Mumbo Jumbo

Went out with a friend today.  The day started out nice, visiting one of the new Halloween stores in town.  My feet have been hurting a lot, as of late, with the cooler weather, but the warm temperatures today proved worthwhile for this outing.

We trekked around looking at this and that, before moving on to our next destination where we did some grocery shopping.  Her for her household, me for mine.  Then we had a quick lunch right there.

In an effort to eat up as much time before going to pick up her boyfriend from work, we visited a couple more destinations, looking for Halloween stuff that she could incorporate into a costume.  She's very creative and sometimes likes to bounce ideas off of me.  I don't mind as I like the creative aspect without any of the follow-up of having to do the work.  It's like taking pride in the finished product without having any of the headaches or callouses of putting the piece together.

As well as I was feeling in the beginning of our adventure, the time on my feet was beginning to take it's toll on me.  I eventually found myself limping a little, as my feet began to swell.  My midsection was beginning to hurt some, as I'd had surgery a couple of weeks ago and I'm still having some issues with that healing process.  Most annoyingly, I began to get a headache.

I tend to get a lot of headaches, come autumn, and they only grow more frequent and intense as the winter months engulf us.  This particular headache I could feel mustering behind my eyeball.  These ones tend to get real bad, real quick.  But I didn't want to say anything, because my friend was having a good time and I didn't wish to spoil her outing.  I never mentioned anything until we began our journey homeward.

"I would offer you something, if I had anything." she said, to which I told her it was okay.  I explained that I had the same Ibuprofen that she had in her trunk, a purchase she'd made earlier in the day.  "I'll simply take four or five of them, when I get home.... With a shot of bourbon!"

She was shocked, immediately warning me off of such a terrible action, citing that booze and medication should never be mixed.  "Bah!" I said, "That's just nonsense."

She went on to tell me that I should never mix alcohol with medication, to which I gave her my explanation and to tell the truth, while I was just blowing smoke out my ass, the logic is present and I think I may actually believe my own hype...

"That's just big pharmaceutical who warns against mixing medication with alcohol.  You never see alcohol companies warning 'Don't drink this with pain meds'."   I paused for a moment, thinking about the words that just spilled from my mouth and yeah...  No alcohol companies say that.  So I have to believe that it's like the marijuana thing, where the booze companies launched negative campaigns to render cannabis as an illicit "drug", so too are big pharmaceutical companies making similar claims against alcohol, exemplifying that it can't fix any of the problems that medication can. (Which makes a person curious as to why they speak against the positives of marijuana.)

"Besides," I added, "The alcohol just gives it that extra -- Ba-BAAMM!!  The Ibuprofen works fine, but the bourbon acts as a turbo boost!  Thrusts it into your system so much quicker."

Big pharmaceutical claims that medication should not be mixed with alcohol, but they make the same claim that shit should be taken with food and despite not following those instructions, I've never been affected negatively in that way, either.  It's a lot of hooey.  Verbal mumbo jumbo meant to put fear into people so they have to rely more heavily on their meds.  Unless you're a raging alcoholic, then I say there's no harm in pouring yourself a nice stiff drink to chase down the pain meds.  It'll fix whatever ails you.

CHEERS!!

SMASHED

As a very small youngster, I recall my uncle teaching me how to ride a dirt bike he had on his farm.  It was a short lesson and I thought I'd caught on fairly quickly, but soon found myself hurling out of control on a gentle curve.  It was scary how quickly I had lost control, myself helpless upon a racing motorcycle whipping through shoulder height field of wheat.  After that, I would never attempt to ride a motorcycle again.  Over my adult life, I've always held a healthy respect for the two-wheeled vehicles, but have never mustered up the courage to tempt fate once more.

Whenever I've spoken with or to people who ride motorcycles, the number one complaint that is common with everyone is the fact that they seem to disappear in traffic.  Despite the loud exhaust rumbling out a throaty growl, most traffic don't actually see, motorcyclists.  This often results in mishaps where riders can be severely injured.

About ten years ago, I was driving home from work when I came upon a traffic accident.  There was a leather-clad motorcyclist visibly shaking on the boulevard, just a few feet from his motorcycle that had been sandwiched between two cars.  Judging from the twisted mess that was lying half underneath the car in front, it was lucky that he'd escaped with only a couple of abrasions.  The outcome had the potential to be a lot worse.

For the entirety of my adult driving life, I've taken special care whenever I encounter a motorcycle in traffic.  I realize that many people overlook their existence, so I take on the responsibility to buffer the zone between them and other traffic.  I don't tailgate or anything moronic like that, but I'll happily lose some time on my travels to ensure their safety in heavy traffic.

I know that not everyone on the road, today, is oblivious to motorcycles, but there are some who don't even think about them.  Add in the distractions that many have, their noses aimed at their cell phones, rather than concentrating on the road ahead, traffic can become a veritable mine field for some riders.

Given the challenges that motorcyclists have maneuvering safely in traffic, it baffles me why some riders think themselves invincible by drinking and driving.  Driving under the influence is challenging as it is, behind the wheel of a four-wheeled vehicle.  Minus two tires and add balance to the equation, equals a bad situation by my count.

