Merry Christmas!

Stuck

I've been stuck in bed for 6 days now.
My ribs hurt, my body wants movement, neck stiff, TV is at wrong angle.
Hubby hurt his back and is now bedridden. Clinics gives T3s.  Emerg gives Morphine. Nothing is working, except me.  Breakfast in bed is at 3:00am and it's faux chicken sandwiches and Caramilk flavoured icecream.  I can instantly tell the movie I'm about to watch is crapola, simply because the background is Chilliwack (not that I don't love Chilliwack), but because it's Chilliwack being bomb blasted by electrical plasma energy, universal force field wave that will end mankind and only two stupid dildos who work at at video store, will save us.
I hope we survive. SPOILER ALERT: we do. Hubby rarely gets sick, after 30 odd years he's scared - and really hurts.  So that's why I'm bedridden, too.

An arm for a leg.

Bought myself a treat tonight.

One King Crab Leg - yes, just one and that's how it came packaged. Price: $50.63 per kg - total $9.63, less my 30% discount off as quick sale price, about $7.00.

Can't understand why, living on the most abundant of water and seafood in the world, we still have to pay an arm for a leg.

And to put things into perspective: a very nice, thick, grade A, prime rib steak from Alberta, costs about $24.00 per kg.

The Shadow left behind

I lay in bed beside my husband 

A thousand times before.  

Sometimes he is the one who wakens, 

to the grips of hands folklore. 

Tighten grip around his neck, 

smothering each coming breath, 

yet none will come 'cause grips of hands 

have come for certain death.

Shallow wimps escape his mouth

towards my lightened sleep.

Cries for help and reckoning

upon his pillow sheet.

Wake, awaken I scream out!

and shake his body free.

Only to discover the next night.

The shadow would come for me.

Sabrina's Romance

It is not often I hear one of my most favorite songs on the radio. But when it plays on the radio, the motor races just a bit faster : the sun shines just a bit brighter. My heart hopes and is happy and content and is truly full. And I don't even know why it's full - it's because this song tells me it is. Something fabulous lies ahead of us all, in traffic, as we depart our dull jobs and robotic lives, committed to banks and bill payments and stop signs. My foot is heavy and rebellious - "yes, look at me - I'm turning left and I'm not signalling!"

This is what I hope Sabrina connects to when she is driven in ambulance to the Emergency Room. I hope she hears this song, slightly. As blood escapes from her skull, forehead, nose ..... as she drifts to unconsciousness in romantic traffic. They stop and let her pass. The romantic traffic cares for her.

A new appreciation for Matthew McConaughey - WARNING EXPLICIT SEX

Bio:
Birth Name
Matthew David McConaughey

Height
5' 11¾" (1.82 m)

Mini Biography
Deleted due to boredom. Can apply to every American kid growing up in Texas.

So here's the story. I can't stand this guy -- I think he's arrogant and a pretty boy. Sure, I've watched "the Wedding Planner" and "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days" etc." YAWN. Something about him just bugs me -- especially when I see him on Leno or wherever - his persona is like his shit don't stink.

Until last night, when this crazy movie came on 'KILLER JOE'. Fabulous cast - Thomas Hayden Church, Emile Hirsche, Juno Temple, but even more amazingly Gina Gershon.

This is the same switch of appreciation for Tom Cruise after I watched him in Magnolia! It just takes one movie for greatness to show - a fan base, a true fan base.

The following scene is truly offensive, it is a dark comedy after all, but please watch the movie in it's entirely to appreciate it's brilliance!

VIDEO HAS SINCE BEEN REMOVED DUE TO COPYRIGHT LAWS

Pumped up Kicks

Have a ton of news to add ... but need three days in row to compile, a continuous commitment of thought and alertness, driving home from the most pathetic job imaginable on Earth, a Bowling Alley.  And having to listen to 20 year old co-worker TWATS and their pumped up kicks.  Not that I don't like 20 year old beings, since I have two of my own ..... it's the laziness, slowness, the disengagement of responsibility, respect, courtesy.

I can see the disconnect and why this business is failing.

I have the most pathetic job imaginable on Earth......yet here I am, hoping it's not, right up until it's eventual bankruptcy closure.

My name is Elinor.

I remember yesterday like it was yesterday.

I was a day younger of course, not as old as I thought I was or felt like I was, not as old as the newspapers depict me as,  "the grandmother".   Geez, just because I was married and had children, who themselves blessed me with precious grandchildren, is not a reason to sum me up as a person with grey hair and should be finished with her life anyway.  I had so much to give.  I'm Elinor.

I love my husband so much.  The thought of not being with him, or any harm to his being, simply destroys me.  But I know he is strong and he protects me the same way.  We don't even talk any more.  Our eyes communicate between us now.  And that's enough.  It's all we need.

