Invinsible!

Earlier tonight, I ran an errand to my mother's house. Upon my return home, much of my trip was obscured by a dense fog. Simply came upon the northwestern section of the city, and came quite unexpectedly.

The fog was thick. Not so thick that I couldn't see the cars in the next lane, but thick enough to spark a memory regarding a similar fog that I came upon years ago. Way back when I still owned my 1986 Mercury Capri.

The car was very similar to the one pictured at left, only mine wasn't an RS, which meant it had a different front bumper and different rim package. The colour-scheme, however, is the same, as was the bubble rear window.

It was a foggy night, well past nine o'clock in the evening. There wasn't any snow on the ground, as there is tonight, but the fog was extremely thick. We, my car-mates and I, were running late, returning home from Regina, and needing to be back here in Toontown by 10pm. It was dark and dense, and I was running the little car at a top speed. Not exactly a safe practice in the best of conditions, let alone on a dark and foggy night.

I recall high-tailing it around a large curve in the road, then noticing a vague flashing of red lights. Having, up to this point, a lot of experience with being pulled over for a variety of reasons by our boys in blue, I knew that I was caught, and quickly turned onto the shoulder of the highway. The police constable walked up to my then openned window and proceeded to give me the riot act.

He explained that he and his partner were parked on a side road, because the thick fog had made it unsafe for road travel, when all-of-a-sudden, their radar went off. Alarmed because they weren't able to actually see a vehicle pass by, they immediately hit the lights, because it was obvious that someone was well on their way to killing themselves or worse. He explained that they kept travelling behind this mysterious vehicle until they were able to see my brake lights and signal to turn onto the road shoulder.

He took my license and registration, and returned after a short time, with a speeding ticket in hand. He cited me for the unsafe speeds, urging me to slow down before I killed somebody. He also pointed out that my driving with one burnt out headlight in such a weather anomaly, was downright insane. He never gave me a ticket for that, although he probably should have, giving me a warning instead.

I've not driven like that since. I'm not denying that my right foot doesn't get heavy from time to time. I've had more than a healthy helping of speeding tickets since that time, all those years ago. I do believe that if you're very familiar with your vehicle and know it's capabilities as well as your own, that sometimes one can get away with breaking a few speed laws here and there, but I've never taken it to such a large degree.

I think I'm a very good driver, and I've come to this conclusion because I know that I'm not the best driver on the road. But by simply acknowledging my shortcomings, I'm actually a step above all those f*cking idiots on the road who are convinced that they don't have any problems at all. One fact, above all else, is if someone claims to have 'never been in an accident', you have to wonder, how many accidents they've caused...

The funniest fact though, has got to be all the f*cking retards who have 4x4's, who believe that they can come out of any situation unscathed. It is during many snowstorms, here in the Toontown district, that I've witness the most unscrupulous accidents by those behind the wheel of these four-wheel drive bohemoths. Many many MANY vehicle rollovers. I just gotta shake my head and laugh, whispering to myself "F*cking idiots!!"

I should come clean about an earlier comment, where I stated that I don't drive like a fool in bad weather anymore. I did a couple of years ago. It was before I purchased my Honda Ridgeline. I'd gone into the dealership on a busy Saturday afternoon. I was given the keys to a Ridgeline demo, and was allowed to take it out for a test drive without the salesman. This was good because, in all honesty, he was a huge prick of a salesman, very pushy, plus I doubt he'd have let me drive the truck as hard and as fast as I did on that blustery winter day. The roads were quite icy and wind-swept, and I got this silver truck up to a whopping 160km/hr (approximately 100mph). That is until I chickened out, plus I was fast approaching a section of highway which, to this day, is still notorious for vehicular accidents causing bodily harm or sometimes death.

Rest assured, I don't drive my baby like that at all. It's got a lot of gallup under that hood, but these days, I think it's better to look good than to race about looking like a f*cking fag!

Have a nice day, folks!!!

And for Christ's sake... Slow the f*ck down out there!

