Jeff's Brain Matter

What Is "It"?

2026-09-28T14:14:07.692-07:00

For decades, I have been a fan of the song "In The Air Tonight" by former Genesis band member, Philip David James Collins, known the world over as simply Phil Collins. However, there's nothing simple about the man. He's a drummer, singer, song writer and producer, and even an actor, having appeared on the television show "Miami Vice" and later starred in his own film called "Buster". He has appeared in tons of movies, television programs and even appeared as a version of himself in the Grand Theft Auto game series. He's accomplished way more than the likes of this little blog can report, but if you're interested, there is a plethora of material available online that you can peruse at your own leisure. It's a fascinating read, for sure. What I recall about Phil Collins, other than he once described himself as an "exterior decorator", meaning, he painted houses in his youth. That description made me laugh and I always recall it when I see anyone painting a house. That aside, I also remember Phil Collins famously performed at Live Aid on July 13th, 1985, playing both the London, England venue as well as the show in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He performed at one, hopped on the Concorde, which flew at supersonic speed, and arrived in Philly in time to perform before the close of the live concert. That's a hell of a feat, if you ask me.

Phil Collins has had more hit singles than I can count, both as a member of Genesis as well as a solo artist. One of his biggest songs is from 1981 from his debut solo album, Face Value and was it's second release following the song, "I Missed Again" and is arguably one of his biggest hits of all time. That song being "In The Air Tonight".

The song is slow and melodic, with a drum beat that resembles a calm heartbeat that almost feels hypnotic with a sharp guitar riff peppered in at the right moments to wake us from the relaxing rhythmic sounds. It isn't until two thirds of the way through the song that Phil hits us with a hammering drum solo, jolting us from the calmness of the song to the rocking anthem it has always been.

In the song, Phil famously repeats the line, "I can feel it coming in the air tonight. Oh Lord. I've been waiting for this moment for all my life." He even asks us, the listener, "Can you feel it coming in the air tonight?"

I've heard this song more times than I can count. At this point it'd be like reciting pi, it's been that many times and not once did I stop to question, "What is it that he feels coming in the air tonight?" Or any night, for that matter? This morning I decided to find out and to my surprise... Nobody knows. Not even Phil Collins himself, know what "it" is that he felt coming in the air.

When asked Phil Collins simply stated that he left that he intentionally left that open for interpretation. In interviews over the years, He repeatedly reported that the lyrics were entirely improvised during a studio session following a painful divorce from his first wife, Andrea Bertorelli and though he wrote and recorded the song and having performed it thousands of times for his adoring fans, in the end, he doesn't know the exact meaning himself.

Last week, I wrote a blog about "Divine Intervention", and perhaps this is another example of that. Phil Collins sat with a group of musicians in a recording studio, his heart grieving over the dissolution of his marriage. Expressing suppressed pain spontaneously through music has been a well-documented psychological phenomenon. During that session of just messing around on his drum kit and riffing with his band, Phil Collins not only had a cathartic moment, but had the wherewithal to record said song and we are all glad he did.

The song "In The Air Tonight" did not reach the pinnacle heights that several of his other hits did, reaching only Number 2 on the UK charts and a measly Number 19 on the US Billboard Hot 100, but it's moved far beyond what any charts would indicate. It's a moving piece that has generations singing along, all the while none of us knows what exactly "it" is, but according to Phil, it's up to us, the listener, to figure out what "it" means for ourselves.

Intervening Divinity

2026-09-19T17:30:56.331-07:00

Anyone who truly knows me, knows that I am not a religious person. In fact, I recently had a conversation with a therapist I've been seeing since Monkey passed away and we came to the same conclusion, more or less. She's helped me a lot over the past few months. She's helped me through the grief and loss I was feeling then on into the stresses I've experienced through work and life in general. I know I show a air of confidence and accomplishment, but down deep, behind the face paint, I am a wreck. That, however, is not the subject of this blog today.

It's been a long while since recording my thoughts and feelings in blog form. Truthfully, I've not been all that inspired to share my thoughts on many subjects. Plus given my constraints on my memory, many of the times that I am inspired to write, I forget by the time I am at home and those fleeting thoughts are lost to the ether.

In recent times, I've been plagued, in a good way, by the number 1129. I like this number as it is my birthdate, November 29th. But the context that I often see it is not on a calendar, but in signs or clocks or just our of the blue. It's inexplicable, but a number of years ago, my sister was reading some kind of journal on numerology and so I asked her what or why I kept seeing this number, 1129? She looked through her book and returned with the answer that it was my guiding angel. That when times were tough for me, my guiding angel would communicate to me using that significant number, ensuring me that everything would be okay and that I was in the right place at that particular time. I found reassurance in that explanation and I'd be lying if I said that was never the case. It seems like I see the number 1129 whenever I get highly agitated or experience an anxious moment. Just seeing that number puts my mind and my heart at ease. I know not what my guiding angel's real name is, but I often will communicate with it using the name "1129". Thanking it for it's reassurance. It makes me feel safe and comfortable. When things go bad and I feel overwhelmed, I'll see that number and know that I'm on the right path. I was relieved yesterday when something terrible had occurred. That is what this blog is about, today.

For years, I've been depending on my cellphone to wake me up in the morning. I can set it to the precise minute and it awakens me with a soothing melody rather than a harsh jolting sound that the alarm clock makes that is an abrasive unmerciful racket that jars one awake from an otherwise peaceful relaxing sleep. I much prefer the sound of a sweet melody that wakes me up like a warm hug from a loved one and would assume that many people do also. Yesterday morning, however, I experienced neither of those sounds. Instead, my alarm was somehow turned off completely and I was awoken by one of my cats, Cheddar, at a quarter past five in the morning. I never turned the alarm off myself, as I strategically have my phone halfway across the room. In order to turn the alarm off, I would have to get up out of bed, walk over to my phone. Swipe to unlock then find the app. Press and physically press the on/off button to shut off the alarm. Then back out of everything, lay it back on the table and walk back to bed. As terrible as my memory is, I'm afraid I would remember doing that entire sequence of events.

I jumped out of bed in a panic. A quarter past five in the morning, the precise time when I would normally be leaving my house for work. That early in the morning, there is little to no traffic so getting across town to work is easily accomplished. Now factoring in that I need to get dressed, feed the boys, take my menagerie of medications and rush out the door, is putting a hell of a strain on things.

I had called the dispatch right away expressing that I would be a few minutes late and after performing my morning rituals with great haste, I managed to arrive at work just four minutes overdue. Unfortunately, the practice at my work is that if failure to arrive on time occurs, then my work, my bus route, goes to someone else. Therefore I was given a different piece of work. A different bus route to drive yesterday. And given that I'm currently working half days because of a shoulder injury, it would just be that single work piece in the morning.

It was kind of refreshing to drive a different route, if I'm being honest. A pleasant break from the norm. Plus, I got to drive one of the articulating buses, which is one of those long sixty foot buses that bend in the middle. Intimidating to the those who can be easily overwhelmed, in all actuality, I find them much easier to drive than the standard forty foot buses. I caught a ride from another bus driver who was headed to the university where I had to take over the bus on the route, and the driver had his radio on the Supervisors' channel. That's when I heard that Warman Road, one of the main streets that my normal route is on, was closed due to construction and was impassible. The necessary detour that was required to circumvent the blocked street sounded terrible and would add many minutes of tardiness to the scheduling of the route. It sounded terrible and highly stressful. I could hear the agitation and frenzy in their voice and it was at that moment that I was truly thankful to not be driving my normal route, and also when I began suspecting some sort of divine intervention. I thought, "What if?" What if 1129 had stepped in that morning, manipulating my phone just enough to turn the alarm off, thus forcing me to be late, forcing me on a different route as a result an ultimately saving me from a potential peril. An unfortunate crash, a terrible injury or much much worse?

I do not believe in coincidences. I never have and don't truly believe that it exists. I believe only in cause and effect and maybe the odd fluke peppered in once in a while. So while the driver who took over my route that morning wasn't caught in a situation where they might have been injured or worse, there's no guarantee that if I were in their place that maybe my fate would not be as fortunate? What if my alarm had gone off as usual and I arrived at work to take my bus out only to be killed at some point during the morning? It could happen. There are no "good drivers" anymore, but there's no way of knowing for sure. However, when you factor in that the alarm had failed in a basically impossible manner, one can't help but think of some kind of divine intervention or fluke to have occurred.

I had a pleasant experience driving that route and when I was finished, I made my way back across town to retrieve my truck and resume the rest of my day. Ironically, when I started my truck, the clock read 11:29 on the information screen. As soon as I saw that I knew that, despite my lack of faith in spirituality and the gospel, my strong belief in my guardian angel overrided the situation and further convinced me of the existence of 1129, my guardian who protects and guides me through this life.

I don't know what to make of yesterday. It was different, but seemed refreshing after all is said and done. I'm still here. I'm still as healthy as I was the day before. I am still a cat-daddy to two wonderful and interesting boys and they, Butters and Cheddar, weren't abruptly orphaned.

When I was at the convenience store on Campus, where my route takes me, I went to perform my usual ritual of buying the $21 Triple Pack that I normally purchase, only this time the light hit the $25 Classic Pack that includes tickets for the Western lotteries. I don't usually buy those, for whatever reason, opting for the larger jackpots. I don't know if I was victorious on any of those additional tickets and likely won't find out for a couple months as I seem to allow my ticket purchases to compound and pile up before I take them to be checked and cashed in.

For now, I am comfortable and content. I survived whatever fate had instore for me on September 18th, 2026. I used to allow a lot of shit to get me down and for a long time I promoted the idea of: "Praise The Positive". After Monkey died in October of last year, I was lost. I failed to praise anything, let alone positivity. Only recently, I feel that I've been steered back on track. Moseying down the right path, heading toward my destiny with a trusted presence, 1129, by my side. I feel truly blessed. I wish you all who took the time to read this belated blog, many blessings as well. All the best.

Bully

2025-02-26T16:40:00.000-08:00

Today, February 26th, 2025 is being touted as Pink Shirt Day, in which people wear Pink Shirts to raise awareness and funding for anti-bullying initiatives. I did not participate for a couple of reasons. First and foremost, I do not own a pink T-shirt. I realize that I probably could have purchased one from work as they really seem to embrace all these causes and alike. I don't understand all of them and often choose not to participate and at risk of sounding like an asshole, I chose not to participate in this display of solidarity, either.

The second reason I chose not to participate in this endeavour, today, is the fact that I don't see bullying as all that bad. Before you start throwing hate my way, please know that I do not endorse bullying either. I just feel that it has it's place in our society and when used properly, it can be beneficial to both parties.

"How am I a better person for having been bullied?" you ask. Well... I, for one, would never have turned out to be the incredible person that I am today, had I not been bullied relentlessly as a kid. I was bullied by older kids at school. I was a small kid, so the bigger kids my own age would pick on me, too. Not to mention my home life, at times (most times) was kinda shitty, being bullied by an alcoholic father. As well as, just strangers. They see a small kid and they're going to victimize that kid. It's natural selection. Was it all bad? I guess at the time it was quite devastating. Especially from my dad, but in retrospect, I can see where I was kind of a f*ck up in his eyes. That aside, I learned from being picked on and bullied. I used that mental and physical anguish as fuel to shape who I would eventually become.

