My How Times Have Changed

In the last few days, I've been copying some of my old blogs from other sites. In doing so, I've been perusing and skimming over some of those writings, and some are okay, while others are down right terrible. One particular posting I happened upon, was one written a little over 5 years ago. And yes, I can't believe I've been doing this for that long either.

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This particular blog, was based on the concept of "love" and my theory of what that meant. I equated it to a wrestling move. More specifically, it was Jake "The Snake" Robert's devastating DDT. I explained how when the maneuver was first introduced, it was the most devastating move in wrestling up to that date. However, in the decades since, wrestlers are kicking out of DDT's left, right and center. The once dangerous move, is now as dangerous as a slobbering puppy dog.

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I equated love to this. That people drop the L-word, far too often, and for stupid shit like "Ooh. I love this song." Or, "Ooh, I love ice cream." My opinion of love remains the same for the most part. To love something or someone, means you can't see your life without that thing or person in it. I believe that people will live just fine without that song or ice cream.

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However, in reading the blog, I noticed also, that I didn't know what the f*ck I was talking about. How can someone who's never been in love, even write anything about love? It's like writing a book about proper child rearing, but having never been a parent. Where do they get the gall?

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It's been five years, almost to the date, since I wrote that. I can admit that infatuations have come and gone during that time, but only one has touched my life in such a way that I can't imagine my life without them. So much, that I even went out a month ago and purchased an engagement ring to propose marriage to this woman. But as the story goes. It was too little too late. She belongs to another now, and my heart can't be any more crushed than it is at this moment.

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In my life, I've managed to break my bones and tear the shit out of my muscles and none of those distresses can compare with the pain I have in my chest right now. I've read that "broken hearts never mend", and perhaps that is so. I hope it's not true.

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I have said that I couldn't see myself marrying anyone else. This is as true to me as I am sitting here tapping away on this computer. But you never know. Maybe ten years down the road... I'll have another chance... The times. They're always changing.

FISTING: No Joking Matter

Holy f*ck!!! I wrote a blog about how I located some misplaced keys between the cushions of my sofa. In which I compared the search to "fisting a polar bear". But when I asked for feedback on the written article, do you think anyone actually commented on whether or not I'd constructed the piece with any degree of satisfaction? NO! Every single piece of feedback I received, except for one (thanks T____), dealt with the comparison not the document.

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Most folks commented on the fisting. A majority thought it was inappropriate. A few others thought it was rude and obnoxious. A one or two, didn't know what the f*ck "fisting" was. For that couple, I simply say, "Google it!" Wonderful thing, Google is, you really can find just about everything on it, but take heed as the afore mentioned folks who thought it to be inappropriate, rude and obnoxious, are correct in a strange sort of way.

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Now I don't want to get off on a tangent here, but... If you can't approach fisting with a sense of humour, then what's the point of living. It's not particularly a practice that I'd wish to partake in, and especially believe that if one does, that it be approached delicately and with care. No one on the receiving end is going to be very amused if in the midst of romance, you go "Jim Henson" on their pooter.

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Admittedly, the whole procedure seems to be more dangerous than beneficial, from what I've read on the subject. Plus, I think I would be reluctant to spend any time with someone who could only be stimulated by such practices. My hands aren't that big, but I tire easily.

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Still, though, the whole idea of fisting, seems funny to me. Whether it's a nervous chuckle or a gut-wrenching keeled-over in my chair laughter, The fact that there are people who got so strung up over this comment, makes it even more funny. The mere fact that some meaningless bullshit that I mentioned in passing, could cause such an uproar, to me is f*cking hilarious. In fact, most people who take life too f*cking serious, make me laugh.

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Whatever position you hold in life, wherever you may be on the age scale, if you can't spare a moment or two to simply laugh at the retardedness that is life, then there's definitely something wrong with you, and the seriousness and the stress is going to make you not long in this life. So take a moment for clarity. Take the fist out of your ass, and laugh a little. After all, life is too short!!!

Frantic OR The Polar Bear Incident

For the first time in years, I lost my keys. There's nothing more unnerving than having to be somewhere, but having no idea where the keys to your car or house are. While I do have a spare set of keys to both, I have never been able to leave the house without both sets. My best guess as to a reason for this, would stem to back when I went to university.

