Biffed!

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

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

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

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

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

. 

❆❅❄❅❆

Taking The Plunge

Spoke to Whitney care of Rock 102 FM, today.  Yesterday the discussion revolved much around her co-host, Sully.  A Vancouver transplant, Sully had never experienced a real winter.  Not a harsh winter like the ones that Saskatchewan is notoriously known for.  There's a reason why the late-Roddy Piper used to refer to Saskatoon as the coldest place on Earth.  Clearly it is not, but sometimes it does feel like it.

Saskatoon experienced a warmer than usual autumn and early winter.  The snow really never flew until after the New Year had already begun.  It was a nice change from the ordinary, but in the back of my mind, I knew that we, people, were going to pay dearly for the good weather.  Last Wednesday, proved just that as temperatures took a nasty plunge.  The frigid polar freeze timed itself perfectly for Sully, who despite being warned of how terrible the weather would be, hopped on a plane and flew, he and his family, to Hawaii.  Good timing, on his part.  Perfectly timed, as by the time his jet lands in Saskatoon coming back, the cold snap will have passed almost entirely and Sully will have missed the worst of it.

So the discussion on the radio, yesterday, was revolving around how to get back at Sully.  People were calling in suggestions on how to further his journey into being Saskatchewanized, but not much by way of punishment for missing the cold spell.  

While flipping through Facebook a few days ago, I saw a post from a friend.  She and a gal pal, donned in swimwear, took to the South Saskatchewan for their own polar plunge.  I don't know how it turned out for them, but it intrigued me all the same.  A Polar Plunge, I texted in to the station.  Sully should jump in the South Saskatchewan, just as my friend had, and that should be quite chilly.  I was immediately prompted to call in, but as I was working at the time, I was unable, but arranged to call in this afternoon.

It was a lengthy discussion, lasting almost twice as long as previous discussions.  We conversed on a few topics, finally coming around to the polar plunge idea.  I even offered to do it with him, as I would never suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do, myself.  Plus, a polar plunge sounds kind of fun and it's something that I'd love to say that I've done.  Just like being in a vehicle roll over (controlled) and driving a truck through a house.  All Bucket List items.

Somehow, the discussion came around to my telling Whitney that I had fallen through ice, once.  This admission took her by surprise.  At her behest, I described the incident at hand.  I explained how my sister's first husband had a dugout behind the gas station that he ran, just outside the city, to the east.  In the dugout, my former brother-in-law had fish, so to prevent the ice from freezing completely, which would kill the fish, he ran an air hose to the water's edge, aerating the water, thus preventing it from freezing.  However, sometimes when the temperatures dipped to the extremes that it has been over the last few days here, the air hose would freeze which required one of us gas jockey's to run out to the ice and pull the hose in to thaw.

Earlier that day, as memory recalls, it was a strange day, weather wise in Saskatoon.  I was out at my dad's house.  I remember despite it being a Sunday afternoon in January, it was also four degrees above zero.  I was outside, literally, in just a T-shirt and I felt fine.  I had to work a few hours later, out at the gas station and like usual, the weather took a nasty turn and it was about -30C by six o'clock that evening.  I can't remember who it was that I was working with, but it may have been one of the teenage girls that worked there.  That's likely why I volunteered to go check on the hose and lug it in if it were froze.

What happens next, I only remember in chunks.  I remember walking down the narrow path that had been trudged in the snow.  I remember gazing past the water's edge to see the ice hole had froze, prompting me to get on the ice to pull the hose out.  The ice was thick enough to walk on.  My ex-brother-in-law used to go ice fishing on the ice, throughout the winter months, so I never hesitated to step onto the ice.  As I was pulling the hose out, I remember hearing cracking in the ice.  It wasn't thunderous.  It never echoed off the buildings or anything, but it was loud enough to provide me with my very own Wile E. Coyote moment.  No soon than hearing the cracking noises, I looked up at the camera that wasn't there, looked through to the imaginary audience, mouthed 'Oh shit!', then disappeared from frame.

If the make believe camera were to pan down to the ice level, it would have recorded my have fallen though the ice up to my armpits, like the fellow pictured above.  I was wearing a heavy parka, ski pants, heavy boots, mitts and a toque.  I was dressed for the weather at hand, but not for taking a quick swim in the frigid water.  At first, I just sat there, dumbfounded by the predicament I happened to find myself in.  There was only two of us working and it being a functioning gas station, my cohort would likely not have an opportunity to come look for me in the near future.  Plus, as a petite teen, it's doubtful she'd have the strength to pull me out, anyway.  

So I was stuck, forced to think about how I might pull myself out of this hole, without further breaking ice.  The weight of all the garments I was wearing would surely pull me under and that would suuuck.  As I glanced about for my options, I couldn't help but reflect that it really didn't feel that bad.  I was dry, despite being submerged almost to my shoulders.  "I don't know what all those people are whining about." I thought to myself, referencing any interviews I've watched where people had fallen into icy waters.  No sooner had that thought expired, than I began feeling the water grazing my legs.  Now I was getting saturated and I had to act fast before I would weigh more than I could muscle.