IF, I had gone through my years without the bullying and lived a sheltered life like the kids today do, who knows what kind of an asshole I may have become? I admit that, yes, I am somewhat of an asshole, today, but dialed down because of being humbled by bullies my whole life. I'd be unbearable if I had been sheltered and coddled like the kids today.

Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you view it, I did not have social media as a kid, so I cannot speak with any degree of authority on the perils of being bullied nonstop, 24/7, via Facebook, Twitter and the Tik Tok. Hell, as an adult, I get hammered on by idiots, usually uneducated idiots, so I consider the source, but it's an experience that, doesn't bother me in the sense that it offends me, but it's just a pain in the ass to have to educate these morons. Does that make me a bully for calling them idiots? Not when regarding the hateful shit I endure sometimes.

So, I guess perhaps, initiatives are helpful for those too soft to accept their bullying as a tool to better themselves, is warranted. People, these days, aren't as strong, mentally, as they once were. Not everyone, especially today's youth, can appreciate the forest for the trees.

I was bullied heavy, when I was a kid. I remember entering the ninth grade and a twelfth grader would just bully me relentlessly and would not let up, even when his buddy would tell him to stop, he wouldn't. I was a pipsqueak when I entered high school and this guy didn't like that I was so small. All these years later, I imagine I would tower over that asshole, today. He'd be whistling another tune, that's for sure. But I digress.

I stated above that bullying is beneficial to both parties. On one hand, the bully gets to do something they enjoy and that's something we all want in our lives. The person being bullied, gets to learn about their shortcomings and what to work on to better themselves. Then later in life, when the bullied person is rich and successful, they can gloat over the bully when they're pumping gas or whatever dead end job they wound up doing. Bullies often piss their lives away, but also, in some rare cases, a bullied person can snap and beat the ever-lovin' shit out of the bully, then everyone wins. Except maybe the bully, but... Blah blah blah, something about broken eggs.

Fire Brigade

2025-01-31T11:40:00.000-08:00

First of all, my heart goes out to all those who lost their homes and property in the California wildfires. I would never wish that horror on anyone, no matter what our differences are. It's crazy to think all is well one moment then over the course of a few minutes, you find yourself grabbing all that you can to evacuate your home. Leaving all your possessions and memories behind with little more than prayers and hope that when you return that everything will still be there.

That being said, I am in no way a pyromaniac, however I do pray on occasion for the odd house fire. This is ONLY when I see a car parked in front of a hydrant. It should go without saying, that such practice should never be executed, but there are those idiots out there who either think the laws don't apply to them or they're much too oblivious to their surroundings to realize that they've parked in front of a fire hydrant. In either case, regardless, I love to see the aftermath when firefighters arrive on scene only to discover that their efforts are being thwarted by a vacant sedan.

I've only seen pictures of how firefighters handle the problem of a car blocking access to a fire hydrant. I've never had the privilege or joy of seeing the owner of the vehicle return to leave only to discover a fire hose threaded through the now shattered glass of their car. I wonder if they raise a stink about it? Whether they accept responsibility for their stupidity or not. Do they ever confront the firemen about the situation or do the police need to get involved. Obviously some sort of citation needs to be issued.

Oh to be a fly on the wall for that conversation. To witness the arrogance of the culprit who would complain and protest that they're being treated unfairly when in reality, it was their own stupidity. I love seeing arrogant people put in their place. It's awesome and is always sure to put a smile on my face. 😁

#PraiseThePositive

The Road To Dystopia

2024-11-08T08:07:00.000-08:00

It was a Sunday, late afternoon. I'd gotten off work and was invited to a nearby bar where a collection of fellow employees were gathering to watch a WWE (then WWF) Pay-Per-View. I don't recall many, if any of the matches on the card as only one epic match comes to mind and it was SO over the top, literally, that it shadowed everything else. I've heard in interviews by the participants of the match that followed, Stone Cold Steve Austin versus The Big Red Machine, Kane, that when they saw the preceding match, they all but gave up on trying to make their match memorable. The match I speak of is none other than Mankind (Mick Foley) versus The Undertaker in a Hell In A Cell match and if you know your history, you know exactly the match I'm referring to.

While exchanging blows atop of the steel cage, at what seemed like a spur of the moment decision, Undertaker grabs a hold of Foley and tosses him off the top of the cage. To say this was the defining moment of the match is difficult to say as what would follow was equally as devastating and exhilarating to watch all at the same time. It's a story that's been told a million times, at great length and detail by both participants so I'm not going to bother. Google it. It's quite a spectacle.

The reason I mention this moment in sports history, is that I wasn't present to witness this as it unfolded. I've only watched this in replays for my entire existence, just as you are seeing it happen in the GIF to my right. For as I had stated, we were in a bar and we had all ordered food and just as I was paying the waitress who happened to be standing between myself and the video screen so my only reference to the moment itself is the whole crowd roaring in disbelief. It was truly a historical moment that I will never get to reflect on.

I am proud to say that I was present and accounted for, both in body and mind, to witness the Birth of Austin 3:16. It was the 1996 King of the Ring Tournament, back when it meant something. Now, I can't recall all the details, they are somewhat fuzzy, but the Coles Notes version is Stone Cold Steve Austin had gone to the hospital for an injury sustained earlier in the day, but when he returned he was told about an interview that Jake The Snake Roberts had given earlier aimed at his pending match with Austin. Roberts, who at the time was a recovering addict in a 12-Step program was adding proverbs and alike to his speeches and this further aggravated a powder keg of a human being and long story short, Stone Cold stomped the hell outta the man. In the interview that followed with former Freebird, Michael Hayes, Austin began chastising Roberts, "You talk about your Psalms and your John 3:16. Well AUSTIN 3:16 says I just whooped your ass!"

You always hear people retell of what they were doing or where they were when historical moments go down. I remember being a kid in school hearing about the assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan. I recall coming home from a music festival to learn that Princess Diana had died in a tragic motor vehicle collision. I remember vividly what was happening when I heard that Andre The Giant had died and I remember being parked on the side of the road, my eyes fixed on the radio as the commentator reported that the first Tower had collapsed in New York City on September 11th, 2001. So when the opportunity came for me, a Canadian, to sit down and watch the Presidential Inauguration in 2021, I made it a point to watch as it was HISTORY happening in REAL TIME.

The Inauguration, to me, was monumental. The United States and, let's be frank, the entire world was affected by the Donald Trump "presidency" and not in a positive way. They were dark times, I feel. Especially, considering the handling of the pandemic, but I'm not here to complain about the obvious, but when the Democratic Party thwarted the intentions of the Dark Republic, there was an air of hope. That the storm had passed and better days lay ahead.

This was not the sole reason for my tuning in. No. This was a historic moment. America was getting their first female Vice President. An honourable woman of stature, grace, intelligence and compassion. I felt America had gotten it right, for a change and as she raised her hand to accept the Presidential Oath of Office, I had tears streaming down my face. Tears of joy and pride. Thoughts that maybe things would be okay and in the months and years that followed, things did get better. Things did seem okay, even with the darkness on the horizon, we as a world collective felt the dark times were behind us all. That the four year hiatus between 2017 and 2020 was nothing more than a tarnished memory and an asterisk in the history books.

Knowing not to count my chickens before they hatch I didn't believe the 2024 election would turn out the way it did. The Blue Wave seemed real. The voices were being heard and hope was on the horizon. I knew that Kamala Harris had a fight ahead of her and who knows, maybe if she'd had the two or more years to campaign like her opponent, she would have faired better. While I was preparing to celebrate, I was dumbfounded by the overwhelming outcome which was.... Words cannot describe the level of frustration and confusion that I possess. I know common sense hasn't really existed for quite some time, but holy fuck.

Think about this: A convicted criminal is not allowed to vote in any election, yet a convicted criminal has been elected as the 47th President of the United States of America. What the fuck is wrong with the logic of these voters. And it's only now that the truth behind the rhetoric that Trump and his MAGA maniacs were spouting IS confirmed. All the "lies" that they denied are now being confirmed by those same people and the voters are realizing this now, 48 and 72 hours later, they wish they'd checked the other box. Sorry, there are no mulligans here. I genuinely feel bad for those who voted for Harriz/Walz and lost, but I hold them as equally responsible because they could have done more to educate those who were clueless.

Following his victory in 2016, I began to reference the Mad Max movie series. I remember watching these films as a kid and wondering: What must have happened in the world to scorch the earth like this. Then the Trump/Pence regime began and it began to become clear as to what sort of governmental management would cause a violent dystopia like that depicted in these films. I hope and pray that it doesn't get this bad, but when you consider the stance and campaign promises that Trump and Vance has made for the future of the United States of America, a violent society isn't that far from belief.

I am not a religious person by any means, but I may reconsider that belief in the coming years. I am literally sick to my stomach and fearful. That's not a healthy way to live. As a Canadian, especially one whose country at the moment is at a crossroads itself with less than honourable representation in Ottawa, I fear for the future of Canada and if truth be known, I would not put it past Trump to turn and take inspiration from his buddy Vladimir Putin and invade Canada for our resources. Oil, Water, Potash and Maple Syrup. The last was meant as a joke, but given how much of the golden syrup is supplied to the world, I would not be surprised if that Tangerine Tyrant would, in fact, invade Canada.

I'm going to close my eyes, clasp my hands and praise the positive. It's just about the only hope I have left.

Nutty Professionals

2024-10-26T09:33:00.000-07:00

The evening ended much like every other has, this past summer, falling asleep in the armchair in front of the TV. Prior to my departure into dreamland, I had been watching the latest "Battle of the Brands" (c/o UpUpDownDown on YouTube) where the two hosts, Austin Creed, aka Xavier Woods in the WWE and Tyler Breeze, a former WWE Superstar. In the video, as they are preparing their individual Raw and ECW matches they get to talking about all sorts of subjects. One subject in particular that has recurred over the past year or so, was whether or not Creed had seen the 1996 version of "The Nutty Professor" starring Eddie Murphy. They make no mention of the original 1963 version starring Jerry Lewis. To be honest, I doubt these young fellas are even aware that Murphy's Professor is a remake.

I will openly admit that I never found the Eddie Murphy remake to be all that funny, but Tyler Breeze sure believes that it's one of the funniest movies ever, if not THEE funniest. Creed had never seen the film, nor had intended to do so, but after repeated urging, Creed finally succumbed to pressure and watched the film.

The two discuss the film briefly before Creed explains to their streaming viewers the premise of the Nutty Professor film, associating it with an episode of the ABC comedy, "Family Matters" in which the nerdy character, Steve Erkel takes a potion that magically turns him into the suave Stephan. A similar storyline to the original Nutty Professor where a geeky Jerry Lewis drinks a chemical concoction that turns him into Buddy Love, a handsome and charming ladies man, a direct opposite to the professor. Murphy's version is about a self-conscious overweight man who turns himself into a sexy suave ladies' man. Both films and the Erkel episode are all loosely based on the 1886 novella, "The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde" by author Robert Louis Stevenson.

Of course, while the duo are setting up their games, there's music playing in the background and the music for Dude Love begins to play and like a bolt of lightning from the Heavens above, I was suddenly stricken with a stroke of brilliance and theorized that the Three Faces of Foley, Mankind, Cactus Jack and Dude Love are similar to the Nutty Professor and Jeckyll and Hyde stories.

For those unaware, retired professional wrestler, Mick Foley, portrayed three characters throughout his legendary wrestling career. Cactus Jack, Mankind and Dude Love and in my hypothesis; Cactus Jack was the perfect specimen in the fact that he was tough and good with the ladies. Cactus is comfortable in his body and nothing will phase the man.

