LOST

At one time or another, everyone has experienced the torture of losing an object.  Keys, glasses, memory stick or, in my case today, their wallet.  For someone, like myself, who constantly struggles with memory losses and gaps since my TBI, it's especially frustrating.  I approach everything with logic, structuring my life in such a way to always promote success and never misplacing items, so when a wrench is thrown into the mechanisms of my life, it's especially frustrating.  That coupled with a temper that can be challenging to control at times, makes for a volatile situation.

Today is Christmas Day.  A day to spend with family, rejoicing about the past year and celebrating what is to come in the new year.  I did some of that this morning, before I had to go to work.  When I was about to leave my sister's place, destined to go to work, because after all, it's Christmas and the hourly wage I would earn on this holy day would have been incredible and whether I'm joking or not, I'd be paid what I feel I'm worth.  That however, never came to be.  As I was leaving their house, I noticed that my wallet was missing from my pocket.  I keep my wallet in my front pocket as it deters potential pick-pockets and it's much more difficult for it to "accidentally" fall out of the pocket.

I thought I'd left it at home on my dresser.  Sometimes in the morning, the cat distracts me with his charm and sweetness and it's just enough to distract me into forgetting shit.  I thought this morning was like that.  So I quickly sped home to grab my wallet off the dresser then head to work.  It'd be tight, but I believed I could make it in time.  Sadly, the wallet was not where I thought it should be.  I checked the pants that I had been wearing yesterday when I was visiting my friend, but the wallet wasn't there.  I checked the dirty clothes hamper, in case the wallet did, in fact, fall out of my loose denim jeans. It had not.  I ran, desperately, throughout the house, checking every conceivable place where my wallet might turn up.  Nothing.  It wasn't anywhere.

Now I had a difficult decision to make.  I called work and explained that I'd lost my wallet and didn't feel I should drive a bus without having my wallet on-hand.  It was explained to me that IF I were to have a MVC, that I'd have 48 hours to produce my wallet.  Keep in mind, now, that I had no clue where my wallet would have wound up.  At this point, after searching my house high and low, I was convinced that my wallet and ID were nowhere to be found.  I opted to not come into work, which is a hell of a sacrifice, given how much money I would have been earning on this day.

I called up the friend whom I was visiting yesterday.  I recalled pulling my wallet out to pay for pizza, but couldn't remember if I'd returned my wallet to my pocket.  Sometimes, in haste, I place it at my side or between my legs where I'm sitting.  This was not the case.  My friend Dan and his son, both searched their house, even going out to the street, but to no avail.  I even speculated on my arrival there, that maybe the dog picked it up off the floor and could've used it as a chew toy.  I searched the backyard, even taking a close look at her poopies and nothing.

Now I'm truly at a loss.  Every conceivable place I'd been in the last twenty-four hours had been covered.  Nothing.  That motherf*cker was GONE!!!  Now I was a man on a mission.  I vowed that I would be returning home and I was going to turn this household on it's motherf*cking head.  I was prepared to pull the garbage bin to my front door and just start shoveling all the crap that I don't hardly look at, anymore, straight into the bin.  I was SO angry.  SO full of piss and vinegar.  I was going to strip this house naked and leave only the bare minimum, so NOTHING would (or could) ever go missing ever again.

I arrived home, again, for the third time.  I was determined.  I searched the table, cursing out every piece of mail that blocks the wood grain on the top of the table.  Nothing there.  I searched the counter top in the kitchen, tossing out some garbage along the way.  Nothing.

I return to my bedroom.  I start tossing everything off the bed.  T-shirts, my jammy-jams, even the comforter came flying off the bed.  Nothing.  I started tossing pillows off the bed.  Still nothing.  Then I jammed my hand under a few more pillows (I have a LOT of pillows) and noth....  Wait!!  What the f*ck?!

Miraculously, the wallet was there.  Tucked WAAAAAY back under the quilt and pillows.  There's absolutely NO logical reason why it would have been there.  I don't even sit on that side of the bed.  Not even when getting dressed.  There's no conceivable way that the wallet would have wound up there. 🤔  I have issues with a wily spirit in my house that has in the past, hidden items away.  Some have been found, often in obscure locations that scoff at logic and other shit that has just been missing for years and years, including a wrestling plushy for my nephew.  Gone!!  But that is a subject for another time.

As relieved as I was and am, for locating my lost wallet and identification, I feel the level of torment that I experienced racing back and forth across town, for all the anger and strife I experienced over the course of the afternoon.  The levels of hatred I had for myself and the frustration of not remembering where or what I did with my wallet, the outcome was less than dramatic.  The ordeal felt more like a faux pas than the hellacious experience that I was working up in my head.  I felt for sure like I was going to fight the Devil, himself, to get my shit back.  In reality the outcome was... Meh!

All the torture and torment felt like I should have armoured up and went into battle with a dragon or a yeti, at least.  Not simply reach under a few pillows and find the wallet.  "Oh there you are you silly goose."

I was so angry.., but I don't know what I'm more angry about.  Was it losing it in the first place?  Was it wimping out and not going to work, despite the likelihood that I wouldn't have a MVC, even though most of the drivers out there are f*cking idiots? The fact that the wallet was simply misplaced?  Or am I more upset because the outcome wasn't dramatic, enough? 

I don't know, but I should probably just #PraiseThePositive and leave it at that.  Merry Christmas, all!! 🎄

Nobody F*cks With Reggie

The song "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer" became a classic Christmas carol early on.  Recorded by cowboy-crooner, Gene Autry, the song quickly rose to Number One on the charts in 1949.  The song was derived from a short story that was written for the Montgomery Ward department store in 1939, as a marketing ploy to sell seasonal colouring books. The story was written as a poem so adapting it to music came as quite an ease.

There was a mention on the radio earlier this week, discussing the origins of the Christmas classic "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer".  The author, Robert L. May was going to originally name the famed-reindeer Rollo or Reginald before finally settling on Rudolph.  Arguably, Rudolph IS the better name as it more easily rolls off the tongue when singing the song.  More so than Rollo or Reginald.  The radio guy claimed that Rollo or Reginald was difficult to sing in time with the music, to which most would agree, but I'm in the small group or perhaps I may be alone on this, but I think "Reggie the Red-Nosed Reindeer" works just as fine as Rudolph does, but it comes with a catch.  Nobody f*cks with a guy named Reggie.

