Algebraic Equation

 

Are you like me?  Struggling throughout the annuls of time, trying to find the exact ratio of cereal to milk.  That's me on an almost daily basis.  Not once, since I was knee-high to a gnat, have I been able to find the exact quantity necessary to marry up with the precise volume of milk in order to not consume more than the desired amount of breakfast substance.

I start each day by filling a desirable amount of cereal, whether it be Shreddies, Corn Flakes or even a chocolatey treat like Nestle's Quik or Chocolate Lucky Charms (because of the marshmallows), I can never pour a perfect amount of milk.  Either I'm left with an obnoxious amount of milk after the cereal has been consumed, of which I'm not going to drink out of the bowl.  I'm not a damned animal, after all.  Besides, the milk doesn't taste well enough on it's own to be drunk in such a barbaric manner.  So I'm left with the only option.  Add more cereal.

The extra bowl is welcomed, sometimes, so it's no big whoop, but then the milk runs out, leaving half a bowl of cereal flying solo.  That's not good either, so out comes the jug and more milk is added.  This is where it becomes tricky.  I tend to add too much milk, the second time 'round.  It's not voluminous, but it's enough to throw off the ratio, leaving me once more, with an ample amount of milk in the bowl and no cereal, so the bitter circle begins all over again.

I've found myself, time permitting, in the past finishing off an entire box of cereal before the exact equation of how much to put with how much is ever ciphered to completion.  This happens more with the sugary cereals.  They're not just a source of vitamins and minerals, but they're also a tasty snack.  The nice thing about the latter cereals is that usually, the milk turns chocolate brown and it is somewhat tasty, although, I still refuse to drink from the bowl.  On account that I'm not an animal.

I don't recognize this mission as OCD-related, although I have experienced a similar problem when consuming ice cream.  I live alone so I tend to not use a lot of crockery.  In that, I mean, I drink from the bottle or from the milk jug (chocolate), rather than dirty a glass or cup.  With ice cream, it's the same.  I tend to eat it right out of the container.  (If I'm going to have company, I get a new tub of ice cream.  Like I said before, I'm not an animal.)

With the ice cream, I tend to try to finish with the ice cream being perfectly level, before I can return the lid to the container and place it back in the freezer.  Only problem is, I'm so picky that the ice cream MUST be completely flat with 90deg angles up against the wall of the receptacle.  Anything less than perfect, gets carved out and placed onto my tongue.  I thought I was the only one facing this dilemma, until one night I was watching late night TV and saw comedian Gary Gulman discuss the fact he does the same thing, often resulting in an empty bucket, just like me.  I laughed so hard at the premise because it wasn't just a funny anecdote, but a detailed historic recollection.  Almost like Gary, himself, were peeking in my window, taking careful note of my process.

After the show, I took to Twitter, complimenting Gulman on his very funny stand-up appearance, adding that I did the same with my ice cream.  It was a nice exchange.

I tend to have that problem with a number of factors in my life.  I use too much ketchup when placed on the side of my dish for French fries or bacon.  Too much gravy on my meat and potatoes, but really.  Is there such thing as too much gravy?  I think not, so I might be onto something there.  Hmm.

The question in every high school mathematics class is "When am I ever going to use this in real life?"  I've only come across, in real time, occasions when an algebraic equation might come in handy.  Most recently was just twenty minutes ago, as I was fighting to pour the proper amount of milk into my cereal.  Needless to say, but I will anyway.  I failed miserably.

Them's The Breaks!!

 

I got f**ked by National Pizza Day.  Inadvertently f**ked, that is.  I'm sure the pizza place where I had acquired the pizza from, did not dispatch said pies with the intention of causing bodily damage.  This is not a plausible business plan.

Wednesday, February 9th, 2022, was National Pizza Day.  Or so I learned from the trusty interwebs.  If it is written there, then it must be true, am I right?  I hadn't had pizza for quite some time, so I thought it was in the budget that I could treat myself to some pizza.  I rang up my usual haunt and ordered three pizza's. (Given the outrageous prices for pizza these days, this establishment seems the best bang for my buck at $33 for three pizzas.)  I ordered a Meatball, a number 18 (beef, bacon, & sausage) which is my go to, always.  It's like a meat lovers, but without the ham.  I'm allergic to ham.  Then I rounded out the triad with a Chicken Teriyaki pizza, which is the only acceptable pizza to have pineapple on.

