The Affable Behemoth

A fond memory from childhood, was watching the children's television program, "The Friendly Giant".  It was a mainstay of the CBC, first airing in the fall of 1958 and remaining on air for twenty-seven years.  Entertaining children, and then their children, and their children, then their's and their's and so on, with fun songs and stories.

At the start of every show, Friendly would position some wood chairs around a fireplace (as shown in the center picture), suggesting that a viewer and their family might like to come for a visit, to enjoy the festivities firsthand.  As a small tyke, I'd hoped on more than one occasion, that our family might take a vacation, traveling the vast distance to Friendly's castle.  With my nose pressed up against the TV, I'd choose which chair I'd be seated in and determine where my parents and sister would sit.  Even though I was awash with the magic and fantasy of it all, I did question the position of the chairs and fireplace with regards to where Friendly and his friends put on their show, often remarking how awkward it would be to have crook our necks all the way back to look virtually straight up.  The way Friendly handles those "over-sized" chairs, they still dwarf in his hands, therefore his size is much larger than that of a regular giant. We were like ants to him.  I'm certain that the fabled giant, who faced off against Jack when he climbed that beanstalk would appear quite puny if standing side-by-side with The Friendly Giant.

It wasn't just my small brain that questioned the logistics of the show.  As I grew older and smarter, I started to question everything about the show.  For instance, Friendly's sidekicks.  A giraffe and a chicken.  Growing up on a farm, I did get to see some large roosters and hens, but I've never seen a cock of giant proportions like Rusty the Rooster.  There was definitely some radioactive testing or some kind of shit going on in the late 1940s and early '50s in whatever far off land this was where Friendly and his gargantuan brood lived.  The one thing that badgered me, though, all the way through my childhood, adolescence and straight into adulthood, was: Why was the rooster kept in a burlap bag, hanging on the wall?  

The fifteen-minute program, aired commercial free, twice between ten o'clock in the morning and half past ten.  At 10:30am, was Mr. Dressup.  A former understudy to Mr. Rogers, Ernie Coombs had moved to Canada, eventually creating the longest running (29 years) children's program "Mr. Dressup".  Four thousand episodes which would eventually bridge the gap between "Friendly Giant" and "Sesame Street".  I never much cared for the show, myself, but we only had two networks to choose from and CTV never aired kids's shows, so "Mr. Dressup", it was.  Now, if you thought I questioned a lot of stuff about "The Friendly Giant", well I found "Mr. Dressup" was really f*cked up.

Mr. Dressup was a man who was in his forties who lived alone, but hung out with Casey, a redheaded child, who was NOT his son, nor related to him in ANY way, who lived in a tree house with his dog, Finnegan, for a number of years.  (Both Casey & Finnegan, were puppets, so some suspension of belief is supported).  Mr. Dressup entertained viewers with arts and crafts and songs and even some plays, complete with costumes that mysteriously and magically would appear in his colourful chest that he fondly referred to as the Tickle Trunk.

Twenty-two years after the show's debut, Judith Lawrence, the puppeteer who worked both Casey and Finnegan, retired.  Rather than replacing Lawrence, the story was told that Casey, along with his dog, began going to school, thus explaining his absence.  A much more sinister and suspicious mind would believe that Dressup simply grew tired of his young playthings and disposed of the bodies in a ditch somewhere.  Although, upon closer inspection, the Tickle Trunk might have disclosed a few more secrets than just colourful costumes and props.

As for the whereabouts of the cast of "The Friendly Giant".  Gerome the Giraffe passed away, shortly after the shows final airing in 1985.  Though he possessed an amazing singing voice, the giraffe had a three pack-a-day smoking habit and died from complications due to throat and lung cancer.  Bob Homme, the actor who portrayed Friendly, passed away in 2000.  Rusty the Rooster survived them all, retiring to a small town outside Toronto, with his same-sex partner Calvin the Cowboy, before passing away in 2011 at the ripe old age of 56, which is quite old for a chicken.  Here's a picture of Rusty and his partner of more than forty years,   As you can see from the photo, Rusty was into rough sex and was the bottom in the relationship.

Kids Say The God Damnedest Things

For a few months, now, I've been driving a school bus.  Not an ideal vocation, but given it's the only company that would hire me after ten months of unemployment, there are worse jobs to have out there and for far less money.   The hours are fantastic, less than two hours overall, but those are dissected by about six hours.  Six hours that I probably should be using more advantageously than I have, but instead I watch TV and or snooze on the couch.  I have learned a thing or two during this short tenure.  I actually enjoy the driving aspect and plan on parlaying this gig into something that pays a f*ck of a lot better.  Another thing I've learned, although I've always suspected it as the truth.  Kids, for the most part, are dumb as shit!!  Whether it's trying to get them to understand how to sit in a seat straight, so as to not fall out or under the seats in the event of an accident or just getting them to keep their clothes on.  Yes, there's one little trouble maker who likes to remove his pants and shake his booty in his seatmate's face.  I often scratch my head in bewilderment, because I've nothing to bang my head up against.

