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."

The Sh*t Just Doesn't Make Scents

 

The dictionary defines perfume as: A fragrant liquid typically made from essential oils extracted from flowers and spice, used to impart a pleasant smell to one's body or clothing.  I define perfume as: A method for desperate people to draw attention to themselves, regardless of how it affects those around them.

I, like so many others, are allergic to said perfumes.  Some worse off than others.  Using myself as an example, I used to only get a little congested.  Experience some difficulty in breathing, but how it [perfume] has affected me in the last couple of years, is actually quite frightening, sometimes.  I would estimate that about 90% of my encounters in recent years has affected me in such a negative manner.  I experience pains in my chest when I try to breathe.  Shallow breaths is all I can muster in many encounters, not to mention the excruciating migraine that sets in.  Just a few weeks ago, when we were experiencing above normal temperatures and people were dressing down, I began to sense the a new brash of people wearing the offending odours that they find so "pretty".  It took me out of a day and a half of work while I was trying to rid myself of the headache.

The perfume industry generates an ungodly amount of revenue and shows no signs of receding.  Just short of $46 Billion dollars in 2022, followed by a slight climb to just over $48 Billion by the close of 2023.  Projections propose a global revenue of over $69 Billion by the close of this decade (2030).

Though the word perfume is defined as the extraction of scents from one source to create another, the word itself has evolved into the description of the smelly scents worn exclusively by women, while the term cologne has been imparted to the fragrances worn by men.  The actual terminology, as described on Wikipedia, is 'eau de parfum' for the ladies and 'eau de toilet' (instead of 'eau de cologne') for men.

In the beginning it was just extracts from flowers, spices and solvents to achieve the desired fragrances that would eventually be sold to the public.  In the decades and centuries since those albeit primitive practices were used, the process has gotten much more complicated and if I were to speculate, much deadlier, as where oils and extracts were diluted with much simpler ingredients, today's manufacturers are using a laundry list of chemicals which may be a contributor toward why so many are affected negatively.

"Just a dab will do" is the practice.  While I am quite allergic to perfumes, I never had a bad reaction to cologne and would wear it on occasion, myself.  I have a nice respectable collection of pleasing smells to which I can apply to myself.  However, in recent years, as my allergy to perfumes has worsened, so too, has my reaction to the colognes worn by men.  The only difference being that men tend to understand how much a "dab" is, while some women seem to shower themselves in the potent perfumes.  I tend not to wear anything more than the deodorant I spray on in the morning.

My opinions on the subject are jaded, I will admit, because of my negative health reactions to the dope, but I believe that when people douse themselves with the fragrances, it's just a cry for attention, whether they do it on purpose or subliminally, they just want the attention of people approaching them to ask "What's that lovely smell you're wearing?"  I think it's just pathetic.

"My mom wears perfume." a friend told me, when we were discussing my negative reaction to perfume and I get that.  We all want to look and feel our best when we go out into the world, but how much attention do we want to attract?  The world is already full of predators looking for any excuse to pounce on someone, why add to the danger?

My mom and sister traveled to Las Vegas many years ago.  Sigfried and Roy were still performing and the public could take a tour to see all the beautiful white tigers and lions that the duo used in their show.  My sister told me that the tigers seemed agitated when she and my mom came around.  I asked if she was wearing any perfume at the time, to which she replied yes.  It was the perfume that caught the attention of these stoic creatures and if there wasn't a thick set of bars separating the two, I'm sure the news articles would have read that one of Sigfried and Roy's tigers attacked a tourist rather than Roy, himself.

I don't know where I'm going with this and I apologize.  I wanted to write a puff piece ridiculing the idiots who continue to splash this shit all over themselves, but as I read through some of this "research" on the subject, I'm coming to believe that it's more of a global brainwashing scheme.  As stated previously, by the end of this decade, the fragrance industry stands to gain nearly seventy billion dollars in revenue.  

That's a staggering amount and the advertising all seem to have the same theme.  "Not feeling pretty enough?  Wear some of this fragrance and you'll be as popular and beautiful as this stunning actress or supermodel."  What woman isn't going to want to feel beautiful and attractive to those around her?  "Not popular with the ladies, guys?  Where this cologne and you'll be a handsome rock star/celebrity like Johnny Depp."

