A Hidden Agenda

It's not often that I get to recycle a picture for my blog, but when the opportunity arises, it only makes sense.

As stated in my previous blog, I've traveled from my home in sweet Saskatoon, to the bowels of Hell, aka Regina, for the bittersweet weekend among friends, to commemorate and celebrate the memory of our friend and family member, Darcy.

The last few years, we've stayed at a hotel on the northern end of the city, but this year we've moved to a new spot.  I'm not certain when this establishment was built, but the rooms are nicer, bigger and way cleaner.  To put it plainly, I'm not afraid to sit on the bed spreads while wearing shorts.  The rooms all, from what I've seen thus far, are all generic with practically the same artwork on every wall, but over all, I believe this experience will be for the best.

The location is superb, seated just off a main drag.  There's a decent speckling of restaurants and fast food joints all around, unlike the other place that had a Burger Baron across the street and a Tim Horton's about a block south.  The Burger Baron's food is so sub-par to what should be considered edible, and the walk to the Timmy Ho's is not for the faint of heart.

I got to visit the Carl's Jr, down the street from this Days Inn and though it fell short of my experience when I visited the one in Kelowna, British Columbia, the food was still okay.  The only downside to that visit was the bearded toilet and the creepy albino dude who lurked behind the corner of my booth, readily available to jump out and inquire about my meal.  He asked three frickin' times.

The hotel, costs about the same per night as the previous one did, only this one seems to have a plethora of hidden fees that the other never seemed to have, or at least hid better than this one does.  The room is $128 per night, which by my math, comes out to about $256.  I'm being charged just under $300.  When asked about the extra charges, the quirky fellow behind the desk proudly answered, "Taxes and other fees."

Taxes, I understand.  We can't get away from that, unfortunately.  No matter what a person does or buys, the government needs to have their hand out for their share, too.  It was the "fees" that sparked my interest.  "What sort of fees?"  I asked.

"Well," he explained, "There's the destination fee."

"Destination fee?" I asked, "What's a destination fee?"

"Regina charges visitors a fee for coming to the city." he said.

I found this reasoning, absurd.  "The city charges people to visit their city?  That's ridiculous."  I said.

That sounds as stupid as the conversation with the bank last week, who told me that the bank charges it's customers a fee for banking with them.  Now this city charges people a fee for the "privilege" of visiting their city?  That doesn't make any sense.

"It's to help pay for events like the Exhibition (fair) or Agribition (agricultural exhibition)." he explained, without so much as agreeing that the premise seemed deceitful or devious and no matter how much prodding I made, he wouldn't budge and admit that it was stupid.

I look at situations like this and wonder where I fell short, unable to think up a helpful service that people require then charging them a f**king fee for being so helpful.  I couldn't do such a thing, though.  As much of a scoundrel as I can be at times, I can't be a complete asshole.  I wanna be an asshole, but I can't bring myself to it.  Regina, on the other hand, in addition to being a giant toilet, is proving itself to be every bit the asshole I've always suspected it to be.

Double Digits - Ten Years of "Loud 'n' Proud"

It was New Year's Day 2006, when I received the phone call that my friend, Darcy Corrigan, had passed away unexpectedly.  After only twenty-eight years on this mortal coil, his shining light was extinguished, but not forgotten from the hearts of all who knew and loved him.

Darcy was a generous, funny, smart, no bullshit kind of guy and though I wasn't as close to him as some, having known this amazing fella, has influenced my life in more ways than I could even know.  His generosity, alone, was more than I could fathom.  One story sticks out particularly.  It occurred just a little over a month before his passing.  It was my birthday and there were lots of people taking me out for dinner followed by some drunken karaoke.  A common practice for a few of us, at the time.  Darcy was living and working out of town, at the time, so I never expected to see him show up for my little soiree, but he did.  Despite working all that Saturday and having to open his store up the following Sunday morning, Darcy traveled the two-and-a-half-PLUS distance, following his shift, to pick me up from my house, take me to where everyone was meeting for supper, then on to the karaoke bar, doing in all with the often seen, rarely photographed smile on his face, as observed in the photograph above.

I think of Darcy everyday.  I have a tattoo on my left forearm, as a memoriam to Darcy, of a lone woman in a red dress.  "Why such an obscure tattoo?", you ask.  On one of the many occasions that we had gone out for a rousing night of drink and song, a friend and I thought it'd be funny if we signed up our usually silent cohorts for a song.  The first was "Funky Town" for the normally reserved Boyd, who performed to song stunningly.  So good he was, in fact, that months later when another friend attempted the song, he got up to instruct them.  For Darcy, however, we decided to tame things down for him and requested "Lady In Red" by Chris de Burgh.  My friend and I were waiting to chuckle when he bombed, but there were nothing but the sweetest notes coming from his breath.  So memorable was his performance, that every time I've heard that song on the radio, since, I am reminded of Darcy.

