SMASHED

As a very small youngster, I recall my uncle teaching me how to ride a dirt bike he had on his farm.  It was a short lesson and I thought I'd caught on fairly quickly, but soon found myself hurling out of control on a gentle curve.  It was scary how quickly I had lost control, myself helpless upon a racing motorcycle whipping through shoulder height field of wheat.  After that, I would never attempt to ride a motorcycle again.  Over my adult life, I've always held a healthy respect for the two-wheeled vehicles, but have never mustered up the courage to tempt fate once more.

Whenever I've spoken with or to people who ride motorcycles, the number one complaint that is common with everyone is the fact that they seem to disappear in traffic.  Despite the loud exhaust rumbling out a throaty growl, most traffic don't actually see, motorcyclists.  This often results in mishaps where riders can be severely injured.

About ten years ago, I was driving home from work when I came upon a traffic accident.  There was a leather-clad motorcyclist visibly shaking on the boulevard, just a few feet from his motorcycle that had been sandwiched between two cars.  Judging from the twisted mess that was lying half underneath the car in front, it was lucky that he'd escaped with only a couple of abrasions.  The outcome had the potential to be a lot worse.

For the entirety of my adult driving life, I've taken special care whenever I encounter a motorcycle in traffic.  I realize that many people overlook their existence, so I take on the responsibility to buffer the zone between them and other traffic.  I don't tailgate or anything moronic like that, but I'll happily lose some time on my travels to ensure their safety in heavy traffic.

I know that not everyone on the road, today, is oblivious to motorcycles, but there are some who don't even think about them.  Add in the distractions that many have, their noses aimed at their cell phones, rather than concentrating on the road ahead, traffic can become a veritable mine field for some riders.

Given the challenges that motorcyclists have maneuvering safely in traffic, it baffles me why some riders think themselves invincible by drinking and driving.  Driving under the influence is challenging as it is, behind the wheel of a four-wheeled vehicle.  Minus two tires and add balance to the equation, equals a bad situation by my count.

Earlier this evening, the police responded to a single motorcycle accident where the rider lost control of his bike, striking a post and dying on scene.  Investigators suspect speed and alcohol were likely contributing factors.  I know the intersection where this accident occurred and it can be a little challenging sober, in a car traveling at the legal speed limit.  Racing on what is most likely a Japanese rocket, this poor drunk fool didn't stand a chance.

I doubt this was his first day riding a motorcycle.  I would imagine that he experienced all the same challenges as the motorcycle enthusiasts that I've spoken with, have.  So why add alcohol?

I'm no angel.  I'm not going to point and wag my finger like I'm holier than thou.  I've driven drunk.  Twice.  The first time scared the living shit out of me and I swore I'd never do it again.  The second time, I was high from marijuana, and that ended with someone stealing my car after I got home, ultimately f*cking with my memory and I've never done it since.  I got off lucky in both instances, but things could've been different.  Given all the distractions and outside interference, we, as a society, don't need to drink and drive.  That's just f*cking stupid.

I'm not writing this with any hidden message.  We're all adults.  We can take responsibility for our own actions.  I just got off Twitter after reading about this accident and it left me scratching my head and asking WHY?

Speed Kills, But Stupidity Lives On

It's as stupid as the woman who sued McDonald's for serving hot coffee, but we now live in a society where people point their fingers of blame, rather than taking responsibility for their own shortcomings.

Like the parents who blame music or violent video games, when their children shoot up a movie theater or high school home room, "My child is a perfect little angel.  They would never do something like that.  They must have been influenced by something else."  Guess what?!  No!!  You're just shitty parents.

This week, a couple involved in a high speed collision that left one occupant with severe brain trauma, is suing the online app, Snapchat, with having caused the fatal accident.  The facts of the case, according to what I've read, so far, are this:  Wentworth and Karen Maynard's Mitsubishi was struck from behind by an 18-year old, Christal McGee's car, which was travelling at a high rate of speed, exceeding 100 mph.  The posted speed limit was only 55 mph.  According to the plaintiff (Maynard), the teen was using the smart phone app, Snapchat's speed filter which allows the user to post a photograph illustrating their current speed.  I'll address that in a moment.