Directionality

Christmas Day, this year, came off almost without incident. Some of the foods prepared for the feast contained nuts 'n' shit, which would otherwise put me in the morgue, but all was avoided. While slumbering on the sofa, strategically placed before the 58" plasma, I did almost go into a diabetic coma, because my sweet little two and a half year old nephew, Jake, was repeatedly shoving After Eight thin mints into (and halfway down my throat) as I slipped in and out of consciousness.

My mom was there, at my sisters house as well, coughing and hacking every few minutes, striking a sharp note that would wake the dead, and causing my brain to hurt profusely. For a woman who boasts about never getting sick, she sure gets sick a lot.

For Christmas, I gave her an electric shovel, which is actually a smaller version of a snow blower. I bought one for myself a few weeks back and though it's a little small for the amount of real estate I have, I thought the size would be perfect for doing the walkway at my mom's house. However, the incredible box the blower came in, was too big for her car to take home, so I told her I'd swing by the next day, Sunday, to deliver and put the device together, as it comes in pieces.

The next day, Boxing Day, I slept in. Deservedly so, as I was up until 3:30am on Christmas Eve, wrapping the considerable number of gifts I'd purchased for my family. I called my mom's house about eleven o'clock in the morning, and got no answer. Peculiar, I thought, but perhaps she too, was sleeping in. I called again just after lunch, without getting an answer, then again at around 3pm. Finally, she answered, but she didn't sound like herself. She sounded hoarse, like usual, but she sounded more confused and desheveled. She claimed she was unable to hear me. However, I managed to convey the message that I was coming over straight-away.

I arrived at my mother's house, which is located in one of the lesser parts of town. A place I have dubbed, "The Hood", "Alphabet City", and a few other less than flattering names. I've not liked the fact that she lives in this neighbourhood, despite her assurances that the area isn't nearly as bad as the news would make it sound. She's quick to colour over the fact that she's been assaulted by riffraff in the area more than a couple of times in the years that she's lived there.

I got up to the door, and was surprised to find it unlocked, a practice that both my sister and I have repeatedly scolded her for doing in the past. And not only was the front door unlocked, but it was ajar. The storm door was closed, keeping the warm air in, however, it does not provide much in the line of security. So I stepped through the door without any resistance, snowblower box in hand, but I dropped it when my eyes caught the horrific sight.

The light coloured carpet which runs from the living room to the bedrooms at the far end of the house, were spattered with dark crimson-like stains. Running from the kitchen, down the hall and around the corner into the bathroom midway down. It was horrific at first glance! I rushed down the hall, thinking the worst, and discovered a slumped over body on the bed in the master bedroom. "Mom!" I shouted, getting no response. I repeated the call a couple more times, then with my cell in one hand, ready to call 9-1-1, I shook her with the other, and she finally came to.

I breathed a heavy sigh of relief, when I discovered she had not been violently assaulted or murdered by one of the scum-suckin' vermin she calls neighbours. Although the stains in the carpet tell a completely different tale. The scene looked like something from the television show Dexter. Using my best CSI and crime drama investigation skills, I could tell the initial attack happened in the living room and the directionality of the spatter stains indicated that she had rushed to the bathroom. A likely scenario in any assualt, whether committed by an assailant or an accidental injury done upon one's self. "What the f*ck happen?!?" I asked, point-blank.

She vaguely explained in her confused state through the use of jibber-jabber and broken english. She told me that she was sitting in front of the TV, went to get up and was greeted with a dizzying spell so violent that it caused her to vomit wildly. While stumbling and falling all the way down the hall to the bathroom, a "few" drops managed to elude her hands which were pressed up against her mouth, before she was able to get to the toilet.

Even though her words were hard to understand, I asked why she was speaking so funny. She then revealed to me that in the haste of being sick, the bottom plate of her false teeth fell out into the toilet, and that she'd flushed the toilet before she'd realized that her teeth were missing. I fought hard not to laugh out loud, but that shit was just too f*ckin' funny! I asked her why she would flush before first looking at what she'd "tossed up", citing that as disgusting as it is, it was a practice I'd always done. Mostly as a way of seeing what exactly I ate that made me so ill, but in this case, for my mother, it would have been a handy way to see her teeth smiling up at her from the foaming bowl.

