Intuitively Speaking

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Eagle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?! 😄

Sunday Afternoon Picnic

I was driving the (Route) Eight a couple weeks ago, when I found myself stopped at the traffic light on the corner of 8th Street East and Cumberland Avenue.  From my perspective, I could see clear into Cumberland Park which is located across from where I was halted.

Through the trees, I could see a couple young lovers rolling around in the grass.  One was wearing a bright yellow T-shirt, while the female appeared to be clad, head-to-toe, in a white gown, of some sort.  They appeared quite frisky, which took me by surprise with the crowds also enjoying the park.  Then again, all the other families were clear across the park, enjoying the shade of the taller trees.

"Awe. Young love." I thought to myself, quietly.  No sooner had I thunk those thoughts than things suddenly turned from frisky to frantic.  Now I saw the white dress sitting on top of the fella in the yellow tee and instead of romantic gestures, the person on top was feeding the guy in yellow, and it wasn't ham sandwiches, but some of a knuckle variety.

Rights and lefts, repeatedly bouncing off this guy's skull.  By this time, the light had changed and I was stopping at a stop at the southwest corner of the park.  Just as the passenger I'd just picked up, got situated, the guy in the yellow shirt had broken free from the beating he was receiving and hightailed it for the bus.  Close behind him, was the person in the dress.  I say person, as this was not a young woman like I had supposed, but a man.  A bearded man, running after this younger fella.  I could now see that the fella in the yellow tee, was just a kid, probably no more than twenty years old or so.  

"Get me out of here!" the young fella cried, "That guy's f*cking nuts!"

Not realizing the situation, completely, I blurted out, "Dude.  You just got your ass beat by a guy wearing a dress."  Admittedly, now that I've voiced the quote out loud, that was definitely a dickish thing to say to a guy, especially one who's bleeding from his forehead.

As I pulled away from the curb, the bearded dress-guy was breathing on the door.  Nervously, the young fella, continued his explanation. "I think he's one of those f*g people." (His words, not mine, but... Yeah.  I suspect he may have been light in the loafers, so to speak.)

We arrived downtown, where my supervisor met up with me.  I'd call City Emergency to arrange for the police to meet the fella so he could give a statement as to what happened, which if I were to speculate, the kid likely approached the man in the dress and called him a vulgar term and was greeted with a pummeling.  I don't know and if that were the case, I doubt buddy, there, would admit to instigating the situation.  Of course, Mr. Dress-guy could have turned the other cheek, too.  Whatev's.

No one ever f*cked with Klinger.

Way Down In The Village

My mom is a sweetheart.  A kind hearted soul without a malicious bone in her body.  Generous to a fault, that goes unnoticed, sometimes.  I feel guilty coming to realize this so late in life.  I enjoy spending time with my mother, nowadays.  I realize that our time together, in the grand scheme of things, isn't going to be that long.  I don't wish this to sound like she's taken ill, because she has not.  I'm confident that she'll, in most likelihood, will outlive me.  That withstanding, I feel some guilt in how I've treated my mother in the past.

As I've already stated, and anyone who's ever crossed paths with my mom, will know that she is a sweetheart.  However, my mom is as gullible as she is sweet and in my youth, played a terrible gag on my mother one late evening.

I was at the home of my sister and her first husband, Grant.  Another of his friends, Kevin L., was present when they concocted this funny joke to play on my mom.  It was late evening, as I recall, and Grant's pal, Kevin, dialed up my mom's phone number.  It was probably around 10pm.  Groggily, my mom answered the phone, her voice cracking as she said, "Hello?"

Immediately, Kevin breaks into character, speaking very formal-like, as a police constable.  He informed her that I'd been arrested and that it was necessary for me (Jeff) to be bailed out that evening.  That's when he handed me the phone to elaborate on the story we were feeding her.

Still sleepy, having just been woken up by this terrible prank, she asked what was going on.  I played along, embroidering a twisted, yet simplistic yarn of how I had been driving home, via 20th Street.  Normally, this was not a route I'd normally take, given how scary the neighbourhood is at night.  It's scary during the day, but night time really brings out the cockroaches, even back then.

"I was sitting at a red light," I explained, "When this woman jumped in my car.  I told her to get out, but she refused.  Then the light turned green and I had no choice but to go through."

I really painted the picture for my mother, churning her imagination into a frenzy.  "I'd gone a couple of blocks," I continued explaining, "When suddenly I saw flashing red and blue lights in my mirror."