According to Henry Williams, one of the three other occupants in the automobile with McGee, claims none of the quartet of teens were using the Snapchat app at the time.  It's speculation on my part, but that seems a little suspicious, as he never explains why the teens were traveling at an estimated 107 mph.  He does, however, point the finger at the other car. laying blame on them for "pulling out in front of them and failing to speed up".  What I think, actually happened was the Maynard's merged their car onto the four-lane highway, obeying the posted speed of 55 mph, unlike McGee's car, which was traveling like a rocket ship.  If the Maynard's are guilty of anything, it's that they aren't clairvoyant.

Every day that I'm behind the wheel, I glance over at the vehicle driving beside me and more times than not, the driver is staring down at their hand-held device, distracted rather than watching the road in front of them.  I always wish I was a police officer in those moments, so I could pull them over and issue a hefty fine.  I often think that if I was a cop, I'd lead the department in tickets issued for crimes like this and alike.  There's no limit to the amount of stupidity in the world,  It's something that often leaves me scratching my head.  I swear I've worn a bald patch into the side of my skull.

I will grant that having the capability to read your rate of travel and posting the speed along with a self-indulgent selfie, is a pretty stupid option to offer, but I'm sure the genius' at Snapchat, never thought it's application, all they way through, when they designed this feature.  Either they didn't account for the stupidity or arrogance of their users or just plain didn't care.  I would agree that the app should discontinue the Speed Filter option from their program.  I'm sure the sliver of those using the option responsibly, is razor thin and won't miss it if it disappears.

Like the person who gets cancer and sues the cigarette company after decades of smoking.  Some responsibility and ownership of one's own stupidity has to surface.  It's like someone told me once: When you point a finger (to blame), there's three more pointing back at you.  Snapchat isn't to blame for causing this terrible accident.  If anything, they may be guilty of contributing to the continuing negligence of our society.

Skill Testing Question

At the end of last year, I entered a contest.  In exchange for making a small donation to a charity, I would receive some calendars, each with an eight-digit number that acted as a draw code or an entry into a bank for a chance to be drawn throughout the year for a number of prizes.  There's a daily draw for a $1000, which would be a nice exchange for the thirty bucks I shelled out.  There's also a weekly draw for various trips (or their monetary equivalent) as well as a monthly draw for a new vehicle, provided by Dodge (or the cash equivalent).  It being a leap year, adds one more daily draw, which increases my odds of winning (at least) one prize, significantly...  Bad?

Almost three months have passed us by, and no prizes as of yet.  I check every few days, my eyes scanning through the prize winning numbers, but mine never appear.  Come to think of it, nothing remotely close to my numbers ever appears.  The odds of my winning may have gotten worse.

On the off chance that I do get one of my three draw codes drawn, according to the rules, I have to answer a skill testing question without the aid of a mechanical device.  I hate to think that on the off chance that I was lucky enough to win a $40K automobile, that the prize will elude be because I don't know algebra.  I know it likely would be a more simple adding/subtracting/multiplication number, but back in high school, I never pulled off 100% marks on my math exams, which proves a chance of failure all these years later.

I doubt that officials would allow this to happen.  In fact, I recall one draw that required a mathematical question to be answered at the time of entry and the ticket sales person whispering to every entrant, "The answer is fifteen."

Win or lose, the thirty bucks I invested into this delusion, goes to a worthy cause.  It was for the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation.  I like boobs.  I've always liked boobs and if it takes thirty dollars of my money to help preserve boobs for future enjoyment, then it's thirty dollars that I'm happy to part with.

Glimpse

Growing up for me, I'll be honest, wasn't the worst experience in the world, but it wasn't the greatest either.  My father was a raging alcoholic and it was difficult, even at our best, to live up to his expectations, and he was more than willing to share his disdain with you, sometimes emphasizing his words with a closed fist.  Granted, there were worse off families in the world and despite his frailties, I still had four walls around me, a roof over my head and three square meals a day.