I shudder to speculate how my future is going to pan out if everyone keeps buying and wearing this shit.  The chemicals are getting stronger.  The concoctions, themselves, are getting more complicated and every encounter gets scarier and more scarier for myself and those affected around me.

Every door entering a public space or doctor's office or just about everywhere, my bus included, has a placard reading something to the effect that it's a Fragrance Free Zone and that perfume/cologne cannot be worn inside.  As far as I know, that rule is enforced everywhere except on the bus. So regardless of people's safety, idiots wearing fragrances can come aboard and risk everyone's safety.  There was a day, last summer, where the smell was SO strong that I had to pull over and exit the bus for about ten minutes.  I managed to narrow down the culprit who was quite apologetic for causing the situation we were in and the distress that I was feeling at the time.  However, I doubt she ever considered anyone else's well-being after that.  I find most young folks, from teens to their twenties, to be selfish and arrogant.  I get that.  I'm that way, too, to a degree, but I possess just enough compassion to consider those around me.

It's 2024 and theoretically, either the aliens will reveal themselves to Earth and we'll have a whole new set of problems to deal with or Donald Trump will be re-elected and the whole world will have a whole new set of problems to deal with.  Whatever happens, it's not going to be pleasant, whatever it is, but we'll all smell like roses. 🌹
 

Eagle

I did the one thing this morning that, for a long time, have wished to have a female companion to assist me with.  I guess, I could have a male companion help out, but I'd feel very uncomfortable about asking a dude to come help me out in the bathroom.  Standing shirtless in front of the mirror, doing the deed is uncomfortable enough, but to do it with another fella present would be crazy awkward.  The task that I speak of is, of course, shaving my head.  Get your damned minds out of the gutter, folks.

For a couple of years now, I've opted to shave my head instead of growing my hair out.  Previous to joining Saskatoon  Transit, I'd had longer hair.  My sister, a hairdresser, couldn't always fit me in for an appointment.  Working limited hours and constantly taxiing her two boys around the city and a portion of the province (these days), she never had the time and not one for bringing her work home with her, plus I'd never dream of asking for such an arduous favour.  So I'd let my hair grow out.  For awhile it was quite lengthy, too.  In the beginning it'd hang in my eyes and would be especially bothersome on a windy day until finally I stopped attempting to keep it from blowing across my face and eyes.  Working outside, though, caused my hair to bleach from the constant exposure to the sun, until finally it began to look like I was balding, even though (at the time) I was not.  I'd always had thin strands of hair, but I was never losing much of it.

Everything changed when I got hired onto Transit.  When I had my identification picture taken for my pass card, the way the camera flash reflected off my head, was truly devastating.  That evening, I did manage to get in to see my sister for an emergency hair appointment at which time, despite her reluctance to grant my wishes, she did shave my head completely bald.  After that, I'd purchased a mid-to-high range cordless clippers and the adventure began.

In the beginning, I attempted to shave every couple of days, but strips would be missed and I'd look like a bargain basement Mick Foley (as Mankind).  One time, another driver, who also worked as a part-time hairdresser, took pity on me and cut down some of the offending strays.  After that, I decided that I'd allow my hair to grow about a quarter to half an inch before taking it all off, right down to the skin.  I don't Bic my head, as my cranium doesn't appear to be very round.  Standing back, it looks like a human skull, but when I run my fingers over my scalp or run the clippers through my hair, I'm constant finding valleys and divots, thus making some areas more difficult to cut.  Hence the need for a spot checker.  Maybe even someone who'd be competent enough to touch up the troubled areas.  Then again, if I'm shaving my whole head anyway, there's a grey area where skill doesn't even come into play.  The fact that I do it myself, is proof and a half that no skill is required.

I remember the first time I'd shaved my head.  It was...  Oh shit, more than twenty years ago. 🤯  God damn I'm getting old. 

The first time I'd shaved my head, it was done by a friend and, ironically, it was done by a dude, my friend Joel.