He likes to tease of yesterdays and sneaks kisses and snuggles against me on our evening walks.  It's suppose to bring down high blood pressure and reduce stress and help with digestion, and yes, maybe present a romantic opportunity for a smooch along our evening strolls.

Strange though, in an instant I was holding his hand ..... then in another I wasn't.

I remember flying.  Strange thing to remember flying, because logically we can't fly.   But there I am,  in the sky, above the car, I must be dreaming.  It must be a dream.

"A 65-year-old woman has died after being struck by a car Sunday afternoon.

The victim was walking on the north shoulder of 14 Avenue near Caribou Street around 4:30 p.m. when she was hit. Police say the suspect vehicle, a blue 2007 Honda Accord, fled the scene and was located about an hour later not far from the accident scene. The vehicle had black winter rims, no wheel covers.

It is believed the Accord was travelling westbound and passed another vehicle on the right before hitting the pedestrian. The victim's name is not being released at the request of her family.

Police would like to speak to anyone who witnessed the collision or saw the vehicle in the minutes leading up to it. If you have any information, contact Mission RCMP at 604-826-7161 or Crimestoppers at 1-800-222-84177."

Elinor died after being hit by a car while walking with her husband on 14th avenue.

My name is Elinor and I was here.  

Story of the Newspaper, the Shooting Star and the Bad Company

I purchased a newspaper at a local convenient store one day.

I got in my car and realized I had actually taken two copies.  Worried that the convenient store clerk would have 75 cents deducted from her pay because of a discrepancy in the daily cash out,   I returned to the counter and paid another 75 cents.   I figured I might as well add to her sales output and not have a frowned upon 'return'.

So I arrive at work, 20 minutes early, fill my bottle with purified water apparently distilled by the company water fountain, and lay the two copies of the daily news on my desk.   By 8:15am both copies are missing.

Not again!  What's with these cheap fucking engineers:  high technological wizards, electrical, hardware, software, mechanical, mathematicians, rocket scientists.  They keep swiping my newspapers.  And not only that, these guys are being paid for toilet shits and when I eventually get my newspapers back, each page has been spread wide open, page after page, aromas left behind by their spewing fart spats and bouquets of diarrhea.

Every single page has been violated, flipped over and plundered, section after section:  Current events, the entertainment gossip, sports -- even my crossword puzzle has "12 down" smeared in green booger snot.   The defilement didn't even stop at the Horoscopes.   Moist fingers, brow sweats and finger licking, bowel grunts, thin toilet paper, long finger nails.  Leftovers.  I am so grossed out I can't eat my lunch and read my newspaper at the same time.  My enjoyment of fresh ink doesn't exist.

But what's more disgusting is these same regular 'shit pushers' use my computer and type away on my keyboard, and after they've finished hitting my keys,  they have left a distinct smell behind.  I bring my fingers close to my nose and detect the smell.  It's urine, fresh from the corners of my pages.

I hate these guys, but they pay me extremely well.

 

Due Diligence

Trust me, there is a reason for this musical interlude.

Nothing new to report, other than the re-hiring of a person, whose profile already has whispers of fraud and stealing company money and paying for son's wedding and being in charge and control, with utterly no supervision or guidance from lazy owners, taking advantage and stealing revenue and court proceedings and newspaper headlines. Acquittal : I don't know but it sure left a sour outcome in the spittoon of sales that dwindled to virtually nothing. Nothing.

Somehow, her name farted out from some other Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte, also in process of rejoining the company, because she knows it so well and hides the processes and procedures equally well. She knows we're fucked without her. She's famous and everybody loves her.

We've rehired her, too. They are so stupid! --- lessons learned, people, lessons learned. Sadly, the new owners are desperate to make money (as all new business owners feel when making little revenue at the start) but to be honest with you, if I KNEW ALL THIS SHIT WENT DOWN, THEN WHY DON'T THEY -- DIDN'T THEY DO THEIR DUE DILIGENCE!!!

Hence, they need someone like ME, sadly, they will never know. So I happily attach a song and let the days progress. I await my eventual dismissal. Lessons learned. Lessons learned.

Skin Tags

The internet states:  
Often workplaces demand a sober dressing from their employees.   A pant suit or casual outfit can be accessorized with a striking brooch, necklace, earring, bracelet or even a watch to add zing to the simple look without it being over the top and obvious in the eyes of the management.

One could even carry an arresting handbag or wear a pair of unusual shoes which will offset and add contrast to the outfit.    One could even highlight a monochrome outfit with a splash of contrasting color in the form of a headband, bracelet, belt or even ring.  

The accessory can be an extension of the individual's personality.   The idea is to go bold and be daring.   Having fun with accessories and experimenting with them is the first step to enjoying high fashion.   One of the most favorite rules of high fashion is the ability to mix and match patterns.  