Mankind, while being tough as nails, unafraid of anything including monsters and beasts as well as barbed wire and thumbtacks, but there was an awkwardness to Mankind. Around people, he didn't seem comfortable. You'd never see Mankind hanging out in catering with the other wrestling superstars, but instead in the darkened corners of the boiler room or hiding in the rafters. Though Mankind didn't mingle well with his brethren, he was especially elusive to the fairer sex. Though never witnessed on film, I speculate that Mankind shied away from the ladies.

Enter Dude Love. Dude was every bit as tough in the ring as Cactus Jack and Mankind, but he was also really good with the ladies. Often, Dude Love could be seen with a lovely lady on each arm. Foley's version of the ladies man, however, differed greatly from his Nutty Professor counterparts, for The Dude was always charming and respectful, while the two versions of Buddy Love would turn out to be narcissistic arrogant assholes. Traits not portrayed by Mick Foley, no matter what the instance.

I've never watched the 1963 version of the Nutty Professor and I'm almost certain that the humour showcased in that film would not hold up for my twisted sense of humour, these days, nor do I believe that another viewing of the Eddie Murphy version would change my mind on how terrible I found the film. As for Mick Foley... Well, I had the pleasure of meeting the man a few years ago, shaking his hand and posing for a photo of the living legend. I sometimes muse at the fact that he "stole" my gold marker. I had brought a special GOLD Sharpie for his autographs, as I had brought a number of items to be signed. Books and action figures. He asked if I was planning to resell the items I was getting autographed, as that's something that people do, but I assured him that they would not be leaving my possession ever. I may have even mentioned being buried with the items.

It is often said that you should "never meet your heroes" as you're often disappointed in who they actually are away from TV or whatever the case may be and while, this has happened to me before (Lita - and I hold a grudge), Mick Foley was probably one of the nicest people I've ever met. Probably one of the nicest people on the planet, if I'm being honest.

The Man. The Legend.
Mick Foley

Lurking In The Shadows

2024-07-14T07:53:00.000-07:00

I like this photograph of my cat, Monkey, taken from behind as he gazes upon his court. The light casting a mighty shadow so that we fail to see the intricate designs of his striped back, replacing it with darkness and mystery.

The other morning as I drove to work, I'd just rounded the corner from my street onto the main drag that takes me westward. Like so many mornings before, I saw a couple rabbits scampering across the street into the adjacent park. It's a large park, large enough that a small group of rabbits could probably live long happy lives there without ever having to leave the safety of it's perimeter. "Be careful, rabbits." I always say. In addition to the lively scampering of this indigenous wildlife, sadly I also see many tattered corpses that didn't fair too well crossing the boulevard.

I got to thinking, driving up the street, listening to whatever was on the radio at the time, "What DO rabbits do all day?" Good question, right? The sun breaks through the morning dawn, shining light down on the world and these rabbits awaken from their slumber and begin foraging for food. Do they do that all day long? Just eat, sleep, and shit. Then my thoughts came back to something, or someone, dear to my heart. My boy, Monkey. What does he do, all day long?

Same thing, only there's four walls and a roof protecting him from the elements and possible predation. That aside, he lives the same mundane life as those rabbits. Eat, sleep, shit, repeat. Only advantage Monkey has over the rabbits, aside from the structure that he resides in, is guaranteed meals and snuggle time with yours truly, Daddy.

There are times, however, when I'm home and I cannot find that cat anywhere. It's like he just vaporizes then reappears when it's convenient. It's magical. Does Monkey have special abilities that he's hiding from me? Am I not trustworthy enough to keep his secrets?

The other night I was having trouble going to sleep. For the fourteen years that Monkey has been alive and living with me, we always go to bed at the same time, snuggle a little before I doze off and he retires to his corner at the foot of the bed. So when I wake up in the middle of the night, I can glance down and see his shadowy form snoring in the corner and all feels right and I'm able to fall back asleep with ease. On this particular night, just three sleeps ago, I woke up and Monkey was nowhere to be seen. I got up to get a drink from the fridge and in my travels, failed to see Monkey lying in any of his preferred spots that pepper the household. It wasn't until nearly a half hour later that I felt him jump onto the bed, murmur a little meow of acknowledgement and returned to his corner, like nothing had transpired.

I rolled up next to him and started stroking his back, from neck to tail and chatting him up. I asked questions like "Where do you go?" and "What are you doing?" Then mid-query, I realized something imperative. If you look at the distinctive markings on Monkey's face, it's almost too obvious. Much like Clark Kent wears a cheap pair of glasses to hide the fact that he's actually Superman, Monkey hides his secret identity by looking like a cute kitty cat with that unique triangular white patch on his face.

(Please forgive me for getting off-topic, but HOW stupid are the people in Metropolis that they can't see through that shitty disguise?)

I'm lying next to my cat, on top of the covers, stroking his fur and listening to his gentle rhythmic purr when I realized, "I've never seen Batman and Monkey in the same room... I wonder. Is it possible?" All those nights when I came downstairs because he was absent and I did see him, seated on the back to the armchair, gazing out over his world, looking for neerdowells and riff-raff, poised to leap into hand-to-hand combat at a moments notice.

If you take a moment to really look and analyze the pictures of the Caped Crusader versus Monkey, you'll have to agree the resemblance is uncanny. I think my cat is a superhero, watching over and protecting his land. If he chooses not to share that life and burden with me, then I'm sure Monkey has his reasons. Perhaps it's out of love and wishes to protect me from those who wish to do him harm. I can appreciate that and I thank him for the security he provides.

No More Mister Nice Guy

2024-07-11T07:04:00.000-07:00

On the first day of January, twenty-twenty-four, I made a New Year's Resolution, much like most people pledge for the start of a new year and much like those people, that personal change has fallen by the wayside and is no more than a fleeting goal that just seemed too insurmountable to maintain. My resolution seemed to be simple. It was all internal and never depended on anyone's input. Or so I thought. On January 1st, of this year, I promised myself to be more positive. To have a better attitude. To not stress over the small shit. I stated that I would be nicer to people and to be much kinder to myself, meaning I would end the self-deprecation that I often find myself doing. It's a defense mechanism used by bullied kids for, what I would assume, ions. The strategy of making fun of myself before the bullies had anything to say. On the surface, one would believe that by stating (obviously false) shortcomings about oneself, that the bullies would be discouraged from making fun of you themselves and that it would hurt less. I can say from experience, that this works for the moment, but over time it becomes a terrible habit and I wouldn't recommend it.

After much deliberation over my current state of affairs and I've come to realize that, while I have, for the most part, ceased to make self-deprecating comments about myself, that on the whole, I am not a nice guy. In stating this observation, I can hear in my head the voices of a handful of friends and colleagues who may disagree and input their belief, "Nah. Don't be so hard on yourself. You're a good guy." I get it. I'm not claiming to be an asshole 24/7, but I'm not the nicest fella to a lot of people, which stems, in my opinion from a personality trait that I've been meaning to write a blog about, but haven't up to this point. Who knows? Maybe this tirade will inspire me to write that literary piece next.

I am fairly certain that I did manage to maintain a level of positivity for more than a month and I never really felt anything negative until late February, probably following the head-on collision, when I began to falter and meander off the track of having a good attitude and I believe it was work that forced me to spiral into the abyss of negativity and anger.

As a transit operator, we get to re-sign different routes to work over a two or three month stint. It's nice, because you're not necessarily forced to repeat the same mundane work year-in and year-out, like so many jobs I've endured in the past. A new driver will have less desirable choices over the more established and seasoned drivers with years of seniority, but I've moved up the ranks over the last couple years and while I don't always get the golden routes, I do okay. This last sign-up, I chose what I thought was the lesser of all evils when I signed it, but I've quickly learned that I was incorrect in that assessment and come next sign-up, I will not be taking this route again.

On paper, Route 60 is easy, but in reality, it is SO stressful. Not the scheduling, but the riders. I don't want to be flagged for insensitivity, but if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...you know. Duck! Many of these folks are of a questionable ethic. Most are super-poor and super-duper-angry and will not hesitate to take their frustrations out on a driver. It's very difficult to maintain a good attitude when constantly being bombarded by criticism. It's like when I was a kid, being cornered in the kitchen and yelled at by my alcoholic father who would use every putdown he could concoct to fire at me and, at the time, I knew these accusations to be false, after constant hate-bombs being dropped on my head, false or not, a weakened mind will succumb to those accusations. So in this instance, while constantly being called a racist, I know this to be untrue, yet it does wear a person down over time and sadly, this chipped away my defenses quick.

I am not a nice guy, over all, and yes, I hear those opposing voices in my head, but I'm a better actor. I can successfully mask malcontent so those around me are blinded by what's really going on. Hell. I've been wearing a mask for decades. Not a single person I know would confirm that I am depressed almost all of the time. Saddened by my lot in life. Bothered that I haven't achieved this or that. I sometimes feel I don't contribute enough. I am weakened by the idea that I am unable to take care of my mother in her golden years. I hear her voicing her concerns about her life and burdens and I feel helpless, further spiraling my psyche. I hide my shit really well.

I've found videos on YouTube that claim to fix this or enhance that quality about yourself. They advise that the viewer simply get settled, relax in a comfortable position and play the video, whose sound and music is infused with subliminal messages of affirmation and goodness. I'm guilty of trying several of these videos in a desperate attempt to cleanse myself of the hate and sadness that I feel pumping through my veins, replacing my shitty attitude with warmth and empathy. I want to be nice, it's just so hard to do when I'm surrounded by idiocy. It wears me down, dude! The videos and subliminal messages are of some concern, however. How do I know that the affirmations are factual and they're not actually convincing the thousands of desperate souls who have viewed the videos to give up their life savings and shit. Or perhaps, because I'm entering the experience with a piss-poor attitude already and that attribute combined with the messaging all get twisted in a spaghetti ball of confusion.

I know not what the answer to this dilemma is. The best I can do is identify when I'm having a dark moment, acknowledge it, find a splinter of positivity and hope it's enough to bring me into the light once again. There is power in positivity. I have felt it. I have had periods where I was happy and joyful and the world was my oyster. Waves of good fortune would come my way, leaving onlookers in the wake of disbelief. It's just the question of HOW to maintain that attitude. I don't know what that method is, yet, but when I do, I will share. As for now, I only have another six weeks of driving that shitty route, then I will bale on it like rats off a sinking ship. Sounds selfish, but it'll be someone else's problem and I hope they're able to deal with the negativity on that line better than I can.

Tormented

2024-03-21T07:29:00.000-07:00

Growing up, I was small. A skinny little kid with bad asthma. A weakling that the bigger and tougher kids viewed as easy prey. I can remember being picked on and teased on the school bus, many times by those who would turn around and be my best mate once we were off the bus. Growing up is a confusing time, to say the least.

My school, at the time, only went up to Grade Six. Grades Six and Seven were to take place at another school a few blocks away where I, again, was bullied by the bigger and now older kids. One kid, Jimmy, was fourteen or fifteen years old, still in the seventh grade. I remember Jimmy having it in for me, then he "moved" away for a few months. When Jimmy returned, he was all smiles and nice to me..., for the first day, then the terrorizing commenced. Later we'd come to learn that Jimmy hadn't moved away so much as he was incarcerated for the duration of his absence. I guess this was my first glimpse into the darker side of life.

