Fat Lip

 

I'm not a fan of winter and never have been really.  Some folks look forward to the fall season, followed by winter.  My nephews, especially, as the ice skates come out and they play hockey in the back yard.  They play hockey all year 'round, but building happy memories of skating in small circles and putting that puck in the net, that is just so much more appealing.  I guess if I had something special like that to look forward to, my feelings about winter would be different.

My reason for disliking winter go way beyond my playing hockey outside.  In fact, I've never laced up a pair of skates solely for the purpose of playing any kind of winter sport, let alone hockey in my own backyard.

One of the many attributes that winter provides, besides locking up all my joints, is my lips.  My bottom lip, usually, although the top has been known to act up.  I rarely go outside, anymore, for reasons besides necessity.  For instance, you'll probably not find me standing at rink side, in my sister's backyard, cheering on my nephews.  I just don't like being outside in the cold.  However, when I do venture out into the subzero climate, my lips chap up.  I try to keep my face and mouth covered, but somehow my mouth chaps up.  When they do that, they crack.  Then, for some reason, because I can't leave well enough alone, my tongue gets in there and starts rubbing the hell out of the opened spot.  I guess Dr. Tongue feels it knows more than my brain.  Now the spot is irritated even more.

Meanwhile, my brain and the rest of my body, tongue and lip in tow, venture through my house, seeking out that single tube of cherry lip balm that I remember using either... Was it last year or the year before?

By some stroke of luck, I manage to locate the item, pop the cap and am surprised that it's still good and place it, immediately, upon thine own self.  The coolness of the medicated stick immediately brings some relief to the sore area.

The days that follow, remain up in the air.  Either the swelling will go down and I can carry on with life as I know it or the spot is going to be continually irritated by my stubborn tongue.  It's really a crapshoot after that.

Even now, my bottom lip split about a week ago.  I managed to control the irritation with chap stick, but I don't always remember to take it with me when I venture away from my house.  It's an ongoing fight. 

Day Three - 300,000 plus

The first person I spoke to at the Expo on Saturday, informed me that there was an estimated 300,000 people attending the Comic Expo on that Saturday alone.  That's roughly the entire population of Saskatoon, crammed into the small Calgary Stampede site.  It's no wonder that parking on the grounds was filled before the venue even opened for the day.

Our trek to the convention was without much drama.  We'd traveled the nearly straight line for a couple of days, so my co-pilot didn't need to consult her GPS, which I believe was conspiring against us in the days previous, often feeding us wrong turns 'n' such.  On this day, Saturday, it was already speculated that the influx of people would be incredible, but I never expected that traffic would be lined up as far back as it was.  Blocks upon blocks!

When the Stampede site was within visual distance, is when the stupid f*cking drivers started trying to dart in ahead of me.  I may not be the best driver at times, I still stand by my proclamation that I am better than most drivers.  There was a train track that dissected the street leading to the entrance.  Having seen the transit trolley pass frequently in passing days, I chose not to park my vehicle on the tracks.  It's the safe thing to do, after all.  There is very little that I take pride in more than my truck and having it smashed by a train would not make my day (or life) very enjoyable.  However, this dumb bitch, yes I know I shouldn't use the term, but it's deserving, bypasses all who have been patiently waiting behind my rear bumper, and darts into the space between me and the car in front of us, parking her lazy ass on those tracks.  Oh how I reveled at the idea that a train come and smash the f*ck out of her little SUV.  We'd be late for the Expo, sure, but what a memory to take home with us.

Unfortunately, no train.  The traffic pulled ahead, but not by much.  Enough that I could pull ahead, clearing the train tracks.  The dumb f*ck behind me, failed to practice the same safety as I, and pulled up right behind me, blocking the tracks.  Why do I mention this?  Why, the lights began to flash and bells sounded, indicating the train was fast approaching.  Suddenly, asshole starts hammering on his horn for me to move ahead, but I couldn't move ahead.  It wasn't my fault his parents raised a stupid child.  Sadly, the light changed to green, allowing us to move forward and dumb shit's life to be spared.  Yet, I'm the bad guy?

Long story short, parking was filled and we were instructed to try the north end of the complex.  Ultimately, we found alternate parking and for a cheaper price.  It was a little further to walk, but it was a nice day, so I didn't mind, although one of my companions was dressed in a great big gown as a "punk version" of Beauty & The Beast's Belle.  I can't imagine walking all that distance, hiking up the gown, was all that much fun.  Just one of the perks of being a guy, I guess.

