KRYPTONITE

Aside from being a precious gem from another world that could literally kill the Man of Steel, Superman, aka Kal El, aka Clark Kent, Kryptonite is also the name of a Top Number One Hit from the band 3 Doors Down, circa 2000.

I wasn't a fan of the song, at first, if I gotta be honest.  When it'd come on the radio I'd clench my teeth and work my way through it or change the channel.  It wasn't until one weekend when I attended a bachelor party.  My memory is a little foggy on the evening.  (I wasn't drinking, but my memory is SO terrible these last few years and it's only getting worse - ha ha.)

I believe we had a nice supper, somewhere.  May have attended a bar at some point.  I really don't remember.  Can't even recall whose bachelor party it was, to be honest.  However, what I DO recollect is our attending the local strip club.  I can't for the life of me, remember the name of the place, but it's long gone and it doesn't matter for the sake of the story.

As I stated, I was not drinking, so when the bunch of guys left to table to go do shots or something, I was left alone at the table.  Situated next to the dance floor/stage where the nice girls were strutting their stuff, I looked like some pervy guy seated alone.  So when the song "KRYPTONITE" came blasting over the airwaves and an attractive strawberry blonde dancer came over to the table next to me, I politely turned my chair and looked away.  

Now if I'm being completely honest, I didn't turn all the way.  I turned just enough.  My peripheral vision is most excellent, still to this day.  Now, that combined with a few casual glances, now and again, was enough for me to appreciate her performance.  The young woman was putting her heart and soul into this dance.  To quote Donna Summer, "She Works Hard For The Money".  She was earning that tip from the next table. 

When the song concluded, I was thankful, as I never cared much for the song up to that point.  The dancer strode across the stage to her bag, withdrew a poster and walked sexily back to the table next to me where she'd just been dancing, fully nude, for the table of young men.

One, let's be honest, boy, opened his wallet and began fingering through many bills.  I glanced at her eager reaction, hoping for a sizeable donation, but that looked quickly disappeared from her face, replaced with disdain.  She was visibly upset, for the young fella pulled out a measly ten dollar bill then asked if she had change.

My jaw literally dropped.  I could not believe that these three people sat and watched this lovely woman flash them all her pretty pink parts and they wanted change for a f*cking ten.  She told them off, turned to me and rewarded me with the poster.  I never gave her any money and she didn't want any from me.

Since that evening, circa 2000 or so, whenever that song comes on the radio, I'm reminded of how stupid, ignorant, and arrogant some people are.  Okay. Okay.  If I'm being honest, when the song comes on, I just remember that asshole asking the stripper for change and her getting angry.  And I actually like the song, too.

....Always tip your waitress and your stripper.... 😄

In Over My Head

 

For as long as I can remember, one of my biggest fears is drowning.  An understandable fear, which I'm sure is shared by most, if not all, but not something that is observed on a daily basis.  No one sets out to drown...  Well.  Maybe some, but that's a different set of circumstances and thought processes.  What initially sparked this fear, for me, was watching a movie many many (many) years ago, that cemented this fear for me.

The movie was "White Squall" from 1996, which is a story based on the true events which occurred in 1960 to a group of prep schoolers who set out to sea aboard an old-fashioned sailing vessel.  The trip is to teach the young men fortitude and discipline, but what they actually receive is a crash course in survival after the ship they're on, capsizes from being hit by a white squall, which occurred just three weeks short of their final destination.  Starring an all-star cast, including Jeff Bridges, Ryan Phillippe, Jeremy Sisto, Scott Wolf, among many others.  One scene that clinched this unbridled fear was when the ship is sinking and there's a shot of some classmates locked behind a door.  After many failed attempts, survivors are forced to abandon their classmates.  The fear on their eyes was relentless, striking a fear in me that has lasted all these years, later.  Just the idea of not dying immediately, but to watch the water levels slowly rise to the point where all oxygen is lost and you're forced to take that final breath and suck in all that water.  It's purely horrifying.

]That's not what this blog is about and I apologize for leading you astray.  It was a decent movie, if I remember correctly, so if you have an opportunity to give it a looksy, take a chance with it, it's only two hours, after all.]

