Let Us All Not Forget

November 11th has always been of great importance to me. I am forever grateful for the sacrifices that men and women, better than me, have made in the name of freedom. Remembrance Day, in my opinion, should be a mandatory day off from everything. School and work. A day to reflect and give thanks for all that you have and for those whom you love. A day off, more so, than even Christmas. Christmas is too commercial and has all but lost it's true meaning, while Remembrance Day, (or Memorial Day, Veteren's Day, or whatever other day your country may designate to honour your freedom fighters), remains pure in its message.

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.

Fryin' Bacon Naked

I can't recall when or where this topic first broached my mind. Whether it was me and my friend A_____ talking about Jason Segel's extensive nude scene in "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" or if it was somewhere else.
It could've been during one of the extensive list of movies or television programs I've seen. I won't deny the fact that I've seen a lot of famous faces without their clothes on. And like in life, once you've seen someone in the nude, it's pretty difficult to get that image out of your mind. Try and try as you might.
It's pretty bad, for me anyway. Not a movie or TV show goes by, where I don't acknowledge silently to my inner mind, "I've seen her naked... I've seen her boobs..," etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.... I'm sure by admitting this, many of you who know me, may be looking at me in a strange way now. BAH! So be it.

It's obvious I'm not against nudity. Not totally, anyway. Even male nudity doesn't really bother me. So long as the dude takes care of himself. I don't wanna see it. By all means fellas, keep that shit tucked away in your pants. But if it's necessary, then fine. Do it. Be naked and free, for all I care, but do it responsibly. Take care of yourself.

Admittedly, I'm not one who should be throwing stones. Then again, I don't get nekkid, either. Except for when I shower, but then all the lights are off, and I smash all my mirrors. Granted, it can be quite costly, having to replace the mirrors and such, although I really need them as I don't comb my hair. On the brightside, however, I am getting pretty handy 'round the house with all the necessary repairs.

Now I know for a fact, that some feathers are going to get ruffled with this declaration. But it's unavoidable. I see a topic, form an opinion, and I just gots to write it down. Share it with my millions and millions of minions. And if YOU are one of these people, who aren't very impressed. I hear ya. I'm one of you, and I know that the truth can hurt sometimes... Just like fryin' bacon naked!

P.S. The girl in the picture is Lindsay Lohan.... And yes..., I've seen her tits... ;)

Thumb's Opposed!!

I'm a right-handed fellow. I bat a baseball left-handed, as do I shoot a hockey puck, but everything else is right-handed. A few years ago, I had the misfortune of tearing my left bicep. Tore it clean off the bone. During my recovery, however, I never realized how much my left arm came into play to accomplish even the most menial of tasks. It was tough, I have to admit.

Fast forward to today. While I didn't re-injure my bicep, I did manage to drive a staple into my right thumb. It's not the first time I've accomplished such a feat, and while I hope it's my last time, I doubt that it will. And you're probably wonder, just how I managed to accomplish this? I shall explain this to you.

The manager of the department I'm in at work, instructed me to "fix the staplers". In his mind, the three staplers we had on the counter, were damaged. While they were ineffective, it was not because there were any irrepairable damage to them. They were simply empty. So instead of taking a brief moment to refill them, that crazy guy had me "fix" them instead.

No problems! It's nice to be needed. So I refilled the first stapler. A nifty piece which can be a little tricky, as the staples are loaded in upside-down. I can't tell you how many people tried and failed with that stapler when we first got it in the office. The second stapler, also went off without a hitch, being reloaded rather quickly.

The last stapler though... Oy! I tell ya this. This frickin' thing is sooo frickin' old, that it looks like it came over on the Mayflower. It's sooo frickin' old, that Jesus may have used it to send out his dinner invites. I've never tried refilling this decrepit old instrument, but the instructions to do so are plainly marked on the end. Futile, were the instructions, but they were there, nonetheless.

PUSH THEN PULL, the instructions said, without really specifying what should be pushed then pulled. So while my office mate was busy conversing with one of the important folks who occupy the office area, I was grunting and groaning to myself trying to open this old stapler every which way I could, until finally a loud yelp interupted their conversation.

