* CENTRALIA ABOVE IS SADLY SPELLED INCORRECTLY
JAY LEE + 2G + MIJ
- Asian Jogging Lady (training to kill)
- The Shuffler (placekicking dreams)
- The Indigenous Man
- Grandpa (My age)
- Misunderstood Coyote
- Homeless walker.
GO
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
In fact: No names. Businesses. Places. Events. Locales. Incidents. Are mentioned anywhere in this work of fiction. The only work of non-fiction here is the Ongoing Statistics. |
Some people never grow. They will never be more than they can be.
Some people believe because they lucked into money—just because (timing), nothing more, they think they hold all the cards—they do—but they don’t because their idea of right and wrong is skewed by their inflated sense of self-worth and their belief they are better, chosen; not messed up.
But they are messed-up, trapped in the paranoia created by their good fortune + a need to hoard wealth.
Use. Use. Use. Use up. Spit out. Never look inward. Two. Six. Nine.
We’re all cut from the same cloth. Some of us want to give back + make a difference, rise from whence we came. Offer hope.
Others will never be anything more than the WHITE TRASH they are. Don’t let the illusion of their bank accounts fool you. Money is their addiction—and the root of their inevitable demise, leading to despair, separation, + the constant battle to hold onto the only thing that gives them...no point finishing the thought... they’re TRASH, nothing more.
Look inward. Be more. Be grateful for your capacity to grow!
Thoughts that entered the mind of someone reading the book White Trash.
Some people believe because they lucked into money—just because (timing), nothing more, they think they hold all the cards—they do—but they don’t because their idea of right and wrong is skewed by their inflated sense of self-worth and their belief they are better, chosen; not messed up.
But they are messed-up, trapped in the paranoia created by their good fortune + a need to hoard wealth.
Use. Use. Use. Use up. Spit out. Never look inward. Two. Six. Nine.
We’re all cut from the same cloth. Some of us want to give back + make a difference, rise from whence we came. Offer hope.
Others will never be anything more than the WHITE TRASH they are. Don’t let the illusion of their bank accounts fool you. Money is their addiction—and the root of their inevitable demise, leading to despair, separation, + the constant battle to hold onto the only thing that gives them...no point finishing the thought... they’re TRASH, nothing more.
Look inward. Be more. Be grateful for your capacity to grow!
Thoughts that entered the mind of someone reading the book White Trash.
- Finished Reading: White Trash - Nancy Isenberg
- Currently Reading - The Plague - Albert Camus
- TOTALS: 833,339 STEPS ~ 396.02 MILES ~ 70.81 SEAWALL LAPS ~ 342 PUSH UPS ~ 898 ELEVATIONS
I come to two doors. Damn it, which one shall I pick?
I select the door on the right. It’s jammed tight. I need to get through it—my future depends on in—my next chapter is on the other side.
I have done nothing to deserve where I am. I always do my best. It has been instilled in me through the deceptions of life. I don’t lie. I hate liars. I also hate the word hate--but I do find it cleansing, useful. It allows us to wash away the forces which perpetuate it, the forces holding us back. And then move on.
I back up and run at the door at full speed. I barely budge it.
I must find strength. It’s been almost a year since hold, was pressed on my life. In the state of the world today, opportunities are few—non-existent if your life odometer has rolled over certain numbers—numbers in youth you’d never imagine reaching.
I’m still a child, I believe persistence will pay off. I must bust the door open. Next is on the other side.
In the meantime, I move, move, move. The blubber started melting off me. My fitness has returned to that of my youth. Svelte, maybe not, but something similar is here. I’m not sure many would want to see me shirtless. Fortunately, I have a stockpile of shirts.
Clothes from years, sometimes decades ago, are fitting once more.
Are they in style?
No (?), but with the wisdom of age, fitting is all that matters.
Intermittent fasting is all the rage. I’m doing it naturally. When the door slammed shut many moons ago, consequences were delivered to my new reality. Abundance was replaced by--
I’m down to one meal per day. Strangely, I’m not hungry.
One day, the door will open, in the meantime (squared), I will blast out query after query, proposal after proposal, never giving up, because I know I hold onto something that will resonate with many. Maybe not you—that will be your loss.
I know what I share belongs to more than me. I’m kind, caring, relentless.
In the meantime (cubed), I write and walk and run and write and walk and run. Because I’m going to continue doing so no matter what (regardless of circumstances), I must turn my movement into something positive: raising money for THE BC CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL FOUNDATION!
In the meantime (quad), what are you going to do: keep slamming the door shut?
I select the door on the right. It’s jammed tight. I need to get through it—my future depends on in—my next chapter is on the other side.
I have done nothing to deserve where I am. I always do my best. It has been instilled in me through the deceptions of life. I don’t lie. I hate liars. I also hate the word hate--but I do find it cleansing, useful. It allows us to wash away the forces which perpetuate it, the forces holding us back. And then move on.
I back up and run at the door at full speed. I barely budge it.
I must find strength. It’s been almost a year since hold, was pressed on my life. In the state of the world today, opportunities are few—non-existent if your life odometer has rolled over certain numbers—numbers in youth you’d never imagine reaching.
I’m still a child, I believe persistence will pay off. I must bust the door open. Next is on the other side.
In the meantime, I move, move, move. The blubber started melting off me. My fitness has returned to that of my youth. Svelte, maybe not, but something similar is here. I’m not sure many would want to see me shirtless. Fortunately, I have a stockpile of shirts.
Clothes from years, sometimes decades ago, are fitting once more.
Are they in style?
No (?), but with the wisdom of age, fitting is all that matters.
Intermittent fasting is all the rage. I’m doing it naturally. When the door slammed shut many moons ago, consequences were delivered to my new reality. Abundance was replaced by--
I’m down to one meal per day. Strangely, I’m not hungry.
One day, the door will open, in the meantime (squared), I will blast out query after query, proposal after proposal, never giving up, because I know I hold onto something that will resonate with many. Maybe not you—that will be your loss.
I know what I share belongs to more than me. I’m kind, caring, relentless.
In the meantime (cubed), I write and walk and run and write and walk and run. Because I’m going to continue doing so no matter what (regardless of circumstances), I must turn my movement into something positive: raising money for THE BC CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL FOUNDATION!
In the meantime (quad), what are you going to do: keep slamming the door shut?
- 922,314 STEPS
- 447.50 MILES
- 80.02 SEAWALL LAPS
- 630 PUSH UPS
- 1095 ELEVATIONS
I must apologize to many of my friends of the last, long-period of my life.
Why you ask?
I'm not intentionally ignoring you. Thanks for your messages. I will not answer them. I will avoid you, if I see you, on the street. I have removed you from SM. And I know, typing this is ridiculous because there is absolutely zero possibility of you reading this.
I know we played tennis together, travelled together, mourned together + more, and you, may be able to help me on the path to my future, but the thing is, I am not allowed to be your friend anymore.
Sorry.
Gotta run. I'm raising money for The BC Childrens Hospital Foundation.
Why you ask?
I'm not intentionally ignoring you. Thanks for your messages. I will not answer them. I will avoid you, if I see you, on the street. I have removed you from SM. And I know, typing this is ridiculous because there is absolutely zero possibility of you reading this.
I know we played tennis together, travelled together, mourned together + more, and you, may be able to help me on the path to my future, but the thing is, I am not allowed to be your friend anymore.
Sorry.
Gotta run. I'm raising money for The BC Childrens Hospital Foundation.
- PASSED: (8) PRINEVILLE OREGON (472.86 miles)
- NEXT STOP: (9) ADEL OREGON (651.81 miles)
- 1,001,258 STEPS
- 485.50 MILES
- 86.80 SEAWALL LAPS
- 693 PUSH UPS
- 1152 ELEVATIONS
Personal matters—yet to be resolved.