My fashion statement is using Tea Tree Oil on my skin tags, an internet remedy, smells like shit --- no not shit --- like old bark tree growth shit, slimy fermented moss tree skin, which I am to apply 3 times a day on cotton swab for at least 2-3 weeks.   Holy fuck!   I  can taste the smell, it's glued on my tongue when I apply it with cotton swab. *spit spit*  

One will let you know if it works or not.

Being Ordinary, the plain one.

Brenda, Beth, Gina ... can't recall the name associated with the fat girl with the pixie cut hairdo, waxed down sideburns, red nail polish. Claims she's Gino's girlfriend, that he lives in North Van, British Properties. He's coming soon to "pick me up" so I bum another smoke. We wait outside the school grounds. Gino's coming. Another free cigarette.  The wind shyly scatters leafs in parking lot, as cars depart and the emptiness fills up with the smell of dinner and darkening skies.  Eventually my hunger abandons her and her pack of cigarettes, once again.

Apparently he's some rock star and they are lovers. She's 15-16 years old at this time, and I'm impressed she can make up such stories and think the crowd she hangs with actually believe her, that we allow her to continue day after day, without a limo arriving to pick her up after school, in the leafy storm of empty lot.

There's another girl, too.  Cindy.  She says "Lennox" is coming from his spaceship. She is tall and gangly and has greasy black pixie cut, and wears 3D glasses and a zipper smile. Except she doesn't smoke cigarettes, so we don't waste our time waiting for alien arrival.  We don't waste our time on Cindy at all.

I can't top either story. I don't know how to bullshit and appear truthful. I don't have the look. I am ordinary. Plain. My hero is the curly blonde haired guy, who died in the movie "Carrie", American Hero, Starbuck, the Captain on the Love Boat and Mrs. Partridge. I won't have grown to have a musical influence for another year or so .... I will be a follower, a listener, a believer, a disbeliever, a friend with a nicotine habit.



As a member of the 10 year and 20 year reunion committee, we could not contact Cindy. She has simply disappeared.

And as I type this in my Blog in the year 2013, it is my hope that she somehow finds her way back, that the plain girl still stands beside her for at least a few minutes as she waits for Lennox.

Magnetic Son

Warning

This post is full of boasting and bragging about my fantabulous son, Brandon.  But not nearly as much as Rosie O'Donnell does on Twitter and her hourly instagram tweets of her new baby daughter.

Continue if you must, lots of girl-chickie-teenage-love-banter.

Always a crowd pleaser, we begin our journey with two teenaged girls pretending to be drunk, pretending they know not what they do, *glug glug* from a brown papered bag blanketing a power drink.  For their sake, let's pretend they added an ounce or so of mom and dad's wodka.

Unfortunately, the video is unavailable due to privacy settings, so I have removed it.

We continue, with a self-portrait by an admirer -- time consuming rendering that graces FB posts far and wide.

Since then, Brandon has grown to the more maturer look of Justin Bieber ... with a striking resemblance.

That being said, we logically follow the dance routine, the dance steps, the choreographer who insists, teaches, touches, admires.

Brandon is also the luckiest kid around, striking up a long lasting friendship with his buddy from Cultus Lake - Deandre - as they navigate life and girls and the future, whatever lies ahead.

I am pleased to announce the Facebook "in a relationship" status with the most prettiest girl I can imagine, Serena!  Truly stunning!  

Sounds of Italy in Hotel Lobby with Mr. Calisini

I saw a post on Facebook the other day.   It had a picture of teachers from Sands Secondary School, a picture believed to have been taken between 1979-83.  I went to that school when it was first built, yet I have few memories of it and my two junior years attending it.  I studied the picture provided by the FB poster, and realized the gentleman he refers to in his comments is my Mr. Calisini.  Yes, my Mr. Calisini ...the one and only.   The one who made me think beyond boundaries, the first who allowed us to think =outside the box=.  He must have moved on from NDSS to Sands after our graduating year in 1978.  

He never treated us like students, he treated us like equals, each of us on our own discoveries and what lies ahead. He said he had no answers, that we already knew deep inside everything there was to know.   Then we opened our Bibles and deciphered the "tower of Babel" as a rocket ship platform to universal skies.

  "maybe not, what do you think...write an essay."

He wasn't talking about maturity, and what to expect when you get married and have children and settle for less, because that's what your mom may have done, and that's what your dad did. He never persuaded us to become Catholics or Muslims or vegans, although we knew this was a big layer of his being, albeit fractured. He never preached or persuaded a personal belief, but somehow I knew he had a conviction and was trying to convey righteousness, and how to be righteous. Not to condemn the different, but to be different.