The two of them, simultaneously swung their heads in my direction, asking in unison if I was "okay". I told them that I was, even though I wasn't really. In my haste to open the stapler, I managed to drive one of the existing staples into my thumb. I'm not even really certain how I managed to do so. And if it weren't for the wiry little bastard dug deep into my opposable digit, I'd never have know what I'd just accomplished.

Wrapped snuggly in a bandage from that point on, I've been bumping it and hurting it left and write. Apparently, the pad of one's thumb plays a major role in turning the key to start your vehicle. I did not know that until this afternoon, when I had to devise a new method to turn over my engine, now straddling the key between my forefinger and my "bird finger". (The bird finger being the one that's used in 'flipping someone the bird'.)

I've also noticed that it hurts to pull my pants up. That sucks a lot, especially concerning the fact that I've been losing weight again.

Having to alter my daily practices for a few days though, isn't that bad of a thing to have to do. I'll get by. As for what happened with that ancient stapling artifact? V__ and I filed that one away in File 13. By this time, it should be well on it's way to the dumpster. I say "Good riddance!"

Have a nice day, folks!

Contributing To The Deliquency Of A Minor

I am bewildered. Less than a month ago, I took my feline friend, Monkey, into the vet to have his "boys" removed. I felt a little guilty about the process, because I'd never want someone to take me for that procedure by tricking me with a promise of "going to Disneyland", but if I'd have told him the real reason we were leaving the house that early morning, I doubt he'd have agreed to it.
None-the-less, the procedure went off without a hitch. He came home, every bit as happy as he was before we left that morning. He did have a small look of confusion, however, when he'd whip his leg back during bath time, and the process took him less time than he did before, but he quickly got past that.

Maybe a week or so went by. He wasn't anymore calm than he was pre-op, as he continued to bite and scratch just about as often. But there was one more attack he had added to his repertoire. He began to latch onto my leg and wrestle with it. My leg was safely beneath my bedspread, so I never worried about any scratches or bites. He did seem, however, unusually aggressive. Clamping his jagged little teeth down hard, then kicking and adjusting his legs. Given my love of professional wrestling, I took some comfort in the idea that he was now embracing one of my loves, instead of his usual guerilla attacks on me. So to play along with this scenario, I'd flail and buck my leg, knocking him loose quite often. He always sit back, study his target, then pounce once again. Then, just like he had before, clench his teeth down hard, and begin kicking.
Early one morning, instead of allowing me to sleep in, which I like to do on the weekend, I was awoken by the cat, who's always an early riser, pouncing on my leg and again, kicking and flailing his legs. I tried to reason with him, hoping he'd f*ck off and tend to one of his other projects, like running in circles, looking out the front window, or maybe grabbing something to eat, but he'd have no part in any of that. So again, I'd buck my leg as he clenched and kicked. Only this time, he stopped kicking at one point. I looked down at him to see what he was doing, and that's when it hit me. I noticed his little bottom pumping up against my blanketed leg. The little f*cker was... Well. Doing just that. He was f.. Humping my leg.

Disgusted at the idea that he would find my appendage such a sexual turn-on, I quickly bucked him off my leg, calling him a "homo" in the process. He sat back, looking at me with such offense and disdain, and harbouring a massive chub. He attempted to resume humping my leg, but I had no part of that. "F*ck you!" I said to the little fella. "Homie don't play that shit!"

For days and days afterward, he continued to try to "wrestle" with my leg, and everytime, I'd shove him off, accusing him of being a homosexual. A label that he's still not happy with me calling him.
Finally, the other morning, tired with continuing to shove him off me at every pass, I came up with a brilliant idea. I would get him a surrogate. A sexual-device that he could "wrestle" with, and hopefully, would help him forget all about my enticing left leg. So last night I put the plan into effect.
I'd stepped out, making a run to Wal-Mart to pick up a few sale items I'd circled in the latest flyer. After filling my cart, I darted over to the toy section, with hopes of finding a cute fuzzy little feline that might turn my cat on. Alas, my efforts were not met. Up and down all the aisles in that toy section and I failed to find what I was looking for. But before I'd abandon all hope, I found a suitable facsimile. A cute little white bear on one of the endcaps. And it was on sale. Just $5. Five bucks to end my nightmare of my cat splooging all over my bedspread. Granted the little guy's fixed, but I'm not familiar with veterinarian medicine. I remember doctors on television saying that a man who receives a vasectomy, still runs the risk of impregnating his wife in the early stages after his procedure. I didn't know if there was a chance of my bed-spread being impregnated with my cat's demon seed, and I didn't want to chance it. That's a mess that I just did not want to address.
So five dollars was (and is) a small price to pay to avoid such an awkward situation. "And besides..." I thought to myself, reading the tag on the bear, "All proceeds go to fight breast cancer." The proverbial "two birds, one stone". I like my bed spread the way it is and I'm also a fan of boobies. Win/win!

