This Is Us

When I bought my house, now fourteen years ago, my plan was to get myself a housemate almost immediately.  I went out to all the popular pet stores at the time and got everything I thought I'd need for the big day.  I got this nifty litter box that would eliminate the need to manually scoop, by sifting the sand through a series of mesh pans.  I got all the dishes and a place mat and the whole nine yards.  Then I procrastinated.  I never sought out a cat for a couple of years.  I don't know why, but perhaps it was fate.

I'd gone through some personal turmoil and finally in 2010, I thought, this is the right time and during a break at work, I visited the SPCA's website to look at the creatures they had onsite.  The first cat I saw, was a little guy named 'Sprout'.  He was adorable, so that night I set out to go to the SPCA to see Sprout.

Sprout was a cute energetic little fellow, but when we went to the isolation room to get acquainted, Sprout had no interest in me and lurked all about, ignoring me completely, as if I weren't even in the room.  So I took Sprout back to his cage and tried another cat, Perry.  Perry was an orange tabby and about three times the size of Sprout.  In his cage, he was lively and quite a character.  He reminded me of Norman, my sister's cat, who went to live with my mom after my sister's divorce.  Norman was a cool cat and Perry seemed to match that personality, but once more, in the isolation room, Perry had no interest in me, opting instead to search for a means of escape.  Back to the cage for him.

Next was a smoky grey cat.  I can't recall it's name, but when we got into the isolation room, it remained at my side and I got to play with him and have a nice little visit.  I thought this.  This little guy will be my cat and I returned him to his cage, informing the folks at the desk that I'd be back the next day, a Friday, to pick up my new cat.

All day Friday, at work, I kept going back to the SPCA website to look at the cats, but it was 'Sprout' who I continued to stare at.  Sprout had a unique face.  A black and grey tabby with a white patch on his face that mimicked a face mask that extended from just above his nose down under his chin.  Though he had completely ignored me when we were in the visitation room, I knew I could break through that tough exterior and we'd be best of friends.  So immediately after work, I raced to the SPCA and told them that I was there to adopt Sprout.  That's when they gave me the shattering news that he was already spoken for.  He was being adopted by two college girls who were coming later that day to pick him up.  I was shattered.  Even now, as I write this, I'm welling up.

Seeing how devastated I appeared to them, the lady behind the desk told me, that if they didn't pick him up by 7pm that night, that she'd give me a call and I could adopt him.  This news gave me hope.  'There's no way two college girls are going to pick up a kitten on a Friday night instead of going out to the bar to get drunk and stupid', I thought to myself, handing over my phone number.  Sure enough, at 7:30pm, I received a telephone call informing me that the original adopters failed to show up and if I still wanted Sprout, that he was mine.  I graciously said 'yes' and early the next morning, I raced across town to pick up my little guy.

We placed Sprout, now renamed "Monkey" into the newly purchased carrier and we departed.  Monkey was quite vocal all the way home.  Rightfully so, he was plucked from the safety of his own little apartment and was now riding in a new container that smelled rich with plastic and vinyl, destined for the unknown.

When we arrived at home, I placed the carrier in the front room and unzipped it.  I never attempted to retrieve the little kitten, leaving him, instead to get acclimated to his new environment.  I took the fast food that I'd purchased on our way home with me downstairs and clicked on the TV.

Throughout the next thirty minutes or so, I could hear some rustling upstairs and some little squeaky meows, but no sign of the cat.  Then at one point, there he was, at the top of the stairs staring down at me.  I said nothing and he'd disappear.  Returning he'd come a little closer, then turn and run.  He did this a number of times, growing more brave each time.  Then he'd get poofy.  The hair on his back rose and his tail was tremendously large for a cat so small.  He'd then turn sideways, making himself appear larger than he was and he'd charge at me, then turn and run.  He did this over and over for the next twenty minutes or so, before finally hopping up on the chair and giving me a few sniffs.  I think he felt like I was okay and that's when the trust first began.

I've mentioned a lot about my TBI and the loss of most of my memories.  I can't remember most of my childhood or the years since then.  One memory that I am so relieved that I can still recall, are these first moments with Monkey.  He had finally accepted me as his 'daddy' and he climbed up on my chest, as I sat back in the chair, and curled up, just under my chin and went to sleep.  We both had a nap at that time, as father and son.

I wish I had more pictures available of Monkey at this age, but sadly they're all on the various cellphones that I've had over the years and aren't available (at this time) until I find the right cables to transfer them onto my computer.  All I have are these three individual photos taken by my mom at her house.