Rudolph or Rudy isn't a tough sounding name.  If anyone is named Rudolph or Rudy in life, which obviously there is, they need to be tough, because Rudy is not a tough sounding name.  It sounds like a push over.  A runt.  A wimp.  When a Rudy runs up and asks to play in reindeer games, they're obviously going to urge him to piss off.  Reindeer games, after all, for those unfamiliar, are hardcore.  So much, you won't even see your toughest personalities f*cking with that sport.  MMA, NFL, Pro Wrestling?  None of these athletes are f*cking with reindeer games and neither is a Rudolph.  That shit would eat him and and spit his sorry little ass out.

Now a Reggie, red nose or not, he's going to get into the thick of things.  Reggie is the type of reindeer that if he's discouraged once, he's going to take matters into his own hands... er, hooves, and do something about it.  Reggie is going to work out.  Hit the weights, work on his cardiovascular.  Maybe even sneak some steroids to emphasize the matter.  Reggie the red-nosed reindeer doesn't take rejection lightly and he'll come back and he'll whoop some reindeer asses.  You watch.  Reggie won't just play in those reindeer games, but he'll f*ck shit up and become the best, the ultimate reindeer game player. 

Meanwhile, Rudolph.... Rudy, is sitting on the sidelines watching all the game play, wondering why everyone is so mean.  Grow a backbone, Rudolph!!  For Christ's sake, not everything gets handed to you on a platter.  Take some initiative!!

That's what happened, though.  Reginald -- Reggie was never to be.  Reggie is a tough son-of-a-bitch.  Reggie makes for a short uneventful song.  Rudolph, on the other hand, shows a challenge. Displays diversity.  Rudolph is the underdog that everyone feels needs to be cheered.  To be championed.  That's why on that fateful Christmas Eve night, when the fog was so thick, Santa couldn't see the belly that was in front of him, he called on Rudolph to guide the troupe of reindeer and his sleigh, thus plunging Rudolph into history as the most famous reindeer of them all.  Handed to him on a platter.

Throughout history, Reggie or Reginald the Red-Nosed Reindeer is just a discarded note on the floor of the artists office.  Never to see the light of day.  At least not until now....

Behold!  I'd like to introduce you to:
Reginald (Reggie) the Red-Nosed Reindeer

And nobody f*cks with Reggie!!

Prank'd

 

In television and movies, the go to prank for the autumn season, venturing closer to Old Hallows Eve, is toilet papering or TPing a house, or more grotesquely, egging someone's house.  Their both terrible pranks, the latter being the worse of the two, and something that I've never partook in.  Frankly, I doubt I possess the dexterity to accurately throw a full roll of toilet paper over a tree or someone's roof.  The opportunity for such delinquency has never arose, nor would I partake in it, given I don't exactly understand the whole point of the prank.

So..., we spend our own money on expensive toilet paper to throw onto someone else's house and/or into their trees?  No thanks.  There's no logic in that.  I failed to see the logic back then, when I was a kid, just witnessing this stupid shit on TV or hearing wild tales from friends.  Very illogical, to quote Mr. Spock, until today.

Today, August 27th, 2923, I drove past a house that already had Christmas decorations set out on their front lawn.  Nothing subtle, either, but rather, giant blown up figures donning scarves, toques and mittens.  Yesterday, I drove by a house that was in the process of filling their front yard with Halloween decorations.  It was both of these times that I realized: These people need to have their houses egged.

A couple of weeks before the holiday is one thing.  A couple of months ahead, is ridiculous.  If a home owner wishes to take advantage of the amazing weather we will be experiencing over the coming couple of weeks, to climb a ladder and hook up their Christmas lights, that's acceptable.  Doing that shit in the winter..., ya may as well sign your own death warrant, but doing that now, is okay.  Just don't keep the lights on past the testing phase or, you too, will be added to the list of those who deserve to get pranked by idiotic kids.

Buy all the holiday decorations that you want now, if the price is right, but wait until the appropriate times, people.  Don't be an asshole.  Nobody likes an asshole.  And if you choose not to abide by these words, don't be calling the authorities when you get your house egged.  Don't call because you deserve the punishment you get.

Fabrication

A number of years ago, I suffered an injury to my left arm.  One morning, while tending to some work stuff, a task I'd repeated every morning for countless years.  It was a part of my routine, when suddenly I felt a snap in my left arm and I could feel my bicep unraveling within the arm.  It felt exactly like a window shade when it's accidentally let go and it flies up to the roll, making a flapping sound at the end. Fwap! Fwap! Fwap!  I never heard any sound, obviously, then again, it was November and I was wearing a heavy jacket.

As an avid viewer of professional wrestling, I knew almost immediately what I had done.  It was obvious to me that my left bicep had ruptured and had retracted up into my upper arm.  Then, when I removed the heavy coat, I saw that my bicep had done just that.  I knew that my morning was not going to be my going straight home to sleep after my graveyard shift, but that I would be making a trek to the Emergency Room.

I can't recall how long of a wait I had before getting in to see doctors, but I do recall that every medical practitioner I interacted with claimed, without examination, that I had merely strained the muscle because if I had torn it, I'd be in much more pain.

I've always harboured a theory that fear drives pain.  That fear of the unknown, is what comprises a majority of pain.  Granted, if you stub your toe or have a limb torn off in some kind of violent farming accident or whatever else we human beings get ourselves wrapped up in, you're going to feel pain.  However, in this instance, because I knew first hand what I had done to myself, there was discomfort, but little pain.

Among the tests performed on me that day, was an ultrasound.  I laid back on a gurney as three young medical students moved the probe over my arm.  During this time, my insistence that the injury was a torn bicep, I kept getting rejected.  That my claims were stupid and misinformed.  "No way!" the lead insisted, "You'd be in intense pain if you tore the bicep."