Even as a 16 year old girl I knew instantly Mr. Calisini was different.  He reminds me of a character straight out of West Side Story, a Jet, soft toe-shoe sweep, quick hop, finger snapping gentile.  For some reason he has allowed us to know more about himself than we should.  We know about monasteries, that he has a brother, and his mother lives in Italy and has died.  He loves opera.  English literature.  18th century.  Porches. St. Peter's Square.  Italy.

We spied on him once.  Our high school had a field trip to Italy and England, chaperoned by Mr. Calisini, and there were eight classmates who went, including my sister and my best friend, Carrie.  We happen to notice a strikingly handsome young man take interest in conversing with our teacher in the lobby of a hotel in Venice, and later we decided to follow him.  It lead nowhere.  Mr. Calisini retired to his room, alone.

We were so disappointed.

The next day my sister sang high notes in the lobby because the hotel has such good echoes and she somehow manages a low larynx that can transfer a bus wait into an idle mid-morning practice of what lies ahead.  Sadly, the next song I would hear would be a chorus of '99 bottles of beer on the wall'  until we reached the Tower of Pisa.

We are driven to Rome in comfortable bus.  It has a toilet and the driver periodically announces points of interest along the way, though my interest longs for a cigarette.  The landscape flashes by at 100km per hour, field upon field, roads upon roads.  And yes, they all lead there.  We were halted and inspected on one of those roads by the Polizia de Stato or the Arna dei Carabinieri, I'm not sure which.  A political diplomat has been murdered - and we are merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream at the wrong place at the wrong time.  I don't remember the semi-automatic gun being pointed at my head, because I apparently slept through the entire episode of search and lock down.

Once everyone were convinced we are just innocent Canadian teenaged girls, with no hidden agenda, we were allowed to proceed with our trip, and Mr. Calisini has once again garnered shame of his birthplace.  I think he dilly-dallys too much - tries to show us everything, outside the realm of food, he seems to promote Catholicism because we have all now coined a phrase for our afternoon adventures as "ABC" or "Another Bloody Church".

What can I say, when in Rome .....

I do not know why he came to Canada to teach.  In some ways I think he was escaping.  Not even pride in country could keep him if family turmoiled in his heart.  Whatever it was, something rooted heavily inside him, guilt, shame, love.  Or nothing at all.  Maybe it's just a fantasy of a 16 year old girl, who sees what she wants to see.  Whatever it was, she was glad he came and became the flamboyant, memorable teacher that we all seem to have and seem to remember.

He passed long ago ... in his beloved Italy.

Hard Sun ... sometimes

Peace Train and Gutter Balls

We have changed our hours of operation.

My admirer is no longer here - his last encounter with me was the first encounter.  "I'm Bill".  Wide smile splashes towards me, as he nervously points his full arm towards Edward, his confidant, I suspect.  Edward giggles under his Toronto Blue Jays cap.  They have both suffered head injuries, somehow, somewhere, sometime.   *between you and me, Toronto - what the fuck was he thinking*

In the weeks that follow and the emptiness of the lanes reminds me of Bill.  Safe.  When I arrive I am the only one here in the dark.  In the quiet.  I turn the disco lights on and race upstairs to locked doors and security codes, and more locked doors.  Before, Bill was there downstairs with people, and staff and activity and chocolate bar machines and "the claw is my master" and "hurricane experience" and strikes.

They made a movie here once, unsuccessful in the box office - which doesn't surprise me because if I haven't heard of it, no one has!  The premise, killer kills a bunch of big boobed teens stranded in a "bowling alley" and with each kill, a RED X appeared aka -strike- in the overhang scoreboards.

Lots of people still don't know that scores are now computerized and automatically tallied.  No more pads of paper with rows of 10 frames, and broken pencils, and erasing and scratch out and scratch in.  Done and done. Relax and just play and let us keep track of your gutter balls.

There's suppose to be two ghosts here.  One is a little girl who wants to play ball, and the other is a teen-aged boy who drops dimes everywhere, because his mom use to work here when he died tragically.   Hence, at cash out time, the front desk & servers always find dimes on the floors and stairs.

So far I have found nothing, except the realization of silence and how the future looks bleak without Bill or Edward at the lanes, because without them there are no dimes.  We need to change our hours of operation.

Sometimes I wonder how my mind thinks and scrambles such a load - it gets tangled in thought, the moneymaker and paranormal and triangular space ships and Hummers and bounced cheques, the blind (the possibility of) dead drunk daughter, camp, family, teenager son and his "L", dead cats (here and then), ten pin alleys, laundry, frozen fries, fresh breasts, instant rice, Sriracha hot chili sauce and now Bill.  My mind is a Rubick's cube - an absolute wreck.

Until I finally chose the train I want to be on.

This is who we are : This is what we live for

Let's not forget "GO WHITECAPS GO!!!"

One SCARY song

My kids call this the "scary song". What do they know, right, it's XTC! I make sure it's always on every CD we burn, it comes camping, boating, late night fire pits and marshmallows. MOM! SKIP THIS SONG.