I could focus on the negative. A past full of lost friends. Friends who’d sell a friendship for a $ in less than a heartbeat. A group of people who’d do anything in their powers to tramp down anyone of what they’ve earned, deserved…respect.
But why bother?
They are who they are, and no matter the..., they’ve already lost.
They’ll throw away friendships. They’ll fight for their one-dimension, the only thing they understand, because that is who they are, and all they’ll ever be. It doesn’t matter who or what fed them what they crave—they don’t care. Especially…
So, I’ll focus on the positive. I move a lot. More than 1-million steps this year, thus far.
I write a lot. The equivalent of 4-books last year.
I read a lot. About one book per week.
But the most important thing I can do is take care of myself and try to give something back to make the world a better place.
In that spirit, a virtual walk to Palm Springs and back. Raising $$$s for a great cause: The BC Childrens Hospital Foundation.
In the meantime, other forces are attempting to trample my...
Why?
Just because.
I could focus on the negative. A past full of lost friends. Friends who’d sell a friendship for a $ in less than a heartbeat. A group of people who’d do anything in their powers to tramp down anyone of what they’ve earned, deserved…respect.
But why bother?
They are who they are, and no matter the..., they’ve already lost.
They’ll throw away friendships. They’ll fight for their one-dimension, the only thing they understand, because that is who they are, and all they’ll ever be. It doesn’t matter who or what fed them what they crave—they don’t care. Especially…
So, I’ll focus on the positive. I move a lot. More than 1-million steps this year, thus far.
I write a lot. The equivalent of 4-books last year.
I read a lot. About one book per week.
But the most important thing I can do is take care of myself and try to give something back to make the world a better place.
In that spirit, a virtual walk to Palm Springs and back. Raising $$$s for a great cause: The BC Childrens Hospital Foundation.
In the meantime, other forces are attempting to trample my...
Why?
Just because.
My schedule altered, out of my control.
What to do?
Move. Write. Create. Dream. Grow.
With movement comes fitness. With fitness comes health.
Turn negative to positive. Why lament over things the marginal cause (?)—there is no reason.
As for them?
Stay marginal—one dimensional. Eat. Stagnate. Health wanes. Pounds pack on.
As I get fit—they become lethargic, fat. It’s undeniable.
I’d rather be me.
I’m kind, not conniving.
I’m respectful, not devious.
I care more about humanity than I do about greed.
I’d rather be me.
What to do?
Move. Write. Create. Dream. Grow.
With movement comes fitness. With fitness comes health.
Turn negative to positive. Why lament over things the marginal cause (?)—there is no reason.
As for them?
Stay marginal—one dimensional. Eat. Stagnate. Health wanes. Pounds pack on.
As I get fit—they become lethargic, fat. It’s undeniable.
I’d rather be me.
I’m kind, not conniving.
I’m respectful, not devious.
I care more about humanity than I do about greed.
I’d rather be me.
- 548.17 MILES
- 1,131,225 STEPS
- 548.17 MILES
- 98.02 SEAWALL LAPS
- 630 PUSH UPS
- 1,241 ELEVATIONS
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Hey, Friends,
I’ve been doing a little research—before I get to it, Happy St. Valentine’s Day!
I hope cupid blasts a warm oozy hole in your heart!
For the two people I know who have birthday’s today: that must suck a little.
Anyway, the Saint died around 270 A.D. Well one of them did. There have been many St. Valentines. One of them lost his head, quite literally—guillotine. The official one we celebrate loved honey (patron Sainting it) as well as acting in the same capacity for epilepsy. Seriously. Or, I may have made that up. Weird.
As for me, I’m not too worried about the fluttering heart category of life. I’m good. Always will be. I had a sugary gummy the other day, it made my cat turn into a plush toy, and then kitty (Hana) lashed out—careful pet owners—they may be aliens.
What does the gummy have to do with fluttering hearts?
Nothing.
Back to me, I’m coming up on a potentially sad Anniversary.
Tomorrow?
What the hell, does that mean?
The anniversary, on March 12 (1), will be one year without an income. Ouch.
I know, harsh right. And this is year 61 for me, wow, the challenges ahead.
The scary thing is, one day the well will run dry, really, the fucking well. That will be a much greater ouch.
Am I worried?
Nah. My core is solid. I put in hours upon hours upon hours honing my craft.
It sucks that, the last substantial portion of one aspect of my life, doesn’t exist anymore—I’m not even allowed to lament about the suck-able (2) festering elements of life that played a role in the here and now and the erasing of times gone by all because--
You know, destiny is driving the bus. I will continue to be true to myself. I will not allow past trash to bring me down.
I can’t allow what never was to hold me back, nor can I think about it too much—I’m moving forward, walking/running a ton, 25,000+ steps per day (13+ miles).
What are you doing, getting fat?
Not everyone in general—a few I know, I’d say people, but that might be too generous?
As for the walking, I’m raising money for The BC Childrens Hospital Foundation.
Why?
Just because.
I want to get vaccinated, hopefully soon.
2021 is going to be a fabulous year—the past will eventually fade away—and much like someone who’s been jilted—once it finally drifts into the aether—I’ll be standing on top.
On top of...?
Well, yesterday, in wintery wonderland Vancouver, I ran up a snowy hill, slipping with every step, but with perseverance I made it, to the top.
To those who try to tramp others down—suck it!
Happy Valentine's Day!
I’ve been doing a little research—before I get to it, Happy St. Valentine’s Day!
I hope cupid blasts a warm oozy hole in your heart!
For the two people I know who have birthday’s today: that must suck a little.
Anyway, the Saint died around 270 A.D. Well one of them did. There have been many St. Valentines. One of them lost his head, quite literally—guillotine. The official one we celebrate loved honey (patron Sainting it) as well as acting in the same capacity for epilepsy. Seriously. Or, I may have made that up. Weird.
As for me, I’m not too worried about the fluttering heart category of life. I’m good. Always will be. I had a sugary gummy the other day, it made my cat turn into a plush toy, and then kitty (Hana) lashed out—careful pet owners—they may be aliens.
What does the gummy have to do with fluttering hearts?
Nothing.
Back to me, I’m coming up on a potentially sad Anniversary.
Tomorrow?
What the hell, does that mean?
The anniversary, on March 12 (1), will be one year without an income. Ouch.
I know, harsh right. And this is year 61 for me, wow, the challenges ahead.
The scary thing is, one day the well will run dry, really, the fucking well. That will be a much greater ouch.
Am I worried?
Nah. My core is solid. I put in hours upon hours upon hours honing my craft.
It sucks that, the last substantial portion of one aspect of my life, doesn’t exist anymore—I’m not even allowed to lament about the suck-able (2) festering elements of life that played a role in the here and now and the erasing of times gone by all because--
You know, destiny is driving the bus. I will continue to be true to myself. I will not allow past trash to bring me down.
I can’t allow what never was to hold me back, nor can I think about it too much—I’m moving forward, walking/running a ton, 25,000+ steps per day (13+ miles).
What are you doing, getting fat?
Not everyone in general—a few I know, I’d say people, but that might be too generous?
As for the walking, I’m raising money for The BC Childrens Hospital Foundation.
Why?
Just because.
I want to get vaccinated, hopefully soon.
2021 is going to be a fabulous year—the past will eventually fade away—and much like someone who’s been jilted—once it finally drifts into the aether—I’ll be standing on top.
On top of...?
Well, yesterday, in wintery wonderland Vancouver, I ran up a snowy hill, slipping with every step, but with perseverance I made it, to the top.
To those who try to tramp others down—suck it!
Happy Valentine's Day!