That withstanding, as I kid, I still resented him at times.  Cherishing the days of lucidity, when it was a pure joy and honour to share time with my dad.  An emotion that I could, literally, feel wash away from my face when we'd stop at the liquor store before returning home.  The hours that followed would feel like a pressure cooker, us wondering how many drinks it would take, this time, before his proverbial axe-head would fly off the handle, sending us all into hiding.

Years later, medical issues would force my father to face his addiction and set aside the bottle.  After that, was pure bliss.  While we had our differences prior to that time, I accepted the situation for what it was.  I've always referred to it as Jeckyll & Hyde Syndrome.  The sober father (Dr. Jeckyll) was always a wonderful person to be around.  He'd laugh and tell stories and I'd hang on every word he spoke.  The drunk father (Mr. Hyde) was pure horror.  It was like walking on glass.  You never knew if you were going to survive with only a couple of cracks or if you would just go crashing through the floor.  After being on the receiving end of a few violent beatings, I was always trepidacious in my encounters.  However, when he finally sobered up, there was no fear.  I could walk into any room, whether he was in a good mood or grumpy, and have no fear of repercussions.  Mr. Hyde was no more and Dr. Jeckyll was there to stay.

Sadly, my time with the sober father never lasted very long.  Less than a decade before cancer would strike and take my father away from us at just fifty-four years of age, and I've felt a huge void in my life ever since.  I wonder, sometimes, if my life would be as fucked up as it is, today, if he had lived on into his sixties and seventies.  Would I have strove to be a better person rather than settling for whoever I am today?  My mother and sister have always viewed me as being worthless and likely never to amount to much and as much as I disagree with those sentiments, I can't help but feel that I fell right into that mold.

It's been more than a decade since my father's passing and still I miss him.  I miss the fact that I could see something or wonder about something and go for a visit and just sit and chat.  We used to play card games and just laugh at one another's stories.  Even though I'd heard them thousands of times, I loved hearing his stories about his childhood.  One goal that I always had and regretfully failed to follow through with, was going back to his childhood home and just wander the roads and hillsides, laying eyes on all the historical sites where these childhood events took place.  Like the "Grouchy Bob" house or the bridge that nearly got burned down due to childhood negligence.  He's survived by his three older brothers, but I doubt that they'd share the same nostalgia for his stories.

The last day I spent with my dad was a holiday Monday, May 25th, 1999.  I remember it vividly, because I'd attended a WWF Pay-Per-View the night before in which Owen Hart had tragically died.  I mentioned the bad news to my dad that day and the news was met with genuine sorrow.  He wasn't a fan of professional wrestling, but was well aware of Owen's infamous father, Stu Hart of the legendary Stampede Wrestling.  I don't know if it was with that familiarity or the fact that he (my dad) was facing death everyday, that he extended his condolences to me and to the Hart family.  His words were sweet and I've often reflected on that day with great reverence.  My only regret was that a friend had called and invited me to his house that evening, and like a fucking heel, I left my father to go hang out with a friend, who ultimately ditched my ass, anyway.  Three days later, my dad was dead.

I look back at his final days and I wonder what I could have done differently.  Not much, I'm sure.  He was very sick, growing more and more weaker with every passing day.  He became so frail that he could no longer stand or walk, opting to sleep in his recliner for the last few weeks of his life.  My mom still has that chair in her house and it would take me more than ten years before I would sit in the chair.  Not out of some kind morbid idea, but it was something else.  It was like I could still see him sitting in the chair.  I've since sat in the chair, if for no other reason than to feel closer to my late father.

The movie "Field of Dreams" is probably my most favourite movie in the history of movies.  It's not because of the baseball overtones, but for the fact that an adult Ray Kinsella gets to spend a few more minutes with the father he hardly knew.  Just a few minutes of simply playing catch with his dad.  No need for words, just enjoying each other's company.  Just reflecting on that scene has me fighting back the tears and failing miserably.

My father could be a real bastard, sometimes.  The alcohol unleashing a true monster in every facet of the word, but my dad...  The real man who would fight off his demons and become the wonderful man he always could be, is the man that I miss everyday.  If we had just a few more minutes together, I wonder what we'd talk about.  The weather?  Would I have the balls to tell him what he truly meant to me in life?  I don't know.  I can't answer that question, but I'd settle for a simple game of catch. 