It was nine years ago, New Year's Day, when I answered the phone and received the heartbreaking news.  I never cried at the death of my father in the same way that I did with Darcy's passing.  Maybe it was because of how unexpected it was.  At the funeral, I met Darcy's family for the first time.  It was no wonder that Darcy grew into the incredible man that he was, surrounded by such a loving family as this.  It was a time where it was beneficial to be a wallflower.  To sit back and listen to all the amazing stories where Darcy was a main focal point.  I got to see and live his life via some sort of magic in those couple of days and in the years since.

Every year, beginning in the summer of 2006, a mass conglomeration of family treks from the recesses of western Canada, migrating to Regina for a Saskatchewan Roughrider game, in what has come to be known as: The Darcy Corrigan Memorial Game Weekend.  The numbers have dwindled some, from that initial game, but given how tough life has been getting for people, I can't blame them.  I've fallen on tough financial times in the last five-plus years, but as tough as I see it, I think of how Darcy traveled all that distance to spend a few hours with me and friends on my birthday, only to race home again to open his store for the morning traffic.  That kind of generosity, boggles my mind, to this day.  I go to the Memorial Weekend, just for that reason.  That and I love his family.  More so than my own, in some instances, if I gotta be honest.

Darcy's been absent from this world of a little over nine years, but he's remained LOUD 'n' PROUD in our hearts and minds for TEN years.  So this weekend, whether you knew Darcy or not, I hope you'll raise your glass in his memory, anyway.  R.I.P. Darcy Corrigan.  I can't wait to meet up with you on the other side.

Failed Promise

The day held such promise when I woke up this morning.  I had an important meeting to attend in the afternoon which pertained to my job as a school bus driver.  At the end of the school year, last June, I discussed with one of the people in the office about the possibility of switching routes.  The one that I'd been driving since getting this job was nice, but my bus is parked all the way across town and I've accumulated more mileage on my vehicle than I have on the bus I'd been driving.  Not to mention the damage I've incurred from passerbys.  My truck wasn't in pristine condition, but it never had all the key scratches, either.  Some brave motherf**ker is doing it.  The street where we're made to park our vehicles for the duration of our routes, is not in the nicest of neighbourhoods.

In addition, the unbearable amount of time that it takes to make the trek home, is almost an hour in some instances.  Ten or fifteen minutes to drive to the bus lot, an hour or more to come home.

So when the mention of different routes being available, with buses already situated at the lot near my house, I was told that it was quite likely I could get one of those, a trade-up in my books, that would ease a shit ton of stress that my feeble mind has endured for the last six months.  So when I woke up this morning, everything seemed brighter.  Full of promise and wonder, however that plane took a serious nose dive when I was handed the route information for the same route as I had in the spring.

"What's this?" I asked, "I was told I'd be getting a new route.  One situated closer to my home."  The woman behind the desk shrugged her shoulders and instructed me to call the boss lady, whom I did manage to approach after the meeting.  She shrugged her shoulders and told me, "We don't have any room for you to park your bus at the north lot." Without further discussion, she turned and proceeded to ignore me.  That's poor management, in my opinion.

I think she misunderstood me, believing that I was requesting to park my bus at the north end, rather than giving me the new route that was promised me in June.  So one of two things needs to happen and happen very soon.  One:  I need to meet with her again and explain more clearly what my request is and was; Or two:  I need to hurry, get my Class 2 license and get a better job.  Clearly, my needs are not being met and therefore, I need to go somewhere where my needs will be met.  I just need to get this reading thing down, otherwise I'm totally f*cked!!

**Throwing more stress onto my already strained mind, during our safety meeting today, it was announced that there has been three instances of school buses being shot at, this year alone, in our fair City of Saskatoon.  I didn't think violence like that existed here, but now I got that bullshit weighing on my mind.  What the f*ck?!?**

Near Death Experience

My life flashed before my eyes, as I gazed back into the bowl to inspect the damage.  The sight was a blood curdling crimson red.  I was horrified at what might be afoot, now, with regards to my continuing spiraling health. In addition to the plethora of ailments that have plagued me over the past few years, I speculated that something truly sinister was invading my body and I would soon be visiting another battery of invasive medical specialists poking and prodding my body, humming and hawing with great speculation, wrought with supposition and very little certainty.  More medical professionals labeling me an "odd duck", which is not a proper medical terminology.

What I saw in that toilet bowl was horrific.  Like a murder scene from "Dexter".  A few shards of muddied feculence blanketed with the deepest crimson colour.  A colour so intense that if someone drove up in a hot rod of the same hue, it'd surely turn onlooker heads, but splashed inside the toilet bowl was true horror and a real cause for concern.