Me and the kid with the stupid bird hat attended a Q&A with some of the "deceased" stars of The Walking Dead, which was okay, but the questions people asked these guys was borderline retarded.  I can attest to the fact that nervousness can be overwhelming.  I experienced some of that the day before in meeting Mick Foley.  At one point, I almost broke into tears, but I don't think I said anything overly stupid.  I made a couple jokes, which Mick was quick to respond to, in classic comic fashion.

After the Q&A, we met up with our friends and soon parted ways again.  It was around this time that I spoke with a couple folks running booths in the pavilion, one fella who worked with leather making masks and helmets.  He was quite interesting to speak with.  A part of these shows that I do enjoy.

I will never be one of those kind of people who will dress up for one of these conventions.  Not unless I was extremely passionate about something, but the only thing I like that much, aside from my cat, is wrestling, but I don't have the body or commitment to pull of a look so bold.  On the other hand, I do appreciate some of the effort put into other costumes.  I saw a guy dressed as Starlord from the Guardians of the Galaxy.  I wanted so much to go up to him and ask:

          Me: Who are you supposed to be?
          Him: Starlord.
          Me: Who?
          Him: Starlord!  Awe, come on, man!

It would have been classic, just like it happened in the movie, but I doubt these nerdy f*cks would have the audacity to recognize the scenario.  Hell, I ran into a giant of a man dressed as Groot and when I requested a photograph, he nodded, instead of muttering the words, "I am Groot."  Three simple words, but no.  Some days I wish I could walk around and only mutter three words.  Life would be so much more simple.

The guy pictured above was an incredible Batman, in my opinion.  He was more than happy to pose for a picture, giving me not just one stance, but a couple.

I grabbed a couple T-shirts that day, but it was SO god damned crowded, I kept getting knocked about and I was growing more and more upset with each blow.  It was at this time that I was informed by how many people were on the grounds.  "Three hundred thousand." I was told, which I thought was an exaggeration, but given the crowds inside were literally elbow-to-elbow, and outside wasn't much better, I'd estimate that the figure was pretty dead on.  I was so relieved that I'd got to meet Mick Foley the day before.  I never ventured into that hall, but I can only imagine the crowd waiting to meet him was staggering.

After only a couple of hours, we decided we had enough and departed.  Walking back to the truck, it felt like an incredible weight had been lifted off.  I actually felt stress falling away from my body, like smoke and embers floating away from a campfire.  On the way back to the hotel, we stopped for ice cream beverages.  I had a chocolate shake, while my passengers indulged in rootbeer floats, and all was well with the world.  That night, we went for supper at my friend's sister's house, where I met for the first time, friendly Calgary people.  I could hardly believe the contrast between how pleasant and welcoming they were to how stubborn, rude and ignorant the rest of Calgary seemed to be.  Oddly, though, what I found most memorable about the visit, was their cat.  This spry little cat came up to me a few times, looking for attention, which I was more than happy to give, being that I missed my cat.  He was small and energetic and to my surprise, SEVENTEEN years old.  I was floored.  I couldn't believe this cat was seventeen.  What was most memorable, for me, was the actions that the cat did next.

Everyone was distracted by the hockey playoffs on the television, but I don't really give two shits about hockey (an odd thing for a Canadian boy to admit, but nonetheless true), so my attention was on the cat and trying to coax him back so I could pet him some more.  Instead, the cat chose to bathe himself.

Now allow me to paint the picture.  I was seated on a small sofa, with my friend M_____, her boyfriend, D____ was on the stairs next to her, and the rest of the family was spread around the outer wall to his left, all looking at the action on the television set.  My eyes are on the cat, whose leg is propped back behind his head and he's washing his "manhood".  Suddenly, I noticed a little reddish-pink nub growing.  It's growing and it's growing and it's pulsing and it's growing.  I'm not staring at it, but at the cat's eyes who has stopped licking and his stare is fixed on my friend M_____ seated to my left.  His nub is in my peripheral, my eyes locked on his, his fixed on M_____.  It was like a beastly show 'n' tell.  He never got her attention and frustrated, he kicked his leg down and left the room.  Probably to go rub one out, but that's purely speculation on my part.

We stopped for an (expensive) ice cream cone at Dairy Queen before retiring to our hotel.  At some point that evening, we'd all agreed that we had enough of the Calgary Comic Expo and removed the wristband that allowed us entrance to the festival.  Day Four we would come home instead of dealing with the masses of nerds and freaks.