I can't recall the exact strategy or method I used to clench and claw my way out, but [[SPOILER ALERT]] I survived.  I got the the beach and began walking back to the main building.  It wasn't far, but it was enough distance that made it challenging.  Because the temperature was SO low, lower with the wind chill is factored in, I'd only taken a few steps before my soaked clothing began to crystalize and freeze.  I was reminded of the scene in Terminator 2: Judgement Day, when the T-1000 is frozen with liquid nitrogen.  How it crystalized then solidified.  I was not in a position where I was in danger of freezing solid 🥶, but if I were in the middle of nowhere, who the hell knows.  In this case, the clothing froze in small sections separated by cracks.  All-in-all, it was kind of neat, but I must have had a guardian angel at my side that night, as things could've went really bad.

Of course, I gave Whitney the abridged version, cutting out some of the descriptive dialogue, but that's what happened.  I made it into the gas station, my coworker was shocked and scared, calling the boss who arrived with my sister and a bag of dry clothes.  They were all so concerned about my well-being, but I really didn't see what the big deal was all about.  I survived.

I don't think a polar plunge would be all that devastating.  It's a controlled event.  No one jumps in blindly, I wouldn't think.  Not smart people, anyway.  There's definitely some planning involved.  No big whoop.  Like I said before;  I wouldn't suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do myself.  I mean...  What could possibly go wrong?! 😄

Dainty Digits

My job affords me many many hours alone.  In the beginning, I was left with only my thoughts to entertain me while I drove riders around the city, but soon, I got myself a speaker to alleviate the boredom and borderline insanity.  Soon I found myself enthralled with the radio personalities of our fair city and maybe a year after that I began to overstep my reservations about calling in to the radio stations.  Making phone calls has always been a huge phobia for me.  Nothing overwhelming that would cause me to cower in the corner of a room, muttering gibberish to myself.  It's just that, in the past I've had experiences where people call me from questionable places.  Subject for another time, perhaps.

In my repeated calls in to the radio station, something I do semi-regular, is because they always have a subject that I can weigh in on and today was no different.  However, I was too busy to make a call, so instead I decided to simply write my thoughts and memories down.

Sully, one of the afternoon radio personalities, was confronted by his co-host, Whitney, about his shiny fingernails.  "They're reflecting the sun and blinding me." I believe she said, or something to that effect.  Sully, often the brunt of many jokes because of his naivete to life in Saskatchewan.  Sully is from Vancouver and as much as one would believe that there isn't much of a difference in lifestyles in each province, Sully proves otherwise.  So when Whitney addressed Sully's fingernail situation, Sully never backtracked.  He leapt forward with a logical response.

Sully's daughter wanted her daddy to take her for a mani-pedi and had him get his nails done, too.  I apologize for not having all the facts as to what lead up to his taking his daughter for the spa date, but suffice it to say, 'That's a good dad.'.  I texted in to the show to say as much, adding a memory that had returned to me as a result of his touching story.

When I was a kid and my sister was even younger than that, I recall my dad laying lazily on the sofa, watching television.  He had come home from work, exhausted, which is why he'd fall in and out of sleep.  My sister had asked if she could file and trim his nails and being the loving father that he was, he obliged.

The tender touch my sister's little hands and fingers had on my father's aching feet must have been to trick he needed to send him soaring into dreamland.  She gave my dad the full treatment.  Lotion and everything.

The next day my dad came home with a story to tell.  My dad worked as a heavy duty mechanic with the Potash Mine of Saskatchewan.  After a hard sweaty and hot shift working underground, he and his co-workers were hitting the showers when his buddies all noticed his toe nails.  All ten were a vibrant pink colour.  He quickly explained to the lot of them that his daughter, my sister, had been playing and must have painted his toes when he was asleep.

That was half true, she did, in fact, paint his nails, but he knew that she was mucking about down there while he was asleep.  He wasn't angry, although my sister, if memory serves, was a little uncertain when my dad was retelling the story.   He wasn't.  In fact, he got a good laugh out of it, adding that he'd thought she was just doing the clipping and filing.  Never in a million years, did he ever suspect that she'd doll his tootsies up like one of her Barbie's. 

The Aardvark

When I'm at work, I need the radio to be playing.  When I first started the job, I went weeks without a radio and often found myself either distracted and unable to concentrate on the work in front of me.  Either that or I'd often find myself singing, under my breath, whatever song happened to grind it's way into the inner sanctum of my brain.  Eddie Grant's Electric Avenue was stuck in there a lot and I've come to dislike the song, somewhat.  That one and Don MacLean's American Pie.  "What?!?"  I'm sure someone is thinking, right now after reading that statement, but try getting it stuck in your head for weeks at a time.

Eventually, when I grew too tired of composing my own songs just to entertain myself when I was alone driving the bus, I got my self a radio, albeit a transistor radio at first, which only received a signal when I worked on the east side of the city.  Anything west of Idylwyld Drive, was met with constant static interruptions, which aggravated me as much as it annoyed me.  Next I got a small speaker from Visions which worked well, but only lasted about five, maybe six hours, if I was lucky.  So it was back to the ol' drawing board, one more time.  This time I didn't cheap out by purchasing something from the discontinued aisle.  Instead, I went to Costco and purchased a JBL speaker which, despite being dropped a handful of times, works like a motherf**king charm.