Having come home one weekend, I'd unwittingly left my residence in Regina, Saskatchewan, with only one set of keys. Of course, this would be the one time when I'd lock the keys inside my car. So a Sunday afternoon was wasted driving down to the Queen City to pick up my spare set, instead of spending it with my then-girlfriend, having mad-coitus all afternoon. Thinking back now, the afternoon of driving to Regina, wasn't so bad. That ex-girlfriend was a f*cking animal....

Anyway, the same thing happened to me this very day. All except leaving my keys in another city and having some madwoman constantly ripping off my clothes. Oh how we long for those golden days... But no! I had to leave, and though it was only for a few errands, I've managed to train my mind to avoid leaving the house..., just in case.

Now, it was reported that actor Charlie Sheen tore apart a New York City hotel room, rumoured because he had lost a $26,000 wrist watch. I remember the media raising such a ruckus because he'd done this, and in the meantime scared some foolish porn actress in the bathroom. First of all, who are we to judge? If anyone reading this, lost anything worth $26,000 in a hotel room, I'm pretty sure things would be ripped apart into shreds too; and secondly, IF anyone reading this (and this goes for the media too), could afford to pay for the damages incrued through the destruction of a hotel room, I'm sure they would do it. It positively sounds like a hoot. On the bright side, I'm willing to bet that today, that hotel room is the cleanest room that hotel has, or at least, the least-filthy of the rooms they have.

I, too, have frantically searched high and low for lost articles. Whether it be a set of keys, a lost ticket, or even a $20 bill. When something is lost, but you swear you know where it "has to be", one tends to toss apart their home, like college boys during a panty-raid.

This time was no different, only that because I'd be the cleaning up the aftermath, I was a bit more careful. Lifting, pulling, stretching things to one side, periodically paused by my standing in the middle of the room, with eyes closed, trying to retrace the steps of the previous 12 hours, then on to lifting, pulling, and stretching once more.

Finally, I happened upon my sofa. The odds of my keys working their way out of my pockets and pressed deep into the cavernous crevasses of the couch were astronomical, but if "Jeffy's Law" has taught me anything over my lifetime, it is to never think about the odds... Or maybe that was the survival statistics of surviving an asteroid belt while flying the Millenium Falcon. In either case, I was going in.

Pulling back on the cushions and pressing my face down into the cushions, I was careful to not block out all the light that was raining down behind me from the eastern facing windows. Just as I was about to surrender to the powers that be, who sought it best to steal away my keys, mine eyes caught a glint. A mere shimmer. Not even a shimmer, really, but a slight reflection of light. I forced my hand down into the darkness, feeling the coolness of the fabric on my hands, it was somehow calming, but at the same time, felt a little wrong. It felt like I was fisting a polar bear.

I caught the key-ring with my finger tips and I was quickly on my way.

Shooting Stars

Today began a lot like most days for me. I slept in, but not too long, as my cat, Monkey, was sure to wake me up to feed him. Then I was up for good. Watched a little telly and had some breakfast before shooting off to work.

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That's when things began to get a little odd. By all accounts, there was nothing strange going on at all, but for some reason, my eyes were playing tricks on me. For instance, walking down the sidewalk that ran parallel to the street I was driving on, I saw someone who was the spitting image of Ludwig Von Beethoven. Of course, I knew this was impossible, as that guy's been dead for centuries. Plus, why the hell would he be in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan of all places to be if he were to rise from the dead for only one day.

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A short while later, as I walked down the corridor to the washrooms, I believe I saw Jesus. Not some hispanic dude named Jesus (hay-zues), but the actual messiah, son-of-God guy. I'm not a religious fellow, and don't poke fun at those who are, but this guy looked just like Jesus Christ. Granted he wasn't wearing white robes or anything, choosing bargain bin denim jeans and a swanky sweat shirt, but it was definitely him. I've seen pictures, and this guy was the spitting image.