Driving home, tonight, I saw a young fellow walking along the road that runs parallel to the river.  The weather being as frigid and cold as it is, the decision to walk that route, especially when the next set of houses isn't for, at least, a quarter mile or so.  My imagination, as it often does, began to race at all the infinite possibilities of what may be going on.  Perhaps he's unfamiliar with the city and doesn't know that walking along this route is futile.  Or maybe, and my mind went to a dark place, he's not feeling very well, mentally, and he was hoping to gain access to the river to... You know.  End his misery. 

It was at that moment that my brain abandoned the young fellow and immediately began analyzing my own fears concerning drowning.  The thoughts raced through my head like ponies at the Kentucky Derby.  I vocalized, out loud, how it horrified me.  Then I paused...

What if I was tossed into a lake of gravy?  I love gravy and as much as it would suck to drown, would it be so bad if it was in gravy?  Then I abandoned that idea.  A lake of gravy?  Really?  "What's wrong with me?" I thought to myself. 🤨  A vat of gravy would make so much more sense.  That's when my thoughts and concerns for the young man had completely vanished.  Now my thoughts went straight to trying to figure out just how large a vat actually is.  While I've used the word 'vat' many times as a safety word in Words With Friends, I barely know anything beyond that and what they're used for.

According to Google, and I'm paraphrasing this to simplify an otherwise complicated response to a relatively easy query, but that's Google for ya.  a vat is generally around 26 U.S. gallons.  How that relates to actual size in inches or feet, I don't know.  I Googled pictures and it ranged from a large cooking pot to something you'd store beer in.

 

I'm mostly curious about the size of a vat, because I believe, if it was beef gravy, like illustrated above, that I might be capable of drinking myself to safety, al la Bob McKenzie from the movie "Strange Brew" (1983).  The container on the left would be challenging but if I hunkered down and dedicated myself, like Adam Moran of Beard Meats Food fame.  (If you don't already, look him up on YouTube.  His videos are as fun and enjoyable as they are challenging to watch - sometimes.😄)

Of course this is all ridiculous.  It's in my nature.  It's how I entertain myself.  I hope this entertained you, as well.  No use in being serious all the time.  What's the use in that?  No fun.

 
Strange Brew / Bob McKenzie (left) Adam Moran "Beard Meats Food" (right)

Dainty Digits

My job affords me many many hours alone.  In the beginning, I was left with only my thoughts to entertain me while I drove riders around the city, but soon, I got myself a speaker to alleviate the boredom and borderline insanity.  Soon I found myself enthralled with the radio personalities of our fair city and maybe a year after that I began to overstep my reservations about calling in to the radio stations.  Making phone calls has always been a huge phobia for me.  Nothing overwhelming that would cause me to cower in the corner of a room, muttering gibberish to myself.  It's just that, in the past I've had experiences where people call me from questionable places.  Subject for another time, perhaps.

In my repeated calls in to the radio station, something I do semi-regular, is because they always have a subject that I can weigh in on and today was no different.  However, I was too busy to make a call, so instead I decided to simply write my thoughts and memories down.

Sully, one of the afternoon radio personalities, was confronted by his co-host, Whitney, about his shiny fingernails.  "They're reflecting the sun and blinding me." I believe she said, or something to that effect.  Sully, often the brunt of many jokes because of his naivete to life in Saskatchewan.  Sully is from Vancouver and as much as one would believe that there isn't much of a difference in lifestyles in each province, Sully proves otherwise.  So when Whitney addressed Sully's fingernail situation, Sully never backtracked.  He leapt forward with a logical response.

Sully's daughter wanted her daddy to take her for a mani-pedi and had him get his nails done, too.  I apologize for not having all the facts as to what lead up to his taking his daughter for the spa date, but suffice it to say, 'That's a good dad.'.  I texted in to the show to say as much, adding a memory that had returned to me as a result of his touching story.

When I was a kid and my sister was even younger than that, I recall my dad laying lazily on the sofa, watching television.  He had come home from work, exhausted, which is why he'd fall in and out of sleep.  My sister had asked if she could file and trim his nails and being the loving father that he was, he obliged.

The tender touch my sister's little hands and fingers had on my father's aching feet must have been to trick he needed to send him soaring into dreamland.  She gave my dad the full treatment.  Lotion and everything.