I spent my mornings listening to Clayton and Stacie on Cruz-FM and in the afternoons, I would either listen to Regina's The Wolf or Saskatoon's Rock 102 FM.  Especially after Cruz shit-canned their afternoon guy, the legendary Dave 'Muzik' Morgan.  His replacement sucks.  Then a few months later, I switched over to Rock 102 FM, exclusively, when Cruz went on another inexplicable firing tirade and fired the morning guy, Clayton Kroeker.   Stacie is awesome, but she doesn't have the chops to broadcast alone, so I deserted the radio station in favour of greener pastures and I'm glad I did.

I began listening to Whitney in the afternoons on Rock 102 FM and she's a blast to listen to.  Always in a jovial mood, I can only imagine the joy it must be to work with someone like this, who always seems to be in good spirits.  

One day Whitney was trying to help out this guy who'd called in.  He had two tickets to see his favourite band, but his dilemma was choosing who to go to the show with.  Either his wife or his daughter.  Whitney had all sorts of people calling in offering up ideas and so with a few minutes to spare on my route, I overcame the anxiety I have about placing phone calls (*I imagine there's a blog in there about that) and I called in to the radio station.  Whitney was a hoot to chat with and she played right along with the insanity that I offered up.  I simply stated, "He should take his daughter.  Wives come and go," I added, "But daughters are forever."  I don't know exactly why I stated it like that, I don't even have a daughter...., or a wife, for that matter, but Whitney got a helluva kick out of the statement and for several months that followed, I'd hear my raspy radio voice repeating that statement during some of the radio breaks.

Not long after that, Sully joined the Rock 102 crew and he fit in like a glove.  The two of them, Whitney and Sully, are like long lost siblings.  The way they tease each other, you can sense that there's a lot of love and respect shared between the two, but when Whitney is "bullying" Sully (for lack of a better term), the results are hilarious.  Sully being from Vancouver, originally, the radio station has been trying to "Saskatchewanize" Sully.  They did a question and answer portion on the show one day, in which poor Sully got an electric shock every time he answered a Saskatchewan question incorrectly, but truth be known, I've been here my entire life, minus a six month stint in Edmonton, Alberta, and I'm not familiar with a lot of the "Saskatchewan terminology" that Sully was failing to answer correctly.  I've often thought about challenging him to a Saskatchewan-off in a year's time.  See if this Vancouver transplant is more Saskatchewan than myself, who was born and bred in this province.

Long story short -- TOO LATE!!  I began calling in to the station on a semi-regular basis and in the meantime, managed to score a nice collection of goodies and prizes.  I'll spare the details, but one of the best items I received was two tickets to see Finger Eleven at the Ex, which I attended with my best bro, Dan, who I also brought with me, when I received a $50 gift certificate to Tapps Sports Lounge.  It got to the point where I was calling in so often that I felt I needed an identity.  I'd hear other people, regulars, calling in and they all had nifty nicknames, but all of the nicknames that I have, seem too silly to broadcast on local radio.  I love that online, I'm the one and only ToontownJuggalo, but people would react foolishly to that name, likely confusing the term "juggalo" for "gigolo" which would be greatly incorrect and mildly offensive, plus I get annoyed trying to repeatedly explain shit to people, so I avoided using that nickname.  Another nickname that I've adopted in the last few months is Aardvark, which again, requires some explanation which I'm unwilling to do.  So I stuck with who I am.  I'm Jeff.

I'm Jeff, but I'm not just any Jeff.  I'm The Jeff.

(Not actually a picture of me. I don't like sleeves
or turtle necks, but I'd kill for that hairline.)

I figured, any bumbling fool can be a Jeff.  It's really not that difficult. I'm living proof of that.  I've been stumbling through life for decades as Jeff and it's nothing spectacular.  However, only a precious few or one, can be The Jeff and folks, that one and only, is this guy.  Me.  I'm now The Jeff, at least as far as calling in to the radio station.  I needed something that would set me apart from everyone else and by Jove, I think I found it.

I could've went with That Jeff, but upon further retrospect, I decided that no one wants to That Jeff.  Why would you?  That guy is....  Well, That Jeff is one odd duck and as awesome as ducks go, the odd ones are just... weird.  Of course, referring to oneself as "The", is a little strange in and of itself, but that's why I'm the Aardvark.  Because I'm unique. 😁

Road Kill

Since being laid off from my job at the Case-New Holland manufacturing plant, three years ago, this month, I've been struggling to find gainful employment.  Over the three years, I've bounced from one menial job to another, never really finding anything that I loved.  I really liked and was even proud when I worked for the city, last summer, but alas, when summer ended, so did the job and any prospects of being hired on a permanent basis, died with the turning of the leaves.

After that, I had a couple more terrible jobs, one working nights replenishing shelves at a local grocer, for minimum wage and only three shifts per week.  The other was full time hours for not much more money, but it was quite unfulfilling.  Pride in my work there, never ever entered the picture.  So when I lost that job, while it was a shock, it was sort of a blessing.  It was an alignment of the stars and the planets.  It was almost as if every bit of shitty bad luck I'd had in the previous three years, was all for helping me secure the new job that I have now.