- Income gone (April 1, 2020).
- No words.
This OP-ED could be called why sports can be disgusting.
Last week, Team 1040 shut down in Vancouver—thrusting the “ON AIR” talent and a large roster of support workers out of work—livelihoods gone—opportunities limited.
I know how that feels.
It was an economic decision. A casualty of COVID-19.
Many people know how that feels.
Back in the days when I had a job, I listened on and off to the station. Not for sports information, but more so because I found several of the hosts to be friggen off-the-wall hilarious, rarely taking themselves or sports too seriously. Most of the “ON AIR” talent is comically gifted. Thanks to Halford and Brough, I learnt cows are female—shamefully growing up in Saskatchewan, I never knew that. One time I cracked up when one of these two tried to convince the audience South America is an island. The host was committed to being right—this made for delightful sports talk radio not being solely about sports.
At other times, the hosts were infuriating—only when my take was different than theirs—some guy named Cherry springs to mind—on this topic most of the hosts agreed with my take: time to go. A few did not.
Back to a roster of people losing their careers and having their lives thrown into uncertainty. Of course, the local sporting heroes chimed in. The team captain expressed shock, “It’s tough because they supported us for so many years and it’s obviously upsetting to see them shutting down.” Nice start. Go on. “We have such a passionate fan base, and a lot of people want to know what the Vancouver Canucks are up to. … “It’s going to be tough for a lot of fans and for the people working there not to share what’s going on around the rink.”
Wow, captain, where is the compassion and empathy for those who’ve lost their livelihoods? Seriously, where?
Help him out, coach.
“Obviously, it’s a difficult day for a lot of people over at TSN that cover our team, and you feel bad for them.” …he went on to say the change is a loss for the local sports fan, but he is confident in their resilience.
I’ll take it from here.
Hey, Team 1040,
I am saddened to see you gone from the airwaves. Thank you for the years of entertainment: funny, frustrating, informative—you helped ease my time on the road. I wish all of you the best in wherever life takes you next. I wish you and all your families the best in overcoming this shocking news and likely awful decision by Bell.
Correction: An awful decision by Bell.
It must certainly suck to have your life turned upside down, many of us know what that feels like.
And finally, thank you for letting us all know sports is really nothing more than entertainment—and without you providing the laughs—we’ll be forced to feel bad for athletes and coaches who believe life revolves only around them and have the audacity to worry about fans talking about them as opposed to the losses of the careers of those who help them (athletes + coaches) be who they are.
|Sarcasm Alert|
How will the captain + coach overcome knowing they won’t be talked about 24 hours per day? How? Are they going to be having sleepless nights worrying about who’s going to be talking about them?
Best of Luck
Last week, Team 1040 shut down in Vancouver—thrusting the “ON AIR” talent and a large roster of support workers out of work—livelihoods gone—opportunities limited.
I know how that feels.
It was an economic decision. A casualty of COVID-19.
Many people know how that feels.
Back in the days when I had a job, I listened on and off to the station. Not for sports information, but more so because I found several of the hosts to be friggen off-the-wall hilarious, rarely taking themselves or sports too seriously. Most of the “ON AIR” talent is comically gifted. Thanks to Halford and Brough, I learnt cows are female—shamefully growing up in Saskatchewan, I never knew that. One time I cracked up when one of these two tried to convince the audience South America is an island. The host was committed to being right—this made for delightful sports talk radio not being solely about sports.
At other times, the hosts were infuriating—only when my take was different than theirs—some guy named Cherry springs to mind—on this topic most of the hosts agreed with my take: time to go. A few did not.
Back to a roster of people losing their careers and having their lives thrown into uncertainty. Of course, the local sporting heroes chimed in. The team captain expressed shock, “It’s tough because they supported us for so many years and it’s obviously upsetting to see them shutting down.” Nice start. Go on. “We have such a passionate fan base, and a lot of people want to know what the Vancouver Canucks are up to. … “It’s going to be tough for a lot of fans and for the people working there not to share what’s going on around the rink.”
Wow, captain, where is the compassion and empathy for those who’ve lost their livelihoods? Seriously, where?
Help him out, coach.
“Obviously, it’s a difficult day for a lot of people over at TSN that cover our team, and you feel bad for them.” …he went on to say the change is a loss for the local sports fan, but he is confident in their resilience.
I’ll take it from here.
Hey, Team 1040,
I am saddened to see you gone from the airwaves. Thank you for the years of entertainment: funny, frustrating, informative—you helped ease my time on the road. I wish all of you the best in wherever life takes you next. I wish you and all your families the best in overcoming this shocking news and likely awful decision by Bell.
Correction: An awful decision by Bell.
It must certainly suck to have your life turned upside down, many of us know what that feels like.
And finally, thank you for letting us all know sports is really nothing more than entertainment—and without you providing the laughs—we’ll be forced to feel bad for athletes and coaches who believe life revolves only around them and have the audacity to worry about fans talking about them as opposed to the losses of the careers of those who help them (athletes + coaches) be who they are.
|Sarcasm Alert|
How will the captain + coach overcome knowing they won’t be talked about 24 hours per day? How? Are they going to be having sleepless nights worrying about who’s going to be talking about them?
Best of Luck
February 17
At 10:15 AM., I started walking + running. By day’s end, I travelled more than 38,000 steps (20.1 miles). My continual effort to fend off the depression of being in my sixties with my employment long gone; uncertainty banging on the door daily. I never thought I’d be trying to reinvent myself at this stage of life—especially during a pandemic.
My first stop of the day was The Gathering Place. I donated 5 or 6 pairs of jeans + a couple of sweatshirts, + a hat. Nothing much. Mostly new. A time had come to let them go. I hadn’t pulled them out of my closet for years. I liked the pants, but they had no longer or never fit me. Bye, bye clothes.
Next up, I stopped for an orange juice at the Waterfront Center’s, mostly empty, socially distanced food court, to read. The day’s read: Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World – David Antrim. “Delightfully dark.”
At 10:15 AM., I started walking + running. By day’s end, I travelled more than 38,000 steps (20.1 miles). My continual effort to fend off the depression of being in my sixties with my employment long gone; uncertainty banging on the door daily. I never thought I’d be trying to reinvent myself at this stage of life—especially during a pandemic.
My first stop of the day was The Gathering Place. I donated 5 or 6 pairs of jeans + a couple of sweatshirts, + a hat. Nothing much. Mostly new. A time had come to let them go. I hadn’t pulled them out of my closet for years. I liked the pants, but they had no longer or never fit me. Bye, bye clothes.
Next up, I stopped for an orange juice at the Waterfront Center’s, mostly empty, socially distanced food court, to read. The day’s read: Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World – David Antrim. “Delightfully dark.”
Correction: I stopped at Bread + Butter Café for a San Pellegrino + a Turkey on Cranberry Sourdough Sandwich. “Yum.” I was the only person in the café – so social distancing was a breeze.
After a few chapters and a satiated feeling, it was time to move; Canada Place, eleven laps, up and down the stairs, jogging in between the flights, or 60-year-old-man wind-sprints in between the flights. Next, it was on to the new convention center—up and down the flights of stairs (95-stairs) eleven times. Go. Go. Go.
I rounded the seawall at the Coal Harbour Community Center. At the top of a flight of eight stairs, I started hopping on down to continue to the seawall starting point of Stanley Park.
In the first step (see images), I caught the toe of my right foot.
After a few chapters and a satiated feeling, it was time to move; Canada Place, eleven laps, up and down the stairs, jogging in between the flights, or 60-year-old-man wind-sprints in between the flights. Next, it was on to the new convention center—up and down the flights of stairs (95-stairs) eleven times. Go. Go. Go.