Just as the young doctor-to-be finished that sentence, the surgeon came inside the darkened room that was lit only by the computer screen.  The surgeon asked how everyone was and before I could utter a single word, the young doctor at the helm of the Ultrasound Machine, piped up, laughing while he delivered his response., "He thinks that fear causes pain and because he thinks he knows what the injury is, is why he doesn't feel any pain."  I remember the whole room going silent, waiting for the surgeon to support them and laugh off my claims.  Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Sounds about right to me."

The trio of young doctors, two males and a female, lost all expression from their faces.  They'd just been schooled by the patient, me, and confirmed by the surgeon.  He scooched in between the doctors manning the Ultrasound, the light reflecting off his face.  I saw a middle-aged man with curly salt and pepper hair, wearing a bowtie.  I can't recall what his name was, as he introduced himself, but I do remember that his first name was Jeffrey, so I knew I was in good hands.

He confirmed that the ultrasound was inconclusive and that he'd likely have to do surgery to confirm the extent of the injury, but in examining my left arm from the outside, it was at best not torn all the way through, but in all likelihood, from the description I told about the unravelling feeling, that I had probably tore bicep.

The surgery was on December 4th, my late-father's birthday, so I knew I was going to be okay, and the next day, following the surgery, I had a chance to sit down with the surgeon to discuss what he'd found.  He explained that I had, indeed, tore the bicep, further explaining that it was a perfect tear.

Apparently, the tendon not only tore at the bottom of the bicep, but it had done so almost cleanly.  The doctor explained that he only had to trim a small portion of the end, before looping it through the two bones in my forearm to reattach the tendon on the underside of the bone.  Because such a small portion was necessary for removal, that I would most likely have full range of my arm when it healed.

It's very true.  In the decades since that injury (I can't believe it's been close to twenty years since that had happened), I have had full range of my left arm.  It's not nearly as strong, but I'm right-handed and the left always was a weak duckling, so no big deal.

The contraption I had to wear after surgery, to ensure the repair would heal properly, was insane and overly bulky.  The injury and surgery both occurred in the winter months so putting on and wearing a jacket was near impossible for a one-armed man, but I did manage to get out once in awhile, always being met with questions and queries.  The real reason behind the injury was stupid and uninteresting, so I came up with a much more interesting and entertaining reason behind the injury.

One time in January, a little over a month after my surgery, I was visiting a friend who lived in a small town outside Saskatoon.  We were conversing at a small table in the bar, when the waitress/bar maid came over to our table to ask if we wanted more to drink.  Seeing the contraption that my arm was twisted into, she asked what had happened, thus thrusting me into my tall tale.

I explained that I'd been downtown, doing Christmas shopping, when I heard a woman scream, "Stop him! He has my purse." I told the bar maid, that I snapped my head around toward the scream and saw a young fellow racing toward me, carrying the woman's purse.  Without hesitation, I explained, I immediately threw my arm out to clothesline the fella as he ran past.  I was successful in bringing down the assailant and retrieving the purse for the woman.

Looking up at the astonished look on the barkeep's face, I added a nugget that I never thought meant anything, claiming that there was a write-up about it in the Sunday Sun, which was a local newspaper for the City of Saskatoon, at the time, adding the title, "Local Samaritan Saves Christmas for Out of Town Shopper".

She was flabbergasted.  Speechless, but impressed.  "I'm going to go home and look for that article." she said, turning around to go back to her post behind the bar.  My friend, whispered to me, "She's really going to do that, you know.  People around here keep all that shit, ya know."  I just shrugged it off and never came clean.  Not until this blog, anyway.

What had really happened was: When it was time to take the garbage out to the bins after working the nightshift, my bicep tore off the bone when I attempted to pick up a large container of garbage.  That's it!  Boring as shit!  Lies or not, that story needed embellishment and I think my cover story was brilliant.  What do y'all think?

Profligation

Dreams.  What could they mean?  Merely products of an overactive mind?  Or do they provide a glimpse into an uncertain future?  It's difficult to say for sure, but for decades, there has loads of science investigating the unconscious state of dreaming.  The causes, the need and/or the necessity of dreaming.  That's not what this is about.

My dreams tend to air on the side of strange.  I know this much about my unconscious state.  My dreams tend to be something as stupid as white water rafting with the likes of WWE superstars, The Undertaker,  Hunter Hearst Helmsley (Triple H) and Stephanie McMahon or I've dreamt murder/mystery stories that could be blockbuster films if ever realized on the silver screen.  Most of the really good stuff, quickly disappears once I awaken and I can't remember the finite details.  (Plus, I can barely write this blog that no one reads, let alone pen the next Hollywood hit.)

This morning, I awoke about a half dozen times, from the time of 5am all the way up to the present (8:30am).  Normally when I wake up this often, my head is plagued with a number of images and stories, but not on this day.  I woke up every time, wondering..;  Is trounce a multiple of bounce?

Now before the one reader who mistakenly wandered onto this site and decided "What the hell?" and read it anyway, saw this statement and has declared me a f**king moron, keep in mind, I've already Googled the meaning of both and know that bounce doesn't restrict an item to hitting the ground twice and trounce doesn't refer to three rebounds or more.  If I continued down the path of trying to declare this to be the case would be shear idiocy. This is simply an example of how my brain works.

       

In the back of my mind, I knew there was a difference.  That the explanation wasn't as simple as bi meaning two and tri meaning three.  The English language can be a little f**ked up, but it makes more sense than this.  Again, my brain works differently than other people's.  Always has, even before I had my accident.

I had a dream once, where I was at a Agriculture show with two people of whom I was familiar with (in the dream, but in real life, I hadn't met them yet).  The reason this dream was so memorable was the three of us were speaking to a farmer about emu's.  Up to this point, I had never heard of an Emu, and when I awoke, I had to investigate whether or not this was a real thing.  It is.  Many months later, I was attending a class at SIAST and our class was sent to the local Agribition, where I hung out with classmates, Christine and Derek.  Two people who I hadn't known when I had the initial dream, but whom I was familiar with that day and... Yes!  We stopped and spoke with a farmer who raised... [dramatic pause] ... Emus.  F**king weird, right?

