Dead Silence

"As it was going down it was getting louder and louder and then all of a sudden it was just quiet." described an eye witness via telephone interview Monday, "When it hit the ground, I didn't see it, but then there was just dead silence."

Saturday morning two planes collided in the skies over the small town of St. Brieux, Saskatchewan, and while such plane crashes, similar to this, crash all over the world, there are usually mitigating circumstances involved.  Normally some evidence that would point investigators in the right direction, in hopes of solving the mystery of why two perfectly good aircraft, with two (presumably) capable pilots, met with such tragedy.  As of the writing of this piece, nothing clear has been released by investigators.

The mystery that plagued me, though, ever since first learning of this tragedy this morning, is how the f*ck is it possible for two planes to collide head-on?  If the air space over St. Brieux was congested with hoards of flying aircraft, one could plausibly concede that such traffic would be a contributing factor to the crash.  However, being that St. Brieux (and area) is practically in the middle of nowhere, chances are that this factor is not a contributor to the accident.

So how the hell do you suppose that the ONLY two airplanes in the sky for virtually hundreds of miles around, managed to plow into one another.  I speculated that one was flying out of the direction of the sun and the other was flying into it, but according to authorities, and given the time of day, this simply was not the case.  So I am baffled.  Not to 'toot my own horn', but I'm pretty good at deciphering a good mystery or puzzle, but this one's got me hooped.

All I know is the odds of something like this occurring, have got to be greater than winning the lottery.  That's like the only two people standing in a desert, firing a gun into the air and winding up shooting one another to death.  Astronomical odds and they managed to do it.  It is senseless.  Senseless that five innocents had to lose their lives, including that of an eleven year old boy, due to a fluke.

Screwin' the Pooch Pays Off For This Son of a Bitch

Years ago, I came up with an idea about creating artificial plants that included dead and dying leaves.  After all, when all the leaves look prim and proper, then of course the plant is going to look phony.  However, when mowing the lawn in my back yard, I am forever picking up leaves from my neighbours plants.  My neighbour's FAKE plants.  I can't understand how a plant which is primarily made up of plastic and fabric, could possibly lose it's leaves.  Yet here I am.  Bending over and removing plastic material from my lawn and tossing it over the rear fence, back into their yard.

Another factor that I find bothersome about tackling yard work, is the electric cord for my mower.  I have a sizeable yard and therefore require a lengthy extension cord.  So there's that constant necessity of swinging the cord to the side, practically throwing my arm out of joint in the process.  Not to mention, the retarded fashion that my yard is cut up, what with a duo of shrubs bisecting the yard.

The worst thing about doing yard work, though, is my allergies.  I am extremely allergic to grass.  Freshly cut grass.  During the summer months, I'm unable to open my windows for the fear of dusty grass remnants wafting into my house, thus causing extreme discomfort, health-wise.  And despite wearing a dust mask, which works in most cases, it does not always do so.  Today, in fact, by the end of the tedious task, my eyes were swelled shut and I had loads of "material" flowing from my nostrils.  I was in terrible disarray.  While in the garage, I managed to smoke my head two or three times before I finally retired for the day.

I had originally planned on doing this dastardly task yesterday, but opted to remain inside instead.  My neighbour to the north of me was out and about, mowing his lawn, so I'd have really been up shit creek.  I waited until today, instead and thank goodness I did.  My neighbour T__, to the south of me, was about to begin his own bout of yard work, when I came into the front yard with mower in tow and a big white mask over my face.  

"You look like you're ready to perform surgery." he joked.

"I wish." I replied, adding that I was deathly allergic to grass and the affects that it has on me.

"That's terrible." he responded, "What happens to you?"  I explained the extreme occurrences, and that's when he offered up the services of his daughters.  

"They can swing by and mow your lawn when they do ours." he explained.  "And they'll do it for $10."

AWESOME!!!  I f*cking hate yard work and would gladly pay someone $10 a week to do it for me.  That is a sweet deal.  It looks, to me, like screwing the pooch this weekend, really paid off.  Yay!

Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!

Construction has begun on the empty lots behind my work.  It was cool watching all the machines strategically move the earth around.  I found myself, for a moment, caught up in the excitement of it all, wishing that I'd made different choices in life.  Choices that would've placed me behind the controls of these behemoth machines, instead of pondering from afar.

Watching the boom swing back and forth, I thought back to when I was a small child.  I grew up on a farm, not far from the city.  In the winter time, it was up to my father to clear out the snow from the yard to allow the easy entrance and exit of our vehicles.  My dad did not have a snow blower, relying on an aluminum scoop shovel, instead.  Either it seemed like we had lots and lots of snow, because I was a small child, or this particular year in my memory, we were relentlessly bombarded with snow.  So my dad could be heard clearing away the snow with his shovel.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" would echo off the building encompassing the yard. "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"  And we had a sizable yard, too.  Not a small driveway, but a grand-sized yard and a long lane-way that connected it to the highway. A front-end bucket for his tractor would have been a worthwhile investment, but instead.... "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

So one day, my sister and I were in the city with my mom, who came across these children's snow shovels.  They were red or blue or both, with a picture of a snowman in a winter scene.  "Would you like a snow shovel?" my mother asked us kids.  As I recall, our faces lit up and both were thrilled at the prospect of obtaining our own shovels.  Then we could go help dad clear the snow from the yard.  Up to then, it looked like a lot of fun.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!"

