I Often Find Myself Where I Was Never Expected

Posted on September 22, 2015 by brettbatten

I’m not sure I have ever been afflicted with writers block but I do suffer from long silences. I may not put pen to paper but I am usually thinking and as a writer it is always in sentences. Even in my thoughts I manipulate language in my mind. I am often shy about posting and am minus the motivation to speak my truths. Who am I to think another would care what I conjure?
I have a scapegoat for my most recent drought. I have been without paid work in over a decade but of late I am a member of the workforce. I was employed this past decade with speaking, writing and blogging but I am closer to conventional employment these days. I’m not sure milking 1600 goats is conventional but money for manual labour is.
The majority of my work history involves sweat and most recently stiffness. I was going to write sooner of my endeavor into employment but I wasn’t confident of my commitment. For me a disability pension has been a disgrace; I always felt less or worse, lazy. These past few weeks have convinced me again that I am neither. I challenge any twenty something to outperform me in a milking parlour. I’m not bragging, I’m crying.
Writing is a sedentary lifestyle or at least mine was. I sat and smoked organizing my passion into phrases. I have been a month without tobacco and officially a goat milker. I am also officially stupid as I have found a farm where it is my responsibility alone to feed and milk over 1600 goats. That’s two barns full of frustration. Goats are fairly friendly and docile but definitely devious. A goat can see an unfastened gate from a quarter mile and any and all will squeeze through a four millimeter gap.
I’m still trying to figure out if they like to be milked. Feeding is part of the process and though it is a distraction each and every goat knows how to kick off the milking mechanism with a mouthful of food. You might ask “how do you milk 1600 goats in less than five hours?” and some day when I have five seconds or more I will figure it out. The word exhaustion will have to be a clue for now.
When I found the help wanted advertisement I thought, “That might be interesting. I like goats or the three I have met.” I now realize intense is closer than interesting when you’re talking about 1600. I want to quit for the first half of my shift which morphs into I want to finish which is followed by a 35 minute commute where I can say I just milked 1600 goats. I revel in the fact that no other driver on highway 401 is saying anything similar.
It is an agricultural assembly line of sorts but no two goats are the same. Each goat looks different from behind. I don’t have much time to compare but I am recognizing the odd rear end. One goat is freakishly bowlegged and unequivocally the only cooperative goat in the whole flock.
I bought a quart of goat’s milk as a form of job security and I encourage all my readers to do the same. I am giving a one year free subscription to my already free blog for any who mail in proof of purchase. I as yet don’t know how goat’s milk gets distributed in the area but I wouldn’t be surprised if any litre had a spoonful from “my” goats. I can’t say these goats are sweet but a lot of love goes into a gallon.
I use a staff to herd the goats from pen to parlour. I bang it on the gates and walls to speed them from place to place. One goat calmly ignores me. Number 208 waddles along and scratches herself on any and all surfaces. She reminds me not to rush in my fever of frenzy.
Another goat inspires me. It is a young buck who has a triangular wooden yoke fastened around its head to prevent it from escaping from its pen. I find myself confused about six times each night as it defies its constriction and enters and mingles with each pen of goats. I too dislike being told where to be and though not as adept as this bugger I often find myself where I was never expected.

Grace, Grit and My Damn Brother Wherever the Hell He Is

Posted on August 18, 2015 by brettbatten

I was once a forestry technician. For any who wonder what exactly a forestry technician does, we basically plant trees in the spring and spend the rest of the year cutting them down. It all made sense to me when I was paid but in hindsight had they hidden the chainsaws, spring would have involved less perspiration.

I am reminiscing because my brother and I did some tree cutting ourselves at the family cottage. It was a long weekend and we actually cut down two trees. I use the term ‘we’ loosely.

My brother and I each have our own chainsaws. Between you and me my brother doesn’t know how to use his. Although his is more dormant I was on this occasion thankful he has one. I was exhausted before we were even near shade. I spent the first hour pulling the chord on mine. It ran quite well but only for a few seconds at a time. I gave up when oil started oozing out of spots I’m pretty sure contain no oil. I found a part in the grass near my folly and I could find no place to reattach it so I surrendered. I’m a tree hugger at heart but by this point I could barely lift my arms.

I sometimes mock my brother’s abilities and equipment but on this occasion I openly embraced his much cleaner and operable saw. We installed my larger blade and chain on his saw and were ready for forestry. We scampered along the slope in front of the cottage next to the tree that was in age more weed than wonder. It grew on a 30 degree angle opposite of where we wanted it to fall and its limbs conspired with their weight in the same direction. It was half rotten at the base and I struggled to make a notch in the side I wished it to fall. I made a cut on the opposite side fully expecting it to transfer its angle and weight in the direction of my desire. In protest it leaned logically and pinched my blade and my brothers saw. My knees were shaking as I know the danger of twisted, leaning, half cut trees. I was soaked with sweat and seriously considered unbolting my blade and handing my brother back the portion he owned. He doesn’t get out much and had been practicing yelling “timber” all morning so I obliged his obsession.

I climbed the hill to the shed where I put my hands on two axes, a hatchet and a sledgehammer. To this day I am unsure of what my brother was doing at the time. If a tree can be obstinate this one was. I placed the axe into the wound the saw had inflicted prior to being pinched. I pounded it in with the sledgehammer until the saw was released. Again, I am unsure what my brother was doing at the time but I heard him exclaim that the saw was free. “Thanks for that.”