Initially, when I got let go from the hotel gig, I'd hoped to get a day job, so as to avoid being away at night, but this job has me starting in the wee early mornings.  3am, to be exact, but it doesn't really matter, as my day usually ends in the late morning so I still have the rest of the day to spend with my "boy" (Monkey) or attend movie matinees or go to doctor appointments.  Whatever I want to do, I can and will.

My job is described as a "Line Driver".  Essentially, I work for a new courier company and I run parcels and packages up to the delivery personnel in three distinctive markets.  Prince Albert, Melfort and Humboldt, Saskatchewan.  Each day, I depart at 3am and drive a route that reaches about four hundred and fifty-plus kilometers.  That's about 280 miles for my American readers.  The early morning affords me the luxury of little or no traffic on the highways.  I work alone so I can crank up the tunes and sing as loud as I want.  Or as of Thursday, I (finally) figured out how to download podcasts to my phone and I've listened to podcasts for the last two days.

I really really love this job and my enthusiasm about it seems to have impressed my boss, too, so unless I do something really (REALLY) stupid, I don't see (fingers crossed) ever losing this job.  However, as much as I love it, it does have a drawback.  It's not the hours, nor is it the fact that I'm away from my "boy" for several hours.  It's not even the constant driving.  As I said, I love the job and except for being away from Monkey, everything is fine.  It's just the road kill that I see laying at the roadside every day.

Living where I did growing up, I was used to seeing the odd skunk or badger or (tons) of gophers bite the big one on our highways.  Even travels you'd see the odd deer.  Years ago, I even managed to accidentally hit an owl on the highway as it swooped to grab a recently deceased carcass, just as my vehicle intersected the same point on the highway.  There was a tremendous crushing sound and the little car that I was driving, bounced a couple times.  I was horrified, but continued on my way.  With no other choice, that is what I do nowadays when I drive past the menagerie of different animals sprawled out at the side of the highway, their lives long disappeared from their bodies.

I never realized that there were raccoons in Saskatchewan until last week when I saw six lifeless raccoons along my route.  I've also seen baby deer and I can't help but imagine the sorrow that the mother must be feeling when their young offspring is lost so tragically.  I've also seen a beaver and a couple foxes.  The saddest thing I'd seen, up until today, was a cat that had been hit trying to cross the road.

I only started this job, officially, last Tuesday.  Wednesday, went fine, but Thursday, I hit a poor bird that flew in front of the van I was driving.  If the van hadn't had an antenna, I'm convinced that it would've escaped, unscathed, but because there was an antenna, it was caught and it's neck was snapped.  I know this because it was stuck on the van, forcing me to stop to remove it.  I was beside myself, with grief.  I pulled it off the van and I'm not ashamed to admit that I was borderline in tears.  I've never been an hunter.  I don't enjoy fishing.  And, as much as I enjoy the taste of steak and bacon and meat, in general, I don't ever want to see how it goes from a living entity to my plate.  So seeing this lifeless bird and knowing that I had a hand in it's demise, I was devastated.  I pulled the bird off the van repeatedly saying how sorry I was.  I knelt over it for a moment, admiring it's beauty and the vibrant colours of it's feathers, but mortified that I'd killed it.  After a few minutes of silence, looking at the small bird, I continued on my way.  I was thankful, in part... No.  I was completely thankful that the bird had died instantly.  I don't know what I would've been prepared to do had it been alive.  The next day, however, it happened again.

The next morning, I was driving the big cube van when I hit a duck just south of Prince Albert.  Again, if I would've had the van I'd used the day before, I'm convinced the duck would've made it, however, I had the cube van whose box extended over the cab by, at least, two feet.  This duck looked panicked as I hit it.  I say panicked, because our eyes met just as it hit the windshield.  There was a heavy thud and the roof of the van shook as it bounced over the cab and against the cube.  I never stopped for that one, but saw it in the mirror, bouncing along the road.  I never saw a carcass in the days that followed and have speculated that perhaps it had lived.  That relief was short-lived as I then pictured it with a broken leg, causing it to not being able to swim.  Or a broken wing, which meant no flying south for the winter or escaping predators.

This is the kind of shit that plagues my mind.

The other morning it was quite foggy.  In the misty air, I passed three deer and a moose.  I tried to honk my horn as I passed them, in hopes of scaring them away from the highway that was growing more busy as the sun began to rise in the east.

Three paragraphs ago, I wrote that the saddest thing up until today, was a cat that had been clipped crossing the highway.  The number one saddest thing I've seen now and it'll be hard pressed to find anything more sad and depressing than this.  I saw in the ditch this morning two dogs.  One black and one white and shaggy.  It appeared that the white shaggy dog had been hit and managed to pull itself to safety in the ditch, where it had died, leaving it's companion, the black dog to sit quietly at it's side.  I was speeding past when I noticed the duo, but time seemed to slow right down, feeling like several minutes as I passed by.  I can't get that image out of my mind.  I can't imagine the sorrow that animal must be experiencing having lost it's best friend.