The next day my dad came home with a story to tell.  My dad worked as a heavy duty mechanic with the Potash Mine of Saskatchewan.  After a hard sweaty and hot shift working underground, he and his co-workers were hitting the showers when his buddies all noticed his toe nails.  All ten were a vibrant pink colour.  He quickly explained to the lot of them that his daughter, my sister, had been playing and must have painted his toes when he was asleep.

That was half true, she did, in fact, paint his nails, but he knew that she was mucking about down there while he was asleep.  He wasn't angry, although my sister, if memory serves, was a little uncertain when my dad was retelling the story.   He wasn't.  In fact, he got a good laugh out of it, adding that he'd thought she was just doing the clipping and filing.  Never in a million years, did he ever suspect that she'd doll his tootsies up like one of her Barbie's. 

Unafraid of Commitment

I've had a hardcore craving for pineapple for a couple of days, now.  Here's the dilemma, however.  Though I'm not afraid of commitment, I'm not one hundred percent confident in consuming a whole lot of pineapple.  If I'm being totally honest, I just want one or two rings.  That's all.  I could open a can of pineapple rings, but after eating just a couple, what happens to the remainder of pineapple rings?  

I acknowledge that I do possess the "technology" to store the remaining pineapple rings in a plastic receptacle of some sort, but what happens after that?  Well, let us think about this. 🤔  I could enjoy more pineapple slices tomorrow or the day after that.  The problem with that is a couple of things.  One:  Perhaps I will no longer crave pineapple after squelching the craving that has been plaguing me for a few days.  That's a distinct possibility and therefore the remaining pineapple slices, albeit they'd be contained and kept in the refrigerator, but they'd definitely go bad before the cravings would most likely return.  That and, Two: With the amount of clutter within the confines of my refrigerator, there's a more than good chance that the receptacle housing the afore mentioned pineapple slices could and most likely get pushed to the back of the fridge or get buried.  (I really need to toss a lot of that shit out.)  Even now, as I tap away on this keyboard, I'm speculating that there very well could already be a plastic container filled with what now would likely be green fuzzy pineapple slices.  It would not be the first time that had occurred.  It's a hell of a shock when you see the container and think "Yeah.  I could use a couple slices."  But then, when the top is popped either my nasal cavity is brutally assaulted with that rotting stench or possibly, though it's never happened, the pineapple growls at me.  Either way, it's a devastating surprise.

I'm not afraid of commitment.  I just don't know how committed this craving is.

The Aardvark

When I'm at work, I need the radio to be playing.  When I first started the job, I went weeks without a radio and often found myself either distracted and unable to concentrate on the work in front of me.  Either that or I'd often find myself singing, under my breath, whatever song happened to grind it's way into the inner sanctum of my brain.  Eddie Grant's Electric Avenue was stuck in there a lot and I've come to dislike the song, somewhat.  That one and Don MacLean's American Pie.  "What?!?"  I'm sure someone is thinking, right now after reading that statement, but try getting it stuck in your head for weeks at a time.

Eventually, when I grew too tired of composing my own songs just to entertain myself when I was alone driving the bus, I got my self a radio, albeit a transistor radio at first, which only received a signal when I worked on the east side of the city.  Anything west of Idylwyld Drive, was met with constant static interruptions, which aggravated me as much as it annoyed me.  Next I got a small speaker from Visions which worked well, but only lasted about five, maybe six hours, if I was lucky.  So it was back to the ol' drawing board, one more time.  This time I didn't cheap out by purchasing something from the discontinued aisle.  Instead, I went to Costco and purchased a JBL speaker which, despite being dropped a handful of times, works like a motherf**king charm.

I spent my mornings listening to Clayton and Stacie on Cruz-FM and in the afternoons, I would either listen to Regina's The Wolf or Saskatoon's Rock 102 FM.  Especially after Cruz shit-canned their afternoon guy, the legendary Dave 'Muzik' Morgan.  His replacement sucks.  Then a few months later, I switched over to Rock 102 FM, exclusively, when Cruz went on another inexplicable firing tirade and fired the morning guy, Clayton Kroeker.   Stacie is awesome, but she doesn't have the chops to broadcast alone, so I deserted the radio station in favour of greener pastures and I'm glad I did.