High school was no different. I entered high school, again, as this skinny little weakling which drew the attention of another bully. This time it was a seventeen or eighteen year old kid with a shitty little hint of a mustache growing on his upper lip, who took an interest in, not only bullying me, but tormenting me to the point where I was fearful to attend school. Of course, this was during a time when 'if you were too afraid, too fucking bad, you're going to school'. So I would often be late for my classes because I had to take the long way around the school to get to my class. It was quite hellacious for me, as I recall.

This memory, the memory of being tormented in high school only recently returned to my conscious, triggered by an event that took place on Monday morning, as I rode the 86 bus to the Circle Park Mall where I like to spend time before taking over my afternoon work piece.

I sat near the front, in a side facing seat, quietly playing a game on my phone, a pastime I do to pass time on the otherwise boring trip eastbound down Eighth Street. At the Midtown Plaza stop we picked up more passengers, one being a greasy dirty looking individual who sat in the side facing seat across from me. I avoided eye contact, focusing on my game instead. A few minutes pass and the figure across from me, says "Hey!" I looked up, meeting his gaze, "I do not condone you taking my picture."

"Okay." I replied, "I'm not taking your picture. I'm playing a game." Then I resumed my gameplay and never followed up. I could feel him looking at me, though, which made things uncomfortable. Especially, a few minutes later, when he spoke up, getting my attention once again. "Hey! I don't want my picture taken!" To which I informed him that I was still playing my game, even flipping my phone around to show him the screen, which was nothing more than multiple shelves with products on them, the purpose being I have to sort them in multiples of three. It's quite challenging.

Believing that should quell the situation, I resumed gameplay again. However, the situation was not resolved, even with the visual evidence to prove it. "HEY!!" he yelled again, now even more agitated, "I said DON'T TAKE MY PICTURE!!!" That's when I kinda lost it, speaking louder to match his volume, "I told you, I'm NOT taking your picture!! I don't know you!! Why would I take your picture? I'm playing a game and minding my own business!" "F*CK YOU!!!" he yelled, "You're moving your phone to take my picture."

"The sun is behind me!!" I called, "I'm moving the phone to see it!!" He wasn't buying what I was selling and that's when the bus driver called back to calm the situation. I apologized as my reaction was not that of professionalism. I was wearing my bus driver uniform at the time and should represent the City of Saskatoon accordingly. I explained to her what was going on. She asked if I wanted the authorities to be notified, to which I denied that it'd be necessary, figuring that the crazy guy seated across from me would accept that I'm a good dude for not having the police engage, but no. His fury was now elevated. I returned my attention to my game, but I could hear him seething across from me. Then he began to utter threats. "I swear if you take one more picture, I'm going to fucking kill you."

"Is everything alright back there?" Donna, the driver asked, to which I replied, "Sorry for the disruption. I'm fine, but this gentleman is shooting darts at me with his eyes. I think he wants to hurt me." All the while, he's muttering his vile threats of murder. Suffice it to say, despite my ability to hide my fear at the time, I was terrified. I knew that the moment I stepped off the bus that my safety was now in question.

He got off at the Indigo Book Store stop on 8th Street, right next to the Circle Park Mall, my destination. I was SO overwhelmed with fear that I remained on the bus for the duration of the Route 86 through Rosewood. I eventually did get off the bus, obviously, then went to the food court, reasoning that there'd be lots of witnesses if this nut job were to track me down and shove a knife in my back. Yes, this was my reasoning at the time.

I remember looking up at this guy, when he sat across from me in tattered black clothing, with a ratty torn up hood draped over his head. His complexion was dark, but his soul was way darker. There was something not right about this particular fellow. Not just regarding his lack of civility, but his soul seemed absent or tarnished. He was afflicted with something that was altering his psyche. Whether it's through substance abuse or devil worship, this man was not human, anymore.

I looked up as he's foaming at the mouth, relentlessly repeating that he's going to kill me. In retrospect, maybe I should have had the authorities notified, but over the course of my short tenure with City Transit, I've been tackled, attacked and threatened quite a few times, already, as has many of my fellow drivers, so it's beginning to become 'old hat' at this point.

In the past, I'd take a few minutes to gather my nerves then press on for the remainder of my day. I tried doing the same with this situation, except the experience unlocked that fear in me that I had as a freshman in high school when that Twelfth Grader took it upon himself to dedicate his bullying to just me. That overwhelming fear that I might be attacked or maimed or worse at some point, took over my thoughts. So much so, that yesterday, when I was driving my Route 17, I came to a corner in Stonebridge and recognized this crazed individual crossing the street in front of me. I was nowhere near the man, when he turned his attention to the bus and began flailing his arms about and cursing at the bus. I immediately recognized the tattered black clothing, the dark complexion and the crazed ranting. What stood out most was the glowing eyes. I realize this sounds absurd, but I swear this is what I saw and for the remainder of my seventeen loop, I was distracted. Distracted by how I was going to avoid this individual if he was going to be at the bus stop around the corner.

Do I drive right past him, as if I don't see him? Tough to do, as there's a traffic light right there. If I get stopped at the light, he will gravitate to the bus, like a shit-magnet. Then I thought, maybe he won't even be there. Alas, when I returned, he was there, indeed. He immediately recognized me when he got onboard. I kept my gaze straight ahead, sunglasses covering my eyes, but I could tell he was glaring at me. My farebox was out of commission, having fallen apart earlier in the day with the prior driver. All the potholes and uneven streets, shook the hell out of the unit causing pieces to fall about. The angry fellow seemed perturbed by the missing device and slammed his hand down on the remaining structure.

Prior to his getting on the bus, I moved the Assault Barrier glass all the way to the front of the door. Fat good the tempered glass would have in protecting me, considering the guy now had what appeared to be dumbbell bars in his possession. I've been hit with a tire iron, when I was a kid. That was no picnic, what with the sizeable lump it left on my head, so these bars could do some considerable damage to the human skull, I'm sure.

He eventually got off the bus at 8th Street and Clarence Avenue. I looked on with a heavy sigh of relief as the psycho and his demons wandered off across the Seven-Eleven parking lot. I realize now that the experience on Monday may have affected me more than I initially realized. I actually feel terrorized. But I also feel that this crazed individual was not all human, either. Whether that be the fact that he's crazier than hell or that he's pouring something down his throat that's altering his humanity.

I had a meeting with management yesterday afternoon, following my encounter with the crazed individual. The terror was still fresh and after the conclusion of our initial meeting, I asked 'how I should handle this experience as it's affecting me on a whole'. The higher ups which included one of the Supervisors who had worked with me during my probation. He had some genuine concerns with how this individual was directing his anger and torment towards a Transit Operator IN uniform. I could see by the look on his face that this was news to him. I think a lot of the assaults and mistreatment of drivers goes unseen and is often overlooked by some of the supervisors and management. Everyone views the world through rose coloured glasses which hides all the ugliness.

I was told to put in a Worker's Compensation Report, just in case my condition worsens. I hope it doesn't as I do enjoy my job. My future, though, is foggy. I used to think that if I were to die under unnatural causes, it'd be from a vending machine falling on me. Now I believe I may be stabbed or killed while working. That's a helluva thought, huh? But I saw it in a dream and it was vivid as all hell.

Broken

2024-02-25T09:58:00.000-08:00

I ventured out this morning headed to the nearby Wal-Mart. Amongst my travels inside, I made my way over to the Electronics Department, as I often do. It's like an instinctual path I take when I come to the Preston Crossing location. Each store has it's unique route, but this one always takes me in the North entrance, where I then circle around past the self-checkouts, before hanging a right to head down the center aisle. This brings me to the junction where it's a left turn to electronics and a right hand turn to the pet supplies.

I have no interest, really, in the electronics department, other than finding a movie or TV series on DVD for a reasonable price to add to my collection. Today I found no such deals, but I did happen across a young lad with his mother. They were getting assistance from the clerk who was removing a Nintendo video game from the locked case. The look of jubilation on the little boys face, was priceless. Even the mom, who was attempting to ease his excitement, shared that look of joy. She'd probably worked hard for the money to purchase this game for her son.

The scenario reminded me of the documentary I watched last night, "Count Me In". A doc about drumming, percussion and what inspired these musicians to embrace what it is to be a drummer. The documentary included some rare home videos of these, now grown professional musicians, receiving their first drum kits as, in some cases, toddlers. One girl, in particular, was so overjoyed when she unwrapped her kit, that she fell into the box, sobbing with tears of happiness on a level like I've never witnessed in my life. A moment so precious, that it brought tears to my eyes.

On a personal level, I can only recall my cat, Monkey's first Christmas, where I successfully hit a cat fort in the garage on Christmas Eve. We'd gone to bed and I got up quickly and rushed down the stairs. I thought for sure Monkey would have followed me, as he always did so, at the time, but this night was perfect. He stayed put on my bed. I placed the fort next to the front entrance, where it has remained to this day, over thirteen years later. The next morning we came downstairs and he never noticed the new furniture. It was me who had to stop us in our tracks and vocalize, "Hey buddy. What's that?" I said pointing to the new addition. The cat actually stopped, looked over and I saw an actual feline WTF moment. I rushed upstairs to grab my phone to take pictures, but in the thirty seconds that I was gone, he'd already destroyed the feathers that hung below the fort. There were feathers everywhere, including some smaller ones still floating in the air. I was ecstatic that he was finding so much joy in this new experience. 😊 I love that kid.

Witnessing the joy of that boy getting a game that he's wanted for who knows how long? Maybe it was only a few minutes or maybe it's been since Christmas? Who knows, but the experience wasn't any less special. Then suddenly, like a stray bullet from a drive-by, I was struck with a memory that broke my heart so much that I nearly lost it in the store. I fought back actual tears as I recalled a time from my youth, when my mom gifted me a toy out of the blue. The look of joy on my mom's face when I was taking the toy out of the package and began playing with it.

As stated in previous blogs, our family never had a lot of money when I was growing up. I never sensed that we were poor and given some of the stuff I saw when I was at school, we definitely had it better than some of the other kids in my grade, but we weren't flourished. One day, I came home from school and my mom gave me a Riddler action figure. I already had a Batman and Robin. Maybe a Joker, too. I know I had a Spider-Man figure, but the Riddler was a flashy new addition. I played with that like there was no tomorrow and the joy on my mom's face as she witnessed the glee coming from her eldest child, was incomparable, unless you consider the look I got the next day.

I was so excited about this new toy that my mom allowed me to take it to school the next day for Show & Tell. I can't recall what I had said in the presentation, but it was enough to entice a fellow classmate to approach me about the figure. Craig S. was a crafty young fellow, who had every toy you could imagine. I don't know what his parents did, but it seemed like they spent a lot of their money showering their kids with more toys than any kid could play with. Craig approached me with this flashy spacecraft toy from the TV show Buck Rogers in the 25th Century. This kid had a way with words and somehow talked me out of my brand new Riddler figure in exchange for his Draconian Marauder.

That afternoon, I returned home and was playing with this new-to-me toy when my mother discovered me. She asked where this toy came from, having not recognized it as one of my regular toys. I told her that I had traded my Riddler action figure for this toy and the look of disappointment and heartbreak that overcame her face was devastating to witness. A feeling of shame overcame me and I put the Marauder toy in my room and took it back to school the next day with hopes of trading back for my Riddler figure, but alas. It was took late, as Craig had already bamboozled another child out of their toy for my Riddler figure. The kid in question was a sickly boy that I was afraid to approach, at the time, and so I reluctantly kept the spaceship, but the scar of what I had done to my mother was forever.