Broken Hearted

I had a picture of myself, once, as an old man.  There I'd sit, alone in an old folk's home, when someone would come, sit down and visit with me.  The conversation would take me well into the past, exploring my history and contributions in life.  One of the questions that would close the conversation would ask: Do you have any regrets?  I saw myself sit for a moment, eyebrows furrowed with concentration, then these words escaping my heavy breath, "I regret that I never got to hold a baby."

For anyone who's ever held a baby, words cannot describe the joy that is experienced in an act that seems so minor, yet creates a large impact.  Alas, I'll never utter those words, as eight years ago, my sister gave birth to my first, of two, nephews, Jake.  At first I rejected the idea of picking the tiny newborn up in my feeble arms, but finally succumbed to the constant urging and as I said, words cannot describe the delight I felt after that moment.  He felt so small and warm and trusting in my arms.  I was almost afraid to breath, for fear something may happen to the infant child.

Jake and my friend's little girl, who was born around the same time, would be the only babies that I would hold until this date.  Due to mitigating circumstances, in my own head, I rarely came for a visit after my second nephew was born.  Even today, I rarely come 'round.  Other than birthday's and major holiday's, you'll rarely see me in their house.  I've always gotten a feeling of...  I don't want to say disrespect, but I have always felt like they (my sister and her husband) looked down on me, as I were a f*ck up!  In recent times, I'd say that assessment would be accurate, but for the last three or four years, I'd say that was highly inaccurate and premature.

Another factor that convinces me of this attitude, is the way my nephew, Jake, treats me.  At one time, he was all I could think about.  Inexplicably, the moment he entered this world, I loved that kid.  He was always such a cool little boy and I looked forward to the next time that I got to see him.  He'd get his mom to phone me up and invite me over for barbecues and play dates.  It was cute and endearing.  Whenever I'd go to Wal-Mart, I'd swing past the toy department, picking through all the Hot Wheels cars, picking and choosing cars and monster trucks, which I'd gift him on every visit.  This sparked an obsession in the boy who today has amassed a collection of monster trucks numbering close to fifty, if not more.  Maybe I created a monster.

Since his birth, my life has been like a roller coaster.  Up and down, highs and lows that would knock the wind out of the strongest of titans, yet I've managed to keep my head above water.  It's been an emotional time, too, where I admit, sometimes I felt like I couldn't go on any further.  In the darkest hours, though, I'd find inspiration in that little boy and his addictive laughter that would give me the strength to lower my head and power on.  In recent memory, this hasn't been the case anymore...

Chad, is my nephew, the second of the two boys and he's as tough as he is sweet.  Every time I see him, he's got a sweet smile that accompanies his baby blues.  In the beginning, when I rarely came around their house, he didn't know quite what to make of me, but in the years since, he's warmed up to me and we're like pals.  He's always got a kind word to say and is always inquisitive and talkative.  He's always got a toy or device in his hand and is willing to show me exactly what he's doing.  Chad is a pure joy.  He's exactly what Jake used to be.  Jake on the other hand, in recent times, seems as defiant towards me, as he is endearing when his parents around.

When mom and dad are nearby, he's happy, joking and dear, but the moment his parents disappear around the corner or out of earshot, Jake's happy smile is quickly replaced with a devious grin and the hurtful comments are fired in my face, like a proverbial cream pie.  Seemingly minor comments quickly become razor sharp shards of glass, piercing my skin and stinging like salt on an open wound.  A couple weeks back, I was asked to baby sit my nephews and at first, I was excited about the premise, as I'd not seen the boys since just after the New Year.  The last time I'd watched the duo, we had fun, eating pizza and drawing and colouring at the table.  This time around, wasn't quite so enjoyable.

Chad, as always, was sweet as can be.  He had his game boy in hand, thwarting the evils of Mario's world.  Jake, was nice, for a while, whilst mom and dad were home and continued as such for the first hour or so of their absence.  Together, we went downstairs to his play room and fired up his X-box and played some wrestling before trying our hand at some NHL2015.  That was enjoyable until I made the mistake of scoring on his team, and that's when the switch came.  Like a wash cloth wiped across a dirty face, gone was the sweet little boy and I was now facing off with a demon child.  Not a unholy terror, mind you, but more of a wolf in sheep's clothing.  He began to cheat at the game, turning off my ability to control my players, or removing my goalie from net altogether so he'd have the advantage of scoring on an empty net.  The novelty of playing a fun game with my nephew wore off quick and I stopped playing with him.  Next came the barrage of hatred, including the comment, "Why don't you do everyone a favour and just die."