The next while was a learning curve for us both, Monkey and I.  He'd constantly get into mischief as young cats tend to do.  I had to repeatedly scold him when he'd get behind the TV and chew on the cables.  He used to climb up under my bed and get stuck in the void between the box spring and the frame of the bed, forcing me to pull the bed apart to rescue him.  One night, he drove me completely insane, getting stuck in there a total of three, maybe four times.  This prompted me to place everything that could fit under my bed to block his attempts to get in there, and everything has remained there ever since.  He's now ten times bigger than he was when he came to live with me, but I know if given the opportunity, he'd wriggle himself up there again and call for me to rescue him.

For most of his years here, I've given him his own freedom to what he wanted.  My backyard presented some problems, though.  The fence was complete shit.  Rotted out 2x4s caused fence boards to fall out.  Gaps at the bottom lead into the neighbours yard, so allowing complete freedom meant Monkey had to don a harness then have a tether attached to him.  While he had "complete freedom" outside, that freedom was reduced to a small radius around a corkscrew spike in the yard, strategically placed so Monkey could hang out under one of the bushes in the backyard.  This was troublesome only in the fact that Monkey constantly got tangled up and I'd hear him wailing for help.  Later on, I would attach a couple eye screws into my deck and the shed in the corner of the yard and run a "clothesline" across and attach 12 feet of line for him.  Now Monkey could wander the width of the yard, just short of getting through the gap into the neighbours yard.

Finally, a couple years ago, after a decade of watching the fence continually deteriorate, the neighbour and I had a new fence installed and after so many years of dragging the leash around and getting tangled, Monkey had true freedom to roam the yard.  Nowadays, at least three times a day, like a diligent security guard, Monkey will walk the grounds and piss on everything to ensure that everyone knows that this is HIS yard!

I have no regrets about anything to do with Monkey except maybe introducing him to a small stream out of the bathroom sink as, to this day, he insists that I turn on the tap so he can drink.  He still has his dish, but he prefers it straight from the source.  Often times, he will nearly trip me going up the stairs, racing me to the bathroom so he'll be ready for me to turn on the tap.  Another bother that I regret is buying the weeble for him.  It's a toy that wobbles with treats inside. Ideally, a cat is supposed to knock the toy with his foot to knock out treats.  It's supposed to engage the cat and make them think, which it did for the first week or so, then Monkey got wise.  At first, he'd knock the shit out of it, forcing two or three treats to come tumbling out, but then he got lazy and for the last five years, he simply cocks his head to the side and scoops the treats out with his tongue.  I think this practice has caused some damage to his shoulders which will likely get arthritic in his old age.  Even now, he walks with some labour, but I can't take the toy away from him.  Whenever I've tried, he just whimpers and won't eat.

I remember the first time Monkey ever saw snow.  He raced from the front of the house to the back, as the snow fell.  He was like Chicken Little running about, yelling "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"  It was hilarious.  In later years, he'd accept the snow, and hate it as much as his daddy does.

A month later would be Christmas.  Normally, at the time, if I left any room, he'd accompany me, but on Christmas Eve, he remained in bed, while I snuck downstairs and into the garage, where I had this new addition to the household.  I placed it in the front room and returned to bed.  Christmas morning, we came downstairs and he glanced to the right, then turned left to head into the kitchen.  He stopped dead in his tracks, realizing that something was different, turned and went to investigate.  I raced back upstairs to grab a camera, but in the three seconds I was gone, he'd already managed to tear off the feather that hung below the apparatus and there were feather's strewn everywhere.  A huge mess, but this remains one of his favourite "toys" despite the base being void of its carpet and the wood severely carved up.

Forever, it seemed like we did everything together, which includes watching wrestling.  You may think it's only me watching while he sleeps beside me, which does happen, but he also enjoys watching the action unfold in the ring.  His favourite wrestler is A.J. Styles and if a match begins and Monkey isn't present, he gets audibly upset with me that I didn't tell him A.J. was wrestling.

He's a smart cat.  Very smart, except when he vomits.  I believe he thinks it's helpful if he avoids the linoleum, opting instead to toss up on the carpet.  Now the carpet looks like a faded Dalmatian.  Later in his years, he's come to realize that this bothers me, so he's taken it upon himself to hide the evidence.  He does this by either pulling a flyer over the spot or he'll pull a corner of a rug over the blemish or one time he removed a dish towel, normally slung through the handle of the oven and pulled it into the front room to cover his mess.  I can't be upset with a cat that is that intelligent.

Monkey is a very smart cat, that I can guarantee, but he does have his quirks.  He doesn't like having his picture taken.  I see photos on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram where cats are all posing nicely for photos, but Monkey's reaction is like that of a primitive tribe in the jungles of Peru, who believe their soul is being stolen with every click of the camera.  That's why a majority of my photographs are of Monkey while he's asleep.  Although, looking at these two gems, which are among my most favourite pics, he is quite animated when asleep.

