy red wagon together, piece by piece.  Finally it was down to just popping the red center caps on each wheel to hid the mechanism beneath.  Three successes and one that broke when being pressed on.  Little did I know, at the time, that this slight imperfection would be a running theme throughout my life.  Case and point: The day I bought my truck from Honda.  I'd only owned it for maybe ten minutes before someone, at the dealership I might add, parked next to me, flinging their passenger door into the side of my brand spanking new truck.  Now I owned a brand new spanking truck with a ding in the side of it already.  Because I'm not allowed to have anything nice.

Minor imperfection or not, I loved that wagon.  I took it everywhere with me on that farm.  I can only imagine the eye rolls I must have gotten when my dad would be hard at work, reassembling an engine or something in the shed and hearing the unmistakable rattle of my little red wagon and I coming to see what was going on.

I remember concocting something that would allow me to tow the wagon behind my bicycle (another memory just popped for that) and I used that wagon for everything it was worth.  I wonder if my mom ever stood back with pride, knowing that she'd been the one to build the toy that her eldest was having so much fun with.  I know if the roles were reversed and it was me looking at something that my kid was enjoying, I'd feel pride.  I get that now, when Monkey is playing with something I made for him.

The wagon got a lot of use over the years, eventually being drafted into service for my dad.  I'd find the wagon, now covered in dust and surface rust, sitting in a corner of the shop.  Smiling, almost, as I came into view.  Both of us, it an aging old toy and me a grown adult, sharing a moment of reflection, reminiscing about the old days we shared together.

After my dad passed away in ninety-nine, I don't know what happened to that little red wagon.  If I would have been smart, I would have taken it with me before the entire farmyard of equipment was sold at auction.  That was a heartbreaking event, in and of itself, which deserves it's own blog to discuss.  As for my wagon...  Who knows?  Probably snatched up by some auction bidder who never gave the wagon the respect it deserved and why would they?  To them it was only an implement.  To me, it was a show of freedom.  Freedom for a kid who never had a lot of stuff growing up, but I had that Radio Flyer.

"Could you spare a crumb or a berry? Even a finger if you're not using it."