Without much money to our credit, my mom, out of the pure goodness that lives in her heart, went out and purchased something with the hopes that her child would find joy with only to discover that her kid selfishly gave it away in exchange for a worthless space toy from a shitty TV show.

Just the knowing that I disappointed and hurt someone I care about is beyond heart wrenching and, though it was a memory previously lost, it's back in my conscious, now, and it hurts my heart every bit as much right at this moment as it did that day as I sat on the floor of our kitchen. 💔

Drift Away

2024-02-24T19:37:00.000-08:00

Though he was never a musician, my dad loved the drums. He loved a good beat and rhythm and one of my fondest memories (to pop back in my head) was one evening when I was little. There must have been music playing. Probably a Saturday night, because if my dad wasn't working, he would be home playing his records and enjoying more than a few spirits. I can't recall what the exact scenario was, but I remember I was sitting in the chair and my sister was on the sofa across from me. I must have been tapping away in time with the music, which caught my dad's ear. Next thing I remember is my dad, with a huge smile across his face, teaching me to keep time as well as using different surfaces around me to make different sounds to better accompany the music playing. He then turned his attention to my sister, attempting to teach her the same. All I remember following that was his frustration because my sister just couldn't get the beat down.

"Look at your brother!" he said loudly, "Keep time like he is." She never got the hang of it as the song and record had come to an end. My dad returned to his spot at the kitchen table.

I don't know how old I was then. Frankly, I'm surprised something so random, like that, would spring back into my head, unless it was because of the documentary I just finished watching on Netflix.

I've watched a couple documentaries on drumming and percussion. This one just randomly popped up on my Netflix when I was searching for another title. The description tickled my fancy, so to speak, and I pressed PLAY.

The documentary interviews a wide menagerie of professional drummers who all discuss techniques, practices and inspirations. It's really a fascinating documentary and I'd recommend it to anyone. While I was watching the film, though, a tear came to my eye. The tear fell down my cheek because I realized my dad would have loved to watch this film. Maybe even sit with me while doing so. The commentary he might have added to make the doc even more special.

I'm not a religious person. I wish I was, but I can't. I'm too logical, but if Heaven does exist, I hope it has Netflix. I'd love to sit down with my dad. Catch up and maybe watch a drumming documentary or two. 😊

Intuitively Speaking

2024-02-20T18:34:00.000-08:00

I've watched programs on television that showcased some of their, for lack of better terminology, powers, but I will never fully comprehend those people who possess psychic abilities. Nor will I ever be one hundred percent convinced of the legitimacy of said power. All that withstanding, I can't shake this strange feeling from time-to-time.

The idea that a person can accurately predict or reveal secrets, unbeknownst to them previously, from sources from the beyond. Bringing to light messages and secrets that only the dearly departed and a particular loved one connected to the deceased, completely blows my mind. The process that an empath or medium can subject themselves to in order to bridge the gap between this world and the next is incomprehensible. A completely alien concept to me, unless I'm under the influence of something, in which case I'm convinced everyone is psychic and are obviously probing my brain, seeing through the transparency of my alleged sobriety. Then again, it could just be my own anxiety giving me away. Revealing my secrets.

Until recently, it never occurred to me that I might possess certain proclivities that would allow me certain abilities. Nothing outlandish like predicting the future or bridging that gap, as I stated previously between here and the afterworld, but it's a legitimate feeling, nonetheless. I feel as though I may be sensitive to... Awe, hell. I don't even know for sure.

According to Google; One who is psychically sensitive is like being highly empathic. The definition explains that those with this "gift" are very attuned to the feelings and attitudes of those around them, often taking on some of the burden, stress and/or emotions. This attribute can be dangerous as the compilation of so much energy can be detrimental to the host, especially if much of that energy is dark and negative. If someone is already afflicted with depression, piling on more negativity is definitely not beneficial.

I don't know if I qualify for that category, although I do have that small collective of friends & acquaintances who always seem to be so negative. The never seem very happy or joyful, but constantly complaining and whining about shit. I find it exhausting, sometimes, to be around them. Practically sucks the life out of me. Like a succubus, only I'm awake during the torturous process. Is it possible? Possible that I'm affected extra hard, because I have this third eye, so to speak?

I'm also familiar with that feeling of heaviness, when you walk into a room after two people have been arguing? It's like an unseen fog that blankets the room, like a veil of webs draped across the room. The room is electrically charged, but it's negative. It's heavy and you can feel it weigh you down.

I've mentioned previously in my blog (Jeff's Brain Matter) about my encounters with supernatural forces. I aim to share more and one of those experiences will be in the next paragraph.

Years ago, I tagged along with friends who were going to a party of some friends who'd recently returned to the city. The party was in the basement suite of this tattered old building which stood not far from the Woodlawn Cemetery. The area already feels strange, what with the neighbourhood bordering on the largest cemetery in the Bridge City (YXE). This night was cool and breezy, which felt nice on my face as I exited the crowded party. There was something else, though. I got a strange feeling whenever I was inside. I felt overcrowded. It was separate from the people, because as people left the apartment for fresh air, the nearly empty room still felt heavy and uncomfortable. I left that party, soon after. I just didn't like the way it made me feel, there. I would later learn that the apartment was formerly a hospital. The first one in the Saskatoon area and the basement, where the apartment is situated, was originally the morgue. To this day, thinking about that party still gives me the creeps.

I've had similar experiences over the years. Some light and peculiar. Other shit that's been heavy and uncomfortable. One such experience occurred when was working nights at the Heritage Inn. I was the night custodian which had me roaming all over the place in that hotel. I'd already experienced some weird shit over on the banquet room and restaurant side of the building. It was weird and unnerving, sure, but what occurred on the third floor of the hotel, freaked me the f*ck out and I avoided the third floor at all costs after this horrific experience occurred.

Recently, I was watching television and saw a commercial for Casino Regina, located in the Queen City. The advert invited people from far and wide to come to Regina and visit the casino, listing all the amenities in the process. It really is more than just bells and sirens of winning slots. There's a very fine restaurant there as well as a theater for concerts and shows. I've been to Casino Regina a couple of times and was fun both times. For the most part, anyway.

I've gone to the casino in Regina a couple of times, both being with my mom. We'd be in town for whatever and figured we'd stop at the casino before leaving that wretched city. We'd play the penny slots and leave with more than we'd arrived with. I recall the last time we were there. It's been more than a decade, now, I'm sure, but we'd arrived and started playing the penny slots, like always. I had a string of good fortune, while my mom didn't fair too well. I remember scooping out a handful of coins from my bucket and gave them to my mom to play with. And play she did. She won back the money she'd lost and then some. When we'd had enough, my mom treated me to supper at the fancy restaurant inside the casino. We had a nice time and before leaving to go home, I stopped to use the washroom.

I'd visited the Casino Regina once before and as I recall, I had to use the washroom that time, too. The washrooms are located in the basement of the building. I felt uncomfortable the moment I began my decent into the lower level. The feeling downstairs, for me, is staggeringly heavy. It's like a weighted vest placed over my shoulders and the simplest of tasks almost seem laboured. Suffice it to say, I got out of there as quick as I could. Even now, reflecting on the experience, weighs heavy on my chest.

After the TV advertisement for Casino Regina had ended, I was left with that familiar heaviness and then took to the interwebs, calling on Google once more, typing in Casino Regina haunting and yep. As suspected the aged building has some unearthly residents within it's walls.

Casino Regina now resides in the former home of the Canadian Pacific Railway. Dubbed Union Station, the building was constructed in 1912, making it one of the founding buildings of the fledging settlement that would eventually become our province's capital city. After many years of service, the building was eventually converted into a casino in 1996. Since the opening of the venue, there have been reports of paranormal sightings. From railway workers appearing and disappearing on the main level, to a woman witnessed roaming about upstairs. And then there's the basement.

When the building was a train station, the basement level served as a jail. Prisoners awaiting trial would stay in these cells, as well as those awaiting transfer. It's said that one prisoner wanting to avoid a lengthy prison sentence, attempted to escape, losing his life in the process. It's believed that his soul still roams the basement of the casino. The basement where the washrooms are located. The basement where I was overwhelmed by the heaviness.

I don't know if there's anything special about me. It's not something I'd want to pursue. I would like to verify or confirm that whatever it is, is real, but beyond that, it'd just be nice to know that when I'm experiencing that heaviness that there's a reason for it and not something goofy like a stroke or something. 😂

My Little Red Wagon

2024-02-18T06:59:00.000-08:00

It's difficult for me, sometimes, to accurately describe how or what I'm feeling. Especially as of late, when some things are growing more and more confusing. It's no mystery that I suffered a life-altering brain injury a few years ago. I've mentioned it here, in this forum, numerous times. Explained how I fell. How I knocked myself out. How I spent the next twelve months trying to restore my life to the level it was before, only for the experts to drill into me that life as I knew it, was going to be drastically changed. I work hard to maintain the knowledge and memories I have and pausing to celebrate the ones that come fleeting back. I had a childhood memory come dancing back into view and I'll share it with you all now.

I saw a family out in the park the other day. Dad was pulling the tightly bundled baby in a toboggan, the name Radio Flyer emblazoned along the side in it's unmistakable font. It was a happy memory, for that child, unfolding in front of me and it sparked a memory of my own. 😊

We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up. I lived in a trailer for a majority of my life. A seventy-two foot mobile home that was situated just west of our city, which is another memory that I restored lately. I loosely recall where the dealership was located when my father brought all of us along to look at multiple models for purchase. I just want to clarify some minor details with my mom, before I write about that one. However, the memory that I chose for today, concerns the Radio Flyer wagon and the small trailer we lived in prior to the one I lived a majority of my childhood in.

The trailer we had before, was tiny in comparison to what we'd eventually move into. It was just a two bedroom. My sister and I shared a bedroom in the front of the house and my parents room was in the rear. Separating the two spaces was a small bathroom at the end of the hall, next to mom and dad's room, then a small kitchen/living room. If one were to look at RV camper trailers, today, you'd find more luxury than you would have found in that dinky little dwelling. Like I'd said before, our family didn't have a lot of money and my dad made due with what he had and if I were to reflect on that time, you'd find a twenty-something, new dad, new fledgling family and just trying to keep everything afloat. My dad did good.

I remember watching Stampede Wrestling with my grandmother on an old black and white TV that was shoved in one corner of the living room space. Across from that was a washer/dryer combo machine, that my mother confirmed the other day as being a real memory of mine. It was so small in stature, that I was confused by it, but my mom confirmed that it was, indeed, a washer that was on wheels and could be maneuvered over to the kitchen sink for the hoses to hook up. I recall having a poster on the back of my, sorry, my sister and mine's bedroom door, of the Jolly Green Giant, that also served as a measuring implement to gauge our growth. The one other memory I have of this tiny dwelling, before I get to the main course of this Brain Matter edition, was the night my mom was attacked while she slept.

Being on a farm, it's not uncommon for some of the outside dwellers to come inside. Perhaps seeking warmth from the coolness of the night or maybe to grab a nibble of a delinquent crumb or alike. On this one particular night, my mother rose from a deep sleep to a stunning awakening, crying in distress. Turns out a tiny mouse had ventured into our place, but instead of seeking out a forgotten cookie or a dropped piece of vegetables under the kitchen table, this little adventurer, found itself in my parents bedroom, where my mom's arm had slipped off the bed and was hanging just inches from the floor. My mom had woken up to something chewing at the end of her finger. It's crazy to think about just how vulnerable we, human beings, really are when we sleep.