The other morning, though, one of the troublemakers got on the bus for school.  He's not the strip-down kid, but the tattletale who rats out every other kid on the bus, never admitting to any of his own shortcomings.  He sat across from "stripper"-kid and began telling him about the fantastic life that he and his family were about to embark on.

"My mom made a thousand dollars." he told the children around him.  "She made a thousand dollars!  Do you know how much that is?"

The children around him muttered with confusion, no one piping up to tell him that a thousand dollars really wasn't that much.

"That's enough money that my mom is going to buy a brand new car.  And she's going to get a house.  And she's thinking about getting a limo."

I smiled at the innocence and idiocy of his statements, looking on into the bright sun that was blinding my view of the road.

"A limo," he began to explain to those unaware of what it was, "Is a long car.  It's really long and we all sit in the back.  Only rich people get limousines, and that's what we are now, because my mom made a thousand dollars."

There was a short pause, then he continued with his speech, "Yeah.  We're thinking about building a bouncy castle for my birthday.  We might build two bouncy castles, though.  I'd like to build two.  One that looks like a castle and I don't know what the other should look like yet."

It was about this time that I pulled up to his school and the kids all filed off.  I thought about how kids really don't know the value of a dollar, anymore.  They have shit much too easy, these days.  It reminded me of a TV show where the kids on there spoke of how "it used to be in the olden days".  

"If you wanted to watch a TV show, you had to be there at the exact time to watch it.  There wasn't any recording and watching it later." the character said, shocking all his siblings at the preposterousness of the idea.

I guess it's like Art Linkletter used to say, "Kids say the darnedest things."

Silent Movie

I love going to the movies.  Ever since I was a child, I've found it a calming escape from a life otherwise full of turmoil.  It's no surprise that growing up wasn't the easiest experience for me.  Perhaps it wasn't as terrible as that of some children, but it had more than it's fair share of horror.  So while some kids might get into mischief, I always found it more relaxing to escape into my imagination for a couple of hours, being a fly on the wall of someone else's existence.

My joy of escape can also be reflected in the tremendous library of movies and TV shows in my personal collection.  I've lived in this house of mine for going on seven years and though I've got a ton already alphabetized, there are still hundreds still packed in boxes from when I moved in.  I haven't got the foggiest idea of how many DVDs and Blurays I own, but there's probably thousands of stories that I can dive into and escape my reality for awhile.  That withstanding, the experience of watching a movie on the silver screen has never left me.  I enjoy getting out of the house, meeting up with friends (or sometimes not) and watching a fun flick in the cinema.

Movies have come a long way in the last decade, let alone over the span of my lifetime, and it's progressed leaps and bounds since the days of Laurel and Hardy (pictured above), and the price of a ticket has reflected these improvements.  Seems like the crisper the sound and visuals are, the pricier the admission gets, not to mention the second mortgage one needs to take out if refreshments are desired.  Generally, I'm satisfied with a simple over-priced soda.

Along with the progression of the movies, so has people's personal devices.  Although some people still insist on sparking up their iPad's and other nonsense, for the most part it's pretty good.  A good number of people obey the warning clip that precedes the previews, that suggests people shut off their personal devices.  I've never understood those who insist on distracting themselves with texting or Facebook during the movie, given how expensive movie tickets tend to be, not to mention being so ignorant as to ruin everyone else's movie experience.  And don't get me started on the people who choose to talk throughout the film.  They tend to frustrate me and all those around them, too.

What baffles me the most, though, are the idiots who bring their children.  If the movie is a cartoon or something family-oriented, then bring your kids.  I understand.  The subject matter is aimed at their simple minds, so I'll sit back and try to enjoy myself regardless.  However, these ignorant cusses who drag their six month, twelve month or 24-month old babies to watch an action movie riddled with curse words, gore and mayhem caused by machine gun fire and explosions...  I don't understand.  I get it, that babysitter's cost an arm and a leg, nowadays.  Little Becky-Sue is charging double-digits to watch your little rug-rat, instead of being content with a crisp five dollar bill, but dragging your brat along with you and allowing it to chitter-chatter throughout the film, shouldn't be allowed either.