I rounded the seawall at the Coal Harbour Community Center. At the top of a flight of eight stairs, I started hopping on down to continue to the seawall starting point of Stanley Park.
In the first step (see images), I caught the toe of my right foot.
I began to uncontrollably bound my way down the flight of stairs. I’m sure I became horizontal with the asphalt below me. My pace quickened. I was in trouble; my life flashed before my eyes. In the nano-second of my demise, thoughts raced through my mind:
I’m going to die.
This will suck for my emergency contacts
I am going to smash my head, shoulder, all of me, beyond violently into the concrete, be knocked out—this is it—so long life.
I’m going to drown if I go through the fencing.
Crap, I can’t swim.
I don’t think my sandwich is digested.
I’m serious.
At the last possible moment, I don’t know how, I managed to get my feet under me, regained my balance—heart racing—composure returning. I glanced to my right and gasped. A lady with a stroller was crouching down with her child. She glanced back at me and softly said, “I thought you were going to die.”
I continued and ran + walked to the seawall. Pausing occasionally to ponder:
How in the heck, did I, regain balance averting disaster?
Was it the last bought of 60-year-old athleticism?
I jogged some more. Pondered more.
I genuinely believe: Karma saved me on this day. I flashed back to the first part of my walk, The Gathering Place + pants.
Karma is a mysterious blessing. Could it be as simple as the pants?
I also honestly believe, Karma also sends us reminders: Sure, every small act of generosity scores Karma points, but at the same time, Karma tells us; one act of kindness is never enough, and if you don’t want to fall into an excruciating ending, compassion every day, is paramount!
I’m going to die.
This will suck for my emergency contacts
I am going to smash my head, shoulder, all of me, beyond violently into the concrete, be knocked out—this is it—so long life.
I’m going to drown if I go through the fencing.
Crap, I can’t swim.
I don’t think my sandwich is digested.
I’m serious.
At the last possible moment, I don’t know how, I managed to get my feet under me, regained my balance—heart racing—composure returning. I glanced to my right and gasped. A lady with a stroller was crouching down with her child. She glanced back at me and softly said, “I thought you were going to die.”
I continued and ran + walked to the seawall. Pausing occasionally to ponder:
How in the heck, did I, regain balance averting disaster?
Was it the last bought of 60-year-old athleticism?
I jogged some more. Pondered more.
I genuinely believe: Karma saved me on this day. I flashed back to the first part of my walk, The Gathering Place + pants.
Karma is a mysterious blessing. Could it be as simple as the pants?
I also honestly believe, Karma also sends us reminders: Sure, every small act of generosity scores Karma points, but at the same time, Karma tells us; one act of kindness is never enough, and if you don’t want to fall into an excruciating ending, compassion every day, is paramount!
February 18
After a lengthy stroll, coyote free jog, I sat down at a local watering hole with my friend Mayor Jim. A man I once told that I had sliced off a child’s face and was wearing it as mask (like the US Democrats).
Jim looked at my face when I made this bizarre statement and casually stated, “You could have done better.”
On this day, we were discussing the recent seawall closure. On the previous day, Jim said it was closed, I said it wasn’t—I had just completed my jaunt around the seawall.
The next day, I came to the place where Jim said it had been barricaded—and well-a—barricaded.
After a lengthy stroll, coyote free jog, I sat down at a local watering hole with my friend Mayor Jim. A man I once told that I had sliced off a child’s face and was wearing it as mask (like the US Democrats).
Jim looked at my face when I made this bizarre statement and casually stated, “You could have done better.”
On this day, we were discussing the recent seawall closure. On the previous day, Jim said it was closed, I said it wasn’t—I had just completed my jaunt around the seawall.
The next day, I came to the place where Jim said it had been barricaded—and well-a—barricaded.
It turns out, we were both right. CLOSED: 6:30 AM to 2:30 PM.
“Jim, what if the closure is a trick, perhaps the coyotes know a smart border collie, who taught them how to type and make signs? I think, the alternate routes are traps.”
“Jim, what if the closure is a trick, perhaps the coyotes know a smart border collie, who taught them how to type and make signs? I think, the alternate routes are traps.”
LATER THAT EVENING
The next time I see Jim, I’ll have waiting to fall off the tip of my tongue, “I told you so.”
Breaking down the story from this Multi-Talented Journalist (great for business cards).
The jogger was running with a small group.
He must have been at the back of the pack to be attacked.
For some reason, in the multi-faceted story, we find out the jogger is a triathlete. Relevance? Why was he at the back of the pack?
He challenged the coyote. He yelled at it. Mr. Coyote wasn’t afraid.
The jogger (triathlete) had to go to the hospital to get stitches.
With some investigative expertise, I found out our jogger (triathlete) is heroic and did precisely what you shouldn’t do in the presence of an angry coyote: RUN.
Breaking down the story from this Multi-Talented Journalist (great for business cards).
The jogger was running with a small group.
He must have been at the back of the pack to be attacked.
For some reason, in the multi-faceted story, we find out the jogger is a triathlete. Relevance? Why was he at the back of the pack?
He challenged the coyote. He yelled at it. Mr. Coyote wasn’t afraid.
The jogger (triathlete) had to go to the hospital to get stitches.
With some investigative expertise, I found out our jogger (triathlete) is heroic and did precisely what you shouldn’t do in the presence of an angry coyote: RUN.
And then the story takes a rich turn. Before I get to the gooey richness, the story says the group of runners were running at 7 PM.
Now for the richness. Jogger (triathlete) while being interviewed about his injuries said the following.
“I wouldn’t put it past them to move into the city now if they’re coming right onto the seawall,” said jogger (triathlete). He’d seen a couple of coyotes loading a U-Haul. Here it comes, the richness, he continued to say his coyote bite wounds will heal, he’s worried small children could be targeted. “That would have been a much more aggressive bite on a child with softer tissues.”
"Wow, your bite looks serious. Are you okay?"
"SAVE THE CHILDREN."
I think the children from this day forward should be our go to comeback.
"You were fired, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I’m happy it was me instead of a child."
What kind of parent would allow their children to run around Stanley Park at night?
Rhetorical.
Could you imagine if it had been a baby crawling group instead of a group of triathletes.
The answer to the rhetorical question: my family allowed me to roam around downtown Calgary, alone, when I was eight.
And oh yeah, Joggers/Triathletes: why are you running in the park at night?
Another jogger had been bit while running the trails at 9:30 PM. Death Wish?
Now for the richness. Jogger (triathlete) while being interviewed about his injuries said the following.
“I wouldn’t put it past them to move into the city now if they’re coming right onto the seawall,” said jogger (triathlete). He’d seen a couple of coyotes loading a U-Haul. Here it comes, the richness, he continued to say his coyote bite wounds will heal, he’s worried small children could be targeted. “That would have been a much more aggressive bite on a child with softer tissues.”
"Wow, your bite looks serious. Are you okay?"
"SAVE THE CHILDREN."
I think the children from this day forward should be our go to comeback.
"You were fired, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I’m happy it was me instead of a child."
What kind of parent would allow their children to run around Stanley Park at night?
Rhetorical.
Could you imagine if it had been a baby crawling group instead of a group of triathletes.
The answer to the rhetorical question: my family allowed me to roam around downtown Calgary, alone, when I was eight.
And oh yeah, Joggers/Triathletes: why are you running in the park at night?
Another jogger had been bit while running the trails at 9:30 PM. Death Wish?
February 20 - STORY UPDATE
Our hero triathlete jumped right back on the proverbial saddle and started running. I wonder if he knows coyotes are not venomous. Perhaps, he was bitten by a snake. His story is turning out to be a tad surreal.
And another thing, I hope children aren't reading his thoughts. For a couple of reasons:
I am a man nearing sixty-one. How far have I gone (to the same date) this year, you ask?