I believe it was a Saturday night and I was all excited. My dad wasn't home. Probably at work. He worked at the Cory Potash Mine, at the time, which involved a lot of shift work. Something that remains to this day, I believe. So it was up to my mom to cart this large box into the kitchen. The box was nearly as big as the entire kitchen. Eventually the box was emptied and taken into the porch to allow more room to work. It was exciting. Me dancing with glee and joy as my mom assembled this flashy red wagon together, piece by piece. Finally it was down to just popping the red center caps on each wheel to hid the mechanism beneath. Three successes and one that broke when being pressed on. Little did I know, at the time, that this slight imperfection would be a running theme throughout my life. Case and point: The day I bought my truck from Honda. I'd only owned it for maybe ten minutes before someone, at the dealership I might add, parked next to me, flinging their passenger door into the side of my brand spanking new truck. Now I owned a brand new spanking truck with a ding in the side of it already. Because I'm not allowed to have anything nice.

Minor imperfection or not, I loved that wagon. I took it everywhere with me on that farm. I can only imagine the eye rolls I must have gotten when my dad would be hard at work, reassembling an engine or something in the shed and hearing the unmistakable rattle of my little red wagon and I coming to see what was going on.

I remember concocting something that would allow me to tow the wagon behind my bicycle (another memory just popped for that) and I used that wagon for everything it was worth. I wonder if my mom ever stood back with pride, knowing that she'd been the one to build the toy that her eldest was having so much fun with. I know if the roles were reversed and it was me looking at something that my kid was enjoying, I'd feel pride. I get that now, when Monkey is playing with something I made for him.

The wagon got a lot of use over the years, eventually being drafted into service for my dad. I'd find the wagon, now covered in dust and surface rust, sitting in a corner of the shop. Smiling, almost, as I came into view. Both of us, it an aging old toy and me a grown adult, sharing a moment of reflection, reminiscing about the old days we shared together.

After my dad passed away in ninety-nine, I don't know what happened to that little red wagon. If I would have been smart, I would have taken it with me before the entire farmyard of equipment was sold at auction. That was a heartbreaking event, in and of itself, which deserves it's own blog to discuss. As for my wagon... Who knows? Probably snatched up by some auction bidder who never gave the wagon the respect it deserved and why would they? To them it was only an implement. To me, it was a show of freedom. Freedom for a kid who never had a lot of stuff growing up, but I had that Radio Flyer.

"Could you spare a crumb or a berry? Even a finger if you're not using it."

The Sh*t Just Doesn't Make Scents

2024-02-11T08:02:00.000-08:00

The dictionary defines perfume as: A fragrant liquid typically made from essential oils extracted from flowers and spice, used to impart a pleasant smell to one's body or clothing. I define perfume as: A method for desperate people to draw attention to themselves, regardless of how it affects those around them.

I, like so many others, are allergic to said perfumes. Some worse off than others. Using myself as an example, I used to only get a little congested. Experience some difficulty in breathing, but how it [perfume] has affected me in the last couple of years, is actually quite frightening, sometimes. I would estimate that about 90% of my encounters in recent years has affected me in such a negative manner. I experience pains in my chest when I try to breathe. Shallow breaths is all I can muster in many encounters, not to mention the excruciating migraine that sets in. Just a few weeks ago, when we were experiencing above normal temperatures and people were dressing down, I began to sense the a new brash of people wearing the offending odours that they find so "pretty". It took me out of a day and a half of work while I was trying to rid myself of the headache.

The perfume industry generates an ungodly amount of revenue and shows no signs of receding. Just short of $46 Billion dollars in 2022, followed by a slight climb to just over $48 Billion by the close of 2023. Projections propose a global revenue of over $69 Billion by the close of this decade (2030).

Though the word perfume is defined as the extraction of scents from one source to create another, the word itself has evolved into the description of the smelly scents worn exclusively by women, while the term cologne has been imparted to the fragrances worn by men. The actual terminology, as described on Wikipedia, is 'eau de parfum' for the ladies and 'eau de toilet' (instead of 'eau de cologne') for men.

In the beginning it was just extracts from flowers, spices and solvents to achieve the desired fragrances that would eventually be sold to the public. In the decades and centuries since those albeit primitive practices were used, the process has gotten much more complicated and if I were to speculate, much deadlier, as where oils and extracts were diluted with much simpler ingredients, today's manufacturers are using a laundry list of chemicals which may be a contributor toward why so many are affected negatively.

"Just a dab will do" is the practice. While I am quite allergic to perfumes, I never had a bad reaction to cologne and would wear it on occasion, myself. I have a nice respectable collection of pleasing smells to which I can apply to myself. However, in recent years, as my allergy to perfumes has worsened, so too, has my reaction to the colognes worn by men. The only difference being that men tend to understand how much a "dab" is, while some women seem to shower themselves in the potent perfumes. I tend not to wear anything more than the deodorant I spray on in the morning.

My opinions on the subject are jaded, I will admit, because of my negative health reactions to the dope, but I believe that when people douse themselves with the fragrances, it's just a cry for attention, whether they do it on purpose or subliminally, they just want the attention of people approaching them to ask "What's that lovely smell you're wearing?" I think it's just pathetic.

"My mom wears perfume." a friend told me, when we were discussing my negative reaction to perfume and I get that. We all want to look and feel our best when we go out into the world, but how much attention do we want to attract? The world is already full of predators looking for any excuse to pounce on someone, why add to the danger?

My mom and sister traveled to Las Vegas many years ago. Sigfried and Roy were still performing and the public could take a tour to see all the beautiful white tigers and lions that the duo used in their show. My sister told me that the tigers seemed agitated when she and my mom came around. I asked if she was wearing any perfume at the time, to which she replied yes. It was the perfume that caught the attention of these stoic creatures and if there wasn't a thick set of bars separating the two, I'm sure the news articles would have read that one of Sigfried and Roy's tigers attacked a tourist rather than Roy, himself.

I don't know where I'm going with this and I apologize. I wanted to write a puff piece ridiculing the idiots who continue to splash this shit all over themselves, but as I read through some of this "research" on the subject, I'm coming to believe that it's more of a global brainwashing scheme. As stated previously, by the end of this decade, the fragrance industry stands to gain nearly seventy billion dollars in revenue.

That's a staggering amount and the advertising all seem to have the same theme. "Not feeling pretty enough? Wear some of this fragrance and you'll be as popular and beautiful as this stunning actress or supermodel." What woman isn't going to want to feel beautiful and attractive to those around her? "Not popular with the ladies, guys? Where this cologne and you'll be a handsome rock star/celebrity like Johnny Depp."

I shudder to speculate how my future is going to pan out if everyone keeps buying and wearing this shit. The chemicals are getting stronger. The concoctions, themselves, are getting more complicated and every encounter gets scarier and more scarier for myself and those affected around me.

Every door entering a public space or doctor's office or just about everywhere, my bus included, has a placard reading something to the effect that it's a Fragrance Free Zone and that perfume/cologne cannot be worn inside. As far as I know, that rule is enforced everywhere except on the bus. So regardless of people's safety, idiots wearing fragrances can come aboard and risk everyone's safety. There was a day, last summer, where the smell was SO strong that I had to pull over and exit the bus for about ten minutes. I managed to narrow down the culprit who was quite apologetic for causing the situation we were in and the distress that I was feeling at the time. However, I doubt she ever considered anyone else's well-being after that. I find most young folks, from teens to their twenties, to be selfish and arrogant. I get that. I'm that way, too, to a degree, but I possess just enough compassion to consider those around me.

It's 2024 and theoretically, either the aliens will reveal themselves to Earth and we'll have a whole new set of problems to deal with or Donald Trump will be re-elected and the whole world will have a whole new set of problems to deal with. Whatever happens, it's not going to be pleasant, whatever it is, but we'll all smell like roses. 🌹

Eagle

2024-02-08T08:16:00.000-08:00

I did the one thing this morning that, for a long time, have wished to have a female companion to assist me with. I guess, I could have a male companion help out, but I'd feel very uncomfortable about asking a dude to come help me out in the bathroom. Standing shirtless in front of the mirror, doing the deed is uncomfortable enough, but to do it with another fella present would be crazy awkward. The task that I speak of is, of course, shaving my head. Get your damned minds out of the gutter, folks.

For a couple of years now, I've opted to shave my head instead of growing my hair out. Previous to joining Saskatoon Transit, I'd had longer hair. My sister, a hairdresser, couldn't always fit me in for an appointment. Working limited hours and constantly taxiing her two boys around the city and a portion of the province (these days), she never had the time and not one for bringing her work home with her, plus I'd never dream of asking for such an arduous favour. So I'd let my hair grow out. For awhile it was quite lengthy, too. In the beginning it'd hang in my eyes and would be especially bothersome on a windy day until finally I stopped attempting to keep it from blowing across my face and eyes. Working outside, though, caused my hair to bleach from the constant exposure to the sun, until finally it began to look like I was balding, even though (at the time) I was not. I'd always had thin strands of hair, but I was never losing much of it.

Everything changed when I got hired onto Transit. When I had my identification picture taken for my pass card, the way the camera flash reflected off my head, was truly devastating. That evening, I did manage to get in to see my sister for an emergency hair appointment at which time, despite her reluctance to grant my wishes, she did shave my head completely bald. After that, I'd purchased a mid-to-high range cordless clippers and the adventure began.

In the beginning, I attempted to shave every couple of days, but strips would be missed and I'd look like a bargain basement Mick Foley (as Mankind). One time, another driver, who also worked as a part-time hairdresser, took pity on me and cut down some of the offending strays. After that, I decided that I'd allow my hair to grow about a quarter to half an inch before taking it all off, right down to the skin. I don't Bic my head, as my cranium doesn't appear to be very round. Standing back, it looks like a human skull, but when I run my fingers over my scalp or run the clippers through my hair, I'm constant finding valleys and divots, thus making some areas more difficult to cut. Hence the need for a spot checker. Maybe even someone who'd be competent enough to touch up the troubled areas. Then again, if I'm shaving my whole head anyway, there's a grey area where skill doesn't even come into play. The fact that I do it myself, is proof and a half that no skill is required.

I remember the first time I'd shaved my head. It was... Oh shit, more than twenty years ago. 🤯 God damn I'm getting old.

The first time I'd shaved my head, it was done by a friend and, ironically, it was done by a dude, my friend Joel.

Another friend had been diagnosed with cancer. He was about to embark on the chemotherapy aspect of his treatment and was facing the inevitable hair loss. Myself and a group of his friends, all agreed to shave our heads in support. It was a procedure that none of us had, up to that point, so the initial ~~victims~~, er I mean, participants suffered through some seemingly barbaric treatment. I can't recall who went first, thankfully it was not me, but they came out of that bathroom which trickling streams of drying blood. It was not a pretty sight. After all, as memory serves, I don't believe we had any clippers. Just a pair of scissors, normally used for cutting paper and fabric, not human hair, and a pack of Bic disposable razors. It was amateur hour at it's finest.

The next fella came out a little less scathed, followed by a third friend, who decided to have some fun in the process, opting first to cut a horse shoe out of his head. You know, hair on the sides and back, but the top was shaved bald. It was quite a spectacle to see and he resembled a high school principal. He did a couple different style that resulted in all of us laughing like idiots. It was a good night, overall.