One FUNKY song

Factual Pulp Fiction

I hate when Sabrina goes out with that girl.

Why is she like this.........she has been treated like a princess since birth, a spoiled, pampered little girl, yet there are thousands of little girls just like her who don't become "lazy, partying, drunks".  The obvious answers are 'who she hangs with'.   There are some special circumstances,  however,  that explains her behavior, with her visual impairment and loss of sight.   We were warned by child psychologists of future episodes of retaliation and depression because blind kids cannot drive and eventually they build up a persona of undesirability.

Prognosis:  Suicide is a probability.

We pick her up at 4:00am, because the sky train doesn't run now. We pick her up because she's screaming and crying and says she's hurt.   She argues and swears and screams "COME GET ME NOW". It's not the  first time we've received this call in the dead of night.  It occurs frequently.   Sometimes the police pick her up and she's taken to 'drunk tank'.  Sometimes they bring her directly home.

And then when she arrives, we lay in bed awake all night because she's hungry and she has decided to cook bacon and eggs, or sandwich or Kimchee noodles, and there's a mess of mayonnaise and maple syrup on three flights of stairs and milk spills, and the fire alarm sounds and bacon is burning.

She runs a bath and I hear her snore and will certainly drown.  I shyly peek into the bathroom to check and she's dead calm, legs spread eagle with mascara smudges smearing down her eyes.  Her body isn't like mine, not a template of me.  She is much different.  It is obvious she has had a brazilian wax job, her tits are perkier.  I boast to myself I was in much better shape than you are at your age.

Of course tomorrow, when she's sober, she will have forgotten everything.   She'll cover herself quickly in towel if I walk into her room while she's dressing, cover her breasts and demand privacy.  I keep my mouth shut.  No use going there.

I open the drain to allow the water to escape in the hopes the chill of the air will awaken her -- and it does -- to some extent..  She rises and I blanket her in towel.  Then I stand by and watch as she falls asleep then that girl calls.

Astonished!

There are a lot of people who walk in and out of my life.

 There are my personal ones, the brief acquaintances of a friend of a friend of a friend, shopping, boating, gambling, camping and work.  Sometimes, by the quirkiness of coincidence, we know each other - we connect and recognize each other by threads of historical events and parties and weddings and funerals and graduations and births and so on and so on.

Usually, we all take our recognition of each other in stride.    It doesn't seem to matter anymore that our little village is now a large populous one.

There is a gentleman who comes to bowl on Tuesday afternoons,   I think he's a member of the regular league who come to bowl once a week.   He has the nicest smile, it projects a warmth of contentment and happiness.    He's always dressed smartly, jeans and a collared golf shirt.   He's well groomed and his eyes sparkle as he says "HI" to me.   I think he has a crush on me.

I'm punching in, the alleys are smashing down pins, the front desk staff have once again turned the music system on too loud and the kitchen aroma of the grill now wafts towards me.   This is what I encounter each and every day when I arrive at work.    Except on Tuesdays, when well-groomed, smiley faced gentleman is there.

I probably wouldn't have paid attention to him - until I retained my recognition of people at the bowling alley.       Hundreds of people come and go and I feel no connection to them whatsoever, except for Tuesdays.

Last week I arrived to work as usual to the smell of hamburgers and onions on a brioche bun and the knock down of pins and loud music, and my gentleman.   Except this time he was being escorted back to his bowling lane by a special needs counselor.   He was smiling at me, like he usually does upon my arrival at work.   I watched as he rejoined his group at the lanes.

There are a lot of people who walk in and out of my life, but so few who astonish me.

You know you're a Redneck 80's Office Employee when ....

You know you're a redneck 80's office employee when you had to make space on your desk for a box as large as your television set at home, with cables dangling between your legs, and it had connotations it will replace you eventually within the near future, so be prepared to say goodbye to your pension plan and any security of home ownership, livelihood, existence.

The robots were coming and everything was going to be run by computers.   And then they would say, "but the computers need to be operated by humans - so no one is losing their jobs".  And we all believed them.

In a lot of ways the computer industry created a ton of jobs, but not for those of us who were already in our 20's working in the 80's.

MTV and music videos, for example, didn't appear on television until 1981, with the first music video shown, "Video Killed the Radio Star" and the second by Pat Benatar "You Better Run".  I am a fan of neither.

I am a fan of pre-MTV video music, which are now presented in a 'one frame pictorial' of an album cover in YouTube, or you can choose the "live" version of said band and song, albeit 30 years later, which seems sort of depressing because the band is all old and fat and they have grey hair and they're old and fat.

And they use to say, "you'll never grow old".  And we all believed them.