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After that, when returning from running some envelopes to the courier bin, I discovered George Peppard was in the building. "Now this is getting ridiculous," I thought to myself, knowing that A*Team star has been dead for a few decades now. On closer inspection, and no, I didn't get up close in their business, but I did recognize that "George" was actually a tall woman with a really shitty haircut. (Frankly, I've never understood why woman choose to get those brush cut hairdos. Even if they are a dyke, what's the point of not wanting to look good?)

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Now earlier in the day, I was notified that I'd had some mail in my old mail slot located just upstairs from where I was now working. This seemed a little strange, as all the mail comes through the office where I'm now working. If they knew I was receiving mail, then why the f*ck was it still going upstairs? Anyways, I eventually snuck up to that office when I had a spare moment. I retreived a pay stub from two weeks ago and a large stiff cardboard envelope. I glanced at the name on the return address and recognized the name: DIEHL.

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A few months back, if anyone's been keeping track of this albeit, questionable blog, you may recall that a friend from work's daughter, was producing a movie here in Saskatoon. I was invited to the set one day and met the lead actor on the project. Mr. John Diehl who's starred in a plethera of projects on the small and large screen. Television programs including Miami Vice and The Shield, as well as movies which include Stargate and Stripes.

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We'd exchanged pleasantries that day, which was nice. What really blew my mind, though, was his remembering me, by name, the next evening when I, once more was visiting the set. I wrote about both encounters with Mr. Diehl, in this blog back around the middle of October 2010. So fast forward to today, I receive this stiff envelope with "DO NOT BEND" warning stickers on it. I kind of guessed that it might be an autographed photo, and sparing no moments when I'd returned to my office in the Purchasing Department of my work, I carefully opened up the encasement and retreived an 8"X10" photograph of the afore mentioned Diehl.

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Written across his brow in golden ink was a short message. He commented on reading what I'd written in this very blog. He admired that I was able to write out my thoughts as I had (and have), adding that it was something he was never able to do. They were very kind words, which impresses me even now, as I re-read them. I'm deeply moved (and blown away) that this man, this actor, this... movie star, not only took the time to learn my name, but took the time to read a couple of short paragraphs that I'd written, and furthermore, taken a few moments more, in his hometown of Los Angeles, California, to jot down some kind words for me.

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I've said this before. I've met quite a few celebrities, and as cool as they were, I doubt very much that if they had a moment or two to spare, that they'd even remember anything about me. Not to sell myself short, but come on. A ruggedly-handsome fellow like myself, in a backwards jerk-water town like Saskatoon? What's there to remember? But Mr. Diehl was kind enough (and cool enough) to do just that. He's number one in my books. That's for sure.

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And this concludes my brushes with greatness on this particular day. I wonder who I'll see tomorrow. Michael Jackson? Maybe Elvis. That'd be cool...

Smokin' Walter, Fire Engine Guy

First of all. I know my views aren't going to be very popular, but that doesn't make them any less true. So that being said, Number One: Firemen are f*cked! And secondly, I pray my house never starts on fire.

I mean, God bless those goofy bastards, for laying their lives on the line to rescue those in peril from fires, and squealing kittens from trees. They're guys doing the shit that I hope I never have to do. After all, if the kitten got up the tree, the little f*cker can damn well come down the tree itself. Why saddle their owner with that unnecessary expense.

But seriously, anyone who willfully runs all willy-nilly into a raging fire, has to have a screw or two lose to begin with. Running into that situation goes all against human nature. In other words, they're inhuman, which is almost the same as insane. And ladies, you don't really want to bring home a guy who's f*cking bonkers, to meet momma.

For some reason, though, the ladies inexplicably are drawn to these bad boys. Frankly, I don't get it. Then again, I don't understand the women who are attracted to serial killers, wife beaters or Gerard Depardieu (too obscure o' reference?). Take the bloke in the photograph above. Why the f*ck is he wearing a scarf over his face? He's clearly not in a fire, so I have to assume, he's "gangsta". You can also tell, because the douche bag is wearing his helmet, slightly askew.