All the sadness that I witness along the highways, makes me all the more thankful to return home, where my cat, Monkey, meets me at the door, greeting me with kitty hugs and kisses.  I say I can't imagine the sorrow that these animals must endure when they lose their mate or offspring, but perhaps I can.  If I lost Monkey, it would destroy me.  Even now, knowing that he will live another ten years or more, I'm horrified to know that one day I'll come home from work and I won't be met at the door with kitty hugs and kisses.  This is a fact of life and it depresses me.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Many years ago, I strolled into a Manitoba restaurant with some co-workers, for breakfast and requested "Vi-co" from the waitress.  She laughed and balked, "Vodka.  For breakfast.  Yeah, right!"

Vi-Co was a term used exclusively in Saskatchewan in reference to the chocolate milk made by the Dairy Producers Company.  Everyone knew it was chocolate milk, but most still referred to it as Vi-Co.  I was never completely clear on what the name meant, entirely, but speculated that it simply referred to "Vitamins Contained".  Of course, I'm most likely mistaken about this.

In 1995, Dairy Producers was purchased by the Dairyland Corporation and the Vi-Co line was abolished.  Thankfully, the great taste has remained the same and I still drink it by the gallon, to this day.

Almost overnight, the terminology disappeared almost as quickly as the product and I doubt very many people still think about it as I do.  It's always bothered me some, although minuscule, because when Vi-Co disappeared, so did a little of Saskatchewan's identity and uniqueness.  Thankfully, we still have and frequently use the term "bunny-hug" to describe a hooded-sweatshirt.

Haters Gonna Hate Hate Hate

Speaking of hate, I hate the fact that I quoted Taylor Swift for the title of this blog, but don't hold that against me.  That annoying song is a part of pop culture and for argument sake, it fits the subject matter of today's blog.

I'm an avid user of Twitter.  I don't have a high number of followers.  Not many people privy to my unique stance on the world.  In fact,  I'm still yo-yoing in the vicinity of 250 followers, after four years.  I still have fun with it, though.  Trading comments, remarks and praises with my favourite celebrities.  

Once in a while, though, I'm greeted with unwelcome comments, remarks aimed to discredit or belittle me, usually on a personal level.  I generally ignore these comments, but once in a blue moon, a comment crosses before my eyes that I simply cannot leave alone.

One thing that I find most irresistible is my ability to point out the flaws, shortcomings and blatant mistakes that people make.  Spelling errors, poor grammar or general stupidity, I find impossible to not point out, or even belittle, depending on it's severity.

I have a friend on Facebook, whom I continually correct spelling and grammar mistakes.  She thinks I do it out of a need to make her feel stupid, despite my repeated assurances that I don't do it for that reason.  Instead, I do it..., simply because I have no choice.  It's as involuntary as deciding to breathe.  The fact that I point out that her poor education is due to growing up in the city of Regina, Saskatchewan, IS by choice, but that's only because Regina is such a shit-hole.  It's true.  Look it up!

Earlier today, while looking through my Twitter feed, I saw a posting from TMZ that remarked: #Breaking: ATL Hawks star, Thabo Sefolosha, in HEATED scuffle with NYPD officers...  They offer up a video, which I did not click on because, frankly, I don't give a shit.  I did, however, make a quick comment, which was meant as a humourous quip based on the fact that celebrities usually get special treatment over regular folks.  "@TMZ Do the police not know that he's a celebrity? #DifferentRulesForCelebs" is what I wrote.  Less than a minute later, I received a comment from a fellow by the Twitter handle of @prototypekicks, who began questioning my use of the word 'celebrity'.  Back and forth we exchanged comments, each response I received, the more disparaging they got.  I'm not proud of myself, but I deduced that this fellow was of limited education and the meaner he got, the meaner I got.  Unfortunately, when I get mean, I go for blood, getting as vicious as I can.  I go for the jugular, with hopes of offending the party so deeply, they'll give up and leave me alone.

I don't know who Thabo Sefolosha is.  I don't watch basketball.  I barely consider basketball as an actual sport.  Given the terrible physical shape that I'm in, I consider any activity that I can do, can't actually be considered a sport.  Even if I can't do it well, if I can still do it, it's not a sport.  For instance, I'll never make it on the PGA circuit, but I can bang the f*ck out of a golf ball, and therefore golf is not a sport.  That withstanding, the goofball, @prototypekicks, begins giving me the basketball player's stats and claiming that his lack of skill, prevents him from being a celebrity.  Even though, by definition a celebrity is: A famous or well-known person.

@prototypekicks apparently did a check on my Twitter account, as he began attacking this very blog.  Upon reciprocating and doing the same on his account, I gather that he possesses a fetish for sneakers as his photos are overrun with pictures of the gayest looking shoes I've ever seen.  There's no way in hell that any self-respecting man would be seen wearing those shoes, unless it were while performing yard work or shoveling manure.  Hashtag: Ugly as f*ck!

As Taylor Swift croons; Haters are gonna hate hate hate, and I'm certain that this isn't going to be the last Twidiot that crosses paths with me.  Christ!!!  I wish I was paid a dime for every f*ckwad that I exchange words with on Twitter OR Facebook.  I've had to stop following many of my favourite wrestling sites on FB, due to assholes blanketing me with a horrendous barrage of hatred if I say anything negative about the WWE.  