Earlier this evening, the police responded to a single motorcycle accident where the rider lost control of his bike, striking a post and dying on scene.  Investigators suspect speed and alcohol were likely contributing factors.  I know the intersection where this accident occurred and it can be a little challenging sober, in a car traveling at the legal speed limit.  Racing on what is most likely a Japanese rocket, this poor drunk fool didn't stand a chance.

I doubt this was his first day riding a motorcycle.  I would imagine that he experienced all the same challenges as the motorcycle enthusiasts that I've spoken with, have.  So why add alcohol?

I'm no angel.  I'm not going to point and wag my finger like I'm holier than thou.  I've driven drunk.  Twice.  The first time scared the living shit out of me and I swore I'd never do it again.  The second time, I was high from marijuana, and that ended with someone stealing my car after I got home, ultimately f*cking with my memory and I've never done it since.  I got off lucky in both instances, but things could've been different.  Given all the distractions and outside interference, we, as a society, don't need to drink and drive.  That's just f*cking stupid.

I'm not writing this with any hidden message.  We're all adults.  We can take responsibility for our own actions.  I just got off Twitter after reading about this accident and it left me scratching my head and asking WHY?

Glimpse

Growing up for me, I'll be honest, wasn't the worst experience in the world, but it wasn't the greatest either.  My father was a raging alcoholic and it was difficult, even at our best, to live up to his expectations, and he was more than willing to share his disdain with you, sometimes emphasizing his words with a closed fist.  Granted, there were worse off families in the world and despite his frailties, I still had four walls around me, a roof over my head and three square meals a day.

That withstanding, as I kid, I still resented him at times.  Cherishing the days of lucidity, when it was a pure joy and honour to share time with my dad.  An emotion that I could, literally, feel wash away from my face when we'd stop at the liquor store before returning home.  The hours that followed would feel like a pressure cooker, us wondering how many drinks it would take, this time, before his proverbial axe-head would fly off the handle, sending us all into hiding.

Years later, medical issues would force my father to face his addiction and set aside the bottle.  After that, was pure bliss.  While we had our differences prior to that time, I accepted the situation for what it was.  I've always referred to it as Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome.  The sober father (Dr. Jeckyll) was always a wonderful person to be around.  He'd laugh and tell stories and I'd hang on every word he spoke.  The drunk father (Mr. Hyde) was pure horror.  It was like walking on glass.  You never knew if you were going to survive with only a couple of cracks or if you would just go crashing through the floor.  After being on the receiving end of a few violent beatings, I was always trepidacious in my encounters.  However, when he finally sobered up, there was no fear.  I could walk into any room, whether he was in a good mood or grumpy, and have no fear of repercussions.  Mr. Hyde was no more and Dr. Jeckyll was there to stay.

Sadly, my time with the sober father never lasted very long.  Less than a decade before cancer would strike and take my father away from us at just fifty-four years of age, and I've felt a huge void in my life ever since.  I wonder, sometimes, if my life would be as fucked up as it is, today, if he had lived on into his sixties and seventies.  Would I have strove to be a better person rather than settling for whoever I am today?  My mother and sister have always viewed me as being worthless and likely never to amount to much and as much as I disagree with those sentiments, I can't help but feel that I fell right into that mold.

It's been more than a decade since my father's passing and still I miss him.  I miss the fact that I could see something or wonder about something and go for a visit and just sit and chat.  We used to play card games and just laugh at one another's stories.  Even though I'd heard them thousands of times, I loved hearing his stories about his childhood.  One goal that I always had and regretfully failed to follow through with, was going back to his childhood home and just wander the roads and hillsides, laying eyes on all the historical sites where these childhood events took place.  Like the "Grouchy Bob" house or the bridge that nearly got burned down due to childhood negligence.  He's survived by his three older brothers, but I doubt that they'd share the same nostalgia for his stories.

The last day I spent with my dad was a holiday Monday, May 25th, 1999.  I remember it vividly, because I'd attended a WWF Pay-Per-View the night before in which Owen Hart had tragically died.  I mentioned the bad news to my dad that day and the news was met with genuine sorrow.  He wasn't a fan of professional wrestling, but was well aware of Owen's infamous father, Stu Hart of the legendary Stampede Wrestling.  I don't know if it was with that familiarity or the fact that he (my dad) was facing death everyday, that he extended his condolences to me and to the Hart family.  His words were sweet and I've often reflected on that day with great reverence.  My only regret was that a friend had called and invited me to his house that evening, and like a fucking heel, I left my father to go hang out with a friend, who ultimately ditched my ass, anyway.  Three days later, my dad was dead.

I look back at his final days and I wonder what I could have done differently.  Not much, I'm sure.  He was very sick, growing more and more weaker with every passing day.  He became so frail that he could no longer stand or walk, opting to sleep in his recliner for the last few weeks of his life.  My mom still has that chair in her house and it would take me more than ten years before I would sit in the chair.  Not out of some kind morbid idea, but it was something else.  It was like I could still see him sitting in the chair.  I've since sat in the chair, if for no other reason than to feel closer to my late father.