Day Four began with our packing shit up, (and my forgetting shit behind).  Then we went to a thrift shop and McDonald's then one more stop along the way.  A massive mall outside Calgary, near the town of Airdrie.  It seemed nice.  It had everything you can imagine.  Even a bear.  I don't ever plan on (realistically) moving, unless something truly extraordinary happens to me, but if I did, Airdrie, might be a nice destination.  It seems like it has every amenity I would require to be a recluse.  But I'm happy where I am, for now.  No plans on moving.  Plus, I don't think I could be the asshole behind the wheel that seems to be required to live in Alberta, anyway.

I have to admit, though, the best part of Calgary was my pretending I didn't know who or what the Calgary Flames were.  Calgarians would mentions something about the Flames, who were in the playoffs at the time, and I would play dumb and bewildered by what they might be.  "Are they some sort of sporting team?"  I would ask and watching the blood drain away from their faces was priceless.  At the Expo, there was a lady selling license plates with the Flames logo on it.  I asked what the Flaming C was all about, adding that I'd seen it in a number of places, but had no idea what it stood for.  "The Calgary Flames", she told me proudly, to which I responded that I'd never heard of them.  Among all the A-holes I'd encountered during my brief stay in Calgary, these few folks were the least dickish, probably thinking I was retarded for never having heard of the Calgary Flames.  Whatever.  I get my fun from where I can find it.

Bodacious

I have a list of "sports" in my head. On one side are games that I consider to be actual sports and on the other, games that are NOT sports. What decides the criteria is whether I can do it or not. I'm not athletic by nature, so if I am able to perform the sport in question, then for obvious reasons, it cannot be considered a sport.

For instance, I cannot throw a football. Therefore, football IS a sport. I don't know how to skate, so hockey IS a sport. I suppose in that matter, so is figure skating. As well it should. I've seen "Battle of the Blades" in which former NHL'ers participate in figure skating competition for charity. I recall former Maple Leaf, Tie Domi, commenting during his stint in the first season, saying he thought it'd be easy, but he was greatly surprised by the work involved in perfecting the craft of figure skating.

On the other side of the coin though, there are "games", and I use that term lightly, like soccer. You run, you kick a ball. Oooh. Real f*cking tough. I'm asthmatic, but I can run. I can kick a f*cking ball. Soccer IS NOT a sport. Plus the fact that it's gay, doesn't help it's case none, either.

Golf, also, is not a sport. I can do it. Not well, but I can do it. Plus, it's more of a pastime, than a sport. It's just something men do to get away from their wives for a few hours. And given that most men, not all, but most men are married to nagging hags, the idea of escaping for a few hours on the course is far more appealing than putting a bullet in their head. I concur, fella's.

There is one "sport", that I don't consider to be a sport at all, though. It's not one that I can do, nor would I ever attempt to do. It's both, f*cking retarded and far too dangerous to try. That is bull riding. I can't help but wonder, how bored was the first guy in history, to ever try riding a f*cking bull? Bronco busting a horse, as cruel as that seems, I understand as people have been riding horses for centuries, if not longer. Riding a bull, on the other hand, what the f*ck? Riding close to 2000lbs of pure muscle, adrenaline, and anger, as it tries to throw you off and kill you.

The bull pictured above, is named Bodacious. During his career, in the 90's, no man was able to beat him. He, on the other hand, beat many a rider. To a pulp. It is written that Bodacious had one particular move he performed repeatedly. That was to put his head down in the dirt, bringing his butt high in the air, thus forcing the rider forward. Then Bodacious would whip his head back, smashing the riders face in the process. It's said that one rider thought he'd better the bovine, by wearing a hockey mask, but this still ended with his nose being broken and bursting his eye sockets.

Yet, when incidents like this occur in the rodeo industry, everyone is shocked and surprised. This is what confuses me. People acting like f*cking morons and being hurt as a result, and STILL people are surprised. If someone's spinning a loaded pistol like a cowboy, then drops and it shoots their face off, we're all like "What the hell did you expect was going to happen, you dumb shit?!?" So why is failing to ride nearly a ton of piss 'n' vinegar, such a surprise when it turns and gores your stupid ass?

I think most cowboys are a little gay to begin with. I mean, look at their clothes? Who spends that much time picking out a hat? And paisley? Don't get me started. Another blog for another day. But to "try and prove your manhood" by riding a bull? Talk about your "overcompensating". Yeesh!