My mom was really becoming vocal at this point, interrupting me before I could explain why I had been (supposedly) arrested.  I cut my tale short, but simply adding, "I was arrested for soliciting a prostitute."

"WHAT?!?" she screamed into the phone, "What am I supposed to do?"  It was at this point that Grant, my former brother-in-law, took control of the phone, posing as another officer.  Grant had a very distinct voice and we figured that my mom would catch on that this was a gag when he began his pitch.  

"Ma'am, your son was picked up on 20th Street West, under the suspicion of solicitation of a prostitute.  You're going to need to bring $400 downtown if you don't want your son to spend the night in jail."

"Where on 20th Street?" my mom asked.  I'm not sure as to why this was an important tidbit of information, but Grant quickly panicked, answering, "Awe, shoosh!!  Way down in the village."  Then he proceeded to toss the phone in my hands and run across the room, as if to hide.  Grant was a strange idiot, who despite concocting this pranks, was a terrible liar.  He couldn't keep the facts straight on any story without trying to elaborate then failing miserably.  The fact that he was able to fool my sister over his infidelities for so long, is a complete mystery.

I continued to pull the proverbial wool over my mom's eyes, suggesting that she call my dad for the bail money when she told me she didn't have the cash available on short notice.  I only suggested my dad's involvement because I knew him to be at work and virtually impossible to reach until morning.

Definitive sobbing of worry and sorrow could be heard over the phone and that's when we came clean about the farce, confessing that it was all just a ruse and that I hadn't been arrested and that everything was fine.  The sadness had disappeared from her tone, but she never laughed at the premise, nor did she voice any opinions.  I'd really riled her up and probably removed a few years off of her life because of a stupid prank that, in retrospect, wasn't actually all that amusing to begin with.

Many of the little tricks that I've done in my younger years, seemed important or funny, at the time, but as I reflect back on what memories I can still stir up, they weren't all that funny, after all.  Hopefully, in the years since, that I've become a better son to my mom.  I hope that before she shuffles off this mortal coil, that she will look upon me with pride.  My dad passed away before I could make anything of myself, but I like to think that if he were alive today, he'd finally look upon me with some pride.  

My relationship with my mom is a lot better in recent years.  I think that when she sold her house then came to stay with me for, a month, then three months then almost a full year, that our relationship got better.  Now, when time permits, we get together either at my house or her condo.  We'll have nice suppers and watch movies or TV shows.  We have our menagerie of home improvement shows and TV mysteries when she comes to my house and at her house, we'll cue up a movie or binge watch a TV series.  We just finished up Yellowstone a few months ago, as well as the Justified series.  Right now work has me completely exhausted, so I don't get to spend as much time with my mom as I initially could, but if I can manage my time better, I'm sure we can get back to visiting on a regular basis.

My mom tells me that she doesn't have many friends.  Many of them have lost touch and those relationships have all but severed completely.  Luckily in the condo where she resides now, she's made a lot of new friends.  It's a real sense of community in that building and I like it.  It's good for her.  My mom has always been sociable.  Always capable of making new friends, instantly.  My mom is a sweetheart.  As loyal as they come and not a malicious bone in her body.  All I can do is hope she's happy and I'll do my best to keep her that way.

Golden Years

It may as well be a million years ago, if it were a day.  Memories of my youth are fleeting at best.  They were scarce when I had a fully functional brain, but are mostly gone since my accident.  What I've learned about memories, recently, is while they may be gone, they're not always one hundred percent disappeared.  Some glimmer of them remain, secluded in some dark passageway within our minds, just waiting to emerge into present day, once again.  Earlier this week, I happened to glance over onto 2nd Avenue, downtown, noticing a pile of rubble where the old Baldwin Hotel used to stand.  Then it hit me with a wallop -- Andre the Giant.

There's not much written about the old Baldwin Hotel.  I was unsuccessful in digging up much dirt on the location, short of actually visiting the Saskatoon Library to dig through old archives.  I believe it was built in the early 1900s, stood for nearly a hundred years before falling into disarray and finally demolished.  As a kid I remember going to the restaurant in the basement of the once distinguished hotel, to visit my aunt, Jacquie.  There she'd share tales about her encounters with wrestlers when they'd wander over from shows put on at the old downtown arena.