No sooner did we arrive at home, than did my sister and I go running out to begin our crusade of helping our father clear the snow that continually blew into the yard.  "Clunk! Clunk! Scoop!" continued to echo off the buildings, as my sister and I rounded the corner of the house, shovels in hand.  My dad was happy to see his smiling children, with shovels in hand and promises of help.  He pointed out a spot where we could begin our assistance.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!" we began, moving small increments of snow.  "Clip! Clip! Swish!"  Our efforts were small in comparison to the gargantuan amounts of snow our dad was able to move, and our shovels barely made a sound as they cut into the snow, unlike the thunderous clunks our dad's shovel made.

Soon, I realized that my dad didn't do this task on a nearly daily basis, because it was fun, but did it out of necessity.  This wasn't a game for him, but work.  As quick as I thought it was a wonderful idea to get the shovel to help my dad, I was wanting to desert my dad.  My sister, if I recall, being much younger than myself, had no qualms about dropping her shovel and returning to the warmth of the house.  I tried to hold on longer, but soon claimed to be cold and was encouraged by my dad to return to the house to warm up.

It's funny the shit you remember from the most insignificant and innocent of moments throughout your day...

So as I stood there, in the back of the shop, watching the earth moving equipment push the darkened soil about, I wished I could be the guy behind the controls of the machine, but almost as quickly, realized that it's probably a lot more actual work than it is fun to maneuver the equipment.  As I've learned in the last few days..;  Work isn't supposed to be fun...  Go figure!

It Thounds Like I'm Lithping

Although the original movie was released 35 years ago on May 25th, Star Wars geeks have hijacked May the 4th, like Stormtroopers overtaking a Corellian freighter in search of black market booty.  Wisely they should, as May the 4th, seems tailor-made to accommodate George Lucas' visionary trilogies.

I've heard reference to this date before, but today, I never really put two and two together to get May the 4th, let alone "May the 4th be with you".  Boy oh boy, though, once I clued in, I felt the loss of some very cool acknowledgments the whole day through.

By some sort of irony, I'd already planned to watch all of the Star Wars flicks back-to-back-to-back this weekend, with my boy (my cat) Monkey.  We sat down the other night and watched the third Robot Chicken Star Wars collection, but he didn't seem to get any of the jokes or references.  Being that he only turns three years old (tomorrow), it's a given that he's never seen any of the Star Wars movies.  Although I prefer the Star Trek films to the Star Wars movies, one simply cannot go through life having never seen the awesomeness that is STAR WARS.

So tomorrow, instead of swigging back cervezas with my amigos, I will instead be celebrating my boy's birthday and watching Star Wars.  Although, between you and I, I've got Monkey convinced that the entire world is celebrating Cinco de Mayo, because of his being born and not because of Mexico's desire to celebrate a warring victory over the French on May 5th, 1862.  So they beat the French!  So f*cking what?!?  EVERYBODY beats the French.  They surrender.  That's what they do.  THAT'S what the French do best.  That and smell bad (because they don't bathe in France)...

Live Long and Prosper!

Whack-F*ck!!

Whack-f*ck [WAK fuk]  whack-f*cking;  noun, verb - 1. A term associated with the game of golf, usually involving the "whacking" of the golf ball from the tee-off box, resulting in the ball either slicing or shanking, ultimately flying in any direction other than towards the intended target, and the player crying out an expletive, vulgar in nature.  Example of use:  WHACK!  "F*CK!!!"

Mr. Green Thumb

I'm a fan of the musical group Cypress Hill.  They have a song entitled "Dr. Green Thumb" which speaks of growing marijuana.  So why is there a picture of a purple thumb to the right?  An explanation will follow, trust me.

I was not familiar with the "why" 4:20 is affiliated with the consumption of marijuana.  According to Wikipedia, it has something to do with students in the early 1970's who would meet up at 4:20pm to blaze up.  Eventually, the term was used for smoking pot in general.  Kind of like my use of "a new hat", which never really took off.  Or my love of "toast", which did catch on with a small group of us, back in the day.

All day long, on the radio, there was a debate of whether or not legalization of marijuana would be a wise decision.  Most who oppose it, are likely the ones least likely to have ever tried it.  They're the same people who swear up and down that marijuana is a gateway drug to bigger, badder and worse off drugs.  Drugs like cocaine, heroine, and worse.  I, personally, don't see it.  I believe that people are presupposed into addiction.  That, and the weaker the mind, the more prone they are likely to fall victim to their addictions.  I truly believe, in all my heart, that if you choose to quit something, you can.  No amount of counselling is going to help you, if you yourself don't decide to allow it to work.  Simple mind over matter.