However, as I looked down at the bear in my hands, a wave of guilt overcame me. It's those blasted Toy Story movies. I don't know if those movies are based in some kind of reality. That the toys all come to life when outside the peripheral view of humanoids like ourselves. Did I really want to subject this cutesy little teddy bear to a barrage of violent sexual predation at the hands... er, paws of my pet cat, Monkey? So I did hum and haw at the premise for several minutes while standing before the shelves of charity bears, but in the end, I purchased the bear. Toys coming to life, after all, is proposterous.

So I brought my purchases home, and no sooner did I retrieve the bear from the bag, than was my cat interested in it. I placed it on the floor and looked on. I didn't want to watch, but like a brilliant car accident at a light, sometimes it's too difficult to look away. Besides. I remember my sister's dog T_____ humping his Cat In The Hat when he was a young pup. That was ALWAYS funny shit, and though on a much smaller scale, her dog being a St. Bernard, I thought the premise of my cat f*cking a teddy bear would be hilarious.
He wrestled with it a little. Pouncing and attacking it from different angles, but soon the little white bear failed to pique his interest and he abandoned it. I even... YES, I took some initiative to buck the the bear around similar to how I did with my leg on those early mornings. This got his attention some, but he'd lose interest just as quick.

In the end, I woke up to him "attacking" my leg, to which I quickly threw him off my bed, citing his homosexuality and questioning myself why he'd choose my dark bed spread over his new little white bear... Then it donned on me. He doesn't like blondes!!!

A Fly On The Wall

I can recall an interview that Richard Dreyfuss gave regarding his experience with the filming of Jaws. That after they were able to shoot the footage that didn't require the audience to see the animatronic shark, that there was a lot of standing around until the radios would suddenly sound off, "The shark is working! I repeat, the shark is working!" Then the actors and crew would all scramble into place for the scenes to be shot.

Then it was another interview that I'd seen, where the actor (or actress) mentioned that movie-making is 90% waiting and 10% working.
The reason I mention these quotes is, I got to be on-set Tuesday evening, to watch some of the filming of that movie I'd mentioned Monday evening in this very blog. Let me tell you this, folks.., it was pretty spectacular.
It wasn't a scene that had any gun-battles or car chases, that shit's overdone. Instead, it was a bar scene. But to be a fly on the wall and watching the process in motion, for me anyway, was (pardon my language) pretty f*ckin' cool. I was even invited to sit in the background as a seat-filler or an extra. I'm not certain what my exact purpose was, but I feel privileged and honoured to be asked to do it, all the same. I can hardly wait to watch the finished product and boast, "There's my shoulder! There! Right there! THAT is MY shoulder..!"

Probably the biggest surprise for me, though, was what took place on one of the breaks.
The main actor, John Diehl, was chillin' at the back of the bar, where the scene was taking place. He turned and started chatting with an on-set photographer, casually looking at some of the pictures the guy had taken. Then during a pause in the conversation, he looked over in my direction and recognized me. Without hesitation, he called out, "HEY JEFF! HOW'S IT GOIN'?" His voice was booming and it overtook the ambient chatter that was consuming the small pub.
"Good," was the only response I could muster up, "How 'bout you?" That's where the exchange came to an end. I'm not disappointed though. Here's this big time star, who didn't need to remember anything about me, but took the time to say hello all the same. That's just really cool in my books.