I could fill volumes about the strange dreams I've had and have been able to remember.  Who the hell knows about all the shit I've forgotten?  I'm willing to bet that I probably did have a few million dollar ideas in the mix.  However, I believe this blog has strayed far enough off the initial subject that I had hoped to address in this blog, this morning.  I'm like Hulk Hogan, by which I mean, I can't seem to stay on one subject and am distracted by all the shiny shit that accompanies said subject.  (If you're one of the sorry souls who read Hulk Hogan's book from way back, you'll understand that reference.  It was a painful read, to say the least.)

Bounce: (verb) (of an object, especially a ball) Move quickly up, back, or away from a surface after hitting it; rebound (once or repeatedly).

(noun) Rebound of a ball or other object.

Trounce: (verb) To defeat heavily in a contest; To rebuke or punish severely.

Emu: The emu is the second-largest living bird by height, after its ratite relative, the ostrich. It is endemic to Australia where it is the largest native bird and the only extant member of the genus Dromaius.

Profligate: recklessly extravagant or wasteful in the use of resources. (Or this edition of Brain Matter.)

I don't really have an out for this blog, so I will leave you with this.  If you've made it this far into this blog and liked it?  You're my audience and you may enjoy previous entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them are pretty good.  If you begrudgingly made it this far and haven't liked a single word, except maybe Emu (because it is a fun word to say), you have my apologies.  However, you may want to check out past entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them actually are pretty good.

In closing, everyone have a Merry Christmas! 🎅

The Magic of Christmas

 

I remember it was the last day of school, before the Christmas break.  I was riding the school bus, and it was snowing.  Lovely big poofy snowflakes, covering the street and the windshield.  I was so excited for the Season to commence.  There was a true feeling of magic that filled the air.  Intoxicating, in a way, as it filled my thoughts with what might become of things over the next week or two.

I cannot pinpoint the moment when I realized that the magic that comes with the Christmas season died for me.  When I stopped looking toward the end of December with wonderment in my soul.  That feeling of good will being expressed from one person to another, without any expecting anything in return.  Being nice, simply for the act of being nice.  I'm not sure when that all died for me, but it's gone.  Missing from my life and I think it's something that I'd like back.

I remember the week after my birthday (which is November 29th), our family would venture into the city, to purchase a Christmas tree.  This was the first step in creating happy Christmas memories.  The tree would come home with us and spend the night in the bathtub for all the snow to melt off.  The small restroom would be flooded with the smell of pine and spruce.  The next day, the tree would be raised in the corner of the living room and we'd all take turns placing our favourite decorations after my mother had strung the coloured lights.  Of course, I'd be pushed aside by my sister and my mother, as they've done my entire life in regards to everything, followed by the claim that "You're not doing it right!"  Once complete, the tree would be the sole source of light in the living room and whether I played a big part or not in it's decorating, I marveled in it's glow.

Next would come the colourfully wrapped gifts, but because we didn't have a lot of money, growing up, many of the gifts were wrapped in the very same paper, presenting in a somewhat monotone collection of gifts.

Many Christmas' were rung in with Christmas spirits, only it was never the ghosts of Christmas past, present or future, but more so of the alcoholic brand.  Many o' Christmas memories were speckled with arguments and fights, really instilling that Good Will vibe into people.  I don't think that growing up in an alcohol-infused family is what killed Christmas for me.

If I had to guess, it may have been in high school.  There was an event, shall we say, that split up our family.  I moved out of the house, because I no longer felt safe in that environment.  It's a long story and perhaps I'll share it one day, but not today.

I remember being at my aunt's house when I was given a gift from my sister.  It was a T-shirt which I was quite displeased with and threw it back, claiming it wasn't good enough.  The next gift came a week later and it was something else that flipped my switch and I threw that back, too.  It was then that I realized that I was being a supreme asshole.  That a gift is something that someone sees and hopes that the recipient will like.  Having it thrown back in a fit of rage, has to be heartbreaking and from that point on, I changed my tune, as it were.  I would come to accept that second gift, which was a cassette of Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet.  I wasn't a fan of Bon Jovi, but whatever.  It's the thought that counts, right?

In the years and decades since, I've treated the gift exchanges as just that.  I don't honestly care if I receive a gift or not.  The only real gift I get that warms the cockles of my heart, is when I am able to purchase a gift that the recipient shows genuine affection and appreciation for.

Nowadays, Christmas is an occasion for my nephews.  They're young and I don't know if they understand the true nature of what the Christmas season is supposed to be about, but when I'm able to give something that truly brings wonderment to their face, it's magical.  This isn't something that I've gotten from them in a few years now.  In an effort to not create jealousy between the two boys, I try to purchase similar gifts.  I believe that the younger of the two boys, emulates his older brother and by giving similar gifts, I'm avoiding any jealousy or unwanted tension.  Maybe I'm wrong.  We shall see, this year, but the strategy hasn't happened in the last couple.

Christmas is for the kids.  Maybe that's what happened to me.  I grew up too quick.  The magic was lost due to too many birthdays.

When my little boy, Monkey (*Monkey is a cat, for anyone who doesn't know), came to live with me, that first Christmas was the best.  He was asleep upstairs in bed, while I snuck downstairs and placed a cat tree in the corner of the front room.  I returned to bed and we slept the night away.  In the morning, we came downstairs and I acted all bewildered and confused, while he investigated the new item taking up space in the house.  I ran upstairs to grab my camera, to take a photo of him playing with the feather that hung underneath, but by the time I'd returned, Monkey had that feather ripped off the underside of the tree and pieces of feather was strewn all around the room.  The boy works fast, but seeing how much joy he was having with that cat tree, warmed my heart.  That was the magic that I'd lost so many years before.

Nowadays, Christmas is a struggle.  I can't find that magic that I so desperately crave.  I'm a single fella with just a cat at my side.  Maybe I need something else to fulfill my life.  Maybe a special someone who possesses that magic...  Or maybe, magic is just and illusion.

YPKY-MF!!

It's been my personal tradition for the last... I don't even know how long, to sit down, usually on Christmas Eve, snuggled warmly under a quilt watching my Christmas movies.  The line-up includes Die Hards 1 and 2, preceded (some years) or followed by Lethal Weapon.  Both have come under fire, this year, for not actually being "Christmas movies", but rather action movies that happen to take place at Christmas time.  Perhaps this is correct, but the tradition of watching these films and how they put me into the Christmas spirit, is not lost in this argument.

