A Sis Stance

For this genesis, leading into the analysis of my currently revolving all encompassing universal synthesis, borne by way of escaping cognitive paralysis, in due time leading to my all encompassing psychological homeostasis, all the while occasionally emitting halitosis, simultaneously keeping in check any advanced state of neurosis, leading to my current observational aura of philosophical hypothesis, of which highly and appreciatively deviates wholesale from the massed societal psychosis brought forth by the establishment’s trichinosis of a raw and unpalatable swinish hypnosis generationally advancing the mind-rape and accompanying abortive synaptic agenesis of a fully developed, appendage matured societal body of noegenesis.

That meant that I am going to tell you some stories. From my accumulated simulation. They actually happened, and have taken me to where I am going to eventually terminate, until a new beginning ends it – or is it a new ending beginning it? Well, perhaps I was just led to believe so, in my self-programming to escape their programming. On second thoughts, I stopped following, so could I have been led? Toucan Sam followed his nose and ended up in a diabetic stupor. Perhaps all the senses including extrasensory need be exercised? Either way, prepare to be something or other.

The Sam-Shank Redemption

Those damn hate-crimes. If objective reasoning be formative construct, perhaps the truth of it would determine that those who commit them, or mastermind them – crimes that is, in a substantive manner, outstripping the petty utterances of unnecessary political decrees, do so truly hate, in untranscended ignorance, themselves.

I was once the victim of a hate crime. Way back in grade two. Seven years old, imagine that. Like I said before – the perpetrators; fuelled by self hate, acting out in uncontrolled ignorance. I remember it like it was, well, decades ago, but an engrained memory of significant life importance. A dish best served cold.

The math test was over and done with. We were called up to the teachers desk to retrieve our graded papers for self assessment and self improvement if necessary. I went up to Sam and asked him how he had done on his test. Sam did not seem too pleased with the question and stormed off angry and red faced. In retrospect, Sam was most likely white trash from inception. That is a thing you know. His haircut gave it away.

Carrying on. After sam, boiled blood and all, stormed off in loathing self-shame, I remember returning to my desk and seeing Sam enthusiastically sharpening what must have been an HB 2 pencil at the bookshelf mounted classroom pencil sharpener.

That coward Sam could not even attack me from the front, or act with dignity and challenge me to a playground duel. Sam had to sneak up from behind and pre meditatively shank me in my right side trapezius muscle. Needless to say, I wailed like a seven year old who had just been stabbed in the back.

I remember the teacher screaming at Sam and then coming over in an attempt to console my incessant bawling, to eventually remove me from the classroom and take me to the boys bathroom. Now there I was, alone in the bathroom with Madame Oiseaux, on her knees, with my crying eyes and accompanying face buried in her pressed, sweater clad bosom. Surely such a wonderful position was responsible for calming me so. Not only did Madame Oiseaux’s breasts make an imprint on my immediate face, but so on my impressionable mind, as I still remember it being exhilarating to have a pretty woman’s boobs in extreme proximity to my face. And, pretty, Madame Oiseaux truly was. In extrapolative hindsight, my guess would be in her mid to late twenties, and with brown hair, eyes, and sporting rimmed spectacles. And French to boot. Dear Penthouse!

Motorboating Merit Badge

As for Sam. A dish best served cold. Biding my time, I most certainly did. Later on in the year our class went on a field trip that culminated in the class going to the beach and being made to take our shoes and socks off in order to go and play in the sand. Madame Oiseaux, gotta love her, opportunity she did create, to be taken advantage of, by me, so I did, in glorious fashion. As the class played off yonder, I dug a nice little hole, a hole that could rightly conceal backstabbing Sam’s little pair of black velcro shoes with a happy face on the soles, white trash foot cushioning devices. You know, the one’s that I made sure to notice he was wearing after hearing Madame Oiseaux tell us that we have to remove our shoes before playing.

So Sam’s shoes laid, covered in a sandy grave, in perpetuity until it no longer mattered, of which, was by the time that the class was made to get back on the bus in order to go back to school and finish off the day. And so the wheels on the bus went round and round, as little backstabbing Sam caterwauled endlessly, worse than having being snuck up upon then having an HB 2 involuntarily planted in his trapezius muscle. As for Madame Oiseaux, I am guessing she knew exactly what had happened to that coward Sam’s shoes. There were no boobs of comfort for Sam’s tears.

As for Sam, one could only guess where he ended up in self loathing terminal statistical placement. A hater of the “rich,” maybe a card carrying member of the closeted communist New Democratic Party, or possibly a welfare recipient living “free,” who peddles drugs as a side hustle to get back at the self-victim that was never able to escape his own one dimensional mind?

No names were changed in this story to conceal the identity of the pathetic backstabbing coward, nor the awesomeness of my grade 2 teacher Madame Oiseaux, boobs and all. Hubba Hubba!

Shaken Stirred and On the Rocks

Memories of a misspent youth. Were talking really misspent! Yeah, I have a few. Homelessness and drugs, been there, done those. And at 14 years of age. Being homeless in the wintertime in the interior of British Columbia. It will make you hard, possibly a nineteen ninety something and froze to death kind of hard.

That night it had to have been at least minus ten degrees celsius (14ºF) without the windchill factor. Good thing one of the older guys from the hood occasionally left his uninsured 1983 Plymouth Horizon unlocked out front of the apartment, of which was used to do bong rips when his mom was not around. Gravity bong rips to be exact – an empty two-six of Canadian Club whiskey with a quarter inch hole drilled at the bottom, contained within a brown 2 litre juice jug filled with water.