I quickly dispatched the Meatball, followed by the Number 18, into my belly.  I had been dreaming almost the entire day about having pizza for supper, so I avoided unnecessary snacks or mid-day lunch, just to make room for pizza that night.

I realize that by admitting that I devoured two pizzas all by my lonesome seems excessive, but they were small 10" pizzas, most of which are taken up by crust.  I'm not making excuses for my gluttony, as I don't need explain myself to anyone, except maybe my doctor, and I know she does not read my stuff.

The third pizza, the Chicken Teriyaki, I left for another day.  I placed it in the refrigerator until I could give it my full attention later, which turned out to be yesterday.  Friday.

I placed the pizza onto a plate, blasted it a couple times in the microwave to heat it up to optimum temperature.  Cold pizza is f**king disgusting, especially if it's been refrigerated.  I sat down in front of the TV and watched some Bitchin' Rides, while I enjoyed my pizza, now topped with more Teriyaki sauce.  (I buy the Golden Dragon stuff.  It really is the best.)  The meaty part tasted great, as I placed the crusts idly by until I could address them afterward.

The way I like to eat pizza, generally, is eat the center part first, then the crusts after, like a snack.  This is what I did with the first two pizzas from Wednesday night.  No issues, but I hadn't accounted for the crusts to get extra tough in the days since it was made.  Now the crusts were hard.  Really f**king hard.  Harder than I initially thought, actually.

Usually, the crusts firm up a little as they cool off, but they remain somewhat leathery, if that makes sense.  Thick, but manageable to bite portions off, but this was blatantly not the case with the crusts from the Chicken Teriyaki.  I guess the added 48 hours in the fridge caused it to thicken up like f**king concrete.  I wrestled my way through a couple of them, when all of a sudden, I heard a crunch.  Not the kind of crunch that sounds like a pizza crust being crushed between my molars, but a more distinguishable "oh f**k" kind of crunch.  I quickly vacated my mouth-hole to discover that I'd broken one of my lower teeth.  This little f**ker that I had my dentist work on last August, was now sitting in the palm of my hand.

I've always had weak teeth.  Ever since I was knee high to a squirrel, I've had bad teeth.  The dentists would give me shit, passing on the news to my parents.  I remember many a "discussion" with an extremely inebriated father, who would pull my chair in close to his and he'd scream at me to brush my teeth, to avoid having a nasty set like he had.  However, despite all my efforts to follow the guidelines set upon me by the National Dentistry whatever, my teeth have always had cavities, chips, breaks or worse.  Hell!!  When I broke my back, I also managed to break five and a half teeth in the process.  That extra half was because one was already broken, ha ha.

What sucks is, I had insurance at the time, when I broke those teeth along with three vertebrae.  I don't have insurance, now, though.  Every dentist visit is paid for straight outta pocket.  Canada rocks, as far as health care, goes, but dentistry sucks balls.

So far, I'm not feeling any pain.  Chances are, the one that broke on me, had previously had a root canal, I suspect.  Memory losses over the years, hinders me from actually recalling what has been done to what.

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl.  I had planned on making some ribs for the occasion, but to say the least, I'm a little gun shy.  I doubt anything else will be tumbling out of my mouth, but ya never know.  I'm sure if something does, I'll be writing about that too.

Profligation

Dreams.  What could they mean?  Merely products of an overactive mind?  Or do they provide a glimpse into an uncertain future?  It's difficult to say for sure, but for decades, there has loads of science investigating the unconscious state of dreaming.  The causes, the need and/or the necessity of dreaming.  That's not what this is about.

My dreams tend to air on the side of strange.  I know this much about my unconscious state.  My dreams tend to be something as stupid as white water rafting with the likes of WWE superstars, The Undertaker,  Hunter Hearst Helmsley (Triple H) and Stephanie McMahon or I've dreamt murder/mystery stories that could be blockbuster films if ever realized on the silver screen.  Most of the really good stuff, quickly disappears once I awaken and I can't remember the finite details.  (Plus, I can barely write this blog that no one reads, let alone pen the next Hollywood hit.)