257.88 Miles - 130 miles further than...
And another thing, I hope children aren't reading his thoughts. For a couple of reasons:
- Profanity.
- Misinformation (venomous coyotes).
I am a man nearing sixty-one. How far have I gone (to the same date) this year, you ask?
257.88 Miles - 130 miles further than...
February 18
Not wanting to be a statistic on the coyote hitlist, I hit the road for my daily stroll, avoiding Stanley Park. I meandered up Cypress Street. When I approached 19th Ave., a dog-walker's pack started barking. The Walker tried to get my attention. I turned off my buds and looked left down the street. What did I see? A U-Haul, and--
Not wanting to be a statistic on the coyote hitlist, I hit the road for my daily stroll, avoiding Stanley Park. I meandered up Cypress Street. When I approached 19th Ave., a dog-walker's pack started barking. The Walker tried to get my attention. I turned off my buds and looked left down the street. What did I see? A U-Haul, and--
I offered Wiley my left leg. He decided, nah, it would be too gamey and sauntered away.
I checked the news scroll. A story jumped out at me. A story about a fight at a gym because an anti-masker was asked to wear a mask.
I checked the news scroll. A story jumped out at me. A story about a fight at a gym because an anti-masker was asked to wear a mask.
Summary
“Could you put on a mask please?”
“F-you.”
Ten Minutes Later
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Fall. Head hit. 12-stitches.
Anti-Masker guy: you are a dink.
The story went on to highlight the activities allowed in gyms. One of them jumped out at me: LIGHT WEIGHTLIFTING IS PERMITTED.
“Could you put on a mask please?”
“F-you.”
Ten Minutes Later
Bam. Bam. Bam.
Fall. Head hit. 12-stitches.
Anti-Masker guy: you are a dink.
The story went on to highlight the activities allowed in gyms. One of them jumped out at me: LIGHT WEIGHTLIFTING IS PERMITTED.
“Excuse me sir, before I can allow you to lift the weight your about to lift, I must ask, what’s your 1-rep maximum?
“Wow. That much. Go ahead, pump away.”
“Hey, can I sell you some steroids—I’ve got lots—I’m going light these days. And oh yeah, would you like to buy five-ounces of Whey Protein from me—it comes in a 10-gallon drum. I won’t be needing it anymore.”
“Wow. That much. Go ahead, pump away.”
“Hey, can I sell you some steroids—I’ve got lots—I’m going light these days. And oh yeah, would you like to buy five-ounces of Whey Protein from me—it comes in a 10-gallon drum. I won’t be needing it anymore.”
People, I beg of you, and I must beg of you, in bold large font ALL CAPS.
QUIT USING THE WORD SURREAL
If you hadn’t purchased a lottery ticket and won—that would be surreal.
If you enter a competition and you win—that is not surreal—winning might be unlikely, the only way it becomes surreal is if you win a competition, you did not enter.
I think there needs to be a rule where if you incorrectly use surreal—you are not allowed to win.
FULL STOP
If you enter a competition and you win—that is not surreal—winning might be unlikely, the only way it becomes surreal is if you win a competition, you did not enter.
I think there needs to be a rule where if you incorrectly use surreal—you are not allowed to win.
FULL STOP
LOOK AT THESE PICTURES
MY FAVOURITE SIGN
I would like it even more if they removed For Purchase.
FLASHBACK 2014
I lived by the Olympic Village. During the Olympics, a drunken medal-winning German Ski Jumper stopped by my place for a chocolate milk (long-story). Anyway, I was strolling downtown, just under the Cambie Bridge (at the stairs) an older-model automobile pulled up to me. The driver rolled down the window. The female driver was not a day under ninety-five.
“Sir, can you help me, I have an appointment with my hairdresser, and I’m lost.”
“Where’s the salon? Oh, that’s on the other side of the bridge, downtown, at the base of Howe Street.”
“Oh my. Can you drive?”
We pulled to the base of Howe. She handed me a fob to enter the parkade. The first stalls we passed had the Salon’s logo on them.
“Should I park here? No. Okay. Where then?”
Two stalls later I pulled into her parking spot.
“Thank you for driving?”
“May I ask you why you were driving? The salon is in your building.”
“I didn’t want to be late.”
It could have been worse, could you imagine if a toddler had been driving.
Do you like my childish facemask?
I lived by the Olympic Village. During the Olympics, a drunken medal-winning German Ski Jumper stopped by my place for a chocolate milk (long-story). Anyway, I was strolling downtown, just under the Cambie Bridge (at the stairs) an older-model automobile pulled up to me. The driver rolled down the window. The female driver was not a day under ninety-five.
“Sir, can you help me, I have an appointment with my hairdresser, and I’m lost.”
“Where’s the salon? Oh, that’s on the other side of the bridge, downtown, at the base of Howe Street.”
“Oh my. Can you drive?”
We pulled to the base of Howe. She handed me a fob to enter the parkade. The first stalls we passed had the Salon’s logo on them.
“Should I park here? No. Okay. Where then?”
Two stalls later I pulled into her parking spot.
“Thank you for driving?”
“May I ask you why you were driving? The salon is in your building.”
“I didn’t want to be late.”
It could have been worse, could you imagine if a toddler had been driving.
Do you like my childish facemask?
- When I shared this story with a seventy-five-year-old friend named J..k, at stories end he asked, "Did you and J, dt her?" I suffered a bout of insomnia that night.
- My friend Gord's mother is ninety-four. She had to retake her driver's test. I asked Gord if she'd get an L on her vehicle. He suggested after a certain age it should be a tombstone.
The following story is a story about the absolute terror of becoming unemployed at the age of sixty. Throw in during a pandemic, and the absolute terror of uncertainty turns up a notch, like Spinal Tap, to eleven.
This story is meant to offer solace to those facing similar realities, and it is the story of one human from a fictitious bent. The place of fictitious employment is irrelevant to the story because it is meant to be a story about the emotional tumult becoming unemployed at an advancing age thrusts upon us—and the uncertainty many will face when the pandemic dust settles, and they find themselves left with facing having been deemed expendable.
Of course, every experience is different and nuanced. Hopefully, this one story, about one fictitious human, resonates with people (50ish to 60ish) who unfortunately find themselves in the same boat.
DENIAL
A year has passed since the mythical world Gaia has been turned upside down. The protagonist in this story lost the protagonist's job. At first, the protagonist was layered in shock—a shock leading toward the perils of depression. Sixty was on the horizon. The protagonist is kind, loving, empathetic, compassionate, and lived a life rife with challenges that the protagonist climbed over or around and remained kind, loving, empathetic and compassionate. Finding oneself expendable devastated the protagonist to the point of lethargy, sleepless nights, and the bleeping fear life doesn't matter—hopefully not leading to death or a tent outdoors.
How does one become expendable, waste, you ask?
The days rolled by. The depression crushed. The protagonist's door started to be banged on regularly, mostly by depression.
ANGER
Strangely, anger never arrived. What arrived in its place was a sense of profound sadness. The protagonist could not understand why the protagonist's efforts never mattered.
Anger was replaced by fear.
Fear stormed into the protagonist's life: The fear of pushing the people away who love the protagonist, of never being relevant again, of having to reinvent at bleeping 60+, of losing everything, of becoming impoverished, of becoming homeless, of losing love, of being alone, of living in a tent city, of never sleeping again; and the fear of death.
AND
The absolute fear, of having to stage the protagonist's home, to do Zoom interviews.
Depression kept tormenting. It had come to destroy.
The protagonist struggled with it, battling it fiercely. The protagonist must never give in to the darkness but cannot deny depression's arrival. The protagonist must remain kind, loving, empathetic and compassionate.