This blog is really dragging on, but I can't gush over this little fella enough.  I've had some really tough goes of it in my shitty life.  Years ago, when I got fired from a job, I turned to the comedy of Christopher Titus, who remains one of my favourite comedians.  His life was tough too and he taught me to stick to my guns, so-to-speak, 

and weather the storm.  Another time, I had an accident at work that resulted in my breaking my back in three places.  The accident also caused me to break four and a half teeth in my mouth, all of which require extraction and I was horrendously ashamed, but a similar thing happened to Bert Kreischer when he was just a kid and he muscled his way through it, which gave me the courage to do the same.  Bert is one of my most favourite people on the planet and though he's been rude to me any time I've interacted with him on Twitter, I still love and respect the guy.  Everything else shitty in my life, I know I'll be alright because I have this fuzzy little face looking up at me, with nothing but love in his eyes.

Everyday, I look at Monkey and I tell him "I love you too much."  I believe this statement is accurate.  He's getting up in age.  He just celebrated his twelfth birthday yesterday and I realize that though he is still my baby boy, he's in the twilight stage of his life.  I may not have many more birthday's to celebrate with my little boy and the thought of coming home to an empty house, truly breaks my heart. 💔  During a recent bout of anxiety and depression, I seriously considered suicide for the first time.  Not today, but one day when Monkey is no longer here, I don't know how I will survive.  No comedians joke will be able to pull me through that funk.  But alas, there is some hope.  I've been seeing online, as of late, that there are cats out there that are living well beyond what was normally considered a normal lifetime.  Norman, who I mentioned earlier, lived to be eighteen years old.  Another cat I saw online, lived to be twenty-three years old.  Recently, I read of another cat who'd just passed away at the age of twenty-eight.  Can you believe that?  I'd happily clean up Monkey's vomit for another sixteen years.  By that time, it'd be both our time to die naturally.

When I had announced to the world that I'd gotten a cat, I said, "I call him my son and he calls me daddy."  I've never said that I owned him or really said that he's my cat.  I've always referred to him as "my boy" or "my son", both of which confused a former workmate, who assumed that my boy was a human child, whom I left at home alone while I worked the nightshift.  "Where's your sons mother?" he asked once, to which I replied, "I don't know.  I assume she's living on a farm somewhere."  I never did fess up that my boy was of the feline variety.

Monkey is a big dude.  Ten or twelve times the size he was that very first day when he curled up on my chest for a nap.  I love everything about this kid, especially that little pink nose. 🥰  This is us.  Two peas in a pod, never to part.  He will always be my number one.  He will always be my best friend.  He will always... Always, be my little boy.

MARATHON

There's been a lot of talk about marathons, lately.  Well, actually, I guess marathons have been around and chatted about for a very long time, but I've only really taken notice as of late.  I'm in no place where I'm physically capable or remotely interested in taking on such a challenge.  I'll leave that up to those more able to contend with such challenges.  People like comedian Bert Kreischer and hoards of other people.

There's a half marathon taking place tomorrow in my hometown.  It's got something to do with the City Police and raising awareness for crime or victims of crime or something.  I didn't really pay much attention to the tweet before I deleted it from the feed on my phone.  I'm not certain how a marathon raises awareness for such things, except maybe trains you for running away from criminals.  I don't know, but the one thing that did catch my eye was, half marathon.

"What constitutes as being a half of a marathon?" I wondered to myself, as I trekked up the stairs to my computer room, preparing to put finger to keyboard to search the internet for answers, before tapping out the first blog I've done since early-October of last year.  I thought, initially, that a marathon was any race that spanned a great distance.  However, if this was the case, couldn't just about any marathon be labelled as "half"?  For instance, if a marathon was a hundred miles in length, then a half marathon that was only, say twelve miles, certainly could not be called a 'half marathon'.  A specific number had to exist for any race to be deemed a marathon.

According to the old interwebs, a marathon is: A footrace being a little over 26 miles in length.  So I guess a half would be, obviously 13 miles and change.  So anything above that 26 miles is an Endurance race or what I perceive to be true torture.

A triumph of will over reason...  I like that one.  I have no will to ever attempt a marathon.  I'm physically unable to participate in a marathon of any kind.  For now, I'm just going to live vicariously through Bert Kreischer.  He possesses the one thing that I don't believe I have, the Mickey Mantle Gene.  If I do have the gene, then it exists in a different form which allows me the ability to pull off different kinds of feats.  For now, however, I'm going to continue to cheer on Mr. Kreischer.

The Yo-Yo Effect - Struggle For Survival

Everyone's lives have ups and downs.  Life can be a wild ride, much like a roller coaster.  Exciting at times, scary and terrifying at others.  My life isn't any different than any of that, but my ups and downs have always seemed to go from one extreme to the other.  Plateaus as high as Everest followed by lows as deep as the Laurentian Abyss.  Thankfully, as my most bleakest of moments, when survival seemed trifle and frivolous, there was a glimmer.  I glint of light that would catch my eye, capture and entrapping my attention long enough for the dark clouds to clear and life becoming bearable and easier to cope with.  Things that made me smile, rather than retreating into my blackness.  I'm sure many people have these moments of epiphany and clarity, but I bet very few, if any, can recall those "ah-ha" moments or what turned their lives around.  I have three, that I'm willing to share.