I got her a glass of water, and strategically placed a bucket next to her bed, which was quickly used. I put together her snow machine, all the while giving her advice on what she should have done differently and how she could have avoided be so sick. Even going so far as to discover possible culprits which may have caused the sickness.

The day before, at Christmas Dinner, she had contributed a coleslaw which disappointingly (for her) no one touched, except for her. Then today she's violently sick. "Where'd you get the recipe?" I asked. From a magazine, she told me, to which I added, "There you go! That's why you're sick! You're always experimenting with shit you read about in magazines!"

Admittedly, I was less than nice to her regarding the situation, treating my ailing mother more like a stubborn teenager. When she complained of being cold, I gave her crap for sleeping on top of the covers, rather than climbing right into bed. She never even bothered to cover herself up with a blanket on top of the bed. Reluctantly she climbed in. I placed her phone by her bed and left to go home. All the while, however, guilt started setting in on me. Guilt about treating her so poorly after being so violently ill. "What if she'd had a stroke or something? Why was she so dizzy and unable to walk? Why was she deaf in her left ear? Why the hell didn't she notice her teeth were missing before she flushed the toilet?"

I called her back at about 8:30pm, and by nine o'clock, we were registering her in at the St. Paul's Hospital. After a three hour wait (a new experience for me as I've NEVER had to wait for medical treatment in my life), we had about a three minute meeting with a doctor fella, with a thick accent about what the causes may be. Inner Ear. Like the congestion from a head cold, where phlegm and mucus builds up in your sinus's, sometimes the same happens in your ears, or more specifically, your inner ear, thus throwing off your balance, causing one to get dizzy, unable to walk in a straight line, or even projectile-vomit, depending on what that person had been eating, which in this case, my mom had confessed to getting up in the morning and eating a great big helping of the coleslaw that no one had eaten at Christmas dinner.

"What?!? Coleslaw is a side-dish!" I scolded her,"Never eat that shit by itself!"

The cure for what was ailing my mother? Two or three drops of olive oil in each ear ever three to four hours. And yes! The very same olive oil that some put on their salads. Freaky, huh? Thank god for the 24-hour Shoppers over by her house. I was able to get some organic olive oil and a dropper to apply it for her. Talk about a scary f*cking Christmas.

Reindeer Games

As if being named Rudolph wasn't bad enough. A name that sound remarkably similar to Adolph, a name forever ruined by that Nazi c*cksucker, but then the little reindeer, with the odd nasal feature, gets repeatedly picked on by his peers.

A conglomeration of reindeer who should be revered and respected by all who celebrate the Christmas season, and this nasty f*cks are picking on and bullying a little runt of a reindeer, all because his nose glows red instead of being cold and black and draining nasal fluid and snot all over everything. I mean seriously! You ever have the misfortune of eyeing up an animal of a bovine nature? Whether it be a cow, a moose, a bison or a reindeer, them bastards are forever oozing shit outta their noses. And these reindeer are celebrated in song? What...ever!

So here we are. Present day. All year long, Santa's reindeer team are keeping fit by playing games and other similar activities, all the while, shunning the poor little reindeer known to all as Rudolph. Then, with Christmas Eve finally upon them, their faced with insurmountable odds. A fog has rolled in, and NOT just locally at the North Pole. But due to global warming (I suspect), the fog has blanketed the entire Earth. Santa's annual task of delivering toys and joy to children of all ages around the world, is threatened. Until, the idea of using Rudolph and his shiny red nose as a method of guiding the sleigh and eight tiny reindeer around the world.

Oh! Well suddenly guess who's kissing Rudy's soft little brown ass? The eight reindeer and that fat bastard Santa, who despite knowing the other reindeer were shitting on the poor little guy all year long, chose not to step in, citing that the constant ribbing would help make Rudolph stronger and tougher. Now, with their livelihoods on the line, and quite possibly their very lives, Rudolph is suddenly the handiest thing since bread came sliced.