I began listening to Whitney in the afternoons on Rock 102 FM and she's a blast to listen to.  Always in a jovial mood, I can only imagine the joy it must be to work with someone like this, who always seems to be in good spirits.  

One day Whitney was trying to help out this guy who'd called in.  He had two tickets to see his favourite band, but his dilemma was choosing who to go to the show with.  Either his wife or his daughter.  Whitney had all sorts of people calling in offering up ideas and so with a few minutes to spare on my route, I overcame the anxiety I have about placing phone calls (*I imagine there's a blog in there about that) and I called in to the radio station.  Whitney was a hoot to chat with and she played right along with the insanity that I offered up.  I simply stated, "He should take his daughter.  Wives come and go," I added, "But daughters are forever."  I don't know exactly why I stated it like that, I don't even have a daughter...., or a wife, for that matter, but Whitney got a helluva kick out of the statement and for several months that followed, I'd hear my raspy radio voice repeating that statement during some of the radio breaks.

Not long after that, Sully joined the Rock 102 crew and he fit in like a glove.  The two of them, Whitney and Sully, are like long lost siblings.  The way they tease each other, you can sense that there's a lot of love and respect shared between the two, but when Whitney is "bullying" Sully (for lack of a better term), the results are hilarious.  Sully being from Vancouver, originally, the radio station has been trying to "Saskatchewanize" Sully.  They did a question and answer portion on the show one day, in which poor Sully got an electric shock every time he answered a Saskatchewan question incorrectly, but truth be known, I've been here my entire life, minus a six month stint in Edmonton, Alberta, and I'm not familiar with a lot of the "Saskatchewan terminology" that Sully was failing to answer correctly.  I've often thought about challenging him to a Saskatchewan-off in a year's time.  See if this Vancouver transplant is more Saskatchewan than myself, who was born and bred in this province.

Long story short -- TOO LATE!!  I began calling in to the station on a semi-regular basis and in the meantime, managed to score a nice collection of goodies and prizes.  I'll spare the details, but one of the best items I received was two tickets to see Finger Eleven at the Ex, which I attended with my best bro, Dan, who I also brought with me, when I received a $50 gift certificate to Tapps Sports Lounge.  It got to the point where I was calling in so often that I felt I needed an identity.  I'd hear other people, regulars, calling in and they all had nifty nicknames, but all of the nicknames that I have, seem too silly to broadcast on local radio.  I love that online, I'm the one and only ToontownJuggalo, but people would react foolishly to that name, likely confusing the term "juggalo" for "gigolo" which would be greatly incorrect and mildly offensive, plus I get annoyed trying to repeatedly explain shit to people, so I avoided using that nickname.  Another nickname that I've adopted in the last few months is Aardvark, which again, requires some explanation which I'm unwilling to do.  So I stuck with who I am.  I'm Jeff.

I'm Jeff, but I'm not just any Jeff.  I'm The Jeff.

(Not actually a picture of me. I don't like sleeves
or turtle necks, but I'd kill for that hairline.)

I figured, any bumbling fool can be a Jeff.  It's really not that difficult. I'm living proof of that.  I've been stumbling through life for decades as Jeff and it's nothing spectacular.  However, only a precious few or one, can be The Jeff and folks, that one and only, is this guy.  Me.  I'm now The Jeff, at least as far as calling in to the radio station.  I needed something that would set me apart from everyone else and by Jove, I think I found it.

I could've went with That Jeff, but upon further retrospect, I decided that no one wants to That Jeff.  Why would you?  That guy is....  Well, That Jeff is one odd duck and as awesome as ducks go, the odd ones are just... weird.  Of course, referring to oneself as "The", is a little strange in and of itself, but that's why I'm the Aardvark.  Because I'm unique. 😁

LOST

At one time or another, everyone has experienced the torture of losing an object.  Keys, glasses, memory stick or, in my case today, their wallet.  For someone, like myself, who constantly struggles with memory losses and gaps since my TBI, it's especially frustrating.  I approach everything with logic, structuring my life in such a way to always promote success and never misplacing items, so when a wrench is thrown into the mechanisms of my life, it's especially frustrating.  That coupled with a temper that can be challenging to control at times, makes for a volatile situation.