My father died, surprisingly, seventeen years ago.  I can still remember it like it happened yesterday.  He was diagnosed with cancer and succumbed to his sickness within about a month and a half.  Growing up and for most of my adult life, he battled the bottle.  An alcoholic, he was extremely angy and violent at times.  I remember coming home from school, seeing his truck was home and knowing that some shit was about to go down.  Alcoholism is a sickness, of sorts.  An addiction.  An escape from the problems that plague one's life.  In retrospect, I suppose drinking heavily was his way of coping with his own rollercoaster life.

We had our differences, fists were exchanged, but to be perfectly honest he flung more fists than I did, if I had any at all.  However, years later, when my dad emerged from the bottle, quitting the drinking, he was the most fantastic person in the world.  All smiles, laughter and joking.  I loved to sit and chat with my dad, and I think he loved reminiscing old stories from his youth.  I heard many of the stories thousands of times and loved hearing the retelling of those stories.  Even today, something will spark a memory of one of those stories and I get a big grin on my face.  So when he died, I felt ripped off.  Robbed of all those years of my dad due to his dependence of alcohol.  I was devastated and soon found myself spiraling into the abyss.  Miraculously, I discovered a musical group that drew me out of my funk.  Allowed me to laugh, cry and scream at the top of my lungs.  Friends around me, failed to see me at my weakest and then when I became able to crawl out of my funk, disapproved of my method.

Through watching professional wrestling, there were a couple of dudes in WCW, the now defunct World Championship Wrestling.  Not only were the guys decent wrestlers, but they were successful rap artists, too.  I speak, of course, of the Insane Clown Posse.  Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope had a song called "Take It", which got my hooked and soon I was buying up all the CDs I could find.  I had officially become a bonafide Juggalo.  I've been a fan for seventeen years and through that time, when I felt my happiness and contentment slipping, I'd pop a CD into the player and give it a listen.  The Amazing Jeckyll Brothers was my introduction CD and I'm honestly surprised that I haven't wore that one out, yet.  It's definitely one of the CDs I'd want if I were stranded on a deserted island.

Fast forward to 2009, when my life went back into the toilet.  Plunged deep into the furthest recesses of the sewer.  It was a time when I can fully admit that I contemplated suicide.  I found myself an embarrassment and a disappointment to friends and family.  No amount of ICP was digging me out of that funk.  I was alone to deal with my situation, struggling to inch my way back to something vaguely resembling normalcy.  I was at home and plugged in the three seasons of TITUS, a comedy TV show that was based on comedian Christopher Titus' life and stand-up act.  Soon I was listening to all of his comedy CDs in the car and in his own way, unbeknownst to him, he saved my life.  Titus never strays from how fucked up his life got to be at times, but he survived.  My life was fucked up, too, in different ways.  No more, no less fucked up than what his life was.  He survived and through his comedy and ability to laugh at the problems, I survived.  No more sadness, feeling of unworthiness and especially, no more suicidal thoughts.

A couple years ago, it happened again.  I'd had an accident at work, resulting in three crushed vertebrae, a mouthful of smashed teeth and uncertainty for what my future held.  I was struggling to go to sleep one night, hopped up on pain medications and lying in bed.  To occupy my time, I was listening to Doug Benson's "Doug Loves Movies" podcast and there was a comedian on the show, whom I was unfamiliar with, but this guy was fun, jovial and had a laugh unlike anyone I've ever known.  My dad had a tremendous laugh when you got him going, but that pales in comparison to this comedian.

I soon binged on as much Bert Kreischer and I could humanly consume.  I found his stand-up on YouTube, discovered his podcast, CORRECTION, Bertcast and I've become a huge fan of his TV shows and everything-Bert.  I bought his book, bought the audiobook, which is funnier, and love everything Bert.  To be honest, Bert Kreischer is someone who continues to make me laugh and keep me stable in life.  That is..., until recently.

My shitty life has plunged once more.  The worst it's ever been.  Everyday I desperately fight and struggle, clenching, scraping and crawling mere inches, fighting just to make ends meet.  This is the absolute worst I've been since the death of my father, seventeen years ago.  I'm so unbelievably broke that my bills are literally a juggling act.  I've compared it to that circus act of spinning plates.  I'm struggling to get thirty plates spinning and just as I think I'm getting ahead, one or two of the proverbial plates come crashing down.  I was unprepared for this level of strife in my life.  Of course, it's this time that I learn that the Insane Clown Posse was coming to town.  Tomorrow, in fact.  When all else seems bleak, I know ICP would help me see the light, but due to financial instabilities I came to terms with not going to see my Juggalo mentors.