I was flabbergasted and truly hurt...  Still am, if the truth be told.

When asked how everything went when his dad came home, I neglected to tell Bryan about the comment.  I doubt he would've believed it anyway.  I did share that just before going to bed, Jake attempted to strike me across the face with a toy hockey stick, but when I grabbed it out of his hand, he resorted to punching me as hard as he could at the base of my neck.  Bryan appeared to be none too pleased about the report, but feigned a smile and laughed it off.  I doubt the matter was ever addressed with the young boy.

Last night, I dropped by their house, as I needed some help from Bryan.  There was an air of fun filling the house.  My sister and the boys had visited a game store earlier in the day and picked up a couple puzzle games.  A thousand piece puzzle for her, which looked like confetti spread across the table downstairs where she attempted it's assembly, and a couple Rubik's Cubes for the boys.  Smiles and laughter filled the house, which felt busy with energy.  I stuck around for a short while, catching up on news and gossip, but true to nature, when my sister disappeared downstairs to attend to her overwhelming task and my brother-in-law went outside for a minute, Jake's deviant grin returned and the comments came flying out once more.  He told me that I was dumb and stupid and that he was smarter than me, because he could construct a solid colour on his cube in a minute.  Again, meaningless on the surface, but disturbing coming from an eight year old who's supposed to love you unconditionally.

What's most baffling to me, is the fact that he only does this when his parents aren't present, which leads me to believe that he knows it's wrong to say such things, but at the same time, where does he get this attitude from?  I can't help but wonder if Teri and Bryan aren't badmouthing me when I'm absent and Jake is picking up on this negativity?

What have I done that is so bad that they would hold me in such disregard?  So much that their eight year old son would say, "Why don't you do everyone a favour and just die?"

I left their house shortly after, feigning an empty smile of my own, but harbouring a truly broken heart. 

First Name Basis

Like the late Art Linkletter used to say on his program, "Kids say the darndest things."  It's as true today as it was when his version hit the airwaves in the forties and fifties, the only difference being that today's children are a little more educated.  Or at least, they believe they are.

There's a number of children who ride the school bus that seem to speak a lot about toilets, poop and their "male appendages".  One boy, in particular, I've had to warn a number of times, explaining that it was inappropriate to talk about such content in the presence of little girls.  "A good boy," I said, "Wouldn't do that."

To tell the truth, I'm so out of the loop when it comes to kids, nowadays.  They're a far cry from when I was their age.  I want to say it's bad parenting, but in truth, it's probably something in the water that makes them this way.  When I was a little boy getting on the bus, I'd find a seat and sit quietly until we arrived at school.  Today, the kids are hyper as f*ck, and can barely sit still when the climb aboard.  It's crazy, I tell ya.  Crazy.

For the most part, I ignore it, recalling a helpful reminder a friend told me years ago in reference to circumstances beyond our control.  It is what it is.  Five simple single-syllable words that I've valued in the five-plus years since hearing it.  So much so, that I once almost got it tattooed to the palm of my hand.  That way, I could look at it during stressful situations involving stupidity.  A last reminder before slapping my forehead with frustration.  The craziness displayed by the kids, is the same.  Nothing I say or do, will deter them from acting like wild monkeys.  It's not all of them, thankfully, but just enough to drive a man to drink.  But, there's a paycheck in it for me to endure the insanity.  Less than minimum wage, mind you, but in a job market that has very little to offer, it's what I'm stuck with for now...  It is what it is...

This morning presented a break from the constant chirping, hooting and howling that the boys in the front two seats make.  At first I was thankful.  A few fleeting seconds to regain whatever sanity I had left.  That's when I overheard someone singing a song.  It went with the tune of the Oscar Mayer wiener commercial.  You know the one, "My wiener has a first name. It's O-S-C-A-R..," only this one's lyrics were drastically changed.  I only heard a couple verses before I kiboshed it.

