Guitar Zero

I was tidying up the other day, clearing up some small trinkets and such off of my dresser.  There's a big mirror and my cat, when able, likes to hop up there and stare at himself in the mirror.  He's a vain little guy, but if I looked remotely as good as him, I might find myself staring into the mirror, too.

Among the trinkets and doo-dads, I found a guitar pick.  A solo, dark red pick that I immediately placed between my forefinger and thumb and made out like I was playing a guitar.  I don't know why, as I've not played a guitar since I was a very young boy and it can be debated whether or not the sounds that were emitted from that guitar, when I was a child, would be construed as being musical or reminiscent of a car accident.  It was probably better than I recall, but not nearly as good as my fellow students.

For decades, I've reflected on that time with a great deal of regret.  Not because I never followed through on my quest to become a guitarist, but because our family didn't have a lot of money.

We weren't poor, or at least I never felt like we were poor, but knowing what I do now, opposed to then, the money that was, for lack of a better term, wasted on my silly dream, was a lot of money.  Money that might have been spent better, elsewhere.  For that, I will always feel regret, but as best as I can recall, my mother was smiling when she was following me around the showroom of the shop where I had been taking my lessons.  (*Thinking about that, is genuinely bringing tears to my eyes.  Remind me, someone, to apologize to my mom.)  We never struggled, but maybe that was the image that my parents wanted to show in front of the kids.  Parents are good that way, aren't they?

After a year of taking lessons, I lost interest and the guitar, amp and stand that my parents had purchased for me, got shoved away, into the back of a closet, where it sat for many many years, untouched.  (A few years ago, while on one of my many unemployment stretches, I had a friend check out the guitar and amp and help me sell it.  We didn't get very much, but those feelings of regret, did come rushing back and I was overwhelmed with grief.)

Why did I quit?  For years, I believed it was because "my fingers hurt" or "I wasn't good right away", the latter being an excuse I heard from a favourite rock singer, which I always took some jaded source of pride for.  That's just dumb!!  However, that morning that I found the red guitar pick on my dresser and placed it betwixt my fingers, I realized why it was that I had quit playing guitar and, of course, many waves of emotions swept over me, once more.  Regret and shame and many other emotions, because that reason was so miniscule and stupid.  My parents wasted all that money on me for something this stupid!!

The reason wasn't because I wasn't good enough, right away.  It wasn't because my fingers hurt from pressing down the guitar strings.  The reason I had quit guitar lessons as a kid was because I didn't like holding the guitar pick.  Even all these years later, holding the pick in my hand and faking strumming motions on my upper thigh, I hated it.  After a few seconds, my hand began to cramp like it had when I was a child.  This...  This was the reason for my quitting guitar.

Now, in the days since this discovery, I've thought about what if I would have stuck with it.  I know that my fingers would have toughened up.  That the strength in my fingers would increase to where I didn't have so much difficulty pressing the strings into the neck of the guitar.  Even, perhaps, I would have earned an ear for music and even wrote some original music.  Even now, I find music playing in my head that I don't recognize from any of the influences around me.  I believe an artist staked the claim, once upon a time, that everyone had original music in their minds and hearts, it was just a question of being able to convey it onto paper and into the airwaves.  Of course, I'm paraphrasing, I don't recall the actual quote, but it's along those lines.

Now I'm thinking, 20/20 hindsight in play, of course, that if I had stuck it out, that I could have traded up to another instrument.  (I always liked the drums.  My dad loved the drums, but given our financial hardships when I was a kid, drums were definitely off the list.)  However, playing a bass guitar has it's advantages, namely, not having to use a pick.  I know that some people use a pick, but not needing to use it is a huge advantage, I think.

In the weeks that have followed, I've found myself really watching and listening to the bass riffs in songs and videos.  I watch Hagar on the Late Late Show with James Corden or Metallica's Robert Trujillo as he hammers on his bass during concerts.  Would I have been as good as either of these artists?  Would I have been any good at all?  Unfortunately, time has eroded away the answers to those questions.