The other day, my friend texted me and offered me up his ticket.  Sadly, he's unable to attend and knows how much I'd love and appreciate going to this show.  I'm not a religious person, by any means, but this is like divine intervention.  Like the hand of a higher power reached down and gifted me this opportunity.  My friend, who can't go, who gave me his ticket, is a truly great friend.  We often disagree on some social commentary, but in the end, he's an awesome guy and I aspire to be as generous as he is.

Every time I turn around, it seems like I'm getting violently kicked in the nuts and yesterday I took another major hit to the nuts, but I'm going to see the Insane Clown Posse tomorrow night.  Despite all that's going on right now...  Life is good.

Weight Loss Starts With 'P'

On a visit to the doctor about two months ago, I had a visit with a dietitian on the premises.  She was there to consult with me on how I might go about lowering my blood sugar levels.  Being diagnosed with Type II diabetes a few years ago, my daily dose of Metformin can only do so much.  I decided to try to eat healthier, introducing more vegetables to my diet.  For those who follow my Twitter account (@ToontownJuggalo), you may have seen some of my pictures of prepared meals.  I'm quite proud of my tasty concoctions and don't mind promoting my culinary genius when possible.  There was discussion at the time about placing me on a new drug, called "Forxiga" (For-zee-ga), that would work in conjunction with the medication I'm already taking.  The prescription for that, however, would have to wait until I had a different test performed on my downstairs region.

Eventually, I met back up with the dietitian to further discuss my diabetic situation.  In the months in between meets, I was to test my blood on a semi-regular basis.  Semi-regular because due to my limited income, I can't afford the test strips required to test my blood.  The drug companies who control the sale of test strips have diabetics at a great disadvantage, as strips cost a f*ck-load of money.  Thankfully, the dietitian lady had free samples and was able to provide me with the testing equipment and strips.  On this visit, it was decided that we go ahead with the introduction of this new drug, Forxiga.

Information was provided prior to my filling the prescription briefly details what is to be expected from taking the pills, in addition, a list of the most common side effects was also listed.  Generally, this list is my favourite part of any prospective drug.  The most prominent is headaches, back pain, pain in my arms, frequent urination, constipation and diarrhea.  Ironically, I already suffer from headaches and back pain, so nothing new there.  The pain in the arms is new and if I forget, I begin to suspect I'm having a heart attack, before I remember.  I have been peeing a lot more, both in frequency and duration, but that's a major part of the drug's purpose as excess sugar is disposed in this manner.  As for the last two symptoms, I'm happy to report neither is affecting me.

Another positive to this new drug, aside from the guarantee that I will be receiving it free-of-charge for the next twelve months, is because of the frequent urination, weight loss is also associated with the taking of the drug.  Although I've only been taking Forxiga for about a week, I've already lost a couple of pounds, and that's considering the ample amounts of junk food I consumed over this past weekend.  Imagine the slick sexy self that will emerge when eating a more healthy diet along with the medicine.  Move over, Bert Kreischer, I'm bringing sexy back!! 

"Bringing sexy back!! That's a laugh!!"

Dream On

What does actors Ian McShane (Deadwood, Death Race, John Wick), Lindsay Lohan (Mean Girls, Machete) & 90s rapper, Coolio (Gangsta's Paradise) all have in common?  Tell you in a second.

Lately, when I wake up, I have some random song playing in my head.  I've done some reading and it's most commonly known as an earworm.  A small annoyance that most people have and deal with in a number of ways.  Usually, if I have time, I'll dial it up on YouTube and turn it up.  This process works about 90% of the time.  The other ten percent, I'm forced to sing along to the song throughout my day.

Although annoying at times, it's vastly better than waking up to nothingness.  Blindly walking through my morning rituals and heading out the door.  In most cases, I'm still half asleep, I suspect.  There have been mornings, in the past where I will arrive to work and have no recollection of how I got there.  That's truly scary and I believe this happens to a great many people, too.  A steady stream of living zombies, sipping their coffee from a stainless steel mug, while staring at the road ahead, going through the motions that have been programmed into their brains on so many previous mornings.

On a truly perfect morning, I will awaken with a dream still fresh in my head.  If I were a smart person, I'd write this shit down right away, as I've concocted many interesting story and/or movie plots that I am certain would beat out most of the drivel that Hollywood pumps out on a weekly basis.  One time, even, I thought up a video game that would be killer in today's market, but alas, due to unpreparedness, it was lost, along with all those movie synopsis'.

Most times, though, my dreams are just plain f*cked up.  I recall one I had as a child, in which I was scooped up by King Kong and tossed into his mouth like a handful of candy.  That was the beginning of the dream, the remainder was my falling falling falling down to his stomach, along with truckloads of bananas.  F*cking retarded, but I was only six or so, so cut some slack, you judgmental mother....  This morning's dream was not as juvenile as that, but it ranks high in the retarded category.  I had to write it down and share it in the only forum I could, my blog.

