Peckerhead

A visit to my doctor the other day, revealed something about myself that I was not aware of prior.  I was seeing my physician regarding another matter, when she, my doctor, revealed that I had Psoriasis.

For weeks, my skin was dry and itchy and even going so far as cracking and bleeding, as well.  To look at me, I resemble a man prone to bar fights, the way my knuckles, hands and upper arms are riddled with sore patchy skin.  I'd thought it was just dry conditions in my house, as I have rarely been venturing out this past winter season.  That  coupled with the fact that I've stopped chewing my nails, thus allowing them to grow out and actually do damage when I scratch an itch.  I should trim them, but it's been decades since I've actually had fingernails that extended past my finger tips. 

I also believed it was a necessary sign of aging.  I'm not that that old, yet, but I recall seeing my Great Aunt, Chrissie, when she was getting up in years.  Her hands and lower arms resembled what mine currently look like.  Her skin was thin and frail and the slightest wind would cause her skin to crack open and bleed.  At least, that's what I initially believed, but in retrospect, there may have been a more obvious cause for those abrasions and wounds.

Growing up, I lived on a farm, just outside the city limits.  We could see the sprawling houses in the distance, advancing closer and closer, like trudging foot soldiers.  The land belonged to my Great Aunt, Chrissie.  When I was quite young, she had cattle, which were a source of milk for many years.  She also had chickens, which were also a source of sustenance.  My dad, also farmed the land for seed.  Grain, flax and canola was his preferred crops. Eventually, the cattle were sold off and only the chickens remained.

Like clock work, every morning and every evening, Chrissie would walk down to the coop and gather up the eggs, returning them to the house.  It was during these spells that I'm sure the chickens would lash out at the large hand groping them and stealing away their unborn offspring.  As dumb as chicken appear to be, surely there's some sort of motherly instinct that exists.  These pecks at Chrissie's hands and wrists, now that I think about it, is a more obvious cause for those wounds, than mere Psoriasis.

Startled poultry, lashing out and pecking at prying hands stealing their young, it was a natural reaction, but pales considerably for the surprise that would eventually befront them in the not-too-distant future.  If they thought cold hands were a nuisance, then they were in for quite the surprise.

I was quite young at the time.  I do recall that much.  Heading down to the chicken coop with my mom and sister in tow, meeting Chrissie who was armed with a flashlight.  We would stand at the doorway, accompanied by very little.  Only the darkness and the muffled squawks of panic that were coming from inside the old chicken coop.  We'd hear some rustling as Chrissie would return to the open door and hand over a couple chickens, which we'd carry, two-by-two, over to the far side of the cattle barn, the side where the horse, Jim, used to reside.  Jim was a work horse who did very little else than tow cow manure out to be spread over the field for fertilizer.  At least, I think that's all he did...  That and fart.  I do remember my dad saying that he'd be reigning the horse, when in mid-stride, Jim would raise his tail and unleash a nasty smelly fart.  That's for another day and another blog, maybe.

Two-by-two, the chickens would be delivered into small pens in the old horse barn, where they'd stay until the next morning when their fate would be sealed.  Like those who opposed King Henry VIII, these poor chickens who'd sacrificed their eggs for our consumption (not mine, I was deathly allergic to eggs in my youth), were now paying the ultimate price.

I was not allowed in the barn at this time, with good reason.  Even the idea of all those chickens being beheaded and having their feet amputated so violently, bothers me now.  The little heads and feet were discarded out the door, where my sister and I would retrieve them and feed them to the dogs.  (*Editor's Note: I took a long pause here, pondering those actions.  It's disturbing.)  A few pecks and punctures were a small price to pay, I suppose, considering the huge sacrifice those chickens would ultimately pay.

These days, I don't want to know how the food gets to my table.  I like pigs.  Wouldn't want to hurt them in any way, but I also love bacon.  The method that gets that bacon from the farm to my table, doesn't concern me.  Nor what chickens have to endure, as well as lamb, beef, whatever the case.  Blissful ignorance is on my side.  As long as I honour the animal that gave it's life to feed me, I believe that's good enough.  The thought of becoming a vegan, based solely on fear of hurting animals, is weak and stupid, but that's a blog for another time.  Bon Appétit!

"The method that gets the meat to my table,
doesn't concern me.  Fried chicken is good!"

Algebraic Equation

 

Are you like me?  Struggling throughout the annuls of time, trying to find the exact ratio of cereal to milk.  That's me on an almost daily basis.  Not once, since I was knee-high to a gnat, have I been able to find the exact quantity necessary to marry up with the precise volume of milk in order to not consume more than the desired amount of breakfast substance.

I start each day by filling a desirable amount of cereal, whether it be Shreddies, Corn Flakes or even a chocolatey treat like Nestle's Quik or Chocolate Lucky Charms (because of the marshmallows), I can never pour a perfect amount of milk.  Either I'm left with an obnoxious amount of milk after the cereal has been consumed, of which I'm not going to drink out of the bowl.  I'm not a damned animal, after all.  Besides, the milk doesn't taste well enough on it's own to be drunk in such a barbaric manner.  So I'm left with the only option.  Add more cereal.