Today is Christmas Day.  A day to spend with family, rejoicing about the past year and celebrating what is to come in the new year.  I did some of that this morning, before I had to go to work.  When I was about to leave my sister's place, destined to go to work, because after all, it's Christmas and the hourly wage I would earn on this holy day would have been incredible and whether I'm joking or not, I'd be paid what I feel I'm worth.  That however, never came to be.  As I was leaving their house, I noticed that my wallet was missing from my pocket.  I keep my wallet in my front pocket as it deters potential pick-pockets and it's much more difficult for it to "accidentally" fall out of the pocket.

I thought I'd left it at home on my dresser.  Sometimes in the morning, the cat distracts me with his charm and sweetness and it's just enough to distract me into forgetting shit.  I thought this morning was like that.  So I quickly sped home to grab my wallet off the dresser then head to work.  It'd be tight, but I believed I could make it in time.  Sadly, the wallet was not where I thought it should be.  I checked the pants that I had been wearing yesterday when I was visiting my friend, but the wallet wasn't there.  I checked the dirty clothes hamper, in case the wallet did, in fact, fall out of my loose denim jeans. It had not.  I ran, desperately, throughout the house, checking every conceivable place where my wallet might turn up.  Nothing.  It wasn't anywhere.

Now I had a difficult decision to make.  I called work and explained that I'd lost my wallet and didn't feel I should drive a bus without having my wallet on-hand.  It was explained to me that IF I were to have a MVC, that I'd have 48 hours to produce my wallet.  Keep in mind, now, that I had no clue where my wallet would have wound up.  At this point, after searching my house high and low, I was convinced that my wallet and ID were nowhere to be found.  I opted to not come into work, which is a hell of a sacrifice, given how much money I would have been earning on this day.

I called up the friend whom I was visiting yesterday.  I recalled pulling my wallet out to pay for pizza, but couldn't remember if I'd returned my wallet to my pocket.  Sometimes, in haste, I place it at my side or between my legs where I'm sitting.  This was not the case.  My friend Dan and his son, both searched their house, even going out to the street, but to no avail.  I even speculated on my arrival there, that maybe the dog picked it up off the floor and could've used it as a chew toy.  I searched the backyard, even taking a close look at her poopies and nothing.

Now I'm truly at a loss.  Every conceivable place I'd been in the last twenty-four hours had been covered.  Nothing.  That motherf*cker was GONE!!!  Now I was a man on a mission.  I vowed that I would be returning home and I was going to turn this household on it's motherf*cking head.  I was prepared to pull the garbage bin to my front door and just start shoveling all the crap that I don't hardly look at, anymore, straight into the bin.  I was SO angry.  SO full of piss and vinegar.  I was going to strip this house naked and leave only the bare minimum, so NOTHING would (or could) ever go missing ever again.

I arrived home, again, for the third time.  I was determined.  I searched the table, cursing out every piece of mail that blocks the wood grain on the top of the table.  Nothing there.  I searched the counter top in the kitchen, tossing out some garbage along the way.  Nothing.

I return to my bedroom.  I start tossing everything off the bed.  T-shirts, my jammy-jams, even the comforter came flying off the bed.  Nothing.  I started tossing pillows off the bed.  Still nothing.  Then I jammed my hand under a few more pillows (I have a LOT of pillows) and noth....  Wait!!  What the f*ck?!

Miraculously, the wallet was there.  Tucked WAAAAAY back under the quilt and pillows.  There's absolutely NO logical reason why it would have been there.  I don't even sit on that side of the bed.  Not even when getting dressed.  There's no conceivable way that the wallet would have wound up there. 🤔  I have issues with a wily spirit in my house that has in the past, hidden items away.  Some have been found, often in obscure locations that scoff at logic and other shit that has just been missing for years and years, including a wrestling plushy for my nephew.  Gone!!  But that is a subject for another time.