The movie "Field of Dreams" is probably my most favourite movie in the history of movies.  It's not because of the baseball overtones, but for the fact that an adult Ray Kinsella gets to spend a few more minutes with the father he hardly knew.  Just a few minutes of simply playing catch with his dad.  No need for words, just enjoying each other's company.  Just reflecting on that scene has me fighting back the tears and failing miserably.

My father could be a real bastard, sometimes.  The alcohol unleashing a true monster in every facet of the word, but my dad...  The real man who would fight off his demons and become the wonderful man he always could be, is the man that I miss everyday.  If we had just a few more minutes together, I wonder what we'd talk about.  The weather?  Would I have the balls to tell him what he truly meant to me in life?  I don't know.  I can't answer that question, but I'd settle for a simple game of catch. 

Litmus Test

I've heard it said: Don't ever meet your heroes, they're never what they seem.  This is likely true, for the most part, otherwise there'd never be such a warning.  I've met a few people that I've looked up to, and (so far) they've been quite humble and respectable.  I'd never consider bacon, on the other hand, to be heroic, nor an idol to look upon fondly, although I do love that smokey taste when it's being gnarled between my teeth.  That being said, when the commercials for the new "Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza" from Little Caesar's began their shock and awe barrage on public television, I knew it was only a matter of time until I would visit the pizza chain.

I used to consume a shit-ton of fast food.  I'm lazy and tend to procrastinate a lot, so the thought of driving up to an establishment, paying for a tasty treat that required very little more than wiping my mouth and fingers with a moist towelette, was very appealing.  Unfortunately, several pounds later and a sad case of Type II diabetes, it's a rare treat, these days.  Unreasonable prices are also a major factor, though the spare tire around my middle section, should be suffice enough.

One contributor to the nastiness is KFC.  Generally, I would visit Kentucky Fried Chicken once a year, consume the chicken accompanied by their amazing gravy, then reap the uncomfortable sickness that would follow.  Like the consumption of alcohol, I would use this single experience like a Litmus Test.  A reminder as to why I don't submit myself to this kind of pain and discomfort more often within the calendar year.

I wouldn't categorize myself as an alcoholic, but the effects of sadness and depression that follow any drinking excursion isn't something I particularly look forward to and therefore reserve inebriation to once or twice a year.  It's pretty much all I can take.  I'm not a believer that a person can go for one or two drinks.  I do believe, on the other hand, that intoxicating oneself to complete annihilation, should be the goal.  For the most part, I find alcoholic beverages to taste tremendously bad, so why put yourself through that dissatisfaction, if there's no goal of inebriation to achieve?

I digress.  I'm getting completely off topic, to which I apologize.

Earlier this month, some coupons came in the mail and the varying pictures of KFC chicken became appealing to me.  I was about due for my yearly trek through intestinal hell, so I ventured down to the neighbourhood KFC and got a small four piece and brought it home.  However, the gut aches and feeling of vomiting that normally piggybacks the experience never came, although the meal was every bit as greasy and disgusting, as usual.  A couple weeks later, those coupons crossed my view and again I found myself placing an order for a four piece chicken box.  Once more, no nausea.  "What the f**k?!" I thought to myself.  A couple weeks later, this past Friday, I again went down and picked up a ten-piece bucket, this time and no nausea.  No feeling of dread or yearning to vomit.  "Strange!" I thought.

Days earlier, I'd broken down and visited Little Caesar's and bought the Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza that has been mercilessly prostituted on television for the past couple of months.  The images of the pizza in the commercial look so delectable and mouth-watering.  I could hardly contain myself when the clerk handed over my pizza.  I raced home and was horrified by the reality of the situation.  It was like one of those before and after pictures of Rihanna after a date with Chris Brown.  The beauty I was expecting to see, was just a beat up tramp.  My Bacon-Wrapped pizza was little more than a punching bag placed into a box.

It's appearance was a train wreck.  It smelled marginally better than it looked, but it's taste was equally, if not worse, than it's appearance.  What followed was all the experiences and memories I've ever had that was normally reserved for KFC.  It was a horrific experience.  I wound up lying on my couch in a ball, sweating heavily and fighting off the urge to puke.  I do not recommend that pizza to people.  Not unless you're bulimic.  You won't need to stick a finger down your throat, as odds are, the pizza will do that for you.

It's a sad sad day when I, of all people, have to admit that Kentucky Fried Chicken is better than pizza, but in this case I think it's gospel.  Little Caesar's has turned my off of pizza and I doubt I'll be eating pizza again for quite some time.  Thankfully, when I do, it'll be from a more reputable establishment and not some shit-hole vying for legitimacy in the forum with a cheap gimmick.

My coupons expire today, so I shan't be returning to the neighbourhood KFC, which my waistband and my colon are grateful.