A customary movie that plays on (just about) every channel, is the Frank Capra classic, "It's A Wonderful Life".  The film which stars the late James Stewart who plays George Bailey, a man down on his luck and contemplating suicide, when an angel intervenes.  The angel takes (George) on a journey demonstrating the many positive impacts his existence has had on others around him.  I've never seen the movie, but I understand that in the end, everything turns out well and George returns home to celebrate Christmas with his family.

One can argue, and as I understand it, many have, that this film, though considered a Christmas tradition, isn't actually a Christmas movie, but simply a story that takes place on Christmas Eve.  That, withstanding, the same defense can be made for Die Hard 1 and 2 and Lethal Weapon, as well as "Running Scared" (Billy Crystal, Gregory Hines), "Getaway" (Ethan Hawke, Selena Gomez) and a plethora of others.  Even "Gremlins" is a film that only takes place at Christmas, but is hardly a Christmas-themed movie.

Let the naysayers have their way.  Most people who argue stupid points, won't listen to reason, anyway.  I say, "Wish them a 'Merry Christmas and shut the f*ck up'!!"  I don't give two shits.  My tradition is going to continue.  Granted I have so many movies to choose from, it gets difficult to watch everything in one sitting, so this year I'm going to edit some of it.  I believe the playlist this year will be as follows:

1. DIE HARD
2. DIE HARD 2; DIE HARDER
3. LETHAL WEAPON
4. GETAWAY
5. THE NIGHT BEFORE

And if there's time, I may squeeze SCROOGED, in there.

I'm shirking the usual pizza and going with another concoction, topped with a shit load of bacon, in case any of you were wondering...

MERRY CHRISTMAS, to all.  And to all, a good night...!

A Debilitated Heart

A young co-worker, just eighteen years in age, but wise beyond his years, approached me the other night.  He had a look of seriousness on his face, asking a serious question and not wanting one of my usual smart-ass quips.

L_____ is, as I said, wise beyond his eighteen years, and we've engaged in some inspiring subjects while restocking the coolers at work, but this subject, as it does with many, was stumping him and it was easy to understand why.

"How do you know when a girl is really into you?" he asked.  For a moment, I was sincerely touched, but remembering that my luck with the fairer sex has not been what anyone would categorize as, ideal.  Before I could answer his question, he added, "I asked this girl out for a coffee and she said, 'Hell yeah!'"  I confounded.  Even in my (extreme) few successes, I'd never gotten a 'hell yeah" as a response.

I paused for a moment, attempting to recall some fragment of useful information, but alas I had to confess that my knowledge wasn't up to par.  That no tidbit of information from me would bear any fruit of usefulness.  "I don't know," I explained, "Usually when I ask a girl out for a coffee, she somehow hears it as 'Can I have sex with you?', although I'm really talking about a warm refreshing beverage."

He thanked me for listening and continued on with his tasks, leaving me to dwindle on my past.  Silently I reminisced about the many rejections I've received over the years, concluding on two that I couldn't distinguish between as being the worse rejections.  Later on, I approached young L_____ and asked for his opinion.  Like I said, he's wise beyond his years.

"I asked one girl out for coffee and she answered with a resounding 'NOPE!!'  No hesitation.  No thoughts on the matter.  Not even so much as eye contact.  I barely got the question out and it was a 'nope' with a hard 'P' sound." I explained.

"Well that was harsh." he said.

"The other rejection," I continued, "The girl paused, scrunched up her face and uttered with disgust, "Eww. No."

L_____ was taken aback, then started to calculate in his head which rejection was truly the worse of the two.  He went with the latter, stating that the exclamation of disgust was definitely worse.  All these years, I'd always considered the first as worse, as no consideration was placed into the decision, but upon reexamination, I'm going to have to agree with my young friend.  Pausing to think about it, then shrieking with fear and disgust, does seem more offensive.  Damn.  My life sucks...!

I've always suffered from seasonal depression.  My sadness and loneliness seems to culminate during the winter months.  Professionals have explained it to me that it's the lack of sunlight and that the sky always seems so dull and grey.  I've always disagreed, stating that it's because all the shit that most couples enjoy together, happens during these months.  My spell usually begins just before Halloween and extends off into springtime.

I've gone on to explain that Halloween is a time that is most enjoyed with a partner.  Go out to a bar or a party and have some fun and laughs.  I'm usually a designated driver, instead, often looked over by party patrons.  Next is my birthday.  I've never had a girlfriend or significant other to share my birthday with.  Probably explains why I prefer to hide away and ignore everything when November 29th rolls around.  After that, it's Christmas.  Everyone around me is bragging and showing me what they got for their loved one and all I can do is fake a smile and feign interest, wishing I had someone special to share the holiday with.  I did have someone special many many years ago, but she died in a car accident days before Christmas, so the season has always been a little tarnished for me, though I don't dwell on the negativity as much anymore.

I've never had a New Year's kiss.  While everyone around me is smooching to Auld Lang Syne, I'm left looking at the floor, reminiscing about the one year that I did have a girlfriend on New Year's Eve, but because she didn't like public displays of affection, I was rejected.  A few years later, I'd be celebrating the New Year with some friends at a house party, one woman spoke up and said, I'll give everyone a New Year's kiss, but not Jeff.  Talk about a proverbial kick to the junk.

St. Valentine's Day is next.  I got a dancing gorilla with a top hat once from a friend at work.  I kinda had the hots for her, but nothing every grew from that.  (Ironically, she was the one who uttered - "Eww, No.")  I still have that dancing gorilla today and on St. Valentine's Day, I press the button and watch him dance for a few seconds.  It makes me smile and feel special for a moment... I've never had anyone special to buy flowers or chocolate for.  No one to take out on for a romantic dinner.

I have had a few successes with women.  I'm not a complete loser.  I'm mostly a loser, but not completely.  However, on closer examination of what worked to get those successes, I haven't got the foggiest idea.  One or two of them were alcohol-related, so anyone's guess is as good as any.  A couple successes more were the result of off-the-cuff smart-ass remarks.  Endeavours that have not been successfully repeated.