I've met a good share of celebrities in my distinguished life. Most have been pretty cool, like John. Some haven't been so cool, and their image to me will be forever tarnished. But for the people who were cool, they will always hold a special place in my memories. Albeit, it would've been pretty nice to have an autographed 8x10 of Mr. John Diehl, that I could hang on my wall, or post in my albums with my other collective, but that's just a trinket really. I have my memories and they'll always be as clear as day in my mind's eye.

I'm sure they're getting sick and tired of my praise and gratefulness, but I'd like to take one more opportunity to thank V__ and C___ Z______, for allowing me into this world, even for just a moment or two. But a special thanks to C___, for including me in Tuesday night's shoot. That was nice. And now my right shoulder will be forever captured on celluloid.

Have a great day, everyone!

Brush With Greatness

The day began as any other Monday morning would. The alarm went off and I was in no mood to move. The consideration to play hooky from work did cross my mind, I'll admit, but alas, I had no telephone. I'd forgotten my cell at work on Friday and had been without all weekend long, so phoning in was never an option.

Thankfully, I drug my ass into work, and I'm glad I did, because the kind woman with whom I share the front office with, sprung a pleasant surprise on me.

Her daughter is a film producer and her company is currently shooting a movie in Toontown. It is some kind of sci-fi flick. I'm not clear on the premise of the story, but it's still a pretty big deal.

So V__, the afore mentioned woman I work with, asked if I'd like to come with her to visit the set. They [the film company] was shooting nearby. I hummed and hawed at the idea, feeling almost unworthy. I'd always fantasized about being a film maker, and I'd actually attended some university on the subject when I was younger. Unfortunately, the school was in Regina, and I lost my funding to attend school, and that dream was soon dashed. Another reason to hate the Queen City, I suppose.

Alas, I decided I would go with her. This opportunity may never bear it weary head again, so I jumped at the chance. Besides which, there was a chance I could meet the star of the movie. Mr. John Diehl (pictured above).
I knew who he was right from the get go, having starred in Miami Vice as Det. Larry Zito. He was also Asst. Chief Ben Gilroy on The Shield, opposite Michael Chiklis. He's been in countless movies and other roles, including A Time To Kill, Stargate, and Stripes with Bill Murray. In fact, the more that I learned about him after looking him up on IMDB.com, the more I admired the actor. He's what one might call, "a working actor". A true artist. Expanding his horizons with every roles he assumes.
So knowing that going into this "chance" meeting, I'll admit I was a little nervous, but when the time came, he was pretty cool.

When the time came, we arrived at the location and was greeted by C___, V__'s daughter, and one of the producer's of the film. We got our visitor passes and was immediately jetted to the set. There were people setting up the lighting and other technicalities, but just around the corner, were a bunch of folks collected on a big leather sofa running over lines. The fellow in the corner, I did a double-take with. "Holy..." I thought to myself, "That's him! Okay, be cool."
Mr. Diehl (pronounced Deal), got up and came over and said hello to V__, whom he'd met the day before, then he turned to me, and shook my hand. "I'm Jeff." I said. "Hi Jeff, I'm John."

The whole deal was pretty cool. He took a moment to chat, asking what I did, and even commented on how I was dressed for summer when it was so cool outside. There were some other people gathered 'round too and soon everyone was engaged in small talk.
Not long after, John excused himself, as he had to get prepped for the scene they were going to shoot. Then that was it. C___ took us on a brief tour of the location, the C.L.S. (Canadian Light Source) here in Saskatoon, Sk.

Shortly thereafter, I was back at work, commenting on one of my co-workers that I got to meet John Diehl and shake his hand. He didn't care, but I was so stoked about the process that I egged him some, beakin' off "Oh yeah. You're jealous! I can tell."

"No I'm not. I don't care." he said, sourly.
"Yeah you are." I said.

Chances are he doesn't care, but the reason I was so persistant was, a few weeks ago he got to meet Dan Aykroyd and everyday, he's telling me how his friends all hate 'im because he got to meet Dan Aykroyd, even lumping me in there with them. Frankly, I don't give no shits about him meeting the chubby Ghostbuster. Don't get me wrong, I like Aykroyd, I just don't give a shit about this guy meeting him. Long story short, that is.

So now I can chalk up one more REAL celebrity that I've gotten to meet. Albeit, most of the others are pro wrestlers, but that's cool.

They're all just people, like you and me.