This morning, I awoke about a half dozen times, from the time of 5am all the way up to the present (8:30am).  Normally when I wake up this often, my head is plagued with a number of images and stories, but not on this day.  I woke up every time, wondering..;  Is trounce a multiple of bounce?

Now before the one reader who mistakenly wandered onto this site and decided "What the hell?" and read it anyway, saw this statement and has declared me a f**king moron, keep in mind, I've already Googled the meaning of both and know that bounce doesn't restrict an item to hitting the ground twice and trounce doesn't refer to three rebounds or more.  If I continued down the path of trying to declare this to be the case would be shear idiocy. This is simply an example of how my brain works.

       

In the back of my mind, I knew there was a difference.  That the explanation wasn't as simple as bi meaning two and tri meaning three.  The English language can be a little f**ked up, but it makes more sense than this.  Again, my brain works differently than other people's.  Always has, even before I had my accident.

I had a dream once, where I was at a Agriculture show with two people of whom I was familiar with (in the dream, but in real life, I hadn't met them yet).  The reason this dream was so memorable was the three of us were speaking to a farmer about emu's.  Up to this point, I had never heard of an Emu, and when I awoke, I had to investigate whether or not this was a real thing.  It is.  Many months later, I was attending a class at SIAST and our class was sent to the local Agribition, where I hung out with classmates, Christine and Derek.  Two people who I hadn't known when I had the initial dream, but whom I was familiar with that day and... Yes!  We stopped and spoke with a farmer who raised... [dramatic pause] ... Emus.  F**king weird, right?

I could fill volumes about the strange dreams I've had and have been able to remember.  Who the hell knows about all the shit I've forgotten?  I'm willing to bet that I probably did have a few million dollar ideas in the mix.  However, I believe this blog has strayed far enough off the initial subject that I had hoped to address in this blog, this morning.  I'm like Hulk Hogan, by which I mean, I can't seem to stay on one subject and am distracted by all the shiny shit that accompanies said subject.  (If you're one of the sorry souls who read Hulk Hogan's book from way back, you'll understand that reference.  It was a painful read, to say the least.)

Bounce: (verb) (of an object, especially a ball) Move quickly up, back, or away from a surface after hitting it; rebound (once or repeatedly).

(noun) Rebound of a ball or other object.

Trounce: (verb) To defeat heavily in a contest; To rebuke or punish severely.

Emu: The emu is the second-largest living bird by height, after its ratite relative, the ostrich. It is endemic to Australia where it is the largest native bird and the only extant member of the genus Dromaius.

Profligate: recklessly extravagant or wasteful in the use of resources. (Or this edition of Brain Matter.)

I don't really have an out for this blog, so I will leave you with this.  If you've made it this far into this blog and liked it?  You're my audience and you may enjoy previous entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them are pretty good.  If you begrudgingly made it this far and haven't liked a single word, except maybe Emu (because it is a fun word to say), you have my apologies.  However, you may want to check out past entries.  They're not all golden, but some of them actually are pretty good.

In closing, everyone have a Merry Christmas! 🎅

Fat Lip

 

I'm not a fan of winter and never have been really.  Some folks look forward to the fall season, followed by winter.  My nephews, especially, as the ice skates come out and they play hockey in the back yard.  They play hockey all year 'round, but building happy memories of skating in small circles and putting that puck in the net, that is just so much more appealing.  I guess if I had something special like that to look forward to, my feelings about winter would be different.

My reason for disliking winter go way beyond my playing hockey outside.  In fact, I've never laced up a pair of skates solely for the purpose of playing any kind of winter sport, let alone hockey in my own backyard.

One of the many attributes that winter provides, besides locking up all my joints, is my lips.  My bottom lip, usually, although the top has been known to act up.  I rarely go outside, anymore, for reasons besides necessity.  For instance, you'll probably not find me standing at rink side, in my sister's backyard, cheering on my nephews.  I just don't like being outside in the cold.  However, when I do venture out into the subzero climate, my lips chap up.  I try to keep my face and mouth covered, but somehow my mouth chaps up.  When they do that, they crack.  Then, for some reason, because I can't leave well enough alone, my tongue gets in there and starts rubbing the hell out of the opened spot.  I guess Dr. Tongue feels it knows more than my brain.  Now the spot is irritated even more.

Meanwhile, my brain and the rest of my body, tongue and lip in tow, venture through my house, seeking out that single tube of cherry lip balm that I remember using either... Was it last year or the year before?