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter One: Dr. Jeckyll & Mr. Hyde

I was born into humble beginnings, growing up on a farm just west of the city.  I've written in the past that the farm was quite literally on the city limits of Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, although when I was a tyke, the city seemed farther away.  Today, the city is practically on our doorstep, though no one has lived on the premises for over a decade.  Recently, I drove a friend out to show them a piece of my history, and I was astonished and even a little bit horrified at the sight I saw.  A decade of neglect has allowed the trees and shrubbery to grow over the lane way that leads into the yard.  We sold the property, my sister and I, a little over eight years ago, and I had only assumed that the new owners would've had someone care for the land.  It was, admittedly, a little heart-wrenching.

Being a kid plagued with a lot of allergies, it broke my father's heart when I couldn't follow in his footsteps and become a farmer like him, and his father before him and his granddad before him.  Many generation of farmers will cease to exist, because of me.  I'm not sure if my cousins partake in the livelihood, but it comes to mind that they do not.

In addition to farming, my dad also worked as a heavy duty mechanic in a number of mines, including a gold mine up north, but he concluded his career at the Allan Potash Mine, in Allan, Saskatchewan.  My dad was diagnosed with two types of cancer when he'd gone into the hospital to complain of low-energy.  He was not the type who would seek medical attention unless he felt it was serious.  It was serious and it was caught way too late, and a few months later, at the age of just 54, my dad was dead.

Just writing those words makes me want to break out in tears.  My dad was a good man.  He was a great man.  .... He was the best man, ever.   When he was sober.  When he was drunk, it was a completely different story.  When he was drunk, you did not want to be anywhere near him.  You wouldn't want to be in the same city or plain of reality.  At the time, I thought of him as a monster.  In the years since, I've identified it as "Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome".   When he was sober, he was "Dr. Jeckyll".  A free-spirited man, with love and happiness in his heart, generous to a fault, but when he was drunk, ie. "Mr. Hyde", he was a real son-of-a-bitch.  He was a monster.., truly.  He was angry.  He was violent. And like I said, you did not want to be around him, at all.

As a young fellow, I was not immune to his anger.  Many times I found myself on the wrong end of a swinging fist or two.  A couple of times I was tossed up against the wall, his grip tightly wound around my neck and told that I wasn't worth the bullet it would take to blow me to hell.  I was a little insulted as the cost of a .22 shell in those days, were literally pennies on the dollar.  An aptly placed .22 shell can bounce around the cranium and tear up the brain quite efficiently, unless my mafia movies have lead me astray.  But the one incident that weighs the most heavily on me and continued to do so for a number of years, likely because I would identify the occasion on it's anniversary every year, was what occurred just three days prior to my seventeenth birthday on November 26th at 7:02pm.

My sister and I had been arguing before my dad had gotten home.  My mom had left, attending a union meeting in the city, so we were at home when my dad arrived.  He was already three sheets to the wind.  My sister was in her room and I was in mine.  I don't know what exactly the conversation was between my sister and my dad, but at 7:02pm, while seated on my bed, I heard a light knock on my door, followed by a soft spoken request to come in.  I said yes, and my dad slowly stepped into the room.  Suddenly, in a burst of energy, he lunged at me.  The room grew dark, his eyes glowing sharply, as he drew down on me, grabbing me with his left and pummeling me with his right.  He got two hits in, before I broke free, going for a baseball bat leaning in the corner, but he grabbed a hold of me, throwing me back on the bed and proceeding to hit me few more times before nearly breaking my arm.  Then suddenly, the frenzy ended as quickly as it had begun.  Calmly he picked me up off the bed and led me into the bathroom, where he proceeded to explain to me about respect, for him and my sister, all the while I was cleaning the blood from my face.

In the end, I had a bruised clavicle, three or four broken teeth, my earring was ripped (backwards) through my ear, and my nose was smashed.  I sat at the table for an hour or two, listening to how it hurt him more to have to teach me this lesson than it did me for receiving said lesson.  My mom eventually came home, and was instructed to take me to the hospital.  That's where a doctor twisted my nose back into place, making it appear more presentable, although I wish closer attention was given to it, as it never healed properly and eventually gave me a lot of headaches in the years that followed.

Today, the nose barely gives me any grief, although during really cold weather, it does hurt some.  Not to mention if I so much as bump it the wrong way or someone jokingly plays that "I got your nose" game that people play with small children, that motherf*cker will bleed uncontrollably.  Some have told me, since, that I should get it re-broke and set correctly, but ask anyone who's actually had that procedure done, and it's no picnic.  I'd rather live with the discomfort and the possibility that I might piss someone off and have them break my nose instead.  It'd make for a better story.

Now....  I've painted a very grim picture of my father.  Something that I've shared with very few people.  Hell, even my family, don't know the intimate details of the violence that commenced that night.  They don't read my blog.  They don't have Facebook or Twitter.  Unless a family member who does have either of these social media outlets, reads these words, I'm sure the images will die with me.

My dad was a good man.  He would eventually sober up, putting his days of drunkenness behind him.  I remember on his one year anniversary of sobriety.  We were driving when he informed me that, "today is my one year anniversary of being sober."  I congratulated him and asked how he felt.