Today, I...  I wouldn't call myself successful, per se, but I don't think I am as poor now, as my family was then, but I certainly can't afford to buy a bass guitar, take lessons and see if I'm good enough to entertain myself.  Nah.  I'll leave that up to the young uns.  For now, I'll continue to appreciate what might have been and entertain myself via other ducts.  Like writing this blog.  Contributing to the long list of topics on my Brain Matter page.  I'm finding myself inspired more and more, daily.  It's just organizing my thoughts in a way that can be accurately conveyed onto the page.

Robert Trujillo of Metallica

 

Race Relations is a Two-Way Street

"Indian Giver" is a racist term.  It means to give something freely, but then take it back later.

I'm not going to gain any popularity by voicing an opinion on this subject, I'm sure.  I may even garner some hateful threats, reminiscent of the scandalous blog about Chewbacca having homosexual feelings for Han Solo.  People tend to only read what they wanna read.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a hundred percent certain on the historical records regarding the love/hate relationship between Canada and it's indigenous population, but as a citizen, I do harbour some feelings and attitudes towards the rhetoric that I see in the media.  Most times, I keep my thoughts to myself, because if taken out of context, which most often opinions are taken out of context, my beliefs may come off as insensitive or even racist towards First Nations people.

I'm just one (of many) who are growing increasingly tired of past transgressions of our ancestors being thrust onto our modern day doorsteps.  The arrogance of the white man as he stepped off wooden ships onto an untamed world, lush with forest, grasslands and primitive peoples, could have been and should have been handled with more grace and understanding.  The long game should have played a factor into the relationships between European settlers and the indigenous people.  I'll grant you that fact.  The relationship, however, was a two-way street.  For as many infractions made by whites, I'm sure there were some reneging on the part of the First Nation peoples.

My father owned a slick black 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible when he first moved to Saskatoon.  It was a car originally from Arizona and he loved that car.  As a young man with a new family, he had to sell the car to purchase a newer, more reliable car, as many young men of responsibility need to do and he sold his precious ride for a mere $400.  It was something that he long regretted and often looked back with seller's remorse.  He never once voiced an opinion that the buyer duped him out of his car.  That he was ripped off, nor did he ever once consider returning to the buyer to take back his car.  He never blamed others for his regrettable choices.

Grant you, when he sold the car, $400 was a reasonable amount, just as giving up some land to white settlers for some blankets and booze or whatever the exchange was, was fair trade two or three hundred years ago.  Looking back today, four hundred dollars for a future classic automobile, seems like chump change, as does the exchange of currency for land seems undervalued.

The river runs far deeper than that.  There's the subject of Cultural Genocide.  The apparent obliteration of native culture, language and beliefs by French colonists.  There's materials describing the heinous acts of First Nation children being forcefully removed from homes, forced to live in Residential School System.  At the time, it was viewed as a valuable process of assimilating the young Indian children into the West European/Canadian culture and way of life.  The method was labelled "killing the indian in the child".  The children were not allowed (and often punished) for speaking their native language or practicing their own religion or culture.  The primary goal was to convert the indigenous children into Christianity and to "civilize" them.

That was wrong.  I had nothing to do with it.  I'm not Christian nor am I French-Canadian, but that aside.  The whole ordeal was wrong.  I apologize for the insensitive nature of our history.  That's the thing, though.  It's history.  Just as the United States can't go back and erase the blunders of slavery.  Or Germany can't rewrite it's own contributions to the Jewish Holocaust.  We, as Canadians, can't go back and rewrite our own fucked up history.

For decades Canadian Prime Ministers and the Federal Government have been incessantly apologizing for the shortcomings of our ancestors.  Apologies have been made, financial restitution has been made multiple times.  Programs put in place to make the lives of indigenous people easier and to assist in moving forward.  First Nation art and culture has been embraced and thrust into our immediate society.  Hell, I can't drive anywhere in this city and not see any of the aboriginal art on display in one aspect or another.  I even have one of those little stone men things in my living room (although I fail to see how this is considered art...  Just sayin'.)