As relieved as I was and am, for locating my lost wallet and identification, I feel the level of torment that I experienced racing back and forth across town, for all the anger and strife I experienced over the course of the afternoon.  The levels of hatred I had for myself and the frustration of not remembering where or what I did with my wallet, the outcome was less than dramatic.  The ordeal felt more like a faux pas than the hellacious experience that I was working up in my head.  I felt for sure like I was going to fight the Devil, himself, to get my shit back.  In reality the outcome was... Meh!

All the torture and torment felt like I should have armoured up and went into battle with a dragon or a yeti, at least.  Not simply reach under a few pillows and find the wallet.  "Oh there you are you silly goose."

I was so angry.., but I don't know what I'm more angry about.  Was it losing it in the first place?  Was it wimping out and not going to work, despite the likelihood that I wouldn't have a MVC, even though most of the drivers out there are f*cking idiots? The fact that the wallet was simply misplaced?  Or am I more upset because the outcome wasn't dramatic, enough? 

I don't know, but I should probably just #PraiseThePositive and leave it at that.  Merry Christmas, all!! 🎄

Nobody F*cks With Reggie

The song "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer" became a classic Christmas carol early on.  Recorded by cowboy-crooner, Gene Autry, the song quickly rose to Number One on the charts in 1949.  The song was derived from a short story that was written for the Montgomery Ward department store in 1939, as a marketing ploy to sell seasonal colouring books. The story was written as a poem so adapting it to music came as quite an ease.

There was a mention on the radio earlier this week, discussing the origins of the Christmas classic "Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer".  The author, Robert L. May was going to originally name the famed-reindeer Rollo or Reginald before finally settling on Rudolph.  Arguably, Rudolph IS the better name as it more easily rolls off the tongue when singing the song.  More so than Rollo or Reginald.  The radio guy claimed that Rollo or Reginald was difficult to sing in time with the music, to which most would agree, but I'm in the small group or perhaps I may be alone on this, but I think "Reggie the Red-Nosed Reindeer" works just as fine as Rudolph does, but it comes with a catch.  Nobody f*cks with a guy named Reggie.

Rudolph or Rudy isn't a tough sounding name.  If anyone is named Rudolph or Rudy in life, which obviously there is, they need to be tough, because Rudy is not a tough sounding name.  It sounds like a push over.  A runt.  A wimp.  When a Rudy runs up and asks to play in reindeer games, they're obviously going to urge him to piss off.  Reindeer games, after all, for those unfamiliar, are hardcore.  So much, you won't even see your toughest personalities f*cking with that sport.  MMA, NFL, Pro Wrestling?  None of these athletes are f*cking with reindeer games and neither is a Rudolph.  That shit would eat him and and spit his sorry little ass out.

Now a Reggie, red nose or not, he's going to get into the thick of things.  Reggie is the type of reindeer that if he's discouraged once, he's going to take matters into his own hands... er, hooves, and do something about it.  Reggie is going to work out.  Hit the weights, work on his cardiovascular.  Maybe even sneak some steroids to emphasize the matter.  Reggie the red-nosed reindeer doesn't take rejection lightly and he'll come back and he'll whoop some reindeer asses.  You watch.  Reggie won't just play in those reindeer games, but he'll f*ck shit up and become the best, the ultimate reindeer game player. 

Meanwhile, Rudolph.... Rudy, is sitting on the sidelines watching all the game play, wondering why everyone is so mean.  Grow a backbone, Rudolph!!  For Christ's sake, not everything gets handed to you on a platter.  Take some initiative!!

That's what happened, though.  Reginald -- Reggie was never to be.  Reggie is a tough son-of-a-bitch.  Reggie makes for a short uneventful song.  Rudolph, on the other hand, shows a challenge. Displays diversity.  Rudolph is the underdog that everyone feels needs to be cheered.  To be championed.  That's why on that fateful Christmas Eve night, when the fog was so thick, Santa couldn't see the belly that was in front of him, he called on Rudolph to guide the troupe of reindeer and his sleigh, thus plunging Rudolph into history as the most famous reindeer of them all.  Handed to him on a platter.

Throughout history, Reggie or Reginald the Red-Nosed Reindeer is just a discarded note on the floor of the artists office.  Never to see the light of day.  At least not until now....

Behold!  I'd like to introduce you to:
Reginald (Reggie) the Red-Nosed Reindeer

And nobody f*cks with Reggie!!