"I don't feel any different now than when I was drinking." he muttered, to which I quickly replied, "Then I guess there's really no point in drinking anymore, then."   He paused for a moment, visibly thinking about the words I'd just spoken, then realized, "No.  I guess not."

When my dad was drinking, there were many many opportunities where he could have and probably should have died as a result of his being drunk.  He survived every single one, without so much as a scratch.  After a few (beautiful) years of sobriety, he learned he had cancer and died.

Those decades of drunkenness never affected me in the negative way that people would suspect.  I'm sure there are people (albeit probably only two, maybe three) who will read about my dad and believe otherwise, but truly believe me.  His drinking never affected me, mentally, in the long run.  It was his sobriety that would eventually teach me that I should try new things.  He did new things, learned new skills and traveled to places he likely never would have attempted all the years he hid in those bottle of booze.  That's what I take from my dad.

And in retrospect, different people deal with mental disorders and depression in different ways.  Who's to say that my dad didn't suffer from some form of depression which he suppressed through alcohol?  It's possible.  Like I stated, unless he was feeling really terrible, he never sought medical attention.  I doubt feeling sad would have sufficed in the seeking of aid.

Where The F_ck Did I Park?

I remember years ago, getting really high with some friends and hitting the bar.  Actually, to be specific, I remember going to my friend's house, I kind of remember being at the bar, and I sort of remember some of the trek home at 3am.  Yeah.  The events of that night are and were as smoky as the room where we'd sparked up.  I'm sure I had fun.  Maybe...  Maybe not.

I don't in any way condone or endorse driving under the influence of any sort, and I've not done anything of the sort since that time.  Believe me, the events that followed made it perfectly clear that this practice should definitely not be the norm.

In a haze, I recall driving home down one of the less traveled streets that ran parallel with the main drag through that part of the city.  I was completely paranoid of trouble, I drove extra cautious and slow.  Especially, considering I drove a Camaro at the time, which is sort of a cop-magnet.  I got home, parked in my spot, and plugged the car in (it was winter time), then went into the house and went immediately to sleep.

I lived at home at the time and my mother woke me up in the morning when she was about to leave for work.  "Where'd you park your car?" she asked.  Considering how fuzzy the night before was, I was baffled by the query.  I was certain that I'd parked in the back, next to her car, but upon investigation, I saw that the electrical cord that I'd used to plug in the block heater on the car, was neatly slung over the fence, the usual spot where I would hang it.  I ran to the front, thinking maybe the car was parked on the street.  It wasn't there.  I struggled to remember where I would've parked or if I'd even driven the car home.

Apparently, I had.  Apparently, some kids happened by, not long after I'd parked the car in the back and apparently, they had a hell of a good time rippin' around the quiet winter streets and side-swiping a f*cking pole.

I loved that car.  I had it fixed and it looked good, but it was never the same for me after that.  In addition to the education I received from not leaving my sports car unattended in the back yard of a house situated in a bad part of town, I learned that good people aren't allowed to have nice things and that you should never ever drive under the influence of alcohol or narcotics.d

Shitastrophe

Wednesday's have always been a questionable day for me.  Without trying, if I have a nasty day, prone with mishaps and bad luck.., not that people ever "try" to have a bad day.  However, whenever I've had a bad day, if you look to the calendar, you'd be best assured that it was Wednesday.

For instance, when I had that unfortunate incident with my [then] alcoholic father, where I had my nose broke among other scrapes, chips, and bruises...?  THAT was a Wednesday at 7pm.  Many of the job firings that I've experienced throughout my troubled past, always happened on a Wednesday.  The bad car accident when I was a kid, where I plowed my '74 Nova into a 1977 Ford Mustang II*, occurred on a Wednesday evening.  Even later on, when I had that real bad accident, where my car, seemingly, got sucked off the street and into a row of parked cars.  That happened during a nasty blizzard, which also fell on a Wednesday.

(*What the hell was Ford thinking when they designed the Mustang II??)

Most Wednesdays, though, are survivable.  A majority pass by without so much as a hiccup.  Therefore, you can't set your watch by my misfortune.  However, as stated above.  IF I am having a shit day, it's Wednesday.

One might presume that it'd be Monday that would be unlucky.  Coming back to work after a nice relaxing weekend, but this is not the case for me.  Whilst others are groggy and disheveled, I'm usually joyful and in fine fettle.  Being at work may not be my first choice of destinations, but I'm not harbouring and ill-will against it either.

Today, however, I suspected was going to be "one of those days", right from the get go.  It began when I woke up a 4:30am and was unable to fall back asleep until roughly five minutes before my alarm screeched loudly.  Not a real big issue, as this does happen on occasion and on any day of the week, although it's usually reserved for work days.  I'm sorta lucky that way, I suppose.  Next was when I went to leave for work.  I was finally leaving in a timely fashion, stoked that I might find a decent parking spot, for once, not too terribly far from the entrance at work.  However, when I pressed the button to raise my garage door, it wouldn't budge.  Instead, it just groaned at me, "Awwwwww?".