Art?  Seriously?

At some point, enough has to be enough.  To improve the relationship between aboriginal peoples and the rest of Canada, efforts need to be made on both sides.  If situations are bad in small Inuit communities, then funnel some of that casino money into improving the situations.  Use the programs put in place by the Canadian government to better yourselves.  For crying out loud, "Status Indians" get FREE post-secondary education, a financial tab that can run up to several tens of thousands of dollars, sometimes hundreds of thousands for us non-indian citizens.  I mean, what the fu---?!?

I've been unemployed for most of the last two years, because I fail to meet certain visible ethnic attributes.  I haven't let that get me down (entirely), but instead took the initiative to acquire other training to make myself look better on paper.  That was all completely out-of-pocket.  No subsidies to help me educate myself.  I'm not complaining.  It is what it is.  The tools are in place to better their lives.  There's really no excuse.

According to a National Household Survey conducted in 2011, people who had Aboriginal identity made up just 4.3% of the national population.  Of those incarcerated in our prisons, approximately 71% of them are Aboriginal.  There seems to be an outcry of injustice, but when you watch the news or pick up a paper, it's primarily indigenous people committing the crime.  Most of which, I believe, is native-on-native crimes.  Doesn't excuse the fact, but it's still a fact.

I don't hope to correct any injustices to First Nations in this article, nor do I believe it'll change anyone's outlook on the situation.  I damn sure doubt any First Nation people will read this blog and jump up in declaration, "Damn it!  He's right!  We HAVE been unreasonable!!"  Mostly, I needed to vent.  If we're being honest, I doubt anyone will read this blog at all.

Race relations in this country is a two way street.  When I was a kid, my parents split-up.  My mom took me and my sister away from the farm and moved into the city.  The apartment building that we wound up in, was primarily native people and within one week of getting settled, I answered a knock at the door and was greeted with a fist in my face.  The Indian male forced me back into the small apartment and proceeded to beat the ever-lovin' shit out of me.  I can remember vividly, being curled up in a ball, struggling not to swallow the teeth that had just been smashed in my mouth and receiving a further pummeling of my back.  When it was all said and done.  I was informed that "he" was the big bad Indian on the block and to not forget it.  To this day, I don't see how this was a method to improve the relations between our cultures.

That beating wasn't the only time I feared for my safety.  On two separate occasions, one in Prince Albert and another over by my mother's house, I overheard the comments, "Hey let's jump whitey."  The Prince Albert incident, I continued to walk down the street, pretending I hadn't heard what I'd heard.  The time in the city, here, I was with my mom, and I suspect that may have been why the lads chose not to gnarl this white boy.

I'm not saying that whites have never beaten the shit out of a native or two.  I'm sure it happens, but as I stated.  Race relations are a two-way street.

This week Prince William and Kate Middleton are set to land on Vancouver Island to tour the island as well as, the Yukon Territory.  Of the many festivities scheduled during their visit, they're also going to be confronted on the issues of cultural inequality and past transgressions against the indigenous people, including the estimated 150,000 children who were placed into state-run schools (by French colonists).  I'm not sure what they (First Nations) is hoping to achieve by these accusations.  Apparently, "SORRY" isn't good enough.

Comedian Christopher Titus once stated in one of his stand-up specials that: When you point a finger, three more point back at you.  Meaning no one is completely to blame.  Some burden of responsibility needs to be taken by yourself, as well.

When Western Europeans landed on this great country, indigenous people extended a hand of friendship and the Europeans proceeded to take advantage of the primitive folk and screwed them over at every chance.  Whites made repeated deals of "fair" trade and treaties of peace, only to renege and f*ck the First Nation people over again and again. ... Kind of gives new meaning to the term "Indian Giver", doesn't it?

The purpose of this blog was not intended to instill hate or racial insensitivity.
It would be defeating the message of equality if this were the case.