Tonight, I went to watch the latest Fast & Furious film.  The whole series is a little silly and tongue-in-cheek, but they're fun for me to watch.  Fast cars, explosive action and hot chicks galore.  Ya can't ask for much more than that in a movie, except maybe NOT BRINGING YOUR F**KING CHILD TO THE MOVIE!!!  I tried and tried to ignore this silly little shit, that kept throwing his apple juice on the floor, pulling the hair of the people sitting in front of him or just being a complete f*cking nuisance on his parents.  At one point, I had enough and I stormed out of the theater and approached one of the ushers.  I said to him, "At the beginning of the movie, you show a clip that tells people to shut off their phones.  Then you have one that tells people to not talk, so that the other people can enjoy the movie, but you need to have one that tells people NOT to bring their f*cking babies.  Why is it acceptable for people to bring their kids to a grown up movie and allow them to talk throughout the entire movie??"

The munchkin looked at me, blankly, and replied, "I can look into getting you a refund."  I shook my head with defeat, telling him to shove his refund up his ass.  "I don't want a refund.  I want you to shut that kid up."

Nothing was done about it.  So I clenched my teeth, and watched the remainder of the film.  From what I was able to catch when I wasn't distracted by how much I hated children in that instance, the movie was pretty f*cking good.  I may try to catch it again, at some point down the road, not sure when or if I will do so in the theater.  I'm glad that I have a big screen TV and an awesome sound system.  As I will, for sure, be purchasing this movie to add to my ever-growing collection, and escaping my pitiful reality once more.

I remember going to the movies when I was a kid and sometimes, I was the only person in the theater.  There's something truly special about being the only one in the theater, being able to sit wherever and having the movie played especially for you.  It's as close to heaven as I'll ever get.

I Could Give A

I could give a rat's ass!!!

Actually, I couldn't a rat's ass.  I don't have access to a rat.  Nor do I even know where to access a rat.  I suppose I could visit one of the many local pet stores and acquire a rat.  I doubt they'd cost very much.  Then I could give a rat's ass.

On the second hand, though, I'd be stuck with a rat with no ass and I don't know what sort of medical problems that would produce.  I can only imagine that a rat without an ass is going to bloat up, filling more and more with rat turds, on account of not having a method of vacating it's bowels.  The poor little bugger would eventually explode, spreading rat feces all over the place.  If I kept the assless rat in a shoe box wrapped in duct tape, I suppose that'd contain the exploding rat, although that is only a theory and has yet to be proven by myself or science.  And plus, that'd be awfully selfish of me to steal away the rat's ass to give to someone else to prove I could care less about something, then stuffing the poor f*cker into a shoe box wrapped in duct tape.

When you consider how very little I care about a lot of shit, I'd be tossing out rat's asses out all the time, like a Las Vegas poker dealer.  So then I'd be faced with a plethora of assless rats.  That's a helluva problem.  I've not bought that many pairs of shoes in my lifetime, let alone have enough shoe boxes to contain all the assless rats.  One could double or triple them up in the shoe boxes, I suppose, but cannibalism runs wild in the rat kingdom.  If left in a shoe box, I'm sure one would eventually turn on the other, which is disgusting, not to mention, the cannibal rat would be adding to the compiling poop in it's system, ironically causing it to explode all the more quickly.

A "humane" alternative, would be to purchase myself a snake.  This way, once the rat's ass was issued to whomever, the remaining parts of the rat could be fed to the snake.  I'm not a fan of snakes, though.  Especially, the constrictor variety.  I see them on TV and in that Harry Potter movie, and they always look like their thinking.  I don't like any creature that appears to be smarter than myself.  Not too mention, you always hear about those f*cking snakes getting out of their cages and killing the family pet or worse.  I don't have any small children in my household, unless you include my cat, Monkey.  He's an agile little f*cker, but I don't know how he'd fair against a large constricting snake, and I don't wish to find out.

My not caring about things could run up quite an expensive tally.  Though inexpensive, dozens and dozens of rats would add up quickly, not to mention the cost of a snake and all the shit you need to encase one of those bastards.  My bank account would quickly dwindle, this much I am certain of.

Obviously I've given this subject a lot of thought.  I've also considered the idea that I don't care about a lot of shit.  I don't know if this makes me shallow or callous.  I do, however, have trouble in distinguishing whether I could or couldn't care less.  Nor do I know exactly, when to give a shit or not give a shit about something.  The latter, I suppose, has to do with one's diet.  I suppose if a person consumes a lot of roughage, then they, in theory, could give a shit about a lot more.  Personally, I'm allergic to a lot of stuff like whole wheat products, and therefore am unable to drop a deuce when it's deemed necessary to convey my dislike or lack of care on a particular subject.  I still poop, yes.  I'm not in danger of exploding myself, but I just can't do it at the drop of a hat.