In the end, assholes are going to continue to be gaping assholes, so long as a level of anonymity accompanies their dickishness.  I could care less.  I stand behind every stupid comment I make.  I welcome any backlash that may come of it.  I'm not afraid of any of these simple-minded fools.  Chances are, I could Jedi Mind Trick most of them with the wave of my hand...  Or simply jingle my keys to distract.  I'm not saying I'm better than everyone I interact with on the internet, but DO say that I'm smarter than a majority of them.

"Water's wet.  The sky is blue.  Fact is, I'm way smarter than most of you!" - ToontownJuggalo, to the World Wide Web.

Five Year Plan

When I was a child, it was called "Baby Steps", indicating the series of stages required to achieve a life's ambition.  "If I do this to acquire that, I can then move on to this, doing the other, which will eventually get me to this point, where upon then, I will reach euphoria."  Perhaps, I am being too cynical, but the whole lot seems a little too presumptuous.  As in, how do I know (now) I'd be happy doing that for the rest of my life?  I'm just a dumb kid, after all.

I've never been one for goal-setting, and given my lot in life, the assumption has probably been proven false a dozen times over, but realistically, I've never put much weight in wishful thinking. The same goes for vision boards.  A sorry excuse to cut and glue pictures of other people's shit onto particle board, with crossed fingers that we'll one day own them.  Absolute silliness, in my opinion.

For some reason, though, the Five Year Plan seems to be a serious mainstay in our culture, a factor that I balk at and shudder over, every time it is mentioned in a serious conversation.  It's such a preposterous premise that I've never seriously considered concocting a response, believable enough, to blow smoke up the ass of a potential employer.  How the Hell am I supposed to know where I'm going to want to maneuver myself within your company, if I've not been associated with your company?  Wanting to sound ambitious without being overzealous to the point of being offensive.  "Well, I'd like to be your boss..."

I was posed this question, on Friday, in an over-the-phone interview.  Thankfully, my potential employer was unable to see me flinch at the stupid question and I was able to respond quickly. "Being unfamiliar with your organization, I couldn't make an honest and organized guess as to where I would like to be in five years.  If you decide that I'm a good fit for _____, I'd prefer to look at the opportunities available in order to decide where I'd like to go.  If I'm content in the position that I'm hired for, I don't see why I'd need to move beyond that.  As long as I'm happy, I don't see why change is necessarily a good thing."

I must have provided an adequate amount of smoke to be blown up her ass, as I was commended on such a good and honest answer, comparing it to a stream of water poured from a glass: You never know what the resulting path will be, but it always makes it to the end.

Honestly.  If the truth be revealed, I've always had one goal for a Five Year Plan.  It seems foolish, comparative more to a pipe dream or fantasy than anything based in reality, but it's no more far-fetched than constructing a vision board.  Where would I like to be in five years, you ask?  The same place as I'd like to find myself come this Tuesday.  Posing in front of a camera, with a giant check in my hand, and a congratulations on being the newest lottery winner in Saskatchewan. 

Fur Babies

As I flipped through my Facebook this afternoon, I came across a posting from Kevin Smith announcing the passing of his beloved pet, his "son", Mulder after 17 years of unconditional love and companionship.  My heart goes out to him in this time of sadness.  Not only because I'm a fan of Kevin's, but as an animal lover and a pet owner myself.  In the backs of our minds, as pet owners, we all know that we'll eventually have to bid farewell to our "fur babies", but somehow we tuck it away until it eventually comes to fruition, becoming overwhelmed with sadness, instead of preparing for it.

When I chose to adopt my boy, Monkey, I had to mentally prepare myself for that inevitable end.  I thought I could handle it, but since he came to live with me, nearly five years ago, I've come to realize that when that day comes, I'm going to be a complete wreck.  I love that cat more than I do anyone or anything else in the entire world.  I can only hope that he lives to be seventeen or eighteen years young, if not longer.

I recall as a young boy, my cousin getting himself an Irish Setter.  He named it "Sarge", which is a name he'd chosen years before and though (in my opinion) the name never suited the brownish red dog, his name was Sarge and that was that.  Sarge was "technically" my cousin's dog, but Sarge took to my uncle more.  All about the small town, my uncle could be seen driving his pick-up truck and there was Sarge, stoically riding shotgun.  That pick-up truck belonged to my uncle, but it also belonged to Sarge.  So much so, in fact, that no one could approach the truck when my uncle wasn't around.  No one including my cousin, the dog's rightful owner.

Eventually, my cousin grew older and left home, pursuing life's ambitions outside that small northern Saskatchewan town, leaving Sarge behind with my uncle.  They were virtually inseparable for his remaining years and eventually Sarge would pass away, leaving my uncle heartbroken.  The years since his passing, the subject of getting another dog has come up only to be stifled by my uncle, on the basis that he did not wish to go through the experience of losing another beloved pet.  I never fully understood that thought process until my boy came into my life.  Now I'm not sure I could ever replace him when he shuffles off this mortal coil.