As a kid, I remember going to the old arena when it was located downtown on 19th Street.  Long since gone, it's footprint looked tiny compared to the incredible size of the arena.  Then again, I was a tiny child, so everything looked gigantic.  I recall going to Blades games with my grandpa.  I remember going to the circus with thousands of other screaming kids.  Seemed like our parents weren't there.  Just dropped us all off to run amuck within it's overwhelming confines.  I remember having full reign over the premises, roaming through all the halls, past the dressing rooms.  I remember encountering a dressing room where all the clowns were, applying their various facial designs.  This is where I came to realize that clowns aren't necessarily a happy bunch.  Many are only as happy as the makeup they apply.  Most are sad, miserable or angry, all characteristics well masked by coloured grease paint.

In addition to the circus and various sporting events and concerts, the Saskatoon Arena would also cater to the cavalcade of professional wrestlers who'd travel throughout the western provinces via Calgary's Stampede Wrestling.  The owner, Stu Hart, was born and raised in Saskatoon, before joining the army and rushing off to World War II, when he returned home, he took up residence in Calgary, Alberta and founded the infamous wrestling company and it's many stars.

Before folding up and closing it's doors in 1984 after being sold to Vince McMahon of the (then) World Wrestling Federation (WWF), there were many big stars who cut their teeth in the infamous Stampede Wrestling.  The British Bulldogs, Davy Boy Smith and the Dynamite Kid, Bret Hart and Jim Neidhart, as well as a few appearances of Andre The Giant.

After nights of bashing the hell out of one another, a gaggle of wrestlers would clean up and mosey on down the street to the Baldwin Hotel and grab a bite to eat.  My aunt, Jacquie would often find herself working on many of the nights with this motley crew of performers would conglomerate for food, drink and wild conversations.

My aunt would marvel us kids with stories of chatting with, chumming around and sharing laughs with the wonderous personalities who'd grace her with their presence.  While I don't recall any of the stories in detail, I do remember Jacquie sharing her amazement with one wrestler in particular, who would nearly eat the restaurant out of every morsel of food they had in stock.  He was a colossus.  Hell!  He was dubbed the "Eighth Wonder of the World" for good reason.  Andre was a bona-fide giant and was billed as such.  Pictured here with Bruce Hart (L) and Dynamite Kid (R), Andre stood at a towering 7'4".  His hands, I'm told, were the size of catcher mitts.  When he shook my aunts hand, it disappeared well within his gentle grasp.

My aunt would pass away in the late eighties.  A brain aneurysm, which put her in a coma for a very long time before my grandpa made the difficult decision to remove her from life support, thus ending her suffering.  I remember him making that decision, speaking to the doctor over the phone in my very own living room.  The sorrow on my grandpas face on having to make that choice, but it had to be done.  My aunt suffered from migraine headaches for most of her life.  I do, as well, which always had me concerned for my own well being.  I don't suffer as frequently as I once did, having undergone an experimental treatment which had the headaches virtually disappear completely.  That is until I took that fateful tumble and completely destroyed my brain as it once was.  The migraines have returned, thankfully not as frequent as they were.

My aunt passed away quite young. Still in her thirties, if I recall correctly.   Andre the Giant would pass away young, too.  Only 46 years old when his heart finally gave out.

Gone are they, just as the old Baldwin is gone and the Saskatoon Arena.  Many of the aspects of the downtown area of the city is gone or reimagined.  There are towering business buildings where "The Barn", as it was affectionately referred to as, once stood.  Across the street from there, used to be a car dealership, if I remember correctly.  My dad bought a car from there, but now it's only an empty parking lot.  Where the parking lot is in the photo above, now stands the Scotia Center Movie Theater, formerly known as The Galaxy Theater.  I wanna say that "Folks", pictured in the lower right of this photo, still stands, but I think my memory is pulling tricks on me.  I can't remember. 

We, as a society, are so quick to destroy, rather than refurbish, replenish and reserve.  Built in 1937, I'm sure the arena couldn't be saved, just as the Baldwin Hotel couldn't be saved.  All that once was prestigious in the downtown district has now gone to ruins.  Plagued by the homeless and the downtrodden.  Seems like the city would rather throw money at new development rather than take care of it's lost citizens.

As a transit operator, I've been witnessing the city in a brand new way.  Like shining a black light on a hotel room, I'm discovering hidden truths about our fair city and it isn't looking good.  I've watched "The Walking Dead" since it's debut in 2010 and viewing the folks who line the streets in the downtown isn't too far from the atrocities seen on the television program.

So many memories, lost to the annuls of time.  Was it a better time, then? Were they truly golden years? Who can say for certain?  It was different.  More innocent.  Or maybe it was just me.  Viewing the world through rose coloured glasses.