I'm often told that I'm a nice person, but beyond that, I don't know what is wrong with me.  I know I'm not interesting.  I don't do anything interesting.  I don't have any hobbies that I can share with people.  No extra-curricular activities that can strike interest.  I haven't any passions that anyone deems interesting.  I'm afraid I'm a lone wolf, destined to walk the world alone.

These days, life is especially tough.  I've not been able to secure gainful employment since being laid off from CNH in June of 2014.  I see many of my co-workers around and about and they've all found jobs to supplement their lifestyles, while I've been "lucky" enough to get hired onto a back-breaking minimum wage job that is slowly killing me from the inside out.  I've sent resumes to countless employers and even have an employment coach trying to help me out.  It seems like the more resumes that are sent out and the more rejections I get, the more useless I'm feeling about myself, every day.

I'm glad I have my cat, Monkey, otherwise I don't know where I'd be, if I were to be at all.

My birthday is on Tuesday.  I plan on staying home, with Monkey.  We're going to watch TV.  Share some laughs..., then I have to go to work that night. 😞
Damn!  My life sucks...!

My boy, Monkey.

Working For The Weekend

As a child, I don't recall the seasons passing as quickly as they do, today.  If memory serves, the first day of school would arrive on a brisk autumn day, where the ground would be moist underfoot, by mid-morning.  The smell of wet wood and decaying leaves would fill our every breath, during recess, while a menagerie of scents and smells would invade our lungs in the classroom.  Chalk, paper and the rubbery hint of spent erasers.  That's what I remember most from school, at least.

These memories exist most prominent because they lasted for what seemed like an eternity.  First grade seemed to take forever to maneuver through, as did the second grade and the third and so on.  In fact, the years just seemed to drag on forever and ever.  I never once experienced the passing of time as quickly as I do as an adult.  I wonder if the same goes for school teachers..?

I woke up this morning, clicked on the computer and was shocked to see that the date already reads November 15th.  I remember the year just passing from 2015 to 2016.  It seemed, literally, like it just occurred a week or so, ago.  Granted, I remember the summer months, vividly, but they passed SO quickly.  In the blink of an eye.  Thanksgiving came and went even quicker than that, as did Remembrance Day.  Next is my birthday, followed by Christmas then it'll be a whole new year coming to pass.

I think I figured out the mystery of why time passes so quickly for Adult Jeff over Kid Jeff.  As a kid, you live life frivolously.  Going to school to hang and play with friends, never wanting the day to end, where as an adult, generally, we can't wait for the day to end.  We arrive at work, checking the clock and making that mental note that we only need to survive until our first break.  Then it's only an hour and a half until lunch time.  Thank God there's that break after lunch.  Following that, the daydream of how to get home while avoiding as much traffic as possible.

Everyone's working to get to the weekend and in doing so, we're neglecting to look around to see life passing us by.  I know I'm guilt of this trait.  I've been doing this so long, I've forgotten how fun life can actually be.  The moment I look on the calendar and realize that I have to return to work, I actually feel a piece of my brain, a part of my humanity, die.  Fizzle out like a spent candle and smolder into nothingness.

I can't believe the year is nearly over.  I can't believe it's less than two weeks until my birthday, where I'll be denying the passing of another chronological year.  Worst yet, I can't believe my four days off are over and I have to return to work, tonight.  F**k!!

Trouser Snake

At first mention of the words, trouser snake, one's imagination goes to a male's genitalia, which in this instance you'd be mistaken.  To what I refer to in this blog, today, is going to be much much worse and far more offensive.  So be warned before reading on, and if you indeed choose to continue reading, you've been forewarned and cannot blame anyone but yourself.  So that being said, I will continue my tawdry tale.

Last weekend was Thanksgiving for Canada.  I don't know why our Thanksgiving Day is more than a month prior to that of the U.S.  Canada probably wanted a long weekend in October, is what many of us have speculated.  I know in the last few years, there was a holiday proposed for February, although I don't think it's recognized in all the provinces.  (I'm talking about YOU, Quebec.  You suck, Quebec!)

So after stuffing myself full at my mother's house, she was gracious enough to send me home with a mountainous amount of left overs.  I don't know how much, per se, but upon warming it up the other night, I'd speculate that it was, at least, a pound in weight.  The left overs contained pretty much everything that had been available at the dinner table, except for the beets, which my mother announced she wouldn't include out of fear it would turn everything purple in colour.

So Thursday night was the night I'd decided to heat up and devour this huge meal.  This was not the easiest of tasks, by any measure, but like a trooper, I forced it all down as I watched wrestling (TNA Impact Wrestling) on Spike TV.  Later that night, I suspect due to the tryptophan in my system, I slept one of the most restful nights in a long long time.  I hadn't been sleeping very well in the nights preceding, so the slumber was welcome.

The next day, work went on as usual.  No issues.  No nothing, other than the usual setbacks and shit.  After work I needed to speed across town to sign some documents, then afterwards, I headed to the Home Depot, in search of a specific tool that I want to purchase for my brother-in-law for Christmas.  While looking around, I suddenly found myself needing to visit the washroom.  I don't normally like to use public facilities, as they are usually pretty f*cking gross, but this being a newer Home Depot location and in a decent part of town, I didn't think the washroom would be in too terrible of disarray, and quickly hobbled in it's direction.  Plus, judging from the impending doom, whether or not the bathroom was a disaster, I had one locked in the chamber and the safety switch was slipping.

Sadly, someone was in the handicapped stall, the spot I usually like to occupy as it has lots of leg room.  I don't necessarily need to stretch out as I "drop the kids off at the pool", but it's like a life jacket on a boat.  It's nice to have, just in case.  So I squeezed myself into the other available stall and unleashed the fury.

Actually it wasn't so furious, thank god!  Nothing is worse than having an atrocious bowel movement and having to clean up the mess with that sandpaper they call toilet paper.  Am I right, people?  It's like wiping with a cheese grater.  It might do the trick, but it doesn't feel good at all, nor are you left in a very happy place afterward.  But thankfully, this was not one of those horrific occasions.  Nope!  This one slipped out quite nicely.  Like a basketball through a hoop with nothing but net.  Phoof!!!