This is quite a dilemma that I'm faced with.  Damned if I do.  Damned if I don't.  I have no avenues in which to confer with on this subject.  Nobody knows the trouble I face on a daily basis.  I've consulted the internet with hopes of finding a solution, but I don't even want to go into detail about the sick shit that has come up.  Suffice it to say, there's a lot of sick f*ckers in the world.

I could invest a lot more time into the discovery of  how to deal with this dilemma.  Lord knows I have the time, but....  When you get right down to it, it doesn't really concern me a lot.  I guess, I just don't give two shits about it.

Dreamscape

Sometimes life just seems more fun and interesting on "the other side".  When I close my eyes at night, I'm whisked away to a distant, yet sometimes familiar place, where I'm everything I ever hoped I'd be and am accepted by all as an equal or better.  Unlike my waking hours when it seems like all I am is a number.  Something, not someone, to be used and abused for all I'm worth, then discarded like a piece of trash or a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

I'm not crying up a storm, here, sobbing "woe is me".  I'm satisfied, somewhat, for my lot in life.  I find my job fulfilling, though unappreciated most days.  It's just everything else that I wish I could have different.

When I dream at night, it seems like all my hopes have come true.  I'm popular with the ladies, even sought after on occasion.  Hell, I'm popular with everyone.  My opinions and ideas matter.  It's freakin' awesome.  Sometimes I think, if I didn't have so many responsibilities here, it'd be nice to slip into a coma.  Life seems more fulfilling and interesting "over there" anyway, and adventurous.

I remember a dream I had a few years ago, where I was white water rafting with the WWE's Undertaker (whom I was referring to by his real name, Mark Callaway), Stephanie McMahon, and Triple H (Paul Levesque).  We'd stopped for lunch at a small cafe along the river, and when I went to use the restroom, I was jumped by three hoodlums who wanted my ball cap. (I guess not all is perfect in this world...)  Mark, or I mean, Undertaker was quick to help a buddy out and stomped their asses into the ground.  Yahoo!

My dreamscape is a wondrous place.  It sort of resembles Heaven in the movie "What Dreams May Come", a far and spacious place, uncluttered by modern amenities, yet there are pockets of familiarities.  City streets that somehow exist but don't clash with the beauty of the landscape.  They're invisible until you look around and see you're surrounded.

Last night, for some reason, I dreamed about work, but it wasn't my workplace that I recognized.  It was completely different, yet my co-workers were all there.  I was working along side one of the blokes I worked with this week, and instead of treating me like a useless f*ck as he was doing yesterday, he treated me as a equal even requesting my opinion on a pending project.  My ideal scenario, wouldn't be to dream of work for the rest of my existence, but there's worse things to be dreaming about.

For instance, there's a recurring dream I have from time to time, where I'm stuck in this house or building.  The structure itself changes ever once in awhile, but the premise remains.  I can run, walk, whatever, there's no getting out.  No matter the route I choose, different every time, there's no escape and I end up back where I began.  Of all my dreams, this one, I fear, is the closest to my real life.

Not to mention the nightmares that I have sometimes.  I'm fast asleep, but an uneasy feeling wakes me up.  I look up and see a small girl clad in a white dress, standing in the doorway of my bedroom.  She's motionless, quietly staring at me as I sleep.  My cat is usually nowhere to be found, which is understandable, as I don't really want to be there either.  I don't do anything and I say nothing.  I close my eyes again and go back to sleep.  Now I'm fairly certain this is a dream and not an actual occurrence.  As far as I know, there's never been a small child who resided in this house.  Plus, I've had this dream on a number of occasions at a number of my residences.

I guess I just view these dreams as a form of escape.  When life gets me too down, here, I can close my eyes and escape to someplace wonderful.  I did the same as a kid, too.  My childhood was not that easy.  Growing up in an alcoholic home, life is rarely easy.  I didn't have it as bad as some kids, but I felt the brunt of a lot of hate and mistreatment.  I guess that's why I fell in love with the cinema, as a young kid.  I saw it as a way to escape from my day-to-day life, and be somewhere or someone else.  I guess that's why as an adult, I continue the practice, watching way too much television and viewing a f*ck-of-a-lot of movies.  At last count, I can't remember how many movies I have in my collection.

That being said, I can see on the wall that I need to get some shit done and bills to pay.  After all is said and done...; Life is but a dream.., sweetheart.