The Standards Have Changed Dramatically

For those not in the know, I've been hired on with the City of Saskatoon and I am currently training to be a bus operator.  I've only jumped through the first hurdle of obtaining my Air Endorsement and, from what I am told, it was also the hardest portion of that quest.  The task now laid before me is learning and retaining the practical side of the Air Endorsement which is basically applying what I know and proving that I understand it. 🤔

Another hurdle to acquiring this position, is obtaining the Class 2 drivers license.  For this, I was prepared and obtain this classification way back when I drove a school bus.  At the time, I did so to better my value within that company, to allow myself to drive charters.  Unfortunately, the company, at the time did not share that belief and we parted way shortly after, but not before I obtained that beloved Class 2 license, which brings me to present day.  Because I already have my Class 2, I needn't take the necessary road test to obtain it.

The class of potential new drivers is quite large, the biggest in years, as described by the instructors.  As such, there's enough students to allow two people for every instructor.  For the past few days, myself and one other fellow have been taking to the streets of Saskatoon to polish our new craft.  However, until yesterday, I'd not gotten behind the wheel of one of these behemoth machines.  Because of my previous experience as a school bus operator and the fact that I needn't take the Class 2 road test, I've passed on driving to allow my cohort to get in the necessary practice for his driving test next week.  The extra free time allows me to sit in the back of the bus and study my notes, learn from his travels and simply look at the world around me as it passed by at 45km/h.

In the past couple of days, as we drove the most likely route that the examiner will take my fellow pupil on, we've driven past the company Standard Machine.  The company, as described on its website, is such that it provides machining and manufacturing services to (I'm going to paraphrase as it's quite lengthy and I don't wish to bore the two people who actually read my shit) mining, military, marine, oil and gas, and even aerospace industries all over the world.  The facility located on 60th Street is quite gargantuan, but I remember it when it was a small company located on Faithfull Avenue.

My dad worked there when I was quite young, well before I ever attended public school, so I was probably four years old or so, maybe?  My dad worked days and my mom would come to pick him up.  Her practice back then, just as it is today, is to show up way too early for anything and this was no different.  I recall the front bay doors of the building were open.  It was very warm inside and opening the bay doors would allow for a breeze to sweep through the shop, comforting the employees in the process. 

When my mom would show up, I'd immediately spring from the car and run in to see my dad.  Locating him quickly, I'd stand next to him as all the busy chaos was happening around me.  My dad would smile and greet me with a "Hey buddy." before returning his attention to the task he was performing.  I don't remember much more than that, other than playing with the metal shavings that were piling at his feet and accompanying him to the break room when the quitting horn would sound.

It's strange.  Given all the safety guidelines and standards that are in place nowadays, but I was allowed by that company, way back then, to stand next to my dad, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and running shoes.  Today, as a worker, you need to wear a reflective vest, a hard hat, coveralls and steel-toed shoes.  And if your family wanted to see what you did, good luck, because that shit ain't never gonna happen.

Can you imagine all the controversy that would erupt if the small son of this fellow were to be standing at his side while the father was working with a piece of equipment this incredible?  The company would go on lockdown, the father would probably be brought up on some sort of charge of Child Endangerment or worse.  Maybe the child would be removed from the home entirely.  Then social media, holy f**k, don't get me started on all the arm chair experts who'd have to weigh in.  My, how the standards have changed.  Granted, much is for the better, but sometimes, I think shit has gotten too strict.  Not just in industry, but life in general.

Today, kids are required to wear helmets and pads and all kinds of protective wear, when riding a bike.  Even if the bike has training wheels and there's no way of it tipping, they need to wear protective gear.  When I was a kid, I never wore any of that shit.  I remember learning to ride a bike and the training wheels would not stay in place and when I'd tilt to one side, instead of ending there, the wheel would shoot back and I'd continue my decent into the gravel.  I grew up on a farm, so when you crashed you bicycle, which I did repeatedly, you'd get a scrape or a cut.  You'd get up, brush the gravel out of the bleeding patch on your knees and you'd try again.  There was no coddling and if you ask me, kids were better for it.  Nowadays, kids bump into a wall and they're instantly crying then there's a follow-up on how can we make hallways more safe for our youth and blah-blah-blah.  If I'd have cried at something as stupid as that, when I was a kid?  I'd have been picked up by the wrist, smacked on the ass, and told to stop crying. Then I would and today, I'm a better person for it.