Haters Gonna Hate Hate Hate

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Obsolescence

I learned a new word today at work.  A variation of the word obsolete.  I never thought that work, of all places, is where I would learn something like this, but alas.  I've been schooled.

A line of machinery had been discontinued and as such the parts for that implement are no longer of any value, except (likely) what can be collected via scrap.  A HUGE waste of money, overall, if you ask me.  I mean, why produce an excess of the parts needed for the production of the original line?  Needless to say, there be a f*ck load of shit that needs to be scrapped over the coming weeks.

However, I digress.  Complaining about the stupidity of the higher ups is not my intent for this little blog, today.  To report on the idiocy of the bureaucrats at work would be about as informative as announcing: Water is wet!  No kidding?  Thank you Capt. Obvious!

Obsolescence be thy word.  All day long, I saw it posted on a couple of crates, collected to begin heaping hoards of obsolete parts into for recycling and otherwise.  The word seems so simple, yet complex at the same time.  The more that I repeated the word over in my head, the more the word made me smile and chuckle to myself.  For the word, in and of itself, does not sound like what it actually means.   

The word obsolescence, to me, sounds instead like a virus.  A disease you'd get as a result of eating too much red meat.  I thought tomato-based products at first, as this always makes me race for the bathroom, but red meat can be all the more destructive, if allowed.

"Oh boy!  I shouldn't have gone to Rodney's barbecue and ate all the rare beef.  Now I have a scorching case of Obsolescence.  I can't stray more than a few feet from the toilet before racing back to evacuate my bowels."

Yes.  That's right!  To me, obsolescence sounds like a viral infection that causes you to shit streams of gooey ungodliness.  The kind of unruly turmoil that results in using over half of a roll of ultra-soft toilet paper in hopes of soothing a burning aching backside.  Definitely a double-flusher.

Obsolescence...

Aardvarks Just Look Stupid

It's no secret that I question the validity and the existence of God.  I tend to live my life based in reality and logic.  That mankind evolved from apes over the course of millions of years.  Frankly, the idea of an invisible man living in the clouds who has full reign over how people should act in this life and the next, simply feels preposterous to me.

I don't fault anyone who needs to lean on "him" or the bible to get through the rough parts of their lives.  When I hurt my leg a few years ago, I too, needed a crutch to get through the tough times. All I request is that you keep your christian ethics and beliefs to yourself.  Other than in this forum, I never push my non-beliefs on people, so why should I listen to their drivel?

The reason for this blog today, though, is spider webs.

"Huh?!?" You seem stumped, but yes! I said spider webs!  There is a song that was released a few years ago by an artist whose name escapes me, but it posed the question, "What if God was one of us?"  For the purpose of this blog, I will suspend my disbelief momentarily.

When I got home from work today, I exited my garage and walked straight into a spider web.  Why the little motherf*cker had to place an intricate web in the doorway, I will never understand.  This, however, is not the first time it's happened.  I was leaving for work a few weeks ago and the same thing happened at my front door, only this time the spider had constructed an elaborate web that spanned from the door to the screen door and back again.  It was quite spectacular, I assume, as I was twisting and spiraling across my front lawn, struggling desperately to remove it from my hair, face and teeth. 

So back to the God stuff...  'What if God were one of us?  Just a stranger on a bus, trying to make his way home.'  I think that's one of the lines in the song.  First of all, if God were among us, why would he be taking a bus?  Have you seen the freaks who ride the bus?  I know that God is "all-loving", but even he has to have his limits.  Sheesh.  Guaranteed, though.  The bugger never went for a walk in the park.  If he had, the first moment he walked through a spider web, he'd have abolished the world of spiders.  This much is for certain.  That's the first thing I'd get rid of if I were King of the World.  Get rid of the bugs and the spiders.  There's no need for them.  Birds can eat something else and aardvarks just look stupid.

This is just one of the reasons why I believe there is no God.  I have lots of reasons, mostly logical ones, but this is just one of the reasons.