Another friend had been diagnosed with cancer.  He was about to embark on the chemotherapy aspect of his treatment and was facing the inevitable hair loss.  Myself and a group of his friends, all agreed to shave our heads in support.  It was a procedure that none of us had, up to that point, so the initial victims, er I mean, participants suffered through some seemingly barbaric treatment.  I can't recall who went first, thankfully it was not me, but they came out of that bathroom which trickling streams of drying blood.  It was not a pretty sight.   After all, as memory serves, I don't believe we had any clippers.   Just a pair of scissors, normally used for cutting paper and fabric, not human hair, and a pack of Bic disposable razors.  It was amateur hour at it's finest.

The next fella came out a little less scathed, followed by a third friend, who decided to have some fun in the process, opting first to cut a horse shoe out of his head.  You know, hair on the sides and back, but the top was shaved bald.  It was quite a spectacle to see and he resembled a high school principal.  He did a couple different style that resulted in all of us laughing like idiots.  It was a good night, overall.

As for my experience, it was great.  By the time it was my turn to go under the knife, so to speak, and we'd all got our process down to a sweet science and I came out of the bathroom looking like a million dollars.  I'd always had concerns as my neck is wider than my head, so I always believed that I would look like a thumb with a goatee, but it wasn't so.  My neck is wider, but it didn't (& I don't) look as bad as I thought it would.

I'd love to have a female companion for a number of reasons.  It'd be nice to come home once in awhile and talk to someone who responds with actual words and not murmurs and meows, but I wouldn't trade that fuzzy faced boy, Monkey, for anything or anyone.

Now I sit here, all my hair removed except for a velvety layer, tapping away at my keyboard.  Procrastinating about having to leave the house.  Venturing out into the cooler temperatures.  Maybe I should have waited until this afternoon to have shaved my head, but then I wouldn't have been inspired enough to come share this experience with all of you.  Have a nice day, everybody! 🙂

Biffed!

Funny as hell, it was.  This small statured teen was running for the bus stop, with two large slushies, one in each hand, then BOOM!!!  The kid went down and went down hard.  His little body sliding across the remainder of the street, the two cups of icy soda went straight up in the air, before smashing down to the ground, turning the snow from bright white to red and blue.

The weather has been very mild, for the last week.  A warmer than usual winter, overall, but this past week found the mercury rising to nearly double digits.  Astonishing for January in Saskatchewan.  The weather reverted back to colder temps, but instead of getting the snow that was forecasted for last night, instead I think it may have rained.  That combined with the constant melting-freezing-melting process that seems to be happening, the ground has (virtually) turned to glare ice.  It was rare, for me today, to spot any stretches of sidewalk that wasn't covered in an inch of ice.  Two places on my route, to be exact.

I've shared my mishap on ice from 2018, where I slipped in the back parking lot at my [then] job as a courier, knocking myself out for nearly a half hour.  Thankfully, it was only a brisk night, rather than one of those hellacious negative forty nights, otherwise I probably would have froze to death.  The result of that knock on the head was a year of my life rehabilitating and the struggle to regain my memory in it's entirety is an ongoing battle.  A fight which experts have told me will never come to fruition.  That fateful slip on the ice, literally changed my life from that point on.  Long term memory, fleeting at best.  Short term, not the best either.  A prime example would be this morning.  My cat has lived with me for nearly fourteen years.  During this time, I've obviously fed him every morning, yet this morning, it seems I'd forgotten, but boy did he remind the shit outta me when I got home. 

So seeing that kid biff it out on the street, I should have been more concerned, rather than laughing out loud.  I did ask if he was alright, but he ignored my concern and immediately asked for a free ride.  Little bastard!  I'm glad he wiped out.  Even better that he dumped his drinks.

I saw another prime example of people not really thinking about the surface that they were walking on, as I was sitting at a traffic light.  I watched as a man and a woman were slowly sidling up the sidewalk until they came to a sizeable spanse, where they stopped.  The man said something to the woman and next thing ya know, he's picked her up in his arms and takes one step onto the slippery surface.  His progress did not last long enough to take a second step.  DOWN he went with a tremendous thud, his female companion falling on top of him.  I let out a small gasp followed by a snicker because, it was f*cking stupid to attempt whatever the hell he was trying to do.  Kudos for trying to keep chivalry alive, but holy shit!  The light changed to green and I soon lost sight of the two of them, him lying flat on his back and her perched neatly on his chest, unscathed by the ordeal.

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