There is one more unavoidable fear. It comes in the form of a question: WTF is the protagonist going to do when the pandemic ends?
Facing the daunting reality of being 60+ and unemployed—tent city + death is lurking.
Overly, fictitiously, dramatic?
No.
This is the reality for countless people who lay restless in a soon-to-be-forgotten and possibly shunned, demographic.
Fear is relentless and shares fabric with depression. It just does.
Money spirals down the inevitable drain.
Life goes on?
ACCEPTANCE
The protagonist understands more than most, life is often unfair. Not just for him, but for many. Sometimes the cards dealt are dreadful; borderline insurmountable.
But what the protagonist understands is no matter what is thrown your way, you must remain strong, keep moving, remain kind, loving, empathetic and compassionate. We must bring light instead of darkness.
The protagonist wants anyone facing daunting life challenges to know, crap happens, sometimes relentlessly being thrown our way. Take a deep breath. Move. Move. Move. We are all in this glorious experiment called life together. Stay strong. Reach out to those who care for you. And no matter what, never give up.
Being unemployed at 60+ may be |correction| is one of the most horrific things the protagonist will ever face. But the protagonist knows, deep down in his soul, at the end of the day, somehow, by sharing light, the protagonist will be okay.
Stay Strong. Be Kind. Somehow, we'll get through this together.
This story is meant to offer solace to those facing similar realities, and it is the story of one human from a fictitious bent. The place of fictitious employment is irrelevant to the story because it is meant to be a story about the emotional tumult becoming unemployed at an advancing age thrusts upon us—and the uncertainty many will face when the pandemic dust settles, and they find themselves left with facing having been deemed expendable.
Of course, every experience is different and nuanced. Hopefully, this one story, about one fictitious human, resonates with people (50ish to 60ish) who unfortunately find themselves in the same boat.
DENIAL
A year has passed since the mythical world Gaia has been turned upside down. The protagonist in this story lost the protagonist's job. At first, the protagonist was layered in shock—a shock leading toward the perils of depression. Sixty was on the horizon. The protagonist is kind, loving, empathetic, compassionate, and lived a life rife with challenges that the protagonist climbed over or around and remained kind, loving, empathetic and compassionate. Finding oneself expendable devastated the protagonist to the point of lethargy, sleepless nights, and the bleeping fear life doesn't matter—hopefully not leading to death or a tent outdoors.
How does one become expendable, waste, you ask?
The days rolled by. The depression crushed. The protagonist's door started to be banged on regularly, mostly by depression.
ANGER
Strangely, anger never arrived. What arrived in its place was a sense of profound sadness. The protagonist could not understand why the protagonist's efforts never mattered.
Anger was replaced by fear.
Fear stormed into the protagonist's life: The fear of pushing the people away who love the protagonist, of never being relevant again, of having to reinvent at bleeping 60+, of losing everything, of becoming impoverished, of becoming homeless, of losing love, of being alone, of living in a tent city, of never sleeping again; and the fear of death.
AND
The absolute fear, of having to stage the protagonist's home, to do Zoom interviews.
Depression kept tormenting. It had come to destroy.
The protagonist struggled with it, battling it fiercely. The protagonist must never give in to the darkness but cannot deny depression's arrival. The protagonist must remain kind, loving, empathetic and compassionate.
There is one more unavoidable fear. It comes in the form of a question: WTF is the protagonist going to do when the pandemic ends?
Facing the daunting reality of being 60+ and unemployed—tent city + death is lurking.
Overly, fictitiously, dramatic?
No.
This is the reality for countless people who lay restless in a soon-to-be-forgotten and possibly shunned, demographic.
Fear is relentless and shares fabric with depression. It just does.
Money spirals down the inevitable drain.
Life goes on?
ACCEPTANCE
The protagonist understands more than most, life is often unfair. Not just for him, but for many. Sometimes the cards dealt are dreadful; borderline insurmountable.
But what the protagonist understands is no matter what is thrown your way, you must remain strong, keep moving, remain kind, loving, empathetic and compassionate. We must bring light instead of darkness.
The protagonist wants anyone facing daunting life challenges to know, crap happens, sometimes relentlessly being thrown our way. Take a deep breath. Move. Move. Move. We are all in this glorious experiment called life together. Stay strong. Reach out to those who care for you. And no matter what, never give up.
Being unemployed at 60+ may be |correction| is one of the most horrific things the protagonist will ever face. But the protagonist knows, deep down in his soul, at the end of the day, somehow, by sharing light, the protagonist will be okay.
Stay Strong. Be Kind. Somehow, we'll get through this together.
TYLER
Tyler and Alexa were wildly in love. They were an odd couple, not in the sense of Edith + Archie, but more because the tracks run smack dab through where they lived, dissecting their worlds.
Alexa, a brilliant mind, the daughter of local royalty, smarter than any whip imaginable, beauty beyond devastatingly gorgeous, was destined for a perfect life. She grew up in a mansion, whereas stumble across the figurative tracks and you would instantly be swallowed by less. That’s where Tyler lived. The few blocks from Alexa’s opulent world into Tyler’s world of distress was like passing into another realm, littered with dilapidated duplexes, ravaged potholed streets, miscreants lazily tagging everything with a wall, men grasping brown paper bags with their corneas so opaque they must be from another galaxy and gleaming with the imperviousness of death. Tyler’s world filled with violence on a nightly basis, he resisted home, but if he missed the flash of his porch light, he risked being a statistic on the latest crime blotter, a corpse mummified by predatory assault. The wandering men, the walking dead of despair, often stared outward in search of prey—never looking inward toward salvation.
Tyler’s birth parents are a mystery. He was born, and then POOF—and before the swaddling of the first year of bonding, they were never heard from again. Rumour has it, they expired in a violent accident, along with Tyler’s twin, a rumour at best, more an urban whatever the opposite of legend is—failure.
Tyler’s neighbourhood is aptly called Purgatory. Purgatory is a cancerous eyesore that will not just fade away. It is filled with the tweaked-out lost and forgotten, who’ve been warehoused in the area to live out their lives in altered states. Driving through: The Night of the Living Dead, blasts to mind. Open drug-usage is rampant. Young girls frothing at the mouth, close to overdose; injections taking place—visible to even the blind. This is where Tyler grew up, without his birth parents, raised by Cathy + Peter, who are spiralling downward taking Tyler’s make-believe brother Rick, along for the ride. None of them stood a chance. They were all residing in Hell’s waiting room, awaiting the inevitable end.
Tyler and Alexa were wildly in love. They were an odd couple, not in the sense of Edith + Archie, but more because the tracks run smack dab through where they lived, dissecting their worlds.
Alexa, a brilliant mind, the daughter of local royalty, smarter than any whip imaginable, beauty beyond devastatingly gorgeous, was destined for a perfect life. She grew up in a mansion, whereas stumble across the figurative tracks and you would instantly be swallowed by less. That’s where Tyler lived. The few blocks from Alexa’s opulent world into Tyler’s world of distress was like passing into another realm, littered with dilapidated duplexes, ravaged potholed streets, miscreants lazily tagging everything with a wall, men grasping brown paper bags with their corneas so opaque they must be from another galaxy and gleaming with the imperviousness of death. Tyler’s world filled with violence on a nightly basis, he resisted home, but if he missed the flash of his porch light, he risked being a statistic on the latest crime blotter, a corpse mummified by predatory assault. The wandering men, the walking dead of despair, often stared outward in search of prey—never looking inward toward salvation.
Tyler’s birth parents are a mystery. He was born, and then POOF—and before the swaddling of the first year of bonding, they were never heard from again. Rumour has it, they expired in a violent accident, along with Tyler’s twin, a rumour at best, more an urban whatever the opposite of legend is—failure.