Almost five years I've lived in this house.  Almost five years where this situation has never presented itself.  It was unseasonably warm yesterday, hitting 4 or 5 degrees above zero (Celsius), so I knew there would be some melting, but I've never experienced my garage door freezing to the concrete driveway.  Never in a million years, would I have thought that would happen, but it did.  So I had to struggle with that for awhile, forcing me to be later than I wanted for work.  I managed to clock in with a measly five minutes to spare.

Next was one of the fella's being ill, and my having to fill his spot.  Not a big deal, as that seems to be my "unofficial position" nowadays.  Unfortunately, though, because I get moved around so frequently in this workplace, I tend not to retain much of the job requirements for each section and/or area, so I progress slower with the job and tend to upset many of those I'm trying to service.  I was not familiar with B___'s requirements, and to make matters worse, I had an "incident".

I drive a forklift.  A major setback, for me anyway, is obstacles in the way.  People will often illustrate what tasks they want done, but fail to move most of the debris and shit out of the way for me to performs these tasks in a timely fashion.  Today was no different.  I was instructed to bring some railings in from outside, but when I opened the big overhead door, there were two tuggers parked in the way.  (A tugger is a small electric-powered machine, designed to push or pull extremely heaving objects, much like a tug boat is a tiny vessel used to move giant ships into port.)  If these tuggers were parked in-line and off to one side, that would have been manageable.  Instead, they were parked side by side.  Not cool.  So rather than exercise good judgement and request that someone move the obstacle, I raised the railing up in an attempt to pass over the tugger.  Bad idea!

While I was careful to not clip the overhead door with the mast of my extended forks, I was not so lucky with the blower fan housing immediately after the door.  I clipped the corner of it, forcing it to swing hard into the overhead door, thus snapping both cables and leaving the door stuck, in an open position with a cold wind blowing in from the north.

I had to explain what happened to the area supervisor, then to my supervisor (multiple times), then to his supervisors (again, multiple times), and so on.  It seemed that as simple as the mishap was, very few were able to wrap their head around what had actually happened.  It was simple, I even left a small dent in the blower housing that could clearly be seen from the floor below.

I was expediently rushed to the Human Resources office where I was made to take several tests.  I had to blow into a breathalyzer, which came up 0.00% alcohol.  I doubt I'd have any alcohol left in my system from my birthday celebration back in 2011, which is the last time I got drunk.  Plus, who the f*ck gets drunk before work at 7am? (Although, this incident occurred a little more than two hours later, at 9:20am)  Next I had to swab my mouth -- top, bottom, left and right, as well as both sides of my tongue.  This was testing for drugs in my system.  Crystal meth, pot, cocaine, and a couple others I've never heard of.  I thought, "If I were on coke, that'd make me more alert, wouldn't it?"  I never had the balls to ask, plus I recognized this was a serious matter, and a jovial outlook would be frowned upon.  After two more swab attempts and about twenty minutes, I was cleared.  I hoped that they were going to send me home, but I guess they wanted to punish me, so they sent me back to work.  ((SH!T))

Just after lunch, I had some hard candy in my mouth, and like a retard, I crunched down and managed to crack one of my molars along with the lime-flavoured candy.  I guess that, right there, is the proverbial f*cking cherry on top of my shit sundae.  NOW, I find myself having to take tomorrow morning off, to get my tooth fixed.  Thankfully, it doesn't hurt.

Thankfully, I made it the rest of the afternoon, without any major incidents, although my day was riddled with small mishaps.  When the horn sounded marking the end of the day, I couldn't have breathed a bigger sigh of relief.  I drove straight home, parked in the garage, whose door opened without hesitation (phew), and with fingers crossed, my evening should be very relaxing.

Not long after I started at C.__.__., I had an unfortunate experience.  It was a chain reaction, much like today, but more extended.  I nudged a small box with the front tire of my lift.  That box moved into a cart, which bumped another cart, that swayed a large dry-erase message board, that was not secured to anything, which then swung downward, into the side of a computer station, and from there, gravity took over and the computer and (top heavy) monitor, came crashing down to the floor.  The whole matter took a couple minutes, as I had already driven off, oblivious to the domino effect that was tumbling about behind me.  That series of inconvenient events, my friends, happened on a motherf*cking Wednesday...!!!

Mr. Green Thumb

I'm a fan of the musical group Cypress Hill.  They have a song entitled "Dr. Green Thumb" which speaks of growing marijuana.  So why is there a picture of a purple thumb to the right?  An explanation will follow, trust me.

I was not familiar with the "why" 4:20 is affiliated with the consumption of marijuana.  According to Wikipedia, it has something to do with students in the early 1970's who would meet up at 4:20pm to blaze up.  Eventually, the term was used for smoking pot in general.  Kind of like my use of "a new hat", which never really took off.  Or my love of "toast", which did catch on with a small group of us, back in the day.

All day long, on the radio, there was a debate of whether or not legalization of marijuana would be a wise decision.  Most who oppose it, are likely the ones least likely to have ever tried it.  They're the same people who swear up and down that marijuana is a gateway drug to bigger, badder and worse off drugs.  Drugs like cocaine, heroine, and worse.  I, personally, don't see it.  I believe that people are presupposed into addiction.  That, and the weaker the mind, the more prone they are likely to fall victim to their addictions.  I truly believe, in all my heart, that if you choose to quit something, you can.  No amount of counselling is going to help you, if you yourself don't decide to allow it to work.  Simple mind over matter.