Now, I'm not a complete asshole. (Got many folks fooled though, don't I?) All the brave men and women who lost their lives on 9/11 did so bravely, and their memories are not lost on me, nor are they unappreciated. But in the years that have followed that fateful day, I've crossed paths with many of these fiery soldiers, and have discovered that many use the memory and the substantial losses of that day, as a sort of entitlement. I recall one such incident at a night club, where there were some off-duty firefighters on the premisis. They were pushing people around, getting all tough and shit, while proudly donning the City's Fire Shield on the breast pocket of their shirt. One fellow, in particular, shoved me aside, thus spilling my intoxicating beverage. I'm thrifty at best and don't agree with the inflated prices of alcoholic beverages at the local drinking establishments, but that dislike goes doubly when some asshole spills my drink without so much as a f*cking sorry or even a nod of apology. Instead, this guy responded to my "What the f*ck?!?" with a braggart "Whatcha gonna do? I'm a fire fighter!"

Perhaps this experience has simply jaded my attitudes towards these guys..., but I doubt it. Because, in the end, they're still all f*cked.

I'm not completely in the clear of this vocation, though. I admit that, as a child, I flirted with the fantasy of being in the fire fighting profession when I grew up, too. Except, as a little kid, I didn't want to be a fireman. Instead, I had my sights set on actually becoming a fire truck. Pretty f*cked up, huh?

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Have a nice day and remember...

ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT FOREST FIRES...

Rude Awakenings

I've stated before about how my cat, since being "fixed", ie. having his nads chopped, seems overly affectionate to my legs. My left leg to be specific.
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My leg is, thankfully, alway clad in a faux fur blanket made of polyester. It is soft to the touch and simulates animal fur quite nicely, so I do understand the confusion.., somewhat. I've often commented that despite his intelligence for problem solving, ie. getting the toy ball out of the bag without climbing in, for fear that his daddy (me) is going to scoop him up inside it. However, in other aspects, he simply has me stumped, left scratching my head at the idiocy. But he's just a (arguably) small creature and a juvenile, as well.
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He is clever enough to know that I find his amorous behavior with my limbs, quite distasteful as I've tossed him aside many times, calling him a "fag". (Sorry to the gay community, but what else do you call a guy who humps your leg?) So now, my cat, Monkey, covertly attacks my legs when I am deep asleep. As I stated before, my cat Monkey has a proficiency for problem solving.
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Most times, I am lucky enough to catch him before the "grand finale", and toss him aside, again repeating my belittlement of his sexuality. This morning, I was awoken by him violent gyrations on my left leg once more. Thankfully, I was able to catch him and toss him aside before he could finish his deed, but not without catching a glimpse of his "little pink thing", and I use that term loosely. It's an image I wish I could delete from my mind's eye. It truly is. But on a completely different note, I'm thinking that I shouldn't have saddled him with the name MONKEY, when it's clear he should've been named "Ron Jeremy".

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Have a nice day, all!

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**For anyone who doesn't know who Ron Jeremy is: (1) Where have you been for the last decade or three; and (2) Google the name.

I'll Be Brief...

Honestly speaking.... For many years, if you were to ask me to define "boxer briefs", I'd have told you it referred to the fact sheet that accompanies a professional pugilist prior to a bout. However, in the classiest of terms, this actually refers to the underwear garment, worn by men.

I, for many many years, have preferred straight boxers. Leaving "the boys" to swing freely. To and fro, back and forth, all around willy-nilly. Frankly, I enjoyed the freedom. It was all the enjoyment of walking around the house in my underwear, only out in the world, where no one knew any better.

However, I've come to the conclusion, that this isn't necessarily the right road to be venturing down, and a couple of nights ago, I purchased some boxer briefs from a large consumer conglomerate. I won't say where exactly, but.... Wal-Mart. I've always been one who appreciated "bang for a buck". (I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm a little inebriated at the moment.)

The experience, I have to say, is really different. Breath-taking, if I may. First off, I noticed that I don't have the flexibility I once had. Climbing into my truck, proved a little more challenging than usual. My legs felt like they were connected by a web, like the feet of an aquatic bird. Quack!

Secondly, the support was suprising as well. No more willy-nilly, but more cuppage. Like two peas in a pod, if you'll pardon the expression, or a nice snug pair of gloves.

I realize now, even in my current state, that sharing this little tid-bit about my little tid-bits, is almost as strange as the experience itself. But if I can't entertain you all, then what the f*ck is the point of writing any of this stuff.

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Have a nice day, folks!!!