Tyler’s neighbourhood is aptly called Purgatory. Purgatory is a cancerous eyesore that will not just fade away. It is filled with the tweaked-out lost and forgotten, who’ve been warehoused in the area to live out their lives in altered states. Driving through: The Night of the Living Dead, blasts to mind. Open drug-usage is rampant. Young girls frothing at the mouth, close to overdose; injections taking place—visible to even the blind. This is where Tyler grew up, without his birth parents, raised by Cathy + Peter, who are spiralling downward taking Tyler’s make-believe brother Rick, along for the ride. None of them stood a chance. They were all residing in Hell’s waiting room, awaiting the inevitable end.
It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting.
-The Alchemist
-The Alchemist
- PASSED: (9) ADEL OREGON (651.81 miles)
- NEXT STOP: (10) SILVER SPRINGS NEVADA (869.30 miles)
- 1,370,259 STEPS
- 664.55 MILES
- 118.83 SEAWALL LAPS
- 630 PUSH UPS
- 1494 ELEVATIONS
- CONSECUTIVE DAYS 20,000+ STEPS = 44
- 5 BOOKS READ
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2020
I’m tired. My gams are burning. I’m about 14-miles into an epic 17-mile stroll.
I’m tired. My gams are burning. I’m about 14-miles into an epic 17-mile stroll.
|FAKE NEWS ALERT|
I checked my OCD inspired statistics page and found out on that day, I barely walked 3-miles—so, obviously, I got the date and distance wrong. Anyway, one Friday, I think in December, near the end of an epically long bout of bounding through the forest, I was met on a trail by Wiley—crossing the path twenty feet in front of me.
Hey Wiley, can you stop so I can do a photo shoot?
No. That, probably, is for the best.
Thus, completes my first wild dog sighting.
I met friends at a watering post. I told them about my experience. Apparently, the coyotes are running wild in the park—searching for ‘human’ food.
I barely escaped a perilous ending.
Hey Wiley, can you stop so I can do a photo shoot?
No. That, probably, is for the best.
Thus, completes my first wild dog sighting.
I met friends at a watering post. I told them about my experience. Apparently, the coyotes are running wild in the park—searching for ‘human’ food.
I barely escaped a perilous ending.
|UNFAKING THE FAKE NEWS ALERT|
I checked the OCD archives again, after finding something I wrote about my first coyote sighting. It happened--
FRIDAY, JANUARY 8, 2021
So--
I was tired. My gams were burning. I was about 13-miles into an epic 14-mile stroll--
FRIDAY, JANUARY 8, 2021
So--
I was tired. My gams were burning. I was about 13-miles into an epic 14-mile stroll--
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 15, 2021
I’m tired. My gams are burning. I’m about 12-miles into an epic 15-mile stroll. I’m meandering down Bridle Trail before it morphs into Bridal Trail—only steps before it meets Rawlings Trail. |NOT FAKE NEWS|
My head is bobbing to some (sic) beats. Ahead of me, crouching, snaking close to the ground, a dog is approaching me.
Hey, I don’t think that’s a dog.
My heart started racing. Wiley kept slinking toward me. I grabbed a stick. Ouch, thorns.
If Wiley didn’t back down, I planned to throw the stick. At the last second, I thought, Stick with thorns. Throw. Wiley races after it, bites it to return to me to throw again. Ouch, thorns. Wiley is now pissed at me for the stick. Better not throw stick.
I yelled, “BEAT IT” instead. Wiley moonwalked into the woods. Saved. Whew!
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2021
If you read one of my previous stories about the bitten triathlete on the Seawall (fortunately he wasn’t a baby), you’d know Wiley sighting number three came on Saturday.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 2021
I went on epic walk with my friend Jay, mostly through the jungles of Stanley Park. Jay could never be ticketed for jaywalking.
Before we hit full stride of our forest adventure, out of the woods jumped a man, Vietnamese, I think. He’d been hiding in the lushness of Stanley Park ever since the Vietnam war. Weird.
Before we get to the coyotes; Hey lady jogger. You did see the two people in front of us we were trying to socially distance pass as far to their left as possible, didn’t you? So, when you decided to jog between us, with both your arms extended like and entitled cross, you can suck it. Your bitchy-ness is dually noted. Because of you, I will, probably, shove a carbon fiber road into the spokes of a cyclist riding a bike on the sidewalk one day.
Polite cyclists confuse me. Once in a blue, or any moon for that matter, during the moonless day, cyclists have waved me by as a pedestrian, with a smile on their face, or worse yet, if I’ve let one ride by, they’ve said, “Thanks.” This confuses me. One day, I will need to trip a jogger—to regain some sense of normalcy.
Who defines sense?
Excellent question.
Jay, do you think coyotes, Wiley, in particular, bases his dining choices on ethnicity?
Jay is of Korean descent.
Who’d you think he’d eat first?
I think he’d eat Asians first. We’re the right mixture of muscle and fat. I don’t think he’d eat you people, white people first, because you whites are too muscled.
What whites are you looking at? Most of us, well, we spend a lot on the vanity of dieting. I think more than anyone. And J, Asia is diverse.
I mean the real, Asians; like me.
You mean, the several-times-colonized Koreans? Do you really believe Asians (Koreans), are, umami?
Yeah, we’re the real ones. The others…they’re different.
You know, I don’t think I qualify as white because of family secrets—I’m kind of an undetermined mutt. I think the first people coyotes would feast on, if we were all lined up at the Buffett table (pre-or-post COVID, of course)--
Are you mentally, okay?
I think I am. I think if Wiley had the choice, he’d would feast on African Americans. I don’t like saying African Americans. He’d feast on Black folks. |The next dialogue may or may not be racially insensitive| The only problem if Wiley did that is, he’d likely get diabetes.
Before you get all uppity and call me racist, remember, I’m an unidentified mutt, and I have data to back up my diabetes speak.
I’m tired. My gams are burning. I’m about 12-miles into an epic 15-mile stroll. I’m meandering down Bridle Trail before it morphs into Bridal Trail—only steps before it meets Rawlings Trail. |NOT FAKE NEWS|
My head is bobbing to some (sic) beats. Ahead of me, crouching, snaking close to the ground, a dog is approaching me.
Hey, I don’t think that’s a dog.
My heart started racing. Wiley kept slinking toward me. I grabbed a stick. Ouch, thorns.
If Wiley didn’t back down, I planned to throw the stick. At the last second, I thought, Stick with thorns. Throw. Wiley races after it, bites it to return to me to throw again. Ouch, thorns. Wiley is now pissed at me for the stick. Better not throw stick.
I yelled, “BEAT IT” instead. Wiley moonwalked into the woods. Saved. Whew!
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2021
If you read one of my previous stories about the bitten triathlete on the Seawall (fortunately he wasn’t a baby), you’d know Wiley sighting number three came on Saturday.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 2021
I went on epic walk with my friend Jay, mostly through the jungles of Stanley Park. Jay could never be ticketed for jaywalking.
Before we hit full stride of our forest adventure, out of the woods jumped a man, Vietnamese, I think. He’d been hiding in the lushness of Stanley Park ever since the Vietnam war. Weird.
Before we get to the coyotes; Hey lady jogger. You did see the two people in front of us we were trying to socially distance pass as far to their left as possible, didn’t you? So, when you decided to jog between us, with both your arms extended like and entitled cross, you can suck it. Your bitchy-ness is dually noted. Because of you, I will, probably, shove a carbon fiber road into the spokes of a cyclist riding a bike on the sidewalk one day.