As for my experience, it was great. By the time it was my turn to go under the knife, so to speak, and we'd all got our process down to a sweet science and I came out of the bathroom looking like a million dollars. I'd always had concerns as my neck is wider than my head, so I always believed that I would look like a thumb with a goatee, but it wasn't so. My neck is wider, but it didn't (& I don't) look as bad as I thought it would.

I'd love to have a female companion for a number of reasons. It'd be nice to come home once in awhile and talk to someone who responds with actual words and not murmurs and meows, but I wouldn't trade that fuzzy faced boy, Monkey, for anything or anyone.

Now I sit here, all my hair removed except for a velvety layer, tapping away at my keyboard. Procrastinating about having to leave the house. Venturing out into the cooler temperatures. Maybe I should have waited until this afternoon to have shaved my head, but then I wouldn't have been inspired enough to come share this experience with all of you. Have a nice day, everybody! 🙂

Biffed!

2024-02-05T17:19:00.000-08:00

Funny as hell, it was. This small statured teen was running for the bus stop, with two large slushies, one in each hand, then BOOM!!! The kid went down and went down hard. His little body sliding across the remainder of the street, the two cups of icy soda went straight up in the air, before smashing down to the ground, turning the snow from bright white to red and blue.

The weather has been very mild, for the last week. A warmer than usual winter, overall, but this past week found the mercury rising to nearly double digits. Astonishing for January in Saskatchewan. The weather reverted back to colder temps, but instead of getting the snow that was forecasted for last night, instead I think it may have rained. That combined with the constant melting-freezing-melting process that seems to be happening, the ground has (virtually) turned to glare ice. It was rare, for me today, to spot any stretches of sidewalk that wasn't covered in an inch of ice. Two places on my route, to be exact.

I've shared my mishap on ice from 2018, where I slipped in the back parking lot at my [then] job as a courier, knocking myself out for nearly a half hour. Thankfully, it was only a brisk night, rather than one of those hellacious negative forty nights, otherwise I probably would have froze to death. The result of that knock on the head was a year of my life rehabilitating and the struggle to regain my memory in it's entirety is an ongoing battle. A fight which experts have told me will never come to fruition. That fateful slip on the ice, literally changed my life from that point on. Long term memory, fleeting at best. Short term, not the best either. A prime example would be this morning. My cat has lived with me for nearly fourteen years. During this time, I've obviously fed him every morning, yet this morning, it seems I'd forgotten, but boy did he remind the shit outta me when I got home.

So seeing that kid biff it out on the street, I should have been more concerned, rather than laughing out loud. I did ask if he was alright, but he ignored my concern and immediately asked for a free ride. Little bastard! I'm glad he wiped out. Even better that he dumped his drinks.

I saw another prime example of people not really thinking about the surface that they were walking on, as I was sitting at a traffic light. I watched as a man and a woman were slowly sidling up the sidewalk until they came to a sizeable spanse, where they stopped. The man said something to the woman and next thing ya know, he's picked her up in his arms and takes one step onto the slippery surface. His progress did not last long enough to take a second step. DOWN he went with a tremendous thud, his female companion falling on top of him. I let out a small gasp followed by a snicker because, it was f*cking stupid to attempt whatever the hell he was trying to do. Kudos for trying to keep chivalry alive, but holy shit! The light changed to green and I soon lost sight of the two of them, him lying flat on his back and her perched neatly on his chest, unscathed by the ordeal.

❆❅❄❅❆

The Man In The Brown Suit

2024-01-29T18:07:00.000-08:00

In the brief time that I've been a transit operator, I've seen many different locations all around town. Places that I, otherwise, would never have seen if I were doing anything else. I've driven down new streets and seen many new things. In my travels I've spotted new restaurants and eateries that I've since tried. Some good, some not so much. I've seen parks and roadways and all sorts of places that would otherwise go unnoticed. Especially for someone, like myself, who rarely ventures out if I don't otherwise need to.

In addition to all the new scenery, I've also revisited old memories of past haunts. One route takes me down Ruth Street, past a location where me and friends would get drunk at, then stumble home as we lived close-by. The route I'm currently doing in my afternoons, takes me past a house where I lived... HOLY SHIT!! Over twenty years ago, now. I remember I moved out the spring following 9/11. (*Holy crap... Sorry. This realization just freaked me out a little.) 😲

I lived in the basement suite of 70 Laurentian Drive. It was a nice little place. A one bedroom, with a private entrance. It had a cool room, under the stairs and a bar in the living room, where I stored movies and shit. Unfortunately, there was a washer and dryer behind a door in my kitchen, which the upstairs landlord used, so they'd frequently barge into my domicile unannounced and I'd mostly feel awkward. Just imagine relaxing in your underwear, watching TV, when your landlord comes booming down the stairs. It was ridiculous, to say the least.

I had moved into that place after moving from the afore mentioned house where I'd stumble home from the bar to. I worked nights and needed the peace and quiet that I wasn't getting from where I was. For the most part, everything worked well. Come home from work and the landlord and his wife would be gone already. I'd wind down a little bit watching TV, then I'd retire to my dark bedroom for a few hours of shut eye.

One day, I'd come home from work, the last night before a couple days off. As per the usual, I'd camp out in the arm chair, staring at the TV. About an hour or so in to my programs, I started hearing foot steps upstairs. None of the cars belonging to the landlord and his wife were parked in the driveway, so they must have company staying upstairs, I thought. All day long, however, these thunderous footsteps would wander from the living room, which was directly above mine, to the kitchen. Then out of the kitchen and down the hall to the far bedrooms, also located above my similar rooms. The kitchen was above mine, as was the hallway, bathroom and so on. The footsteps continued in this pattern all day long. Heavy steps, that echoed throughout the house. If I was going to get any sleep, it wasn't going to be that afternoon.

From about nine in the morning until about thirty minutes before the landlord and his spouse would return home, A couple hours later, Denny, the landlord, came down the stairs to run a load of laundry. We exchanged pleasantries, then I asked him who the houseguest upstairs was? Denny cocked his head to the side like the confused mutt that he was, forcing me to explain what I was referencing to.

"All day," I explained to him, "I've been listening to footsteps that walked heavily from the living room, to the kitchen to the far end of the house and back." I explained that it'd been occurring all day long and that I wasn't able to get any sleep because of the loud racket.

With a look of clarity on his face, Denny leaned back against the door jam that separated the small kitchen from the living room. He followed that facial expression with a look of hesitation, then explained that there wasn't any houseguest roaming about upstairs. He paused for a moment then said, "It was probably the man in the brown suit."

Denny had only recently gotten married to his bride, moving into her existing residence. (For the life of me, I can't remember her name), had lived in the house for many years, residing there even before meeting her, now, husband, Denny. He continued to explain how in addition to the odd occurrences that happen from time-to-time, there have been a couple actual sightings. Most notable was his wife's introduction to the "man in the brown suit".

Apparently, she'd been awoken from a deep slumber by an unnerving presence. When she'd opened her eyes, she saw a tall man in a brown suit looming over top of her as she laid in bed. Frightened for her life, she sprang out of bed and ran to the kitchen to grab a weapon to protect herself, only to discover that she was alone in the house. Nobody, not a soul... Wait a second! Over the years, she'd grown accustom to the presence and never gave it much thought beyond that.

I was taken aback by the response to my query. It didn't scare me, to be honest, and moving forward from that time, I'd continue to hear odd things, but whatever it was or whoever it was, never ventured down the stairs, so I was never bothered directly.

Eventually, the landlord asked me to move out as they were looking to convert the basement suite into a lounge area for their kids to hang out in. On the day that I was to move out of the tiny apartment, the ghost upstairs was having a fit. I don't know why it chose that day in particular, but I had a feeling that it was protesting my leaving. Not that it was attached to me or had any sort of connection, but I always got the feeling that whatever it was, had a deep dislike of Denny, which as I got to know him over the brief time that I'd lived there, I could understand. Denny was a real boob.

As I sat, waiting for family to come over and help me move, I sat at the bottom of the stairs and listened as the spirit upstairs slammed ever cupboard door in [their] kitchen. I don't know how many doors were up there, but rest assured, every last one was being slammed repeatedly.

I've had many encounters with the paranormal over the years. In recent years, some of it occurs in my very own house. Many weird and strange things happen here, at home. Other stuff has happened when I was at work, in a variety of vocations, even as a bus driver, I've had some strange shit happen. I'm not psychic, but I do believe that I'm sensitive to the presence of weird shit. No time to expand on that subject, at the moment, but I will delve into that shit at a later time.

For now and for the next two months, I'll continue to drive past the ol' homestead and every time I do, like a person with Tourette's, I look at the house and utter the words, "The man in the brown suit." I would not be shocked if I were driving past one day and actually saw a man in a brown suit peering out the window. 😄

Taking The Plunge

2024-01-18T13:54:00.000-08:00

Spoke to Whitney care of Rock 102 FM, today. Yesterday the discussion revolved much around her co-host, Sully. A Vancouver transplant, Sully had never experienced a real winter. Not a harsh winter like the ones that Saskatchewan is notoriously known for. There's a reason why the late-Roddy Piper used to refer to Saskatoon as the coldest place on Earth. Clearly it is not, but sometimes it does feel like it.

Saskatoon experienced a warmer than usual autumn and early winter. The snow really never flew until after the New Year had already begun. It was a nice change from the ordinary, but in the back of my mind, I knew that we, people, were going to pay dearly for the good weather. Last Wednesday, proved just that as temperatures took a nasty plunge. The frigid polar freeze timed itself perfectly for Sully, who despite being warned of how terrible the weather would be, hopped on a plane and flew, he and his family, to Hawaii. Good timing, on his part. Perfectly timed, as by the time his jet lands in Saskatoon coming back, the cold snap will have passed almost entirely and Sully will have missed the worst of it.

So the discussion on the radio, yesterday, was revolving around how to get back at Sully. People were calling in suggestions on how to further his journey into being Saskatchewanized, but not much by way of punishment for missing the cold spell.

While flipping through Facebook a few days ago, I saw a post from a friend. She and a gal pal, donned in swimwear, took to the South Saskatchewan for their own polar plunge. I don't know how it turned out for them, but it intrigued me all the same. A Polar Plunge, I texted in to the station. Sully should jump in the South Saskatchewan, just as my friend had, and that should be quite chilly. I was immediately prompted to call in, but as I was working at the time, I was unable, but arranged to call in this afternoon.

It was a lengthy discussion, lasting almost twice as long as previous discussions. We conversed on a few topics, finally coming around to the polar plunge idea. I even offered to do it with him, as I would never suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do, myself. Plus, a polar plunge sounds kind of fun and it's something that I'd love to say that I've done. Just like being in a vehicle roll over (controlled) and driving a truck through a house. All Bucket List items.

Somehow, the discussion came around to my telling Whitney that I had fallen through ice, once. This admission took her by surprise. At her behest, I described the incident at hand. I explained how my sister's first husband had a dugout behind the gas station that he ran, just outside the city, to the east. In the dugout, my former brother-in-law had fish, so to prevent the ice from freezing completely, which would kill the fish, he ran an air hose to the water's edge, aerating the water, thus preventing it from freezing. However, sometimes when the temperatures dipped to the extremes that it has been over the last few days here, the air hose would freeze which required one of us gas jockey's to run out to the ice and pull the hose in to thaw.