"My penis has a first name, it's P-E-N-I-S.  And it makes me laugh when it wears a funny dress."

While it is catchy enough to tap your toe to, I doubt it's a real song.  However, if this kid thought this up on his own, he may have a future writing dirty limericks.  Still, highly inappropriate for a five year old boy to sing in mixed company.

I don't like to squash the laughter and fun that these kids have.  Some of my fondest memories of school was the ride home on the school bus.  Back then, however, we never spoke of such things.  I don't know what to do with these kids.  Grin and bear it, I suppose.  Treat this job like every other job I've ever had that I grew to resent.  Count the hours until the next weekend or day off.  After all, in those inspirational words of my friend: It is what it is...

The Stupid Shit I See

I've often remarked that it'd be nice to have a GoPro camera mounted on the dash of the school bus I drive.  People doubt some of the amazing shit I've bore witness to.  I've seen a number of Hit & Runs.  Many close calls and near misses.  Too many to assign a number to, in fact.  I've even witnessed a slug-fest between two women on a boulevard, moments after an accident.  The list goes on and on.  Unfortunately, I do not have a GoPro affixed to the dash, meaning no one gets to see any of those incidents, nor do they get to see the cluster-f*ck I saw this morning.

I tried my best to illustrate what occurred on my route, this morning.  Bear in mind that this picture is not to scale.  I'd just picked up a smattering of students and was approaching my next pick up, when I happened upon a car parked perpendicular to the street.  It was blocking both lanes and my mind quickly jumped into problem-solving mode.  A lone male standing by the car, spotted me and ran up to my door.  I'm not supposed to open the door to anyone except students and school officials, but taking a chance, I opened the door to see what was the matter, more so out of curiosity for the strange situation.

"I don't know what happened..," the man explained, "I was just driving along and it ran out of gas!"

"So you parked it across both lanes?" I asked, with an implication of stupidity in my voice.  "Can't you push it out of the way?  I have kids to pick up."  He shook his head no.  Then he suggested I go around.

Omitted from the graphic above, is the stream of parked cars that lined the street.  True, there was a gap large enough to fit a school bus through, but it would require my passing over the lawn, coming dangerously close to the fence that lined the exterior of the apartment building.

People fail to understand, fully, just what is involved with driving a bus.  While it's easy to dart around objects in the road, it's a f*ck of a lot more difficult with a large vehicle like a bus or semi-tractor.  We can't turn on a dime.  We can't fit through tight spaces.  Plus, we have a tail swing which is dangerous for inflicting damage or injury.

I eyed up the space the man was inferring to, then cautiously proceeded, closing the door on the man, mid-sentence.  Using a combination of grace and caution, I crept the behemoth vehicle around the stalled car, followed by a wide turn to the right before engaging in a sharp turn to the left to make it around the corner.

All-in-all, I survived the ordeal, without much hindrance, but I couldn't get that flimsy excuse out of my head.  He ran out of gas?  He passes a gas station to get to and from his residence, everyday.  You can't travel in or around that area of town, without passing that gas station.  Did he assume that the 'E' on the gauge stood for something other than empty? and given that gas has been cheaper in the last few months, than it has been in (literally) decades.

I accept that maybe he did run out of gas.  It happens.  It's happened to me twice, once in front of a gas station.  What eludes me, in this case, is how the car became stopped in the middle of the block, perpendicular to the street?  There was a car parked inches off his front bumper, so he couldn't have been attempting a U-turn.  If his car, indeed, began to sputter and cough, symptoms of running out of fuel, he wouldn't have had enough power to cause the car to slip sideways, like that.  True, it's still winter and there's ice on the roads, but it's rutted in that area, meaning there's tire tracks worn into the thick ice, and sliding sideways, especially under limited power, would be impossible.

I don't know what the case is.  The scene only occupied my mind long enough to jot down this blog.  Now I'm going to file it away with the plethora of other stupid shit I've witnessed in my travels.  I really wish I had a GoPro camera fixed on my dash.  You wouldn't believe the stupid shit I see.