The day had begun as most of mine do, these days.  I'm unemployed with no prospects on the horizon.  Somehow, I learn of a movie being shot on location in a nearby small town and before I know it, I'm employed with that movie production.  It's not a glamorous job.  I'm not an assistant to the director or performing in anyway.  Instead, I'm a "babysitter", of sorts, to one of it's stars, actor Ian McShane, famous from the TV show Deadwood and a plethora of movies (check out his IMDb page, it's quite a list).  A part of Mr. McShane's demands is that he is not to be disturbed, at all, by nonessential interaction on-set or off.  My task is to run blocker for him throughout the daytime and another fella takes the night.  My time with the actor is blanketed over with a montage of different scenarios of my performing my duties and either receiving a look of approval or disdain.

The last scene of my dream, before I awoke took place in the small town.  It was a cool grey morning, the ground damp from rainfall overnight and the skies were sullen with shades of grey.  I waited for the British actor to be dropped off by his overnight assistant.  I kept the engine running in my late model Honda Civic (which is strange, as I don't own such a vehicle).  I have the heater turned up to ensure Mr. McShane steps into a warm environment.  Although he's from a country notorious for equally shitty weather, I'm taking no chances of setting the man off.

I'm waiting in an empty lot, filled with pea-sized gravel, backed up against the wall of a neighbouring building.  I have an excellent view of the predetermined pick-up spot.  Across the street is the Post Office which doubles as an RCMP outpost.  Next to the small red brick building is a lone police cruiser.  It's a brand new Ford Explorer, the same model used by the police in the city, only it's a dark blue instead of the usual white.  It's at this time that I suddenly realize I have to take a dump.  I know my body well enough to know that this isn't something I should be shirking off to do at a more convenient time.  I check the clock and see that I have a few minutes to spare and quickly rush across the street into the Post Office, which is open because it's also a police station.

I don't see any people, nor do I see a public washroom, but instead I see a janitor's closet.  I peek my head inside the door and am pleased to see a toilet.  It's not been flushed by the previous visitor, but it's only pee so it's not as disgusting as walking in on a bowl filled to the brim with shit.  I do a courtesy flush and go about my business.  When I come out, I'm confronted by a redheaded lady with short hair cropped close to her head.  She's pleasant and doesn't reprimand me for shamelessly fouling their janitor's closet, but instead offers me a coffee and some small talk.

I'm not familiar with this small town, other than it's a few miles outside of the city where I live.  It's located just off to the side and unless you specifically have business to contend with in it, it's just a flash in your peripheral as you whisk by on the highway.  However, the redheaded lady proceeds to tell me about an event that was scheduled to take place that day.  It had a specific name, but I can't remember what it was.  The memory of this dream is already beginning to fade as I type these words.  What I can remember of the day, however, is this.  The day had something to do with Lindsay Lohan.  She had come to the small modest town some years previous and had a day named in her honour.  Although she'd never return to share in the honour, the townspeople celebrated this day, faithfully, in the years since.  I guess small towns need to celebrate whatever notoriety they can get, and I wondered if Ian McShane would be getting a day named in his honour, too, despite his refusal to be bothered by anyone not associated with the picture being filmed.

We sipped our warm beverages as she told me an amusing Lindsay-related anecdote.  I periodically glanced to the street to see if Ian McShane had arrived yet, all the while smiling and nodding my head.  She told me that Lindsay had visited a local hairdresser and requested that she get her hair done like that of rapper Coolio.  Of course, the people of the town were unfamiliar with the rapper and had comedically searched high and low for reference material while Lohan danced about, singing "Gangsta's Paradise".  She laughed at the absurdity, while I smiled and nodded, failing to see the humour.  It was then I saw Ian McShane being dropped off and I excused myself to go meet the actor.

This is when I woke up and decided to share it with my blogosphere.  I wish I could elaborate on this more.  I wish I could remember most, if not all, of my dreams.  As I stated, I've had some brilliant dreams and a lot of stupid ones, too.   If I could recall them all, it'd be an amusing new blog I could share with people.  Share some of my "insanity", so-to-speak.  

Comedian Bert Kreischer is able to do something call: Lucid Dreaming.  This is a process where he can, not only recall his dreams, vividly, but also control his actions in those dreams.  If he wakes up prematurely, he's able to go back to sleep and enter that same dream again and continue to control it's outcome.  I don't know how he does it, but it's something I wish I could do.  Bert Kreischer inspires me in many ways in life and this just adds to the list.

..

I doubt that the actor Ian McShane is the dick that he was in my dream.  Quite the opposite, I'm sure.  Lindsay Lohan, on the other hand, I believe would be that rude (and equally dumb)...