"What will become of my boy?" I thought, in reference to my cat.  My mother is getting on in years and will be unable to take care of a feline friend.  My sister already has a St. Bernard, whom my cat, Monkey, detests greatly, not to mention his dislike of children.

What of my other possessions?  My house?  My truck?  My car?  So many things that I have in my greedy hands that I don't want to share with others in the event of my untimely passing.  What the hell am I going to...?  Wait a second!!

"Awe, shit!!" I said, aloud, having just remembered I had beets for supper, last night.  "That explains the ungodly sight."

An overwhelming sigh of relief erupted from my breath.  I would survive, after all.  What with all the healthy meals I've been preparing, as of late, I expect to live a very long time.., as dreadful as that idea is to bear.

Money Grubber

Someone got f*cked out of their money.  I don't know who it was, but someone f*cked up and an innocent person lost almost two hundred dollars.

I went down to the bank to make a substantial payment on my credit card.  It's a ScotiaBank card and I wouldn't even have it, if it weren't for the fact I earn points that go towards FREE movies at any Cineplex-Odeon theater.  I applied a few years ago, when the program first began and I've been earning a shit ton of free movies ever since. I'm not the most responsible guy in the world and often forget to make regular payments, forcing myself to make large payments when I'm finally reminded via a pressing letter from the bank's head office.  Today, I made such a payment.

As I was readying myself to exit the bank, the teller, a Middle-Eastern fellow named Rishi, expressed that I owed a $20 overdraft fee on my checking account.  I was flabbergasted as I don't have a checking account with this bank.  My dealings with the bank is expressively with regards to the credit card, in which I earn points towards free movies.  I had no use for a checking account, nor do I ever recall opening such an account.  I pressed for more information and with a nervous look washed across his face, Rishi began feverishly tapping away at his keyboard, looking for an explanation.

According to Rishi, the account had been opened in 2011 and had exceeded to just over $193, at it's highest at one time.  I explained that there's no way that I would have parted with such an exorbitant amount in 2011, as I was unemployed and could not have parted with that amount, especially into an account that had laid dormant for the past four years.  He began typing again, further delving into the bowels of the banking records.

"It was opened with sixty dollars," he said, "In December of 2011.  Then another sixty dollars was deposited in June of 2012, then $153.12 in September."

I don't claim to be the most intelligent man in the world.  True, I consider myself smarter than most, especially those residing in Kentucky, but the math on what this frail little man just reported to me, fails to equal the amount that he claims the account maxed out at.  60 + 60 + 153.12 =$273.12, nearly a hundred dollars more than what he'd claimed.

"Is it possible that someone else tried to deposit money into their account and someone messed up and typed in the wrong account number?" I asked, to which I was sternly informed that human error is not possible.  "Bullshit," I thought to myself, "All humans ever do, if f*ck up."

I couldn't understand how such a blunder could occur.  Furthermore, I couldn't understand how if the account allegedly has so much money and hadn't been touched for four years, how could it be delinquent now and in arrears?  It was explained that ScotiaBank charges $3.95 per month as a service charge.  "Service for what?" I asked, adding, "If the account was never touched for four years, what are you guys servicing?"  Rishi explained that in exchange for the 'privilege' of having a checking account with ScotiaBank, a monthly service charge was withdrawn from the account.  This is when I began to question the authenticity of the television commercials I see daily, boasting how beneficial banking with ScotiaBank is.  It's a stinky load of bullshit, I tell ya.

I expressed that the account was never opened by me and that I'd like to close it.  Rishi assured me that this would not be a problem, then requested how I was going to pay for the delinquent amount still owing.  I explained that because I never opened the account, don't recall ever opening the account and that he's yet to prove that I did open this account, that ScotiaBank should eat the outstanding charge.  "It is only $20, after all.  ScotiaBank owns everything, nowadays, so they can afford to wave the charge."

Rishi was of a dark complexion, but this request made him turn grey.  Nervously, he excused himself from the kiosk to go chat with his supervisor, who agreed to wave the charge.  All I had to do was sign a document closing this mysterious account and all was done.

I don't harbour any ill-will towards ScotiaBank or Rishi.  No one will ever know, exactly, how this account had come into being, but someone out there, somewhere, must've deposited some money, then forgot about it, thus f*cking themselves out of some cash.  I know it wasn't me.  I have no use for ScotiaBank, other than to earn them points for free movies.  When they cancel that program, ScotiaBank and I will part ways, as well.  Adios, f*ckers!!

A Rose By Any Other Name

Many years ago, I strolled into a Manitoba restaurant with some co-workers, for breakfast and requested "Vi-co" from the waitress.  She laughed and balked, "Vodka.  For breakfast.  Yeah, right!"