Polite cyclists confuse me. Once in a blue, or any moon for that matter, during the moonless day, cyclists have waved me by as a pedestrian, with a smile on their face, or worse yet, if I’ve let one ride by, they’ve said, “Thanks.” This confuses me. One day, I will need to trip a jogger—to regain some sense of normalcy.
Who defines sense?
Excellent question.
Jay, do you think coyotes, Wiley, in particular, bases his dining choices on ethnicity?
Jay is of Korean descent.
Who’d you think he’d eat first?
I think he’d eat Asians first. We’re the right mixture of muscle and fat. I don’t think he’d eat you people, white people first, because you whites are too muscled.
What whites are you looking at? Most of us, well, we spend a lot on the vanity of dieting. I think more than anyone. And J, Asia is diverse.
I mean the real, Asians; like me.
You mean, the several-times-colonized Koreans? Do you really believe Asians (Koreans), are, umami?
Yeah, we’re the real ones. The others…they’re different.
You know, I don’t think I qualify as white because of family secrets—I’m kind of an undetermined mutt. I think the first people coyotes would feast on, if we were all lined up at the Buffett table (pre-or-post COVID, of course)--
Are you mentally, okay?
I think I am. I think if Wiley had the choice, he’d would feast on African Americans. I don’t like saying African Americans. He’d feast on Black folks. |The next dialogue may or may not be racially insensitive| The only problem if Wiley did that is, he’d likely get diabetes.
Before you get all uppity and call me racist, remember, I’m an unidentified mutt, and I have data to back up my diabetes speak.
Click above for details.
I never read the article. I am simply happy it exists. I grew up in Saskatchewan, as a Caucasian, what that means is for my entire life of growing up in insular Saskatchewan is if I pay attention, I will be spending my entire life as a recovering racist.
EVERY. SINGLE. WHITE. PERSON. WHO PAYS ATTENTION: IS.?
Argue if you must.
The next sentence or two, maybe, one sentence, maybe, two, I won’t know until I write them—are attempts at evolving—casting aside my flagrant stereotyping.
J ignore the Black, diabetes comment. I think Wiley would get diabetes from eating anyone from the Southern USA (especially DJT supporters)—you know—the historically obese states—it doesn’t matter if your white or blacker…what you're eating is killing you. I’m sure Wiley would find you decadently tasty.
EVERY. SINGLE. WHITE. PERSON. WHO PAYS ATTENTION: IS.?
Argue if you must.
The next sentence or two, maybe, one sentence, maybe, two, I won’t know until I write them—are attempts at evolving—casting aside my flagrant stereotyping.
J ignore the Black, diabetes comment. I think Wiley would get diabetes from eating anyone from the Southern USA (especially DJT supporters)—you know—the historically obese states—it doesn’t matter if your white or blacker…what you're eating is killing you. I’m sure Wiley would find you decadently tasty.
Local News Story
Coyotes in Stanley Park eat Southern US Tourists — and Became Lethargic
|PROBABLY FAKE – BECAUSE OF COVID|
Coyotes in Stanley Park eat Southern US Tourists — and Became Lethargic
|PROBABLY FAKE – BECAUSE OF COVID|
J do you really believe you’re the original Asians, like Tupac was, the Original OG? (1) Wasn’t Korea colonized by the Japanese – the Chinese – the Japanese – the Chinese – the Americans? (2)
Are you okay?
Why are you asking me such an odd question? Did you know J, Wiley’s will never attack you if you are walking, running, or cycling alone?
I didn’t know that.
The reason is wild animals rely on stragglers for food. When you are alone, the coyotes are confused. I tell you, it’s lucky we’re not children. Could you imagine?
Are you okay?
Why are you asking me such an odd question? Did you know J, Wiley’s will never attack you if you are walking, running, or cycling alone?
I didn’t know that.
The reason is wild animals rely on stragglers for food. When you are alone, the coyotes are confused. I tell you, it’s lucky we’re not children. Could you imagine?
- OG = ORIGINAL GANSTER. I’m not sure if Tupac was the OG. I just ass-out-of-you-and-me assumed. Minus the you, I am not sure if J, is the OA. I doubt it, he’s under forty.
- Yes, the Americans. It could have been worse; the children could have colonized Korea.
FICTION. FICTION. FICTION.
For all who have lost their livelihoods, incomes, security, (pick a profanity) sucks.
For all who lose these things later in life, devastates.
For those who've lost them, later in life, during a pandemic, (see no words below).
Listening to someone say you’re not the only one, no words, typable words, at least.
Who on this spinning rock would cast someone later in life, to the side, without a lifeline?
Again, no words, typable words, at least. The words are on the tip of the keystrokes—but they'd be pointless to express, at least to those willing to cast later in life to the side without a lifeline.
Karma is in charge.
For all who lose these things later in life, devastates.
For those who've lost them, later in life, during a pandemic, (see no words below).
Listening to someone say you’re not the only one, no words, typable words, at least.
Who on this spinning rock would cast someone later in life, to the side, without a lifeline?
Again, no words, typable words, at least. The words are on the tip of the keystrokes—but they'd be pointless to express, at least to those willing to cast later in life to the side without a lifeline.
Karma is in charge.
PSA
FOR ANYONE - ESPECIALLY THOSE THAT FALL INTO THE OLDER CATAGORY
(click images below)
FOR ANYONE - ESPECIALLY THOSE THAT FALL INTO THE OLDER CATAGORY
(click images below)
As much as the above scenario would be sucking immensely for many (it is too harsh to be true), it wouldn't be worth expending energy on those who care only about one thing.
What’s the one thing?
What will be will be—hopefully soon.
What really matters, is a friend reached out to me, my friend had recently lost his significant other of 51-years—passing away at my friend’s side.
He messaged me with his pain. My urge was to write something profound. I refrained. I eventually expressed my heart was breaking for him, and suggested he take pause in the beauty of him being at his love’s side for the last moment.
I’m not sure if what I said was the right thing to say. It must be, it came from my heart.
Another friend, from long ago, posted a picture of himself in St. Paul’s Hospital in Saskatoon. He’d been struck down with a medical emergency. COVID-19? I’m not sure. He suffered a pulmonary embolism. My friend is about fifty? I hadn’t seen him in thirty years.
I wanted to say something; what to say?
‘SENDING LOVE’ nothing more.
That’s what matters.
Karma will take care of the rest.
What’s the one thing?
What will be will be—hopefully soon.
What really matters, is a friend reached out to me, my friend had recently lost his significant other of 51-years—passing away at my friend’s side.
He messaged me with his pain. My urge was to write something profound. I refrained. I eventually expressed my heart was breaking for him, and suggested he take pause in the beauty of him being at his love’s side for the last moment.
I’m not sure if what I said was the right thing to say. It must be, it came from my heart.
Another friend, from long ago, posted a picture of himself in St. Paul’s Hospital in Saskatoon. He’d been struck down with a medical emergency. COVID-19? I’m not sure. He suffered a pulmonary embolism. My friend is about fifty? I hadn’t seen him in thirty years.
I wanted to say something; what to say?
‘SENDING LOVE’ nothing more.
That’s what matters.
Karma will take care of the rest.
So, daddy, you chose to make that man homeless? Why?
The most important part of writing, and really life, is revision.
- Kiese Laymon
- Kiese Laymon
America seems filled with violent people who like causing people pain
but hate when those people tell them that pain hurts.
- Kiese Laymon (from his powerful memoir: Heavy)
but hate when those people tell them that pain hurts.
- Kiese Laymon (from his powerful memoir: Heavy)
I'll have an Unholy Stout.
Would you like a taster?
Why would I want a taster?
How can anyone tell if they like something with just a couple of sips?
Would you like a taster?
Why would I want a taster?
How can anyone tell if they like something with just a couple of sips?
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THIS COLOUR = LOVED
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