The extra bowl is welcomed, sometimes, so it's no big whoop, but then the milk runs out, leaving half a bowl of cereal flying solo.  That's not good either, so out comes the jug and more milk is added.  This is where it becomes tricky.  I tend to add too much milk, the second time 'round.  It's not voluminous, but it's enough to throw off the ratio, leaving me once more, with an ample amount of milk in the bowl and no cereal, so the bitter circle begins all over again.

I've found myself, time permitting, in the past finishing off an entire box of cereal before the exact equation of how much to put with how much is ever ciphered to completion.  This happens more with the sugary cereals.  They're not just a source of vitamins and minerals, but they're also a tasty snack.  The nice thing about the latter cereals is that usually, the milk turns chocolate brown and it is somewhat tasty, although, I still refuse to drink from the bowl.  On account that I'm not an animal.

I don't recognize this mission as OCD-related, although I have experienced a similar problem when consuming ice cream.  I live alone so I tend to not use a lot of crockery.  In that, I mean, I drink from the bottle or from the milk jug (chocolate), rather than dirty a glass or cup.  With ice cream, it's the same.  I tend to eat it right out of the container.  (If I'm going to have company, I get a new tub of ice cream.  Like I said before, I'm not an animal.)

With the ice cream, I tend to try to finish with the ice cream being perfectly level, before I can return the lid to the container and place it back in the freezer.  Only problem is, I'm so picky that the ice cream MUST be completely flat with 90deg angles up against the wall of the receptacle.  Anything less than perfect, gets carved out and placed onto my tongue.  I thought I was the only one facing this dilemma, until one night I was watching late night TV and saw comedian Gary Gulman discuss the fact he does the same thing, often resulting in an empty bucket, just like me.  I laughed so hard at the premise because it wasn't just a funny anecdote, but a detailed historic recollection.  Almost like Gary, himself, were peeking in my window, taking careful note of my process.

After the show, I took to Twitter, complimenting Gulman on his very funny stand-up appearance, adding that I did the same with my ice cream.  It was a nice exchange.

I tend to have that problem with a number of factors in my life.  I use too much ketchup when placed on the side of my dish for French fries or bacon.  Too much gravy on my meat and potatoes, but really.  Is there such thing as too much gravy?  I think not, so I might be onto something there.  Hmm.

The question in every high school mathematics class is "When am I ever going to use this in real life?"  I've only come across, in real time, occasions when an algebraic equation might come in handy.  Most recently was just twenty minutes ago, as I was fighting to pour the proper amount of milk into my cereal.  Needless to say, but I will anyway.  I failed miserably.

Them's The Breaks!!

 

I got f**ked by National Pizza Day.  Inadvertently f**ked, that is.  I'm sure the pizza place where I had acquired the pizza from, did not dispatch said pies with the intention of causing bodily damage.  This is not a plausible business plan.

Wednesday, February 9th, 2022, was National Pizza Day.  Or so I learned from the trusty interwebs.  If it is written there, then it must be true, am I right?  I hadn't had pizza for quite some time, so I thought it was in the budget that I could treat myself to some pizza.  I rang up my usual haunt and ordered three pizza's. (Given the outrageous prices for pizza these days, this establishment seems the best bang for my buck at $33 for three pizzas.)  I ordered a Meatball, a number 18 (beef, bacon, & sausage) which is my go to, always.  It's like a meat lovers, but without the ham.  I'm allergic to ham.  Then I rounded out the triad with a Chicken Teriyaki pizza, which is the only acceptable pizza to have pineapple on.

I quickly dispatched the Meatball, followed by the Number 18, into my belly.  I had been dreaming almost the entire day about having pizza for supper, so I avoided unnecessary snacks or mid-day lunch, just to make room for pizza that night.

I realize that by admitting that I devoured two pizzas all by my lonesome seems excessive, but they were small 10" pizzas, most of which are taken up by crust.  I'm not making excuses for my gluttony, as I don't need explain myself to anyone, except maybe my doctor, and I know she does not read my stuff.

The third pizza, the Chicken Teriyaki, I left for another day.  I placed it in the refrigerator until I could give it my full attention later, which turned out to be yesterday.  Friday.

I placed the pizza onto a plate, blasted it a couple times in the microwave to heat it up to optimum temperature.  Cold pizza is f**king disgusting, especially if it's been refrigerated.  I sat down in front of the TV and watched some Bitchin' Rides, while I enjoyed my pizza, now topped with more Teriyaki sauce.  (I buy the Golden Dragon stuff.  It really is the best.)  The meaty part tasted great, as I placed the crusts idly by until I could address them afterward.

The way I like to eat pizza, generally, is eat the center part first, then the crusts after, like a snack.  This is what I did with the first two pizzas from Wednesday night.  No issues, but I hadn't accounted for the crusts to get extra tough in the days since it was made.  Now the crusts were hard.  Really f**king hard.  Harder than I initially thought, actually.