My cat drives me nuts some days, from his nonsensical bawling to repeatedly leaving morsels of food scattered around the house or streams of projected vomit.  I've got an assortment of stains in my carpet that vaguely resemble the spots on a leopard's hide and deep scratches stretched across all my leather furniture and oak banisters, but truth be known, I would not trade a single annoyance for anything.  Every facet that drives me nuts, is also endearing to me.  Like I said before, I love that boy more than I do anything or anyone in my life.  Gun to my head, if I had to choose between my cat and the life of a (human) loved one, I can honestly say I don't know.  I'd probably choose my cat, as he's never deserted me, shunned me, judged me or given up on me.  The love of a pet is unconditional.  That means no matter what, they love you, where as I've found with my human counterparts, there's ALWAYS a condition.

For now, I'm going to enjoy every minute of every day of every week, month, year and (hopefully) decades of my time with that cat.  And if you're a pet owner, might I suggest you do the same.  I know that's what Kevin Smith has done with his pets and though his loss today seems insurmountable, he'll survive.  He's a strong fellow, who inspires me everyday in ways that I'm, consciously, not even fully aware of.  My heart goes out to him today.  CREDITS!

*The picture above is of Kevin Smith embracing Mulder.*
I dedicate this blog to them and to all pet owners who embrace the love of a pet.

A Stack of Playboys

I always quote, especially to cashiers who screw up my change, "The one constant in the universe is mathematics", because no matter where you are.., here in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan or on the far off planet, Kepler-10c, two plus two will ALWAYS equal four.

Another constant, at least on this planet, (I can't speak for Kepler-10b or 10c) is the fact that young boys seem to have the adept ability to find a virtual treasure trove of skin magazines in forests.  Practically, every television show and/or podcast, that I've seen or listened to lately, makes reference to finding a stack of Playboy magazines in a nearby forest.  This strikes a cord with me, as the very same thing happened to me when I was a young boy.

Growing up, I lived (practically) a stone's throw from the city limits.  From my kitchen window, I could see the western end of the city, creeping towards our farm.  The sight was obscured partially by a small collection of trees that dissected the wheat field between us and them.  Me and the neighbour kid, Darren, would often ride our bikes into the city, headed to the mall with a hand full of change for the arcade, always cutting through the trees to pierce the outer skin of the growing metropolis.  Located smack dab in the middle of the trees, was a small clearing where high school kids often conglomerated to party and listen to music.  Quite often on a late Friday or Saturday night, you could see the light of a bonfire breaching the dense forest and rocking melodic beats could be heard in the distance, followed by panic and roaring engines as the police came to break up the festivities.

On one of the return trips from our excursions into the city, Darren and I stopped in the open area to look around.  During our inquisitive search, we located and ultimately divvied up a stack of pornographic magazines.  Apparently, in addition to drinking, gossiping and listening to music, people also enjoyed looking at porn.

I can't remember where I kept my stash, but it was likely under the bed.  I don't know why all kids think the narrow space under the bed is impervious to mother's ever suspicious gaze, but that seems to be another constant in the universe.  Even the villains on television seem to believe that hiding the murder weapon under the bed will thwart the police.  Stupid kids.

They were Penthouse magazines that we found.  I guess Playboy offered too many articles for the youth at hand.  I did, however, find and procure a box of Playboys on a solo trip.  That was kinda cool, but as I recall it was hard..., or difficult, rather, to balance the heavy box on my handle bars as I rode my bicycle home across the bumpy terrain.  The reward did outweigh the hassle, though, I admit I never read any of the articles.

No matter where you are in the universe and no matter what magazine you're gawking at, two plus two will always equal four.  And FYI, not that any of you care, I had the magazine on the left of the photo above with the girl in the green dress (Sherilynn Fenn of Twin Peaks).

There's No Place Like Home

My dad told me a joke when I was young.  He asked "Why do you think it's so windy in Saskatchewan?"  I thought for a moment and shrugged my shoulders.  "Because Manitoba blows and Alberta sucks!"  He smiled then we both shared a chuckle.  I always thought it to be a play on words, as most residents of whatever city or province, always boasts there home territory to be superior to anywhere else.  It wasn't until I was older and able to visit these other provinces, where I was able to learn that this simple joke was based more in reality than jest.

I've been to Manitoba only a hand full of times.  It was winter every time and it was cold as f*ck.  The folks were friendly, as their license plate caption implies, but god damn it was cold.  It makes sense why the movie "White Out" filmed in Manitoba, doubling it for Antarctica.  Friendliness aside, though, there was entirely too many french folks for my liking too.  I'm not saying that all French folks are bad.  I have a few friends who are of the French persuasion, and their alright.  But in my past I've roomed with a French bloke and he was quite a bastard, hence my dislike for the people.  How does that old saying go?  It only takes one rotten apple to spoil the bunch?

Alberta, on the other hand...  Oy!  Where do I start?  I had the "pleasure" (and I use that term loosely) of living in Edmonton for about six months of my younger life, and I regretted ever f*cking moment of that time. I lived in squalor, making next to no money, then had the misfortune of rooming with some really skeevy thieving motherf*ckers, which made the experience all the more worse.  That was a number of years ago, but fast forward to more recent events and the province hasn't improved much at all.  People are (seemingly) angry all over.  I met a couple of decent and friendly folks, but two "good apples can't save a basket of rotten ones", I'm afraid.