I took care of the aftermath and turned to flush when I noticed the gargantuan specimen looking back up at me from the porcelain bowl.  I'm not bragging, nor is this anything to be proud of, but I am a little impressed at the slick torpedo that was laid to rest in the tiny toilet stall at the Home Depot.  By my estimation, it had to be between 14 to 16 inches in length, and it wasn't coiled.  It was straight as the crow flies, nestled comfortably at the bottom of the bowl.  I was almost tempted to take a picture of it with my phone, but quickly decided against it as I don't know of anyone who would be as impressed with this feat as I was (and am).

I flushed and forever lost the evidence of my visit to the Home Depot, but the memory is still in my head.  I remember leaving the confines of the tiny bathroom thinking, "That was one helluva trouser snake."  It was then that I knew I'd have to share this with the world, via my blog, Brain Matter!

Religious Persecution

In recent years, the world has been going to hell in a hand basket.  Everyone is tip-toeing around, afraid to say certain phrases or make certain gestures for fear of making someone uncomfortable.  People aren't allowed to politely wish someone a Merry Christmas, as it may offend someone of another faith.  Schools no longer present Christmas pageants for adoring parents to watch their younglings stumble and stammer over difficult dialogue and terrible costuming, for it may offend someone who doesn't believe in the birth of Christ. Churches aren't even aloud to display manger scenes on the front lawns of their own grounds.  Soon it'll be taboo to position a Christmas tree in the front window if the curtains are to be left open.  Simply put...  What the f*ck is wrong with people these days?

I've never backed down from the admission that I don't believe in God or Jesus or any of that religious hooey.  I don't fault others for believing in it.  If it gives you peace, love and happiness to believe in an invisible man who created everything in the world, and nothing was ever created by mankind themselves, then that's you're prerogative.  I don't need to believe it, nor do I give two shits if you do.  I will say, though, some of my fondest memories of growing up, were from performing, albeit poorly, in those Christmas pageants.

(*I know it's politically correct to say "humankind" now, but I don't give a shit.)

I can respect any person who felt it necessary to flee from whatever backwards country or regime where their own self-preservation felt threatened.  I can respect the fact that they have found solace and safety within the borders of Canada or the U.S. or any country that embraces free will and expression.  I cannot respect any person who relocates to my country or any of those listed, and finds it necessary to impose their beliefs and wills on us, just so they don't feel persecuted.  That makes these selfish motherf*ckers no better than the oppression they fled from.  If some middle-eastern bloke wishes to wear a turban and pray to the east twice a day, that's fine, but if I choose to wish you a Merry Christmas, then suck it up and say thank you.  It's not the words themselves that mean the most.  It's the good will behind those words.  It's so rare to find genuine kindness in people anymore, that when this time of year roles around, if someone expresses pleasantries towards another, those words should be met with the same form of kindness.  DON'T raise a stink and start a campaign to ban the words.

Words do have multiple meanings, for f*ck sake!  Even the F-word itself has multiple meanings, as you can learn from this link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26UA578yQ5g 

Another example would be the word "fag".  If you go to Dictionary.com, you'll see one of the many meanings for the word, is a verb to describe one growing weary or tired from a laborious task.  Another meaning is to fray the end of a rope.  When used as a noun, it is used to describe a cigarette or a defective piece of woven cloth.  As you read this, were you aware of these meanings or were you like me, and only believed the word to be an offensive term bestowed upon the gay community.  I'd always thought it was a bastardized term derived from the meaning of "happiness" or "fun", like in the Flintstones Theme (ie. ...You'll have a yabba-dabba-doo time, you'll have a gay... ol'... time).  Even the word "faggot" means: A bundle.  Be it sticks, cloth, or even iron bars.  I even read that it refers to balled up pork bound by herbs and breading then deep fried.  That faggot sounds delicious!

Another example was presented last year during the NBA 2011-2012 season, where a player of Asian decent showed great promise and agility.  He'd been overlooked and sold short by teams before, and even his new team, the New York Knickerbockers, had considered cutting him, but after a barrage of injuries to the roster, The Knicks gave Jeremy Shu-How Lin an opportunity to play, and the sensational Season of Lin-sanity and Lin-vincibility was born.  Jeremy proceeded to play absolutely Lin-credible for many of the games that were to follow.  Then there was the game where it was destined for the New York Knicks to lose a game.  A color-commentator remarked that the opposing team had found a "chink in their armor".  Well the accusations began to fly that this commentator was a bigot and so forth.  If you look up the word "chink", it clearly refers to: a crack, cleft or fissure;  a narrow opening; to breach, rent or cut.  It even refers to the sound of two glasses coming together, as in a toast.  At the bottom of the page, it does mention that it's also a disparaging and offensive term for someone of Asian decent.  But come on.  Shit like that is only used by the uneducated and uncultured folks.  You know...?  Like rednecks!

In the city where I reside, the city transit have digital message boards that display the route of the bus, as well as other messages.  If our local hockey team is doing well, the message may read "Go Blades!!!"  I'm not a Blades fan, but I'm not going to raise a stink over the fact that others like and support the team.  On July 1st, they read "Happy Canada Day!"  That's cool.  At during the Christmas season, they read "Merry Christmas!!!" and that is fine with me.

If anyone is a hater and does not approve of the message of good will, then may I make a suggestion.  Instead of disagreeing and raising an Anti-Christmas campaign and threatening a lawsuit, as this local f*ck-nut, Ashu Solo is doing in Saskatoon, do us all a favour and either go the f*ck back to whatever shit-hole you came from or step in front of one of these city buses that you're so offended by.  Either way, we won't have to listen to your bellyaching anymore.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!!!
(And if you have a problem with that, I don't give a shit!)

T-Minus 21 And Counting

I worked this morning and as it does on most occasions, my mind wandered away from the monotonous task I was doing, to a subject a little more interesting.

Today is December 1st and if the Mayan calender is correct, we, as a collective, only have 21 days remaining in existence.  Pretty shitty, considering I just celebrated my birthday and Christmas is just around the corner, but the premise got me to thinking.  Not to mention, I have to work until the twenty-first of this month, before the seasonal shutdown at work.  It would definitely blow, if I have to work every day then my first day off marks..., nothing.  OBLIVION!!