"Marijuana is a drug, and therefore shouldn't be legalized" is the usual banter.  However, caffeine is a drug.  Tobacco, for all intense purposes, is a drug.  So is aspirin, ibuprofen, and whatever they put into cough syrup.  I've heard of a lot of kids who get hopped up on f*ckin' cough syrup.  I don't know why.  It tastes like shit, but there you have it.  Stupid kids, doing stupid shit!

I think marijuana should be legalized.  For one, it'd be a f*ck of a lot easier for me to buy it then.  Secondly, it could be regulated, in that it wouldn't be spiked with other drugs... (I'll share a story about that in a moment.)  And the government could tax the shit out of it, make some money in the process.

I would like to use it in a medicinal capacity, as a way to combat my migraine headaches.  There are some nights when the pain is so intense, I'd just like a way to relax and go to sleep.  I have heavy duty meds for the headaches, but it is a highly addictive narcotic, so my allowance of use is very limited.

I'm no stranger to smoking up.  I've never really been a "Cheech" (or a "Chong") about it, but when the opportunity has arisen, I've partook.  And nothing bad has ever happened.  I think the worst that has happened was I obliviously dumped mustard down the front of my shirt.  I [vaguely] recall, staring off into space and chewing on a hamburger.  The next thing I knew, I looked down to find my work shirt was ruined by a long-ass streak of bright yellow mustard.

There was a anti-drug video a few years back that depicted two friends sharing a joint on their couch then getting the idea of driving out of town, to tip cows.  One guy climbed over a barbed-wire fence, followed by the other, giggling the whole time.  The end result of this ill-planned adventure was one of the teens being mowed down by a raging bull who was also in the pasture that night.  The reality of this scenario is, if you smoke a joint, chances are, you're not going to have the energy to get off the couch to go tip cows.  Or do anything, for that matter.

I remember another night, I was with friends.  We'd passed around a joint or two and was having a great time.  I decided to get up and go to the kitchen to fetch myself a drink.  Apparently, I'd been gone for about an hour when someone came to the kitchen to see what had happened to me.  They found me in front of the kitchen sink, with a can of grape drink mix in one hand, and a purple thumb.  I'd been standing there for an hour licking my thumb and dipping it into the juice mix.  Today, and even this very moment, this fact still brings me to tears of laughter.

Alcohol is a drug.  You get pissed up and chances are you're either going to get into a fist fight, or do something worse.  Drive drunk and wrap your car around a pole.  This is why alcohol is regulated.  If you get high on marijuana, chances are the worst thing that's going to happen to you is, you're going to gain a couple pounds.

Regulation is the key to successfully legalizing anything.  I mentioned earlier that regulation would prevent other drugs being introduced into the marijuana.  I had a bad experience with a batch that someone had spiked with I don't know what the f*ck.  But I remember the experience vividly, like I was watching the whole thing go down from outside my body.  This was also the last time I'd ever consumed marijuana.

I was with some friends at another friend's house.  Some people I wasn't familiar with came into the party as well, and with them, they had some "party favours".  Being they were friends of my friends, I thought nothing of it when a joint was passed to me.  I had only a couple of hits off it when my whole world began to spiral out of control.  I suddenly had turned from my usual healthy fleshy shade of caucasian to a deep red.  I though I was on fire, literally, I was burning up and sweat poured off my head like someone was pouring a bucket of water over me.  I was burning up so bad, and despite an open door just a few mere feet in front of me, leading into the cool night, my legs wouldn't move.  I was so helpless, and if it weren't for the fact that my friend "Bubbles", and host of the party, jumping into rescue-mode, I'm sure I would've died that night.

I've not touched marijuana since that night.  It's been, I-don't-know-how-many years, since I've smoked pot.  If it became legal, I'd definitely dabble a little in it.  I won't lie, but until that day comes, I'll remain sober, just to be on the safe side.

So for those who do smoke.  Happy 4-20, folks!  And have a nice day!!!

The Bigger Picture

Yesterday, I wrote a little entry about nudity. Admittedly, it wasn't very good. "They all can't be gold." I professed. Admitted to quietly acknowledging previous nude discoveries of famous people. Even admitted that male nudity, while making me extremely uncomfortable, was still alright in my books, provided the nudist in question actually had the body-type to expose to the world. All these facts were recorded, just as they have been here once more, and yet, the majority of the feedback wasn't focused primarily on the weak-ass writing, but blasting me for posting the photography of Lindsay Lohan, and I'll paraphrase for everyone's convenience. "Get rid of that spoiled wh*re."