Usually, the crusts firm up a little as they cool off, but they remain somewhat leathery, if that makes sense.  Thick, but manageable to bite portions off, but this was blatantly not the case with the crusts from the Chicken Teriyaki.  I guess the added 48 hours in the fridge caused it to thicken up like f**king concrete.  I wrestled my way through a couple of them, when all of a sudden, I heard a crunch.  Not the kind of crunch that sounds like a pizza crust being crushed between my molars, but a more distinguishable "oh f**k" kind of crunch.  I quickly vacated my mouth-hole to discover that I'd broken one of my lower teeth.  This little f**ker that I had my dentist work on last August, was now sitting in the palm of my hand.

I've always had weak teeth.  Ever since I was knee high to a squirrel, I've had bad teeth.  The dentists would give me shit, passing on the news to my parents.  I remember many a "discussion" with an extremely inebriated father, who would pull my chair in close to his and he'd scream at me to brush my teeth, to avoid having a nasty set like he had.  However, despite all my efforts to follow the guidelines set upon me by the National Dentistry whatever, my teeth have always had cavities, chips, breaks or worse.  Hell!!  When I broke my back, I also managed to break five and a half teeth in the process.  That extra half was because one was already broken, ha ha.

What sucks is, I had insurance at the time, when I broke those teeth along with three vertebrae.  I don't have insurance, now, though.  Every dentist visit is paid for straight outta pocket.  Canada rocks, as far as health care, goes, but dentistry sucks balls.

So far, I'm not feeling any pain.  Chances are, the one that broke on me, had previously had a root canal, I suspect.  Memory losses over the years, hinders me from actually recalling what has been done to what.

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl.  I had planned on making some ribs for the occasion, but to say the least, I'm a little gun shy.  I doubt anything else will be tumbling out of my mouth, but ya never know.  I'm sure if something does, I'll be writing about that too.

It's No Secret

 

It's not a secret that I hide from anyone.  It's just a matter of fact.  A part of the lifestyle I choose to live, these days.  Years ago, before it was formally legalized, I would partake in the consumption of marijuana on a extremely part time basis.  If a friend had some, we'd share a joint.  Later on, I found a supplier and decided to do my own experimentation.

I suffer from seasonal depression.  It's something I've battled for more years than I can count.  Not something that my family or closest peers were ever aware of.  I'm not an idiot, doing my due diligence before moving forward and learning that cannabis can reduce or even eliminate depression.  So that first winter, I smoked whenever I was feeling down and it perked me right up.  Sadly, the more I learned about cannabis, the more I realized that my "supplier" knew nothing.  When I made my last purchase from him, I asked if it was a Sativa or an Indica strain and he blankly looked at me and told me he didn't know what either of those words meant. 

Sativa is the strain that perks you up and Indica is the strain that mellows you the f**k out.  Easiest way to remember is what I learned from the comedian, Doug Benson, who quoted "Indica is like 'in-da-couch'."

In the end, I'm not sure what it was that I received from the "supplier", but rest assured, the depression was suppressed.  So imagine my joy when marijuana was legalized in Canada.  The ease of walking into a legitimate business and conducting myself in an open manner.  Plus, now dealing with people who not only know the good and bad effects of the merchandise they're selling.  Nowadays, I'm able to customize the effects that I hope to achieve upon consumption.  Back in the old days, it was like spinning the tumbler on a six-shooter in a game of Russian Roulette.  Spark up and hope for the best.  One night, as I recall, I was quite gleeful, as I cooked up about 2lbs of bacon and consumed it all.  Another time, I got horribly sick, almost like I'd had an allergic reaction.  I couldn't function for about a week. 

These days, I choose to go the route of vaping the cannabis.  It's easier and more compact.  I don't have to empty the chamber and clean my unit every time I wish to smoke dried product as I do with my one device, but simply screw the vape cartridge into the battery I purchased and I'm off to the races.

Gone are the munchies, although I do keep a supply of snacks on hand that require little, if any, effort to prepare, so there's no danger of burning down my house.  No more anxiety or depression.  All that is left is relaxation, happy times and a flurry of ideas and expressions.  The stuff that makes me laugh like an idiot, I often will share to Facebook and Twitter.  Share my idiocy with the world, hoping that no one will steal any of it.

Sadly, there is also a downside...  It's nothing dangerous, mind you, but simply inconvenient.  Prime example is last night.  I was inspired to write a genius blog.  I had the introduction written in my head.  I had many musings and references to make and even a title, which is usually the most difficult factor to come up with, aside from subject matter.  I'd consumed just enough cannabis to know, however, that I was unable to write anything last night, for fear it'd come out like gibberish.  Even now, I question how legitimate this blog sounds, and I'm 100% clean and sober and the moment.

I'm not afraid to admit to smoking dope.  It's not illegal.  Hell, cannabis, despite all the idiot warning labels that the government imposes onto packaging, marijuana is not dangerous to your health.  Cannabis is a necessary tool that I use to escape my demons and depression.  That is all.  Well....  It IS fun, too.  I won't lie about that.

YPKY-MF!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.