IF the world actually does come to an end, how might one want to go out?  When asked, a majority of the consensus tends to lean toward "going out with a bang", and I don't mean a "shoot 'em up" kind of scenario, but more of the intimate variety.  A minority would opt for spending it with family.  I don't really have much for family.  My sister has her husband and kids and I believe that if the world were coming to a violent end, they'd rather spend it with themselves alone, and rightfully so.  

That leaves only one option left for me, and sadly I am without a "beneficial friend".  Although, with time quickly counting down, beggars may not be choosers and mutual copulation may be easier than initially thought...

It was at this point that I had the song "Sex & Candy" pop in my head, by the band Marcy's Playground.  A stupid name for a band, but no worse, I suppose, than Meat Curtains.  One of the lines of the song specifically states, "I smell sex and candy, here."  Disgusting!  Candy would be alright.  Every time I walk into the Pine & Fancy Candy Store at the mall, I'm mentally teleported to a far away fantasy land where everyone is happy and sweet.  As for sex though...  Yech.  Unless there's scented candles or lotions, the smell is anything but wonderful.  Or at the very least, not nearly as enjoyable as the act itself.  All musty and sweaty...  I don't know if I'd want to spend all of eternity with that reminder on my mind.  If the End of Days comes on December 21st of this month, and I do find a partner to spend my last fleeting moments with...  I hope she's wearing a Vanilla-based perfume.  Mmm.  Vanilla.

Frankly, I think it's a load of malarky.  Just like Y2K and those retards last year who thought a flying saucer was coming to pick up the human race.  A bunch of bullshit.  It is my belief, and I've been stating this for years and years, since first learning of the Mayan calendar and prediction of Armageddon.  I think the Mayans simply got to the end of the page or the stone tablet.  Whatever they were counting out the days on and never got a chance to carve out another tablet.

It's written that the Mayans existed between 250 and 900AD.  Nearly two thousand years ago.  Why the hell did they need to carve out a calendar so far into the future?  If they knew the world was going to end on December 21st, 2012, wouldn't it have just been easier to simply carve out a statement?  "Hey future people, as of December 21st of 2012, you guys are all f*cked!!"

It's just a scheme to get people into a panic.  The survivalist stores are all raking in the bundles of cash as scared desperate people spend what little money they have remaining from the recession, on rice, canned beans, gas generators and handguns.  Even I had hatched a scheme to make some cash from all the hype.  I wanted to fashion a 2012 calendar that showcased a different natural disaster in every month, then in December, I was going to number it up until the 21st, then leave the remaining days blank.  F*cking HILARIOUS!!!

November 29th

The date November 29th has always been an important date for me. Not only is it the day of my birth, a day that should become a mandatory day off from work and school for everyone, but because so much has occurred on November 29th, throughout the ages. Some good and albeit, some not-so-good. A lot of good and important people have been born upon this day. And from what I've read recently, a lot of people have also died on this day. However, so I hear, you can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.

For instance, I read that in 1963, a Trans-Canada flight crashed 4 minutes after take-off in Montreal, Quebec, killing all 111 onboard. Not really a day for celebration. Actress Natalie Wood drowned off Catalina Island, in 1981. Much mystery surrounded the accident and the case has been recently re-opened for investigation, which many speculate is because a book has just been published on the subject and re-opening the case will boost book sales. Aren't writers just greasy, sometimes?

Actor Cary Grant died in 1982 at the age of 82. In 1984, a Korean flight disappeared near Burma, with 115 people aboard. Not surprising for that region. I've seen them drive cars. In 1991, 17 people were killed in an astounding 164-car wreck during a sandstorm on Interstate Number Five near Coalinga, California. It's not known if any Korean drivers were involved.

Although a lot of bad shit has rained down on this day, a lot of good has become of it too. For instance, in 1890, the Navy demolished the Army by a score of 24-0 in the first ever Army-Navy football game, which was played at West Point, New York. GO NAVY!! Ever wonder why the Air Force never plays? Fly boys throw like girls.

The first flight over the South Pole, was made on this day by U.S. Navy pilot, Lt. Cmdr. Richard E. Byrd. Kind of ironic... Bird. Byrd. GO NAVY!!!

In 1947, U.N. General Assembly passed a resolution calling for the division of Palestine between the Arabs and the Jews. I wonder how that's been going.... Hmm?

Also on this date, Bill Gates adopted the name Microsoft for the company he and Paul Allen had formed. And in 2004, handsome Japanese actor, Godzilla receives a star on Hollywood's Walk of Fame.

It's the birthdays on this day, that have me the most stoked. There are many people born this day, both famous and alike. Pictured above, are just a few of those people. Tom Sizemore (Heat), Don Cheadle (Colors), Anna Faris (House Bunny), Garry Shandling (Iron Man 1 & 2), "Danger" Ehren (Jackass), Gena Lee Nolin (Baywatch), Jeff Fahey (Lawnmower Man) and Larry Joe Campbell (Hall Pass). Also included is fellow Canadian, Howie Mandel (Deal or No Deal). Not to mention, WWE Hall of Famer's "Mean" Gene Okerlund and Jerry "The King" Lawler, and future Hall of Famer, John "Bradshaw" Layfield, who ironically a few years ago not only shared my birthday, but we'd both injured ourselves by tearing our left bicep muscles. His, undoubtedly, from a mishap in the ring, where as my injury was far less glamorous.

I have always held this day in high regards. To most, it's just another day. To me, it's an occasion. Not only was this world blessed by having me born into it this day, but it should be a day held in high regard, like Thanksgiving or Independence Day or Christmas even. Every one should have this day off. Spend it with family. Spend it with friends. As soon as this is posted I'm going to go spend it with my boy, Monkey. Unfortunately, for me, today, I was woken up at the break of 6am with a mind-splitting migraine. Even now, after pumping myself full of prescription narcotics for fighting this ailment, my head still pounds.

So go forth, people. Give your loved ones a squeeze or a hug, I mean. Don't go all "Sandusky" on your family, like some kind of homo. Commemorate this day. Celebrate it! Make it an event. For it is a day that one of history's truly greatest human beings was born. ME!