Gravity Bong

I figured that I would head there to get out of the wind and spend the night, and to smoke the nugget of marijuana that I had ashamedly been in possession of without the necessary Zig Zag rolling paper needed to smoke it. Geez was it ever cold outside, and inside too. That Plymouth Horizon Windbreak of needed respite sure was refreshing in a non-refreshing matter of blackness.

For those not in need of the basic scientific refresher of water freezing at 0º celsius, surely one must understand that at -10ºC, water, even in a bong form is going to be unshakeably frozen solid, rendering the necessary fluidity of accompanying gravitational water and air displacement function need in order to perform even a minuscule bong-rip, let alone the mind altering, lung-busting doozies I had planned on my fantastic voyage of desperation to my imagined event Horizon, highly unattainable. How depressing it was. Say, did I mention it was cold!?

Really, all one can do is unzip one’s jacket, bring one’s knees to one’s chest, zip one’s legs into one’s jacket, pull one’s arms from the sleeves and insert hands into armpits and nod in and out of an exhausted consciousness, thinking this may be it, or hopefully just a bad dream. And then morning came. Time to bedraggle myself down to the school that I was supposed to be attending, mooch a few cigarette’s and Zig Zag rolling papers, then wonder what to do while all my acquaintances attended their daily regime of cultural indoctrination. CR was a ghost, they all told me so. Time to carry on with the haunt.

1983 Plymouth Horizon

So how about those waterslides? A wintertime retreat! Crazy, I know. The trick is, there has to be a tunnel incorporated into the slide. That is some good sleeping, the tunnel keeps the snow and wind off, mostly.  When that Plymouth Horizon is off limits anyways. And a good place to store one’s bag of clothes in the daytime, worry free. Call it a fence-hop retreat once that sun goes down.

What doesn’t kill you…By the time I was twenty one I was officially self employed and had my own business number. Life, it is all about the choices one makes, and the consequences or rewards thereof. Victimhood, it only lives in one’s own mind, and the anomalous societal projection thereafter. Too bad these days it is societally endorsed through an atrocious framework of systemic disgracism.

Once one escapes the mire, the thing about gaining skills, working hard, saving money, becoming self sufficient and living through uplifting positive life advancing scenarios is that they lead to further overall psyche building adventures of reassuring reinforcement. Culture is rightly a manifestation of coming to a greater sense of universal consciousness. Travelling to take it in goes leaps and bounds in escaping normative comfort zone confines.

Viet Vino

Vietnam. Many years ago I had a chance to take a vacation there. An old acquaintance that I befriended at my production line cabinetry job was given the opportunity to invest in a local business catering to Vietnamese tourists in the hometown of one of the Vietnamese guys who worked on the production line. It was about 5 hours outside Ho Chi Minh City, and my friend was already there when I arrived in Ho Chi Minh City.

Most of those in the small town could not speak any English other than a few people that knew some basic novelty words. So the friend of my friends friend had to explain to the hotel owner I had gone to as to where this place was, and to arrange a means to get there. I gave the prearranged amount of money to the hotel owner and a short while later, a minivan came to pick me up and drove me out to the country for a couple of hours, then dropped me off at another waiting car that proceeded to drive me further out into the country, passing endless pastures, rice paddies and occasional shanty houses. The second car stopped on the side of the road and motioned for me to get out, so I did. No English was needed. Then after wondering what the heck I had gotten myself into, as I stood for 20 minutes or so in what seemed, and surely was, to be the middle of nowhere, a man on a motorbike appeared from a narrow dirt road and motioned for me to get on. So I did.

Rice Paddy

Wouldn’t you know it, 25 minutes or so later there appeared a small town, where, to a house on a property I was taken. There was the friend of my friends friend, though I did not know it at the time; he was welding some metal on the driveway. Then appear, my friend did. Surely a surreal and welcome sight in a foreign land. Turns out he had invested in an in-country getaway locale complete with hotel on a natural lagoon with a small, natural waterfall, accompanying outdoor covered bar, with other future endeavours under plans. Heineken? Yes please.

As it turns out, one of the local’s daughters was having her wedding party when I was there, and we were invited. A good time by all, the drinks were flowing, Heineken galore. Vietnamese “wine” too. All the locals were enamoured with having a couple of foreigners to hang out with, language barrier and all. They sure loved offering shots of “wine” to me, I think it was their mischievous game. My friend warned me about that shit – he had been there before. I chose not to listen, I would play their game – Cheers! That shit could peel paint. “Wine” it most definitely was not.

Then they tried to get me to dance to Hotel California by The Eagles. Trust me, I can’t dance even while sober. Am not sure what I was doing, but it was definitely not dancing. Many of them were recording it on their phones. I may have become village idiot lore for posterity to this day. I hope that video was not archived! Though I would get my revenge. After a few more “wine” offerings on their behalf – Cheers!

Time to go inside and grab another beer. Then it hit me, the “wine” that is. Trust me, I can hold my liquor under the worst of circumstances, but that Vietnamese “wine” snuck up on me like a tornado inside a hurricane violently penetrating a brimming magma bubbling volcano. How is that for some imagery? After a mad dash for the bathroom, of which I was not even able to fully close the accordion door, projectile eruption commenced. I think I managed to putrefy every flat surface of that bathroom, and possibly the ceiling too.

After doing so, I began to understand why many of the bathrooms are tiled on all four walls, including the floor, of which also has an open floor drain for ease of cleaning. In my drunken state, after exiting the bathroom, in order to explain the situation I had just unleashed, I played charades with a couple of the women to clarify and attempt to summon a mop so as to clean up after myself. Though no doubt the audible accompaniment and desperate dash on my behalf had not done any wonders in concealing the going ons of my coming outs. Trust me, they had been in this situation before, and the lack of a common language was not needed to convey the apology and acceptance of the situation.

That was the first and last time I have and ever will drink Vietnamese “wine.”