As some may know I went to the wedding of two dear friends in British Columbia, a province I might add was a real pleasure to visit.  Everyone was so freakin' nice there.  If I had to choose any other province to live in, I'd seriously consider this one.  Aside from the excessively high price of gasoline and the "scary-as-f*ck" taxi cab drivers, my experience in this place was exceptional.

My original plan was to fly out to Kelowna, British Columbia, then rent myself a sporty car, like a Camaro or Dodge Challenger, once I'd gotten there.  However, I thought I'd take some time off from work and drive myself out, stopping at a couple of touristy locations along the way.  My first stop was going to be in Drumheller, Alberta, the proclaimed Dinosaur Capital of the World, on account that such a variety of dinosaur bones were discovered in it's Red River beds in the early part of the 20th century.  I got away from my home late on Wednesday, May 22nd and never got into Drumheller until about 5pm, just in time to discover that the tourist attraction in town was closing.  "What the f*ck kind of tourist attraction, closes at 5 o'clock in the afternoon?" I thought rudely to myself.

The next day I was treated poorly at the Tyrell Museum just outside Drumheller.  I was mistreated and verbally assaulted at a Tim Horton's in Calgary.  A woman flipped me the bird in Canmore, because I failed to wait forever for her to waddle her fat 400lb ass across the sidewalk.  (That may have been my fault, but show some f*cking class.)  I never was really shown any kindness in Alberta, except for the lady at the Fossil Gift Shop in Drumheller, who stayed open later for me to buy some stuff for my nephews.  (She got a kick out of my story about the guy at my work who doesn't believe dinosaurs ever existed, but that unicorns did.)  Some gay, or at least I think he was gay, kid at McDonald's who was just too happy to serve me, and a woman working at the Esso in Canmore.  Everyone else, to my recollection, were kind o' douchie.

My stay in Kelowna rocked.  The gas, I saw at one place, was as high as $1.53 per Liter, which blows, but I never filled up there.  Everyone was super-nice.  As I said, I'd live in British Columbia, if I had to live anywhere else in Canada, rather than Saskatchewan.

Sunday was the day I was to head back.  I'd researched online and found a decent hotel to stay in Calgary.  The plan was to drive to Calgary, stay the night, go to the zoo on Monday, then drive to Drumheller to use my free pass, then home.  The TraveLodge in Calgary must've cleaned one room for the internet site, because the outside of the hotel looked shabby and I barely stepped into the lobby as the stink drove me back out to the parking lot.  I checked the weather forecast for Monday, which called for thunder and lightning showers, and I said "F*ck it!", drove to Drumheller and used my free pass to the Royal Tyrell Dinosaur Museum, which I managed to check out in about an hour, and was unimpressed.  I was always lead to believe that dinosaurs were SO FREAKIN' HUGE, but this didn't seem to be the case with the ones on display in this museum.  The dinosaurs skeletons I saw there, weren't much bigger than maybe an elephant or hippo.  The Tyrannosaurus Rex they had on display, looked like a punk-ass bitch.  Big teeth, sure, but a bitch nonetheless.

I was so happy when I was able to get a hold of my mother, instructing her to bring my cat, Monkey, back to my house, as I was heading home at that moment.  Five hours later, I was stepping into my wonderful house and hugging my beautiful little boy, Monkey.  There's no place like home, indeed.

Dead Silence

"As it was going down it was getting louder and louder and then all of a sudden it was just quiet." described an eye witness via telephone interview Monday, "When it hit the ground, I didn't see it, but then there was just dead silence."

Saturday morning two planes collided in the skies over the small town of St. Brieux, Saskatchewan, and while such plane crashes, similar to this, crash all over the world, there are usually mitigating circumstances involved.  Normally some evidence that would point investigators in the right direction, in hopes of solving the mystery of why two perfectly good aircraft, with two (presumably) capable pilots, met with such tragedy.  As of the writing of this piece, nothing clear has been released by investigators.

The mystery that plagued me, though, ever since first learning of this tragedy this morning, is how the f*ck is it possible for two planes to collide head-on?  If the air space over St. Brieux was congested with hoards of flying aircraft, one could plausibly concede that such traffic would be a contributing factor to the crash.  However, being that St. Brieux (and area) is practically in the middle of nowhere, chances are that this factor is not a contributor to the accident.

So how the hell do you suppose that the ONLY two airplanes in the sky for virtually hundreds of miles around, managed to plow into one another.  I speculated that one was flying out of the direction of the sun and the other was flying into it, but according to authorities, and given the time of day, this simply was not the case.  So I am baffled.  Not to 'toot my own horn', but I'm pretty good at deciphering a good mystery or puzzle, but this one's got me hooped.

All I know is the odds of something like this occurring, have got to be greater than winning the lottery.  That's like the only two people standing in a desert, firing a gun into the air and winding up shooting one another to death.  Astronomical odds and they managed to do it.  It is senseless.  Senseless that five innocents had to lose their lives, including that of an eleven year old boy, due to a fluke.