Not only have the standards of safety changed, but of life in general and while the former is probably for the better, the latter just makes life a pain in the ass.  Life was better before and I miss those days.

Easy Pickin's

 

School zone enforcement runs from the first day of September to the last day of June, from eight o'clock in the morning to five o'clock in the afternoon, Monday through Friday, whether school is in session or not and you'd better believe that the police services are out there enforcing this speed law, rain or shine.  To illustrate this point, I once received a speeding ticket, almost two decades ago, in front of a school that had been shut down by the city, had been closed for years, yet the school zone was still in effect and even the cop who issued the ticket to me, agreed that it was bullshit, given that no kids had even played on the playground that still existed on the chained up property, in years.

My mother told me about the time she received a ticket while driving to my house.  There's a high school on the corner, next to a strip mall.  The zone where she received her ticket, begins approximately fifteen yards or so (estimating in football terms) before the traffic light.  The light, at the time, was red and she was coasting to a stop, and though she was stopping anyway, the fact that her speed was just above the posted thirty kilometers per hour, one of the fine Saskatoon Police Service officers saw fit to pull my aging mother over and issue her a, in my opinion, undeserving traffic violation.  Keep in mind, that this is a woman who never breaks the speed laws, ever.  It scares me how slow she will travel on any of the roads in Saskatoon.  Even as other vehicles scream past her, she remains five to ten kilometers under the speed limit.  For this reason, I almost always insist on driving when we are together.  So for her to receive a speeding ticket is, not only inappropriate, but downright offensive.  That was a few years ago and nothing that could be addressed in a court of law, today.

My mother is not one for protesting anything. To her detriment, she, all too often, rolls with the punches and gets the short end of the stick.  She further explained how on that particular day, there was a lot of traffic speeding up to beat the yellow light, which doubly upset her that she was the one to get caught because she was slowing down, rather than speeding through the amber.  It is my opinion that it was because she was an easier target and that the cop didn't wish to expel any energy in pursuing those who were clearly in violation.

Her story reminded me of this past weekend when I, too, received a speeding ticket, when I was returning from the Entertainment Expo at the Exhibition Grounds.  Normally, I wouldn't take the route that would bring me through the downtown, but it was the route I'd taken earlier in the day and saw fit to return the same way.  The speed limit on the freeway has always been 90km/h (56mph) as long as I can remember, so when I saw the flashing red-blue lights in my mirror, I thought there was an emergency and I pulled over to the side.  Then I saw the cop pull over to the side as well.  At this point, I still figured that my way was the route that the cop needed, as all the lanes to my left were congested with people driving faster than myself.  They, too, were blazing through the now amber-turned-red traffic light on the other side of the overpass.  I quickly maneuvered around the corner and pulled over to the right, as far as I could, but the black unmarked police car did not pass me, but pulled up behind me.  That's when I seen the gleam of the sun reflecting off the officer's bald ass head as he strode toward my vehicle.

"Do you know why I stopped you?" he asked.  Bewildered by the situation taking place, I said "No."  Then he showed me a device he was holding that showed my speed.  "You were clocked going 92km/h."  To which I replied, "In a 90km zone."  "No," he responded, "In a 70km zone."

I was completely flabbergasted, "When did that change?" 

"It's been seventy for some time, now." he answered.

"But what about all those who were passing me and blowing through the yellow light?  They get off for speeding?"

The constable replied, "They're none of my concern."  He then asked for my driver's license and issued me a ticket for $194.  Talk about some bullshit.

The cops, it seems, would rather scoop up the easy pickin's rather than make an effort to chase down those who are driving dangerously fast.  My initial path would have taken me straight down First Avenue and given that the light was turning amber, I clearly would have stopped for the red.  I never pass through an amber light unless I'm already in the intersection when the light changes or if it's icy and I slide into the intersection, though honestly, that rarely happens.  However, this day, I was the easiest target.

I'm not making excuses.  Clearly I was no longer familiar with the freeway speed, although it's clearly marked as 90km/h almost everywhere on Circle Drive, the bridge being a part of that system, but if he claims it is seventy kilometers per hour, certainly he wouldn't lie just to issue a ticket to little ol' me.  I'm sure there's no corruption on the traffic level of the police service. 🤨

Now I read that the City Council has issued a new bi-law to take effect in September of this year, extending the school zones from 7am to 7pm, despite the idea being extremely unpopular in citywide polls.  Then again, not to discuss politics, our mayor is a major boob.