Well, it just shows that Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer is a better person than I, as he set aside all his hurt and disgruntled feelings and decided to help the crew out on that fateful night. I, myself, would have pointed a finger at all of them and told 'em to "go f*ck themselves", adding that if I wasn't good enough to gallup around with the team before, why the hell am I so f*cking special now? Because of my ruby red nose? F*ck that!!! But no. Rudolph set aside his greivances and set forth, guiding all onward and upward.

Alas, Christmas was saved! All the little boys and all the little girls of the world over, got to wake up early on Christmas morn, greeted by shiny new sleds, baseball gloves, dolls, and Easy-Bake ovens. Upon their return to the North Pole, all the reindeer suddenly loved the little guy, shouting out with glee, "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, you'll go down in history!!!"

Yeah! Right! A worthless piece of shit yesterday, not even worth the spit draining from their noses, and today they're all riding his coat-tails. Hoping to score just a little piece of the fame that Rudolph has coming to him from that day forth. Donner and Blitzen and Goofy or whatever the f*ck the other one's names are, never had any songs written about them. They appear only as a footnote in the openning lines of Rudolph's song.

But the one thing I always hoped that would've happened after Rudolph returned from that fateful trip was: After all those fail attempts to play the reindeer games, then finally being allowed to participate, I'd always hoped that he'd play the games, then quit almost immediately, pointing out "Ya know...? These games are actually, pretty f*ckin' gay!!! I don't want to play them anymore..."

Season's Greetings, everyone!!!!
And Have a VERY Happy New Year!!!

PAL

Ironically, I once worked for a company whose initials spelled the word P.A.L. And as fun and miserable as that job could get at times, I truly believe that it was there where I met some of my greatest friends. Both life long and in passing.

It was definately the longest job I was able to keep, having stayed there a couple months shy of a nine year tour of duty. And it was during this time that I experienced some of my greatest highs and lows. Both physical and otherwise. I witnessed the passing of an era, moving the store from a cramped space to a new location with what seemed like an abundance of space, but would soon prove otherwise. I saw the three managers move in and out of power. I saw many good people move on to better places, and many useless shits never seem to move a muscle. And though I no longer work in that vocation, I do miss some of the folks. Luckily, however, the ones I truly care most about, continue to be good friends since my departure from the store. So much that we continue to get together for social occasions.

One fellow in particular though, Leon, is moving on to greener pastures. While staying with the company, he is following his heart and moving out the British Columbia, to lend a hand with the birth of a new store in a continually growing entity of a business, but also to be closer to his family who'd moved out there in the previous few months. I had the privilege of being with him for the last few weekends of his tenur here. He came out to witness my making a spectacle of myself on my birthday, two weeks ago. We went out to Warman to visit with other friends we'd both worked with, him at present, me in the distant past. I got to see him get plastered at a going away party this past Saturday, and I got to accompany him to his work's Christmas party Sunday evening at the Western Development Museum.

What was most touching about the Christmas party was seeing how beloved a person he had become over that past eight years or so. I could see some with tears of pride as they presented him with gifts of appreciation and even a grand trophy, clutching a makeshift hydraulic cylinder in it's raised fists. (Leon is a Hydraulic's Specialist with the organization, his reputation exceeding his so much that the manager of the new store hired him on the spot, without an interview. That is most impressive, me thinks!)

He was visibly over-whelmed, as he is a young man who wears his heart on his sleeve, but he maintained his composure and thanked everyone, everywhere, for all the accolades. He is incredibly humble, and this is why he is the proverbial "good guy". Good guys don't come around very often, but when they do, you want to make sure they stay in your life one way or another.

Late last night, as I dropped him at his house, and he so graciously presented me with a couple items that would not be making the trek to B.C., I told him if he ever came back to town and needed a place to crash for a couple of days, to not hesitate and give me a call. I could tell he was genuinely touched.

The dictionary defines "pal" as a very close friend, a comrade, a chum, but what this entry lacks is a picture of Leon, as he is most definately the personification of the word.

I don't usually share people's names in these blog entries, but felt I should do so for Leon, as it's been a real privilege meeting and getting to know this man. And whatever adventures you find and follow in your new mountain home, know that you are always welcome back here on the prairies too.

Have a good life Leon!

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... ;)