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!!

FML

 

What was to begin an amusing anecdote about fatherhood, kids, discipline and chores, but alas, my efforts were thwarted by a computer having a temper tantrum.

I first noticed that it began moving slower over the past few days, but when I powered it up to venture into the World Wide Web, the laptop that once raced like the hare from that old fairytale, now moved as quickly as Eeyore in the Boston Marathon.  Very lethargic, but I managed to seek out the photos I was going to use, but when I attempted to write a new blog, the system never allowed me to follow through with my intentions.

Turns out that I was signed out of my blog.  I don't understand how or when that would have occurred.  I usually stay logged in.  It saves time and much of my sanity.  The very same sanity that sadly has melted away with tonight's escapades.

Apparently, so I've learned from this endeavour, Google owns blogspot.  I did not know that..., or if I did, it's another memory that was lost in my accident.  So I now had to recall the password for that which, for some reason, even though I'd punched in the correct PW, I had to verify that it was me.  A verification code was sent to my email.  Nope!  Can't get into my f*cking email account, despite the password being correct.  What the f*ck, man?!

I phone a friend, like a confused contestant on a game show, hoping for suggestions or a remedy to fix my compiling problems.  He helps the best he can, bless his heart, but his being on the other side of the city and my being completely computer illiterate, the project fell short.  I take the blame for that.  That and my computer is being a complete dick.

Now I have financial worries of "how the f*ck am I going to afford to replace another computer?"  I have a decent job, but the cost of living keeps rising every other day.  I speculate that my property taxes are going to be raised again, because the current city government is comprised of egotistical maniacs bent on what their legacy is going to be over the betterment of the citizens of our fair city.  Not to mention how many prior financial commitments I have.  My life is a f*cking money pit.

I thank my friend for the help he provided.  He's a good dude.  My "brother-from-another-mother".  We exchanged our parting pleasantries and I hung up the phone.  (We say hang up, even though there's no hanging of anything involved. 🤔 Weird.)  [*Sorry.  My mind wandered there for a second.  Now..., where was I?]

So we said our farewell's and I... set my phone aside, then turned my attention back to this slowpoke of a computer.  Closed all the windows that we had opened, all but one.  When I backed out of the failed Google sign-in attempt, suddenly my f*cking blog account was open.  What the f*ck, indeed!!

I changed the direction of what I was originally going to write.  I don't know if I'll ever complete the original idea.  I'll probably forget it.  I still have some issues with short-term memory.  Then again, maybe I will remember.  Each day is a mystery.

All this computer f*ckery is getting tedious.  I don't understand why I never learned how these f*cking things actually work.  I see other people tapping keys and punching in data and it looks fulfilling.  To just instinctually know what the outcome of your efforts will be, whereas in my shitty little life, I press the power button and then say a little prayer under my breath, to whom, I don't have a clue, but my hope is always that shit will work as it should and I can maneuver the interwebs without any hassle, so when stupid shit like what happened today, my prayers change from hoping that the computer will actually work to hoping a meteor will land on my house and kill me right here and now.  Some days I literally feel like I'm too stupid to live.  (Then I see some really stupid people and I feel better about my shitty life.)  

*Thank you stupid people.  You really do make the world go 'round.*

Home Sweet Home

 

It's nice to get out once in awhile.  Doing so, really makes one appreciate home all the more.  I enjoy being out with friends.  Family not so much, but with friends, I'm always guaranteed a few laughs, but when the night comes to a close and I'm homeward bound, I'm full of anticipation.  Excitement about walking through my front door, tossing my shoes aside and just relaxing and being at ease.  Of course, a familiar furry face greeting me at the front door with hugs and kisses, Monkey (my cat) is another reason I enjoy being home so much.

I have to leave the house, though, to truly appreciate being home.  If I wake up and remain indoors all day, I don't enjoy it as much.  It feels more like... Existing.  The house is merely the package that contains me.  I do not have to venture far, however, nor for very long.  Just shooting down to the mall for a second to grab some milk or something is all it takes.  Even just running to the bank to grab some cash.  I'm probably only gone for about fifteen minutes, but the moment I see my garage door opening for me to park, my heart actually warms itself.  The anticipation of entering the innards of my sanctuary is almost overwhelming.  I'm overjoyed, if I gotta be truthful.

As I said, the venture homeward isn't nearly as enjoyable as the moment I exit my vehicle and slowly stride to the front door.  That's when the joy begins.