This is just a generalization - some bands have remarkably renewed themselves, for example, The Rolling Stones appearing this summer with their new "50 & Counting" North American Tour. I must say, Mick's not fat, but he's not the prettiest girl at the dance either.



I am a big fan of Chilliwack - from years gone back, yet I still love their music. There are few images of them in the olden days, and not much posted on YouTube - after all, they were who they were pre-computers, pre-Windows, pre-FB, pre-iPhones .... following are links to songs I enjoyed in my youth, and of course, in my extended youth.

Norman Bates - Welcome Home, you son of a bitch!

From Wikipedia:
Bates Motel is an American drama television series developed for television.  The series, being a "contemporary prequel" to the 1960 film Psycho, depicts the life of Norman Bates and his mother Norma prior to the events portrayed in Hitchcock's film, albeit in a different fictional town ("White Pine Bay, Oregon," as opposed to the film's "Fairvale, California") and in a modern, 21st-century setting. The series begins after the death of Norma's husband, when she purchases a motel located in a coastal Oregon town so she and Norman can start a new life.

The series was filmed in Aldergrove, British Columbia **not far from my homestead in Surrey, straight down Hwy #1**  and premiered on March 18, 2013.  A&E chose to skip a pilot of the series, opting to go straight-to-series by ordering a 10-episode first season.

On April 8, 2013, A&E renewed Bates Motel for a second season, following positive reviews and strong ratings. It is set to air in 2014 and filming will began in the summer of 2013.

Love this show. Strange.  Love Vera Farmiga.

 And for your musical pleasure, a perfect pairing:

Rolling Stones will never, ever gather moss....

My history with the Rolling Stones, and that of my husband's, is too vast and complicated and bizarre. It's a story that almost sounds like folklore, a fairly tale, which is only just being talked about now between the generations, at camp under nightfall and crackling fire. It is all true, however. Every single fucking word. We were that close, as his spittle sprayed to the front row. We were there.

Time for a hair cut ....

Summer approaches, I don't want to deal with my head! But if I ever see a hairdresser pull out one of those damned razor things, in my opinion, the lazy hair cut, I'll scream bloody murder! Insist on good old fashioned scissors. Layering my thick hair creates curls - unruly curls. Maybe I'll go with bangs this time.

Jann Arden - I Would die For You

Twitter: the place where you don't have to know how to spell gooder

I just started using Twitter ... come follow me for my one sentenced ramblings, because that's all they allow on one posting. And because everyone using Twitter are movie stars and famous people, so I thought I'd pretend I was one, too. Hopefully someone will stupidly ask me for my autograph.

https://twitter.com/colleencanuck

The Band - The Night they drove Old Dixie Down

Elton John and lyricist Bernie Taupin wrote the song "Levon" for Helm. Both Elton John and Taupin cited that they were inspired by Levon Helm, Bernie saying so in various interviews on how they would "go down to their favourite record stores to buy The Band's records" along with Elton.

From Wikipedia:
Mark Lavon "Levon" Helm (May 26, 1940 – April 19, 2012) was an American rock musician and actor who achieved fame as the drummer and frequent lead and backing vocalist for The Band. Helm was known for his deeply soulful, country-accented voice, multi-instrumental ability, and creative drumming style highlighted on many of the Band's recordings, such as "The Weight", "Up on Cripple Creek", and "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down". He also had a successful career as an actor, appearing in such films as Coal Miner's Daughter and The Right Stuff. In 1998, Helm was diagnosed with throat cancer, which caused him to lose his singing voice. After undergoing treatment for the disease, his cancer eventually went into remission, which allowed him to gradually regain use of his voice. His 2007 comeback album Dirt Farmer earned the Grammy Award for Best Traditional Folk Album in February 2008, and in November of that year, Rolling Stone magazine ranked him No. 91 in the list of The 100 Greatest Singers of All Time. In 2010, Electric Dirt, his 2009 follow-up to Dirt Farmer, won the first Grammy Award for Best Americana Album, a category inaugurated in 2010.  In 2011, his live album Ramble at the Ryman was nominated for the Grammy in the same category and won.  On April 17, 2012, his wife and daughter announced on Helm's website that he was "in the final stages of his battle with cancer" and thanked fans while requesting prayers. Two days later, Helm died at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center in New York City.

Following is Elton John - singing Levon, which I believe to be one of his best songs ever written.

I am the most fabulous person in the world - I don't need 1 million Twitter followers to prove it!

Daughter went out tonight - so begins the worry,  because she's leaving with the one we absolutely detest, the drunken, "let's party" always on her mind, no good for nothing, crack head friend, cell phone, expensive clothing, bank card withdrawal, thief!   Since daughter is visually impaired, crack head friend knows her PIN on her ATM card, and while daughter gets good and shit-faced after two beers, the bank card heads out on secret journey, eventually returned to her purse in the dead hour.