By some stroke of luck, I manage to locate the item, pop the cap and am surprised that it's still good and place it, immediately, upon thine own self.  The coolness of the medicated stick immediately brings some relief to the sore area.

The days that follow, remain up in the air.  Either the swelling will go down and I can carry on with life as I know it or the spot is going to be continually irritated by my stubborn tongue.  It's really a crapshoot after that.

Even now, my bottom lip split about a week ago.  I managed to control the irritation with chap stick, but I don't always remember to take it with me when I venture away from my house.  It's an ongoing fight. 

Guitar Zero

I was tidying up the other day, clearing up some small trinkets and such off of my dresser.  There's a big mirror and my cat, when able, likes to hop up there and stare at himself in the mirror.  He's a vain little guy, but if I looked remotely as good as him, I might find myself staring into the mirror, too.

Among the trinkets and doo-dads, I found a guitar pick.  A solo, dark red pick that I immediately placed between my forefinger and thumb and made out like I was playing a guitar.  I don't know why, as I've not played a guitar since I was a very young boy and it can be debated whether or not the sounds that were emitted from that guitar, when I was a child, would be construed as being musical or reminiscent of a car accident.  It was probably better than I recall, but not nearly as good as my fellow students.

For decades, I've reflected on that time with a great deal of regret.  Not because I never followed through on my quest to become a guitarist, but because our family didn't have a lot of money.

We weren't poor, or at least I never felt like we were poor, but knowing what I do now, opposed to then, the money that was, for lack of a better term, wasted on my silly dream, was a lot of money.  Money that might have been spent better, elsewhere.  For that, I will always feel regret, but as best as I can recall, my mother was smiling when she was following me around the showroom of the shop where I had been taking my lessons.  (*Thinking about that, is genuinely bringing tears to my eyes.  Remind me, someone, to apologize to my mom.)  We never struggled, but maybe that was the image that my parents wanted to show in front of the kids.  Parents are good that way, aren't they?

After a year of taking lessons, I lost interest and the guitar, amp and stand that my parents had purchased for me, got shoved away, into the back of a closet, where it sat for many many years, untouched.  (A few years ago, while on one of my many unemployment stretches, I had a friend check out the guitar and amp and help me sell it.  We didn't get very much, but those feelings of regret, did come rushing back and I was overwhelmed with grief.)

Why did I quit?  For years, I believed it was because "my fingers hurt" or "I wasn't good right away", the latter being an excuse I heard from a favourite rock singer, which I always took some jaded source of pride for.  That's just dumb!!  However, that morning that I found the red guitar pick on my dresser and placed it betwixt my fingers, I realized why it was that I had quit playing guitar and, of course, many waves of emotions swept over me, once more.  Regret and shame and many other emotions, because that reason was so miniscule and stupid.  My parents wasted all that money on me for something this stupid!!

The reason wasn't because I wasn't good enough, right away.  It wasn't because my fingers hurt from pressing down the guitar strings.  The reason I had quit guitar lessons as a kid was because I didn't like holding the guitar pick.  Even all these years later, holding the pick in my hand and faking strumming motions on my upper thigh, I hated it.  After a few seconds, my hand began to cramp like it had when I was a child.  This...  This was the reason for my quitting guitar.

Now, in the days since this discovery, I've thought about what if I would have stuck with it.  I know that my fingers would have toughened up.  That the strength in my fingers would increase to where I didn't have so much difficulty pressing the strings into the neck of the guitar.  Even, perhaps, I would have earned an ear for music and even wrote some original music.  Even now, I find music playing in my head that I don't recognize from any of the influences around me.  I believe an artist staked the claim, once upon a time, that everyone had original music in their minds and hearts, it was just a question of being able to convey it onto paper and into the airwaves.  Of course, I'm paraphrasing, I don't recall the actual quote, but it's along those lines.

Now I'm thinking, 20/20 hindsight in play, of course, that if I had stuck it out, that I could have traded up to another instrument.  (I always liked the drums.  My dad loved the drums, but given our financial hardships when I was a kid, drums were definitely off the list.)  However, playing a bass guitar has it's advantages, namely, not having to use a pick.  I know that some people use a pick, but not needing to use it is a huge advantage, I think.