Vi-Co was a term used exclusively in Saskatchewan in reference to the chocolate milk made by the Dairy Producers Company.  Everyone knew it was chocolate milk, but most still referred to it as Vi-Co.  I was never completely clear on what the name meant, entirely, but speculated that it simply referred to "Vitamins Contained".  Of course, I'm most likely mistaken about this.

In 1995, Dairy Producers was purchased by the Dairyland Corporation and the Vi-Co line was abolished.  Thankfully, the great taste has remained the same and I still drink it by the gallon, to this day.

Almost overnight, the terminology disappeared almost as quickly as the product and I doubt very many people still think about it as I do.  It's always bothered me some, although minuscule, because when Vi-Co disappeared, so did a little of Saskatchewan's identity and uniqueness.  Thankfully, we still have and frequently use the term "bunny-hug" to describe a hooded-sweatshirt.

Litmus Test

I've heard it said: Don't ever meet your heroes, they're never what they seem.  This is likely true, for the most part, otherwise there'd never be such a warning.  I've met a few people that I've looked up to, and (so far) they've been quite humble and respectable.  I'd never consider bacon, on the other hand, to be heroic, nor an idol to look upon fondly, although I do love that smokey taste when it's being gnarled between my teeth.  That being said, when the commercials for the new "Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza" from Little Caesar's began their shock and awe barrage on public television, I knew it was only a matter of time until I would visit the pizza chain.

I used to consume a shit-ton of fast food.  I'm lazy and tend to procrastinate a lot, so the thought of driving up to an establishment, paying for a tasty treat that required very little more than wiping my mouth and fingers with a moist towelette, was very appealing.  Unfortunately, several pounds later and a sad case of Type II diabetes, it's a rare treat, these days.  Unreasonable prices are also a major factor, though the spare tire around my middle section, should be suffice enough.

One contributor to the nastiness is KFC.  Generally, I would visit Kentucky Fried Chicken once a year, consume the chicken accompanied by their amazing gravy, then reap the uncomfortable sickness that would follow.  Like the consumption of alcohol, I would use this single experience like a Litmus Test.  A reminder as to why I don't submit myself to this kind of pain and discomfort more often within the calendar year.

I wouldn't categorize myself as an alcoholic, but the effects of sadness and depression that follow any drinking excursion isn't something I particularly look forward to and therefore reserve inebriation to once or twice a year.  It's pretty much all I can take.  I'm not a believer that a person can go for one or two drinks.  I do believe, on the other hand, that intoxicating oneself to complete annihilation, should be the goal.  For the most part, I find alcoholic beverages to taste tremendously bad, so why put yourself through that dissatisfaction, if there's no goal of inebriation to achieve?

I digress.  I'm getting completely off topic, to which I apologize.

Earlier this month, some coupons came in the mail and the varying pictures of KFC chicken became appealing to me.  I was about due for my yearly trek through intestinal hell, so I ventured down to the neighbourhood KFC and got a small four piece and brought it home.  However, the gut aches and feeling of vomiting that normally piggybacks the experience never came, although the meal was every bit as greasy and disgusting, as usual.  A couple weeks later, those coupons crossed my view and again I found myself placing an order for a four piece chicken box.  Once more, no nausea.  "What the f**k?!" I thought to myself.  A couple weeks later, this past Friday, I again went down and picked up a ten-piece bucket, this time and no nausea.  No feeling of dread or yearning to vomit.  "Strange!" I thought.

Days earlier, I'd broken down and visited Little Caesar's and bought the Bacon-Wrapped Crust Pizza that has been mercilessly prostituted on television for the past couple of months.  The images of the pizza in the commercial look so delectable and mouth-watering.  I could hardly contain myself when the clerk handed over my pizza.  I raced home and was horrified by the reality of the situation.  It was like one of those before and after pictures of Rihanna after a date with Chris Brown.  The beauty I was expecting to see, was just a beat up tramp.  My Bacon-Wrapped pizza was little more than a punching bag placed into a box.

It's appearance was a train wreck.  It smelled marginally better than it looked, but it's taste was equally, if not worse, than it's appearance.  What followed was all the experiences and memories I've ever had that was normally reserved for KFC.  It was a horrific experience.  I wound up lying on my couch in a ball, sweating heavily and fighting off the urge to puke.  I do not recommend that pizza to people.  Not unless you're bulimic.  You won't need to stick a finger down your throat, as odds are, the pizza will do that for you.

It's a sad sad day when I, of all people, have to admit that Kentucky Fried Chicken is better than pizza, but in this case I think it's gospel.  Little Caesar's has turned my off of pizza and I doubt I'll be eating pizza again for quite some time.  Thankfully, when I do, it'll be from a more reputable establishment and not some shit-hole vying for legitimacy in the forum with a cheap gimmick.

My coupons expire today, so I shan't be returning to the neighbourhood KFC, which my waistband and my colon are grateful.