I love my house.  I've lived here for over fifteen years, now, and don't see myself ever leaving, unless it's feet first, inside of a pine box.  I've dreamt of owning other houses.  I've even dreamed up a home that I plan to build, if the opportunity ever arises.🤑 Alas, 'tis but a pipe dream, but the house would have everything from an indoor pool, to an actual bar and a home theater, just to name a few features.  When I dream, I dream BIG.

For now, I love my house and I think it loves me.  I'm home and I feel safe.  I think that's the ultimate reason I love being home.  I feel safe.  Nothing can happen to me while I am here.  I love it.  It truly is my Home Sweet Home.

Run For Fun?

Waking up before the sun breaks the seal of a brand new day.  Dressing up in the garb of choice to battle the endeavour of the morning.  Filling a bottle with a concoction of protein powder and water, before lacing up your  running shoes and heading out the front door for a pre-dawn five mile jog before heading into the office for eight more hours of torture.  I can picture it, but I cannot fathom the joy or choice to run for fun.  It's an alien concept.

I've always been surprisingly fast for my size and shape.  I've had people challenge me in the past to race to the car or whatever, then be flabbergasted as my fat ass left them in the dust.  Unfortunately, those were in my younger years, while these days, arthritic knees and ankles in addition to prior spinal injuries pretty much prevents me from running at all.  When I am rushed, what results tends to look more like a wounded animal stumbling out of the brush than anything that resembles running.

I understand that it's fitness oriented, which is another practice that I avoid.  When forced to workout, in the past, whenever I had to rehabilitate an injury, I enjoyed it to a point, but after a couple hours of repeating the same actions, it became more of an annoyance than rehabilitating.  I've often had those "if I win the lottery" moments where I speculated that I would put a gym in my house, but in reality, would it be used or would that just end up being a space left ignored?  If I'm to be honest, I probably would use the facility if it were in the house, but even then, you'd never see my fat ass bouncing left and right as I ran on a treadmill.  Low impact or not, my knees would not hold up.

An early morning jog on the beach looks kind of refreshing, but again, unless you live there, it seems contrived.  Not only does one need to repeat the steps mentioned in the first paragraph, but now you have to add driving to a destination to execute your morning running ritual.  That's like the last walk of a prisoner headed to his own execution.  There has to be an air of resistance to the concept.  A detour into an early morning drive-thru to pick up all the things that your diet prevents you from having, like for instance, joy.  At this point, though, I can only imagine that your brain is operating on the default setting and there isn't much thinking going on.  You're just running on autopilot.

It is of my belief or creed, if you will, that one should reserve the practice of running for only emergencies, like being chased by a dog or wild animal.  Granted, they're more likely able to chase you down, but at least you have the chance to get away, plus the elevated heartrate will aid in emptying your body of blood, while the wild beast devours you.  So there's that advantage to running, I suppose. 🤔

Anytime I've witness people running, I've never once noticed a smile of anyone's face.  They chose, after all, to wake up at that ungodly hour.  They chose to run out in the brisk morning air.  They chose all the torture they inflict on themselves, so yes.  Why smile at that?  If you do cross paths with anyone who is smiling while they're running, chances are they are a deranged lunatic and I hope all this running you've been doing, has prepared you to sprint for your life before Smiley-pants knocks you over the head and drags you into a nearby bush. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is that overjoyed while running.

If you're an athlete, then of course, running is necessary, but only in short bursts.  Running for hours and hours in say, a marathon, is completely mental.  Both in execution of the task and borderline insanity.  I don't know if I've ever been that overjoyed to do anything of the like.  Like I've previously stated, it's an alien concept.  I can't wrap my head around it.  I can't understand the why, even after listening to countless people about the "benefits".  

I'm at a stage in my life where people around me are beginning to enter the twilight of their lives.  Aunts and uncles, friends and colleagues, are being diagnosed with conditions or inflictions or even dying, despite having lead healthy lives filled with exercise and good dietary habits.  Nowadays, when I hear that someone has passed away, the first thought that enters my mind, isn't that of sorrow or despair, but rather I think to myself, "They exercised and ate right and they still died.  I guess that means I don't have to do any of that, because I have the same odds of survival, regardless."  Kind of psychotic, when you think about it, but nevertheless factual.  I haven't ventured into a gym for a couple of years and that little endeavour ended with re-aggravating an old shoulder injury.

The only running I see in my future is the one I make on my deathbed. When I see that bright light open in the sky, that's when I'll make a break for it.  I'm deceivingly fast for a fat guy and I want to sprint through those Pearly Gates before they realize they fucked and I was supposed to head "south".  No take-backsies. 

The only truly accurate depiction of an early morning jogger.