In the weeks that have followed, I've found myself really watching and listening to the bass riffs in songs and videos.  I watch Hagar on the Late Late Show with James Corden or Metallica's Robert Trujillo as he hammers on his bass during concerts.  Would I have been as good as either of these artists?  Would I have been any good at all?  Unfortunately, time has eroded away the answers to those questions.

Today, I...  I wouldn't call myself successful, per se, but I don't think I am as poor now, as my family was then, but I certainly can't afford to buy a bass guitar, take lessons and see if I'm good enough to entertain myself.  Nah.  I'll leave that up to the young uns.  For now, I'll continue to appreciate what might have been and entertain myself via other ducts.  Like writing this blog.  Contributing to the long list of topics on my Brain Matter page.  I'm finding myself inspired more and more, daily.  It's just organizing my thoughts in a way that can be accurately conveyed onto the page.

Robert Trujillo of Metallica

 

Home Versus Away

It has been a debate for decades and, perhaps, more so since this infuriating pandemic reared it's ugly head upon the world.  The comparison of which is better?  Watching movies at the theater or at home.  Hopefully, I can plead my case here, in this forum.  I likely won't change any minds, but maybe, people will leave feeling a little different about the whole experience.

The benefits to staying home are astronomical and as a person who, in recent years, has become a little more recluse, I understand the comfort and safety to staying home and taking in a film or two.  That notwithstanding, a visit to the theater is so much better.

With every argument, there are going to be, of course, pros and cons.  Perhaps I should lay my cards on the proverbial table and list the good and bad about each movie watching option. The first argument would be price.  The last movie I went to was the latest James Bond film, "No Time To Die".  I paid for myself and my mother.  The tickets for admission were about $23 and change.  Drinks were another $12.  I had a large soda and my mom had a $4 bottle of water.  (We brought our own snacks because...  Well.  The prices.)

I will admit, there are cons to the movie theater experience. More cons than I even realized, plus whatever cockamamie excuses others may provide.  That aside, there are plenty of pros to attending the theater, too.

Going to the movies is more of an event, in my eyes.  You consciously decide I'm going to go see "this".  Then you get dressed, drive across town, with a destination in mind.  You pay for your ticket and find your seat.  There's an air about you as you sit and quietly chat with your companion before the lights dim.  Then when they do, an overwhelming feeling of anticipation and excitement overtakes your body and your senses are heightened for that moment.  After the film begins, it becomes an experience.  A visual that you share with a crowd of unknown faces who are also experiencing the same emotions as you are.  Then depending on the movie you've all chosen, you share it's ups and downs.  The laughs, cries and excitement.  If you can find the perfect seat within that theater, seeing that movie can almost be perfect.

I hate crowds, but I love seeing movies in the theater.  Even if I'm alone in the theater, experiencing that movie on a larger than life screen, where the characters themselves, are the size of giants, coupled with laser-perfect sound that highlights all the high notes as well as the booming bass notes.  No home video experience has ever matched my experience of seeing movies at the theater.

Years ago, my sister was married to a fella who was deep into his home stereo system, which he eventually paired up to a 60" rear projection TV, which at the time, was state-of-the-art.  Try and try as I might, I'd attempt to match my theater experience on their system, even going so far as to sit my keister in a chair just a few feet from the screen.  Overall, it was a failed attempt at encompassing myself in the audio and video realm.  It was simply muted video flashing on a large surface with distorted sound invading my ears.

Try and try as you might, unless you have several thousand dollars to invest in a proper, home theater, I doubt that seeing a movie from the comfort of you living room sofa is going to be very fulfilling.

Simply put, this is how I break it down.  Viewing movies at home is simply entertainment and there's nothing wrong with wanting to be entertained.  It's been known to release endorphins, even.  However, for many others, like myself, I want an experience.

I can recall the moment I saw the lights dim and those famous words flash on the screen "Star Wars: The Force Awakens, followed by John Williams' epic musical score to Star Wars.  I was surrounded by friends and like-minded people who were overcome with excitement and joy.  I remember thinking as the words scrolled across the screen from the bottom to the top, regaling in the fact that this is was a child-version of myself was feeling the first time I'd seen the original series onscreen.  It was truly a magical experience.  An experience I've never been able to replicate in my everyday life.