Dream on, everybody.

Calgary Expo - Day One

Woke up early this morning, packed the truck full of shit and rushed across town to pick up friends before heading out west, Calgary bound, intent on attending the 2015 Calgary Comic Expo.  This is the second such event that I have attended, the first being in Saskatoon, but in comparison, the Saskatoon version is pretty small.  I had heard stories of what these larger events entailed, so I've entered this scenario with predisposed thoughts, but so far, while scaled up in size, I can't help but think, I thought it'd be bigger.

Granted, it is only the first day and we've had limited exposure.  Tomorrow we're going to tackle a whole other venue we discover via a highly confusing event map.  Also happening tomorrow, I'm going to meet the Hardcore Legend, Mick Foley.  I've been stoked all week long, dreaming (and wondering) just what the hell I'm going to say to the man.  As the minutes and hours pass by, I will admit I'm becoming more overwhelmed with anxiety.  I hope I can hold it together when I do finally meet him.  I have a great deal of respect for the man, as a pro wrestler, a writer, an entertainer and an all around genuinely nice guy.  I know from personal experience that sometimes our heroes let us down when we meet them, but I know in my heart that Mick is the real deal.  More on that subject in the coming days.

The one thing that I do know for sure, is that Calgary, in the sense of maneuvering about in traffic, is insanely moronic.  I don't know who the dumb f*ck was who decided on the meandering streams of traffic, but it is confusing as f*ck.  So confusing, I might add, that the GPS in my friends phone, was barely able to provide a definitive route in order to get from point A to point B.  Either that or it was "the reader", but I'm sure she'd flat out deny that.

Over all, Day One has been uneventful.  Just an opportunity to get our bearings.  We have three more days of this insanity.  Now I'm chillin' at the hotel, headphones on and listening to Bert Kreischer's Bertcast with MMA fighter, Brendan Schaub, disrespect the physicality of professional wrestling, using the my most hated word in the English language....: Fake.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter Four: Coping Mechanisms

I did a lot of homework before I bought my truck in 2008.  I wanted bang for my buck.  I wanted to get as much as I possibly could for one price.  Initially, I was going to buy the Honda CRV, crossover, but I read that the vehicle didn't offer much by way of good gas mileage.  Then I considered the Ford Escape Hybrid, but read that if taken on the highway, the fuel consumption was higher than the V6 model.  Then I set my sights on the Honda Ridgeline pick-up truck.  The gas mileage was great.  It was a unibody, it rides great.  It's all the comforts of a car, including a trunk located in the box.  It had a lot of umph!  Get up and go.  I test drove the Ridgeline a number of times, then when the day came to buy, I went into the dealership, knowing exactly what I wanted, and called out "no bullshit".  My research was so precise that when I requested the gold accents on the logo and name placard, I knew the order code.

So what does this have to do with coping with stress, anxiety and depression?  I'll get to that eventually.  My point is this.  I don't do hardly anything without looking into every possible avenue.  I want that umph.  I want the most bang for my buck.  I want to tackle everything efficiently.  And I feel I have.

As stated in Chapter One, I suffer from something that I call "Seasonal Depression".  I've never formally been diagnosed by my physician for depression, but I'm not a f*cking idiot.  If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, there's a 99% chance (+/- 1%) that it's a f*cking duck!  So if for more than ten years I've been gloomy, sad and depressed from Halloween through to just after my mom and sister's birthday's, chances are I suffer from depression.

This year I decided to try something new.  I began listening to online podcasts about a year and a half ago, with a majority of it culminating in the last year.  I listen to a great many different podcasters, of whom include, Adam Corolla, Kevin Smith & Scott Mosier, Ari Shaffir, Joe Rogan, and I especially like Bert Kreischer (though I constantly f*ck up the spelling of his name) and Doug Benson.

In addition to his love of movies, Doug Benson is a notorious pot smoker, and like Joe Rogan, promotes the positive medicinal attributes that marijuana provides.  The more I listened, the more I began to wonder.  I wondered if smoking marijuana would improve my "seasonal depression", so I set forth to do my due diligence.  I researched the f*ck out of the benefits of smoking marijuana and any negatives that it might create.  After all, inhaling smoke is not a naturally occurring phenomena, although the first nations people have been smoking different plants in their rituals for hundreds or even thousands of years, so... Who knows?