But as parents, what do we know! We've got it all wrong. Sadly, daughter had TWO friends like this, until a few months ago, when Leeanne entered recovery.
Her facebook says things like: "so mad that the programming is changing so much here. recovery is supposed to be about coping, and stability, not about dysfunctional bs because you're so lonely, doesnt mean you should make us lonely, dont worry i seeee you"
or things like: "Be the change that you want to see in the world - Ghandi"

Here's a recent picture of the new Leeanne, at a blanketing ceremony at young wolves lodge



Here's a picture of the girls together.

Bravo to Leeanne - she looks so much healthier, stronger, happier.  I hope she keeps it up, perhaps the girls will start thinking about other activities, like:

I had to give up my own addiction - since I work now - loved playing Facebook games, especially Hidden Chronicles.  I think I had the most fabulous estate going....

Before I got my new job, I came across an advert, listing the requirements of the job, education, experience, etc.  They also asked for a photo of yourself and salary expectations.  I sent them this, along with a request for night shift work only.

Some people change, others cannot.  I think I'll always be cynical, judgmental, satirical, hysterical and comical.  But mostly, I'll always be brave in thought and tongue and will never lose hope and belief in myself, and others.

Peacock Video

https://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=283546625111582

Here's a video of one of the many peacocks that live in the wild surrounding my neighborhood.  There are several - note the birds on verandas, fences, etc in this video, if you can keep your eyes of his beautiful plumage.

The Great Gig in the Sky

As far as I remember before, our link to a commonality of self, inner belief, life.  One song.  One record.  The depth, the rumors, the tabloids, Rolling Stone, other famous bands, fans, groupies, Time.

We were there.  We lived it.  Live, in person.  And nothing in this world can take that away from us, not even the Wizard of Oz.  The prism, so much like the triangular space ships now focusing on Earth.  To this day we believe Pink Floyd are aliens, surely they must be!  The music is too fantastic, we can't hear all at once.  It comes in pieces, a million times, and it's only our brains that accept the speed in which we accept the reality of it all, the perfection of perfect.

We had two tickets to concert, but I could not go.  Panic surrounded me because the triangular ships had come the week before.  It would take months before I could step outside beneath the prism sky.

Thankfully, buddy Steven had chopped off the tip of his thumb at a lumber yard accident 3 months earlier, which resulted with a hefty $8,000 sorry pay cheque from Worker's Compensation, which was used for a limo hire and all the booze they could drink.  A fun time was had by all, so I heard.

I eventually returned to work, reducing my Xanax intake to caffeine and faded memories of fear.  One song remains, however, the one I listen to whether I want to or not, the album still plays between breaths and sudden disruption of sleep and the unusual objects in the sky.  They are warning me........

Light speed has since passed.

To better understand, I have provided a link to the entire Dark Side of the Moon album, so you can make up your own minds.  And maybe one day, you'll be privileged & awakened to see them, too.

Dig Deep Clams - a Chip Oddity

I submitted a few taste sensations for Lay's Potato Chips contest - invent a new flavor, no problem!  After all, it was Canadians who created Ketchup and Dill flavored chips !  It's true, look it up.

Open until April 15, create new flavors (up to three ingredients) - and four finalists will be selected to win $5,000.00, and if your flavor is the new hit wonder, you'll receive $50k and 1% of future sales.  

America just completed their first phase of finalists, with Cheesy Garlic Bread, Chicken and Waffles, and Sriracha being the top winners.

Easy-peasy ... honestly, Sriracha!  That stuff is so predominant here in Canada, it's everywhere, a frickin' condiment - you have to ask for it to be left OFF the dish!  But, what's with Chicken & Waffles - it's a confusion of breakfast and dinner - I just don't get it.  Does explain the obesity problem though.

Here's what we Canuckle-heads yearn to titillate our mouth buds with:

Cranberries and Horseradish

Honeycomb and Beef Jerky

Truffle and Parmesan cheese

Wasabi & ginger root

ALL SERVED WITH POUTINE and a 1-800 number to ban seal hunting.

....and my favorite:  Geoduck & Garlic, aka Dig Deep Clams

*plagiarism starts*
Pronounced "gooey-duck", the name comes from the Nisqually Indian "gwe-duk" meaning "dig-deep"
Geoduck clams are found throughout coastal British Columbia in each of the management areas from the intertidal zone to depths of at least 110 metres. The clams begin to burrow into the substrate within 40 to 50 days of birth, and they can bury to a depth of 60 cm in two years. Few predators can reach them once they are successful in achieving this depth. A geoduck grows rapidly for the first 10 to 15 years. By that time, it has grown so large that its shell cannot close around it. Recruitment to the fishery begins at age four and by age 12, geoducks are fully vulnerable to harvest. They are harvested individually by divers using a directed water jet called a "stinger" which loosens the substrate around the clams and allows them to be lifted out. Commercial geoduck harvesters can tell where the clams are buried by their "shows" (the visible exposed tip of a siphon or dimple left in the sand from a retracted siphon), and divers are expert "show readers" whether by sight when the weather is good or by feel in zero visibility conditions.
*plagiarism ends*

The Last Peacock

This is so strange,  living in Canada, one would assume only Canadian Geese.