In layman's terms:  The theater is for viewing art.  Home theater is for being entertained.  I'm not saying you can't appreciate the art at home, nor is entertainment out of the question at the theater.  It's just overwhelming at the theater.

I will continue to view movies at home, as well, but I really want to get back into the swing of things and attend the theater more frequently.  Like I did before the world came to an alarming halt and we were all forced to stay home.

I've spent much time constructing this blog entry, trying to form my ideas perfectly into readable words and in that time I've made a list of pros and cons to each, the theater and the home video experiences, but didn't know where to place the list so as to not detract from the overall narrative of this piece.  So here it is.  At the end.  

PROS & CONS
(Movie Theater)

PRO: It is an event or experience.
PRO: It can be fun, exciting and memorable.
PRO: The audio and visuals are superior.
PRO: It pairs well with a nice dinner and a date.
PRO: It's an easy decision.  You choose the film, not scroll through a list of hundreds.

CON: The theater has overpriced tickets and concession.
CON: Someone always talks during the movie or blocks your view of the screen.
CON: People scroll their phones, thus distracting from the film.
CON: Parking is usually inconvenient and may even be costly.
CON: You have to be dressed.  No pajamas on the couch.
CON: No pause for bathroom breaks.

PROS & CONS
(Home Video)

PRO: No distractions from noisy theater goers.
PRO: You can set your own volume levels.
PRO: You can pause the movie when nature calls.
PRO: You can relax in your jammies under a warm comforter.
PRO: Movie starts when you want it to.
PRO: The price of a movie is substantially cheaper.

CON: Film studios lose money on ticket scales, thus boosting prices all around.
CON: Too many distractions: phone, pets, outside noise, neighbours, etc. Life in general.
CON: Screen is smaller so you can't enjoy the movie magic the way it was intended to be experienced.

The movie theater experience is The Rubik's Cube compared to a children's puzzle.  It may be more intricate and complex, but the outcome is overwhelming and memorable when all the pieces slide into place.

If you have the time and money to splurge on such a luxury as a true home theater, then that's the ultimate goal.  To envelope yourself in movie magic, obscured from the outside world.  A passport, of sorts, to escape into another universe.

Seeing on "paper" the pros and cons of each movie going experience, I can see the benefits to remaining at home, but I gotta be me.  I have to stick with the emotional link that brought me to the dance, so to speak.  I grew up in an alcoholic family.  Where many youths in my situation took to doing drugs or getting into mischief, I always had the movies.  An escape from my shitty life in two hour increments.  Perhaps that is where my allegiance lies.

See ya at the movies!

Off To The Races

 

What does that saying really mean?  "I've got to piss like a race horse!"

Most people feel a tickle, I suspect.  An inkling of an idea that they may have to visit the restroom at some point in their day, but I'm not of that school.  It's rare that the urge to relieve myself ever comes as a gentle notion, but as an outright emergency.

It never seems to fail.  I'll have some free time between tasks and I feel fine.  The moment I decide to dedicate myself to a project, that is when I feel the urgent pressure to relieve myself.  Then it's a mad scramble to make it to the washroom on time.

A few minutes ago, I passed the washroom headed for the kitchen to prepare myself a light lunch.  The minute I punctured the can with the opener, I was overwhelmed with pressure.  It was like my bladder was about to explode.  "Oh shit!" I muttered aloud, "I gotta piss like a race horse!!"  That phrase makes absolutely no sense, whatsoever.

What differentiates a race horse from any other horse?  Because it has an actual vocation, does this civilize the horse from it's more wilder distant cousins?  Like do those Budweiser Clydesdales have their own facilities?  Poop in a giant toilet rather than dropping road apples on... Well, the road?

Quite the contrary.  If people really are having to "piss like a race horse", then I'd imagine more people would be dropping trou, assuming the position and squirting in the streets.  That paints a helluva picture, doesn't it.  Kinda like all those picture of Chinese tourists pooping in Japanese streets and public transit.  Gross!!

It's funny..., not funny ha-ha, but funny strange, where these crazy quotes originate.  I haven't the time nor inspiration to do a deep dive on this silliness.

In the meantime, I will, undoubtedly, continue to race to the bathroom when nature calls, likely uttering those words "piss like a race horse", under my breath.  There's no changing that, I suppose.  Stupid.

Gross!!