"Marijuana is a drug, and therefore shouldn't be legalized" is the usual banter.  However, caffeine is a drug.  Tobacco, for all intense purposes, is a drug.  So is aspirin, ibuprofen, and whatever they put into cough syrup.  I've heard of a lot of kids who get hopped up on f*ckin' cough syrup.  I don't know why.  It tastes like shit, but there you have it.  Stupid kids, doing stupid shit!

I think marijuana should be legalized.  For one, it'd be a f*ck of a lot easier for me to buy it then.  Secondly, it could be regulated, in that it wouldn't be spiked with other drugs... (I'll share a story about that in a moment.)  And the government could tax the shit out of it, make some money in the process.

I would like to use it in a medicinal capacity, as a way to combat my migraine headaches.  There are some nights when the pain is so intense, I'd just like a way to relax and go to sleep.  I have heavy duty meds for the headaches, but it is a highly addictive narcotic, so my allowance of use is very limited.

I'm no stranger to smoking up.  I've never really been a "Cheech" (or a "Chong") about it, but when the opportunity has arisen, I've partook.  And nothing bad has ever happened.  I think the worst that has happened was I obliviously dumped mustard down the front of my shirt.  I [vaguely] recall, staring off into space and chewing on a hamburger.  The next thing I knew, I looked down to find my work shirt was ruined by a long-ass streak of bright yellow mustard.

There was a anti-drug video a few years back that depicted two friends sharing a joint on their couch then getting the idea of driving out of town, to tip cows.  One guy climbed over a barbed-wire fence, followed by the other, giggling the whole time.  The end result of this ill-planned adventure was one of the teens being mowed down by a raging bull who was also in the pasture that night.  The reality of this scenario is, if you smoke a joint, chances are, you're not going to have the energy to get off the couch to go tip cows.  Or do anything, for that matter.

I remember another night, I was with friends.  We'd passed around a joint or two and was having a great time.  I decided to get up and go to the kitchen to fetch myself a drink.  Apparently, I'd been gone for about an hour when someone came to the kitchen to see what had happened to me.  They found me in front of the kitchen sink, with a can of grape drink mix in one hand, and a purple thumb.  I'd been standing there for an hour licking my thumb and dipping it into the juice mix.  Today, and even this very moment, this fact still brings me to tears of laughter.

Alcohol is a drug.  You get pissed up and chances are you're either going to get into a fist fight, or do something worse.  Drive drunk and wrap your car around a pole.  This is why alcohol is regulated.  If you get high on marijuana, chances are the worst thing that's going to happen to you is, you're going to gain a couple pounds.

Regulation is the key to successfully legalizing anything.  I mentioned earlier that regulation would prevent other drugs being introduced into the marijuana.  I had a bad experience with a batch that someone had spiked with I don't know what the f*ck.  But I remember the experience vividly, like I was watching the whole thing go down from outside my body.  This was also the last time I'd ever consumed marijuana.

I was with some friends at another friend's house.  Some people I wasn't familiar with came into the party as well, and with them, they had some "party favours".  Being they were friends of my friends, I thought nothing of it when a joint was passed to me.  I had only a couple of hits off it when my whole world began to spiral out of control.  I suddenly had turned from my usual healthy fleshy shade of caucasian to a deep red.  I though I was on fire, literally, I was burning up and sweat poured off my head like someone was pouring a bucket of water over me.  I was burning up so bad, and despite an open door just a few mere feet in front of me, leading into the cool night, my legs wouldn't move.  I was so helpless, and if it weren't for the fact that my friend "Bubbles", and host of the party, jumping into rescue-mode, I'm sure I would've died that night.

I've not touched marijuana since that night.  It's been, I-don't-know-how-many years, since I've smoked pot.  If it became legal, I'd definitely dabble a little in it.  I won't lie, but until that day comes, I'll remain sober, just to be on the safe side.

So for those who do smoke.  Happy 4-20, folks!  And have a nice day!!!

God's Gift To Women

I stopped off at the grocery store after work to pick up some milk and a treat for tomorrow's barbecue at work.  I strode into the grocery store, like I've done a thousand times before, only this time was a little different.  Instead of being virtually invisible to the people around me, today seemed different.  People, especially the females, were looking at me a little differently.  Some with looks of approval, while others just seemed to stare.  A couple women, I actually caught checking me out.  "My eyes are up here!" I thought to myself, a slight smirk wiping across my face.  I don't know what was different today, than any other day, but I kind of liked the extra attention.

I wasn't feeling real great all day long, feeling lethargic and without much energy.  So my walking style into the store, to my knowledge, wasn't one of purpose or determination.  I slunk more than I walked, actually, but whatever my method, it really seemed to be making an impact on the members of the opposite sex.  "Spring is in the air." I thought.  

I made my way through the mart, gathering up the groceries I wanted and made my way back to my car.  As I placed the items in my trunk, a gust of wind rushed past me, and for the first time, I felt a breeze on my "nether regions".

"Aw, God damn it!" I loudly said to myself, "My fly is open!"