"Spoiled wh*re"? What the hell? That's getting a little personal, don't you think? Now, admittedly, I have followed some of the drivel that major news networks have plastered over the airwaves, concerning Lindsay Lohan. Even that battle-axe, Nancy Grace, on CNN's sister network, HLN, had more than her fair share on attacking Lindsay Lohan and her recent graces with law enforcement and her time in and out of prison. I've watched some of it, but questioned most of it, citing with all discombobulation about it being considered as "newsworthy". If Joe Blow had a run-in with the cops and was sentenced to jail, (and I'm more than certain that that has happened a time or two), I doubt he'd be getting any newscoverage on any of the major news networks. But the remarks that I've read over the course of last evening and the first part of this day, I actually feel bad for Lindsay.

I confess that I actually do feel bad for the actress and all the avenues that she has traversed in recent years. I recognize some of the symptoms, as I've battled many of those demons myself. The only real difference between the two of us, is where we were at the time and the choices that we made on how to deal with it.

Lindsay Lohan has had a fairly successful career in the entertainment industry, from a very young age. I've not seen most of her work, but the couple of things I have seen, she has shone prominantly. She was extraordinary in 2004's "Mean Girls". I even caught "Herbie Fully Loaded" a few months back, and as corny as the film was (and all the Herbie movies were corny), Lindsay really captivated the audience in that as well. However, with her early success, came early stressors.

Her father, for most intense purposes, is a "real piece of work". And by that, I mean, the guy is a real shit-bag. At every turn, I'm sure that f*cker was riding his daughters coat-tails, pushing and prodding her to do this and to do that, steadily stacking more and more pressure on the young girl. I'm sure for every cheer he gave his talented daughter, there was probably two or three jeers against her. Every child seeks approval from their parent, and everytime that she fell short in his eyes, probably added to her self-loathing.

I commented that I recognized the symptoms. That I was a lot like Lindsay, and I do not dispute this fact. While I wasn't a young performing phenom like Lindsay, I managed to receive other pressures from my father. Growing up, it seemed like nothing I ever did, was good enough. That for everything I felt pride in, was never good enough in the eyes of my father. Where Lindsay obviously received mental anguish at the hands of her dad, mine did the very same thing, even over-stepping those boundaries and laying fists on me. Every kid seeks the approval of their parents, but when you get physically beatdown, something enters your mind, and no matter how you twist and contort the reality of the situation, you can't ever make any sense of it all. Logic seems to elude you at every turn.

It's all in how you choose to deal with this blinding sorrow. I never thought to move to drinking or abusing drugs. Thankfully, I knew that such practices would only mask the problems. They would never solve them. So I sought out movies and television. Temporarily escaping to other realities saved my life. In Lindsay's case, I suspect that because her background was in acting, and that it seemed to be a part of the problem, rather than the solution, she sought out quite different avenues in order to numb the pain and sorrow she was experiencing. She takes that, coupled with some bad influences around her, and soon the girl is getting drunk, doin' god knows what f*cking drugs, and ultimately begins to poison herself. Then just as cockroaches scurry away when the lights come on, so do her "friends" at the first sign of trouble.

In all the news footage I'd seen of poor Lindsay Lohan facing her accusers, not once did I ever see any of her friends standing up with her, shaking their fists, demanding that Lindsay was not the one to be blamed here. The same arguement could be made of the media feeding the fire of bad publicity on Lindsay. Instead of inquiring as to why Lohan feels she needs to go to these unhealthy extremes, they'd rather pour more gasoline on the fire and add an air of controversy.

Lindsay Lohan is only 24 years old. It can be argued that she should know better, but I doubt that she's had much of a childhood as it is. There's something about the entertainment business and it's effects on children. They force them to grow up before they are ready. Sure, Lindsay's 24 years old, chronologically, but inside that 24 year old body, beats the heart of a little girl seeking her father's approval, and not receiving it.

Thousands and thousands of people battle their demons everyday, in a variety of ways. Most of them don't receive media coverage, but I bet there's a good portion of them who have people who care about them. For the most part, I doubt Lindsay has that. So as far as calling her a "spoiled wh*re", that's just cruel. Kicking someone when they're down, instead of offering a hand up.

I feel bad for Lindsay. I wish I were more of an important person in the world, so that I could offer that helping hand, but I'm not. But anyone who gives two shits about the girl, should offer a kind word. Illustrate to her that there's more to life than her old man.

As for my demons with my dad. I came to terms with all that shit long ago. My dad was an alcoholic. An alcoholic with mean anger issues. Fly off the handle at the drop of a hat. "Jeckyll & Hyde", I called it. When he was sober (Dr. Jeckyll), he was awesome. He was generous, understanding, funny, and a pure joy to be around. When he got the liquor in him, he was the exact opposite (Mr. Hyde), and he'd turn into the scariest monster anyone could ever imagine. Thankfully, later on in his life, he gave up the bottle. Sobered up and once more, was a great joy to be around. Sadly, I lost my father to cancer in 1999, and not a day goes by that I don't think about what a great guy he was. I hope for Lindsay's sake, she can get past all of her demons too, and be the sweet loving young woman that millions of fans once fell in love with, again.

Have a nice day, people. And in regards to Lindsay Lohan (or anybody having an off day) remember to just f*cking relax, because chances are, there's something to the bigger picture, you just have to peer through the trees.