All day long, I can travel on Circle Drive which encompasses our fair city and constantly be passed by drivers, flashing me the finger as they speed around me.  I used to work along these same roads, in work zones that people know universally that speeds need to be reduced to 60km/h to better ensure safety for those working in the work zone and people refused to do so, the police included.  I can't count how many times that I've nearly died because someone was speeding past me going well over a hundred.  Two years ago, I remember bending over to pick up a piece of refuse, my head merely inches from the shoulder of the road, when a truck sped past me, so close that my hard hat flew off my head.  Looking up, I saw that the black Ram was speeding on the shoulder of the road, passing a stream of cars who blocked his passage.  I can't recall how many times I came close to losing my life while working the roadside of this city. 😔

Seems like some cops only enforce the speed when they feel like it, then when they do, they seem to pick off the easy targets, rather than those who put everyone's safety in jeopardy.  So let's make this easy across the board.  Everyone, myself included, just slow the f*ck down.

Saskatoon O. G.

Today marked my first visit to the Saskatoon location of the Olive Garden.  I'd visited a location many many years ago, in Winnipeg with some co-workers, but this was my first visit since the chain opened up a franchise in the Bridge City and except for one hiccup, which I will cover shortly, the experience was exquisite.

I'd recently received some very good news and I wanted to celebrate with a nice lunch for myself and my mother.  She's helped me out in many different ways over the year and this news not only helps myself, but may put me in a position where I can start paying my mom back for all the favours she's provided me over the years.  In the past, she's wanted to visit the Olive Garden and today seemed like the perfect opportunity to do just that.

The restaurant has been present in the Hub City for a couple of years, already, but due to Covid, we've not dared go hardly anywhere in public, let alone a restaurant.  Plus, the lines to get into the premier eatery were lengthy at best and we'd come to an agreement to not go until some of the luster had worn off, so to speak.

Today was the day to try it out and try it out, we did and as I stated previously, it was exquisite except for one tiny hiccup, which I will address shortly.

We had arrived shortly after lunch and the parking lot was almost completely filled, but we found a spot near the front door.  Inside, they told us it would be about a 10-minute wait, but it was more like five minutes.  We were ushered to a table on the east side of the restaurant and we perused the menu until our server came over and explained what our options were.

We both opted for the salad, instead of the soup -- which was very tasty, as well as one helping of the breadsticks.  My mom chose the marinara sauce, while I went for the meat sauce to dip our respective breadsticks into, which came to the table warm.  A slight crispiness on the crust and warm on the inside.  It was delightful.  As for our lunch choice, I decided upon the Chicken Parmagiana, admittedly having to Google what it was before ordering it, and my mom chose the dish as well.  Though it looked very little like the photo I had Googled, it was, however, very tasty and quite filling, I might add.

Midway through the main course, I had to excuse myself to use the washroom.  Our server was very kind and pointed me in the direction of the restrooms and off I went.  I was not prepared for what came next, though.  (It is here where I feel it necessary to point out that what follows was completely no fault of the Olive Garden, but a very bad decision on the part of the patron whom I encountered in the washroom.)  When I entered the men's room, I found a single individual standing back from the urinal, pants down around his knees and cell phone in hand, taking multiple photos of his.... His you-know-what.  I was shocked, embarrassed and very uncomfortable.  I immediately turned to use the toilet, which was thankfully behind a locked door, but that was occupied, forcing me to have to stand at the handicapped urinal next to the "photographer".

At the best of times, I have a shy bladder.  I find it extremely uncomfortable to go in front of other people, especially in a public restroom.  I'm reminded of the time I went to a KISS concert at SaskPlace and was forced to search multiple bathrooms to find a vacant toilet stall in order to relieve myself.  On this day, though, I was forced to try and go, despite the discomfort and awkwardness that was occurring in present time.  The whole process was difficult and I soon returned to my table.

Looking up from her meal, my mother could see that something was wrong and asked as much.  I told her what had just happened and she was, rightfully so, appalled.  I apologized for ruining her lunch, though we both muscled through it like champs.

I never voiced my concerns to the restaurant staff, as what would they be able to do about it, after the fact.  I couldn't identify the fella, other than he had a bald head and a huge pecker, neither of which is a criminal line-up that I wouldn't wish to bear witness to ever again.  Best to roll with the punches and try to salvage the remainder of our lunch.

Overall, the lunch was, as I've stated, exquisite, with a huge capital 'E'.  I tipped our server, Michelle, very well, but the next time I visit the restaurant, I may just avoid using the restroom so as to not stir up any traumatic memories.