Everything I read on the subject reflected nothing but positivity, zero negatives, other than putting on a few pounds.  So I moved forward with this "experiment" and yes.  I'm coming out in this chapter of this blog series, that I smoke pot, but just for the medicinal purposes.  I'm not a daily smoker.  I only use it as needed.  I've not used any in a couple of weeks, and the effects of not using have been tremendous.  I've been sad and depressed for more than a week.  My friend made a remark the other day and it broke my heart.  I was truly hurt.  That's my downfall.  I can seem fine, then one off remark can send me spiraling and it's every ounce of courage to regain my composure.  The remark was in reference to my blogs, my subject matter and though they were enjoyable, they were equally inappropriate.  We've made amends, not that we were squabbling, but it's taken me every shred of confidence and will to dig myself out of this hole I find myself in.  I think this is, in part, due to my not medicating myself.  I have a lot of stress on my shoulders.  Unemployment being one.  Health issues are in the back of my mind.  Loneliness, despite having a cat, is still loneliness.

Since starting this new chapter of smoking pot, I've found it beneficial in overcoming most of my "seasonal depression", the migraines that plague me throughout the colder months have been VERY few and far between, which I relish immensely, and much to my surprise, my asthma has improved, as well.  I usually have to rely on one inhaler a month (roughly) to combat my breathing issues.  During the more frequent usage of marijuana, my asthma was not an issue, hardly.  Maybe a puff every other day.  Put it this way.  I got an inhaler just before Christmas, and I'm still on the same inhaler more than a month later.  In recent weeks, with the decline of smoking, I've had to rely on it a little more, but it's still pretty impressive I think.

So I did my homework and got the best truck for me.  I did my homework and got the best television SmartTV, that I could get.  And I did my research to learn that marijuana in addition to a plethora of other advantages, also quashes my depression.  I don't know why it's illegal.  I really don't.

Century Drinking Club

I've been thinking a lot about drinking games, lately.  I'm not a big drinker, unless you consider my belligerence on my birthday, but that's only once a year (if that).  Still, on the rare occasions that I choose to get inebriated, believe it'd be more interesting, and garner more stories, if the process is achieved via a drinking game.

I'd like to create a game via trivia.  Movie trivia, more specifically, although I am guilty of having a mind full of useless entertainment knowledge, so intoxication would be more elusive for me, but those around me, would most likely get really f*cked up.

I did partake in a drinking game created by a friend, once upon a time, that involved a Disney movie.  I can't remember which one, probably because I got right-f*cked-up, but it was a cartoon, and one of the rules was taking a shot every time one of the characters said the word "Llama".  I wanna say "Emperor's New Groove", but that sounds like a Broadway musical...

It's a morbid thought, but if you watched Wrestlemania One or Two, and took a shot of whisky or your drink of choice, every time a deceased wrestler competes in a match, you could quite possibly pass out before the conclusion of the event.  Haven't tried that one, yet, but it's in the books, I think...  Provided I could ever find Wrestlemania on DVD form, not VHS.

Years ago, I participated in a drinking game that I thought was called the Centurion Game, but I've since learned that it's called the Century Club.  The premise of the game is simple.  Huddled around a clock, participants take one shot of beer, every minute for one hundred minutes.

Now when I played it, I couldn't drink beer, on account of having an allergy.  Yes!  I'm allergic to beer.  So instead, I substituted wine coolers, whose alcohol content is higher than that of beer.., and for you American readers, I'm talking about Canadian beer, that is already higher than American beer.  I don't know about wine coolers, but I believe the alcohol content is higher than run-of-the-mill beer.

Adding insult to injury, there were only a limited number of shot glasses, so I was forced to use a regular glass, so I was estimating an ounce at the start of the game.  About thirty minutes into the game, and thirty "shots" later, I was pouring half glasses and chugging them every sixty seconds.  About sixty minutes in, I was still hanging with the other participants, who were all using shot glasses, slamming back single ounces of beer to my every half-to-three quarter glasses of cooler.

By minute 87, I'd hit my limit, rising up from the table, walking out the front door and passing out in the nice cool grass.  I was accused of barfing, but with great pride, I can honestly say I did not. Later I was given an "honorary completion", as it was recognized that in my inebriated state, my judgement was skewed in pouring my own drinks.  I think in retrospect, I probably drank much more than 100 ounces of booze, despite it being wine cooler.

One drinking game I've been wanting to create, lately, is based on the Bert Kreischer podcast.  I've been listening to his Bertcast from Episode One.  I'm currently listening to Episode #49 as I type out this blog.  Ironically, this episode is based on drinking games, hence my inspiration.

Bert often broadcasts from his mancave (most of the time), often telling stories about his life on the road performing comedy over the years.  Bert also hosts a television show on the Travel Channel, that he speaks highly of.  Bert is a very infectious personality and a joy to listen to.  In his show, he does tend to repeat a few key words and expressions that I would consider prime keys for a drinking game.  One element I probably wouldn't include is Bert's incredibly infectious laughter, as it's difficult to suck back a shot when you're laughing your ass off, too.

Creating games aren't as easy as one would think.  I've had a thought for an actual board game for a f*ck of a long time, but haven't really put pencil-to-paper... so to speak.  If I had a drink for every idea I've ever come up with..., I'd be a f*ckin' lush...  CHEERS!