 However,  simply put,  Western Canada is very mild and we rarely receive snow.   Unlike, all those northern "well known" states that seem to be shut down by a winter's breath.   In British Columbia, we ski,  snowboard,  swim, sunbathe,  dance and be merry all year long.   Just as long as we have an umbrella in our hippie backpack that has a slight aroma of skunk.   *wink wink*

 But with warmer climates,  comes development,  and we are being developed over and over again.   Not from the inside out,  but from the outside in.   What remains are little pockets of "last hold outs" a few acres here and there,  farms,  old growth trees that can no longer be protected by legislature,  yet are standing tall because of a few folks who smell like skunk.

So it remains.   A peacock farm,  and a cockle of peas,  feathers and all,  abandoning their habitat to cat food,  and hummingbird troughs,  and artisan rock walls,  stoops and decks and RV shadows,  neighborhoods of similarly built houses,  row upon row,  street upon street, less trees upon lesser.

Here is a video clipping of one of the males, feathers fully opened.
https://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=283546625111582

Freaks and Geeks...........

I wouldn't have it any other way.  So proud of you son.  Despite the hairdo.  It's cool to be smart.

Colonel Mustard with a Lead Pipe in the Ball Room.... or a bunch of nails!

We have had problems with our plumbing since last summer. 

Most urgently, our kitchen sink plugging up suddenly with toilet sewage. Toilet paper floating among an afterthought of lazy dish washing from the night before.  

RULES:
Upstairs, do not flush, do not shower, do not brush your teeth.  Go to second floor.  Poop there, but you can pee upstairs.   Do not use mom and dad's shower or toilet, sink OK.  Kid's toilet, shower and toilet good, no sink.  

Kitchen sink bubbles up shit.  Dining room floods from the hole now forming in the ceiling.   Stained yellow. Plumbers, all expert, all stupid.  Fucking crooks.  Just need flushing.  $400.00 

A few abandon the estimate.   Some do not return phone calls.

2 months later, do not poop upstairs, no kitchen.  One shower.  Four people.  Kill.  Paper plates, towels soaked and destroyed.  Elbow joints, tee joints, flanges, silicon, Liquid sauce, grains, snakes, and trains. 

Ceiling removal.  Fucking popcorn fucking ceiling.  No!  $389.  $275.  This and that.  Cameras. $800.00

Nails!  Just like the ones that flatten our tires.  Nails!  Instead of strapping the plumbing pipes into place, they were screwed in, or nailed into place.  Lazy construction.  Poor workmanship.  Uncaring.  Bullshit we now have to contend  with.   Live with.

Toilet paper snowballs onto the nails, like hooks, building and building a pyramid of clog.  Shit.  Backed up sinks, toilets.  Bank accounts.  Buyer Beware!

How to Survive Bus Transit in Surrey, B.C.

When the door opens there's an instant smell of misery.

Foreboding eyes warn quickly, then release to the mist forming skin on the windows.

You cannot see from the outside world, how we are packed in an orderly fashion, row upon row:    some sitting - some standing with arms reaching to the sky as if pleading to God, send us 5 more commandments.

But they are merely holding on for dear life, because the driver on shift today hates his job and hates the scum of the earth he has to contend with.  He hates the smell of whiskey and being short changed and having to make schedule deadlines .... and yellow lights.  So he brakes hard, dead stop, as two passengers drop to the ground, knees buckling against baby strollers and wheelchairs amassing flags of Green Peace and Save Tibet.

He is haggard, the interior even worse.  It reminds him of years of abuse, battered fist fights, blood and guts, disorderly conduct, puke and piss.  And that was only half of the clients I traveled with in the 20 minute long ride to Newton Exchange, where I now have to to transfer to the most notorious route of all, Surrey Central #321.

It is not unusual to have strangers fall asleep on your shoulder, nor converse with you and you and the other you, or have empty beer cans roll between your feet, rattling from seat to seat - Surrey pre-trial clients boasting how they only received 6 months probation and no jail time, custody battles, hard luck stories all accentuated with being wrongly accused and cheap perfume.

The majority clearly have no dental plan, or deodorant, but proclaim a scholarly genius of all worldly woes.

I keep my eyes peeled to the skin on the window - no contact.  Contact would open up another story.

Thou shalt give up your seat for the pregnant and elderly.
Thou shalt give up your seat for the pregnant and elderly.

Thou shalt gi.........................