Earlier that day, as memory recalls, it was a strange day, weather wise in Saskatoon. I was out at my dad's house. I remember despite it being a Sunday afternoon in January, it was also four degrees above zero. I was outside, literally, in just a T-shirt and I felt fine. I had to work a few hours later, out at the gas station and like usual, the weather took a nasty turn and it was about -30C by six o'clock that evening. I can't remember who it was that I was working with, but it may have been one of the teenage girls that worked there. That's likely why I volunteered to go check on the hose and lug it in if it were froze.

What happens next, I only remember in chunks. I remember walking down the narrow path that had been trudged in the snow. I remember gazing past the water's edge to see the ice hole had froze, prompting me to get on the ice to pull the hose out. The ice was thick enough to walk on. My ex-brother-in-law used to go ice fishing on the ice, throughout the winter months, so I never hesitated to step onto the ice. As I was pulling the hose out, I remember hearing cracking in the ice. It wasn't thunderous. It never echoed off the buildings or anything, but it was loud enough to provide me with my very own Wile E. Coyote moment. No soon than hearing the cracking noises, I looked up at the camera that wasn't there, looked through to the imaginary audience, mouthed 'Oh shit!', then disappeared from frame.

If the make believe camera were to pan down to the ice level, it would have recorded my have fallen though the ice up to my armpits, like the fellow pictured above. I was wearing a heavy parka, ski pants, heavy boots, mitts and a toque. I was dressed for the weather at hand, but not for taking a quick swim in the frigid water. At first, I just sat there, dumbfounded by the predicament I happened to find myself in. There was only two of us working and it being a functioning gas station, my cohort would likely not have an opportunity to come look for me in the near future. Plus, as a petite teen, it's doubtful she'd have the strength to pull me out, anyway.

So I was stuck, forced to think about how I might pull myself out of this hole, without further breaking ice. The weight of all the garments I was wearing would surely pull me under and that would suuuck. As I glanced about for my options, I couldn't help but reflect that it really didn't feel that bad. I was dry, despite being submerged almost to my shoulders. "I don't know what all those people are whining about." I thought to myself, referencing any interviews I've watched where people had fallen into icy waters. No sooner had that thought expired, than I began feeling the water grazing my legs. Now I was getting saturated and I had to act fast before I would weigh more than I could muscle.

I can't recall the exact strategy or method I used to clench and claw my way out, but [[SPOILER ALERT]] I survived. I got the the beach and began walking back to the main building. It wasn't far, but it was enough distance that made it challenging. Because the temperature was SO low, lower with the wind chill is factored in, I'd only taken a few steps before my soaked clothing began to crystalize and freeze. I was reminded of the scene in Terminator 2: Judgement Day, when the T-1000 is frozen with liquid nitrogen. How it crystalized then solidified. I was not in a position where I was in danger of freezing solid 🥶, but if I were in the middle of nowhere, who the hell knows. In this case, the clothing froze in small sections separated by cracks. All-in-all, it was kind of neat, but I must have had a guardian angel at my side that night, as things could've went really bad.

Of course, I gave Whitney the abridged version, cutting out some of the descriptive dialogue, but that's what happened. I made it into the gas station, my coworker was shocked and scared, calling the boss who arrived with my sister and a bag of dry clothes. They were all so concerned about my well-being, but I really didn't see what the big deal was all about. I survived.

I don't think a polar plunge would be all that devastating. It's a controlled event. No one jumps in blindly, I wouldn't think. Not smart people, anyway. There's definitely some planning involved. No big whoop. Like I said before; I wouldn't suggest anything that I wouldn't be willing to do myself. I mean... What could possibly go wrong?! 😄

No Way Jose!!

2024-01-18T07:29:00.000-08:00

I'm a cat person. In part, because I'm allergic to (most) dogs, but mostly because cats are awesome. Watch any cat video on YouTube and try to convince me otherwise. Cats are also fairly self reliant and don't need that constant coddling that dogs need. I can't visit my sister's house without their Golden Retriever showering me with attention and constantly lying at my feet, starving for attention.

Another benefit to having a cat is, never having to take him for walks around the block or through the park. He gets most of his exercise in the house, but in the warm weather, he likes to venture about in the backyard. Daily walks around the perimeter, assuring that we are secure, I always say to him, jokingly. When the temperatures dip down to the frigid temperatures that we've been experiencing over the last week and both, he and I, are more than happy to stay confined within the warmth of our house. Meanwhile, I see my neighbour, bundled up into a furry ball, venturing out into the Arctic blast with dog in tow. Neither one of them really look like they want to go for that walk and who can blame them?

The other day I was driving home when I noticed a bundled up person dragging an object behind her on the sidewalk. As I drew nearer, I realized that the object was a small dog. Completely bare, the short-haired dog looked catatonic. It's tiny body, rigid, even when it was picked up and held in the person's arms. I couldn't help but wonder just how important it actually is to take dogs for walks? 🤔 Everyone needs exercise, but can't daily walks be put on hold when the temperatures outside dip to below minus fifty with the wind chill?

I felt like there may have been a conversation between the two as they stepped outside into the frigidity of the morning. Dog likely pulled back on the leash, exclaiming "No way, Jose, am I going out into that!!" His momma probably tugged on the leash, coaxing the little one out the door, all the while uttering kind words to the dog in a soothing manner, "It's okay. It's not that bad."

"Not that bad?!" I imagined the dog thinking, "You're wrapped in multiple layers to keep out the cold wind, while I'm standing here buck naked!!" 🥶

Granted, some dogs absolutely LOVE the outdoors, especially when the temperatures get so damned cold. My sister's first dog, Tucker, was a pure breed Saint Bernard and I felt terrible for that lumbering soul in the summer months when the mercury would rise about thirty degrees Celcius. However, when that same mercury dipped thirty degrees below zero, that dog was happier than a pig in mud. When my mom would dog sit Tucker at her house, he loved running around her huge backyard, jumping, digging and rolling around in the deep snow. She could pull a chair up to the back door and watch that dog have the time of his life back there.

Not Tucker, but this is what he'd look like after his play sessions in the snow.

I've seen all kinds of outfits that people get for their dogs. I love watching these examples awkwardly walking down the sidewalk, marching like Soviet soldiers, kicking their feet high in the air in an attempt to shed their little shoes. Then there's the little cloaks and other clever outfits crafted for their comfort. Many seem to fight it, while others almost seem to embrace it. I recall a little Boston Terrier that belonged to a woman I used to work with. His name was Riley and he wore a couple of different outfits, but the favourite one seemed to be a little leather bomber jacket like something you'd see a hot shot pilot wear in an old World War II film. It was awesome.

Dress for the occasion.

The best thing about having a cat is, arguably, the worst thing about having a cat. They shit indoors, so we can all avoid going outside in the cold, but then I have to shovel that shit out and I don't know what's in the food I feed that boy, but golly them shit's are rank.

Perhaps I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. I've never owned a dog, myself. I grew up with dogs, on the farm, but they were fairly self reliant. No walks necessary as we lived on a farm and they were allowed to run freely. Usually along side of my dad with he was working in the field. Even when the temperatures got so unbelievably cold, those dogs stayed indoors, pausing only to go potty outside.

I don't know where I'm going with this. Suffice it to say; If it's too cold outside, I think we can shelve the exercise for that day or few days. It's not like the deep freeze stays forever. A week or two at the worst, though admittedly, it feels much longer. Your pet, I'm sure, will appreciate it.

That and.... Cats rule and dogs drool. 😁

Window Into My Soul

2024-01-14T09:32:00.000-08:00

It's existed for as long as humankind has drawn breath. Poets and playwrights have printed pages upon pages about the concept of love. Defined, it is described a plethora of different ways, all culminating in one general theme: It is an emotion that trumps all else, an overwhelming feeling that pushes past superficial components. It's that feeling that hits you like a sucker punch, that convinces you that life cannot be any better without that person sharing your life.

I realized I possessed that feeling this morning. As I gazed into their loving eyes, I realized at that precise moment, that I was exactly where I needed to be and that I don't desire to be anywhere else. I wanna scoop this person up and smother them with hugs and kisses. I wanna shout from the highest rooftops. Climb the highest mountain peak. Hire a pilot to tow a banner declaring what is causing my heart to burst at it's seams. I want to grab a ghetto blaster, like John Cusack in Say Anything, filling the air with "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel, a song also composed for a true love. 😍 I want to jump on a sofa, like a crazed Tom Cruise on the Oprah show, screaming with excitement.

I cannot fathom a single moment without this lovely personality in my life and have found myself soaring into complete despair and depression when I think of my life before they graced me with their existence. This morning, as I was serving them their breakfast, it hit me. I grabbed a hold of them and squeezed. I was overwhelmed with emotion and failing to stand on a soap box in the middle of the town square, I will use this venue to declare my overwhelming true love for.... My cat, Monkey. He is truly the greatest entity to enter my life. I love that kid with every fibre of my being.

I love you, Monkey.
You're simply the best!

💘

4 Fox Sake

2024-01-13T18:00:00.000-08:00

I noticed today that I've been saying "For F*ck Sake" a lot. A Lot. A LOT!!! And, honestly, it's annoying the shit outta me. 😒 I don't know when I started saying it, nor how long it's taken for me to realize that I am saying it. 🤨 I do know that it's not something that I've said my entire life, because I do know that I haven't.

If memory serves me... I believe it was a permanent resident of my dad's vocabulary. 🤔 A truly poetic swearologist, my dad was. He could lace together a plethora of curse words that sounded as lovely as a Shakespearean sonnet. I've never heard another person do it like my father could. If I had to, I'd say Ricky from Trailer Park Boys, is about as close as comes.

Oddly, I've been thinking about my dad a lot, lately. I've been watching some show on TV about celebrities confronting ghosts that haunted them once upon a time, doing so through psychic Kim Russo. They, Russo and whatever celebrity is featured that episode, exchange some casual banter, usually involving loved ones who've passed away previous to filming the episode. I don't know if it's real or not, but the information she reveals is usually bang on accurate. Real or not, it gets a guy thinking. If I were in that situation, with someone who has psychic abilities, who would come back to message me or more accurately, who would I not want to hear from?

Of course, I'd welcome anything offered my way. I'm kind of a mark for that shit, but if it is real and accurate, do I really want to hear how disappointed my dad is in me and the shitty life I've lead? I live with that regret every day. I don't need a reminder from beyond the grave. FML.

Could it be? In thinking about the what ifs and the what was's, I was reminded of all the times I'd disappointed him when he was alive? 🤔 All those times I'd f*ck up and he'd give me that look. You know that look! Every son who's f*cked up has seen that look. 😠 My dad would yell, "FOR FUCK SAKE!!!" Followed by a compilation of expletives linked together like the limerick of a deranged psychopath. It was scary as f*ck when it was happening, sure. I'll grant ya that, but f*ck me, thinking back, man. When I hear a parent in the next aisle at the grocery store go postal on their annoying kids, I smile and think about my dad. 😊💬

Holy shit. 😲 When I set out to type this blog out, I was just looking for a way to delete the phrase "for f*ck sake" from my vernacular. Instead I had a psychological breakthrough. Holy f*ck!! 😄

Ricky (Robb Wells)
Trailer Park Boys

Excellent Swearologist

KRYPTONITE

2024-01-12T18:02:00.000-08:00

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

2024-01-10T19:12:00.000-08:00

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

2024-01-08T17:21:00.000-08:00

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

2023-12-29T16:47:00.000-08:00

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.