I was basically petrified at this point since there was little holding the tree up and I knew it could kick out or fall in any direction, the least likely being the one I wanted. I did a little more cutting with the saw but I was basically at a point a beaver would be ashamed of. A beaver would have enough sense to leave the rest to the wind but I could see the eagerness in my brother’s eyes. I grabbed the axe again and using the sledgehammer pounded it with all my might in the direction the tree was deciding to go. “It’s going…wait…wait… did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed. In fact the tearing noise was fully audible to me as well and did nothing for my trembling knees. I kept swinging the sledgehammer wildly and it finally started to fall in the exact opposite direction of our initial plan.

It was somewhat anti-climatic as it fell into the limbs of other sympathetic trees and landed on the uphill slope as though settling into a favourite chair. I started to limb and cut the trunk into lengths that will eventually warm my mother. I struggled in the mess of leaves and limbs as I maneuvered up the slope. I couldn’t see much for all the trees but in need of someone to pull cut branches out of my way I had to again wonder where my brother was. I finally sawed a path to the top of the hill where the deceased tree had stretched. I stood on the cottage deck and took in the new view. It was only one tree but the view was entirely different. It only took two hours of fiddling, fear and frustration to see things differently. It all reminded me of the many other things I could not see at times in my life. The barriers and obstacles I have had to get past. I would like to say I have removed them myself but many have only been overcome by grace, grit and my damn brother wherever the hell he is.

Dear Mr. MacKay, I was surprised that when I spoke to you at the Canadian Alliance On Mental Illness and Mental Health Gala that you did not inquire into my access-ability requirements.

Posted on May 29, 2015 by brettbatten

I feel terrible. The Honourable Minister of Justice Peter MacKay is leaving his post. He’s been urinating on the Charter for a while now and I was wondering how long he could keep it up. I guess he’s finally petered out which I’m sure is a relief. Maybe not to the prime minster who is nothing more than Reform without Peter.

If I thought Peter MacKay would resign I would have written to him sooner. I only wanted to invite him to my home but he has taken it as the gauntlet being thrown. I hate to say it but for someone so athletic looking I would have thought Peter had more game. I did admonish him which may have been unwelcoming but having no regard for a segment of society who are in conflict as a direct result of a mental illness is not a slight I can pretend to ignore.

I actually thought Peter may have visited me so he resigning is quite a shock. Does anyone know how long cucumber sandwiches last? I guess someone should step aside. We are allowing serious human rights violations to be inflicted on the mentally ill. When I looked into my crystal ball/stainless steel toilet sink combination I saw more orange than justice ministers resigning at my feet. I wasn’t even aware that it was an injustice to be psychotic in the confines of solitary confinement.

I did not mean to scare Peter MacKay into resigning. I only wanted to point out his mistake in the hope of pointing out more mistakes. It would have simply been tea with a detainee but in a way he has done the right thing by stepping down. I feel somewhat responsible but he made his own mistakes. I would have reasoned with him and found a way around all of this but some crown attorneys see only one scenario. It can be overlooked as a job description for a crown attorney but when you continue on that path as a Justice Minister you become a knob. Peter MacKay became a thing Stephen Harper turned to key up for election. When it comes to justice and sadly Peter MacKay this government always did what looked good and seldom what was good.

I’m not an optimist but I have dreams. I will be awake at night imagining the course of withdrawing my extended hand to the prime minister. Possibly he too will not see me coming. I certainly did not see this coming. I don’t know who to aim for next but this is sure a lot of fun. Good bye Peter.

May 12, 2015

Dear Mr. MacKay,

I was surprised that when I spoke to you at the Canadian Alliance On Mental Illness and Mental Health Gala that you did not inquire into my access-ability requirements. Some disabilities are invisible and I assumed at such an event you would have been more careful. I mentioned to you that I had lived in solitary confinement and that I was found Not Criminally Responsible on Account of a Mental Disorder. But you handed me a business card without asking if I had any requirements of assistance. It would have been most helpful to have you contact me.

As one of few who speak about the issue of Not Criminally Responsible having experienced it as living flesh I am dismayed that my voice has not been heard by this government. I submitted a Brief to this government regarding Bill C-54 which post prorogue became Bill C-14. I spoke with government employees and tried to access my own Member of Parliament but I was never asked if I had any accessibility requirements. I’m somewhat uncomfortable with sharing my medical information with a receptionist and I had to enlist assistance from individuals not employed by the government in attempting to communicate with the government.

I am pleased you are coming to London and will take you up on your offer to see me. I would like the opportunity to show you that solitary confinement can damage an individual. Mental illness in the correctional system is a complicated issue. I understand corrections is not your portfolio but in reading your statement on solitary confinement and thanks to your offer to speak with me I’m sure you could understand and convey to those better versed what you will learn.

Since language is no more than incomplete shorthand I will be able to convey more in person. As such I would like to invite you to my home. I am slightly agoraphobic and it would be helpful to have access to my writings to impart on you what I know. I have firsthand knowledge of corrections and the forensic system from the position of inmate and patient while living with serious and persistent mental illness. I know you believe that there are no adverse effects to Administrative Segregation but I have proof. Some of this evidence is within me, some of it is written and some of it is in how I live.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience to set up a meeting.

Kind regards,
Brett Charles Batten

RE: Vincent Li and Tim McLean. Compassion isn’t a dart we throw it is a net we cast.

Posted on March 3, 2015 by brettbatten

I spent the weekend battling on Twitter. I don’t often Tweet but there was much ignorance I felt compelled to refute. Vincent Li who was found Not Criminally Responsible for a very disturbing and tragic incident is in the process of being granted a progression of freedoms in his treatment and rehabilitation. It needs to be clarified that these measures will themselves be measured and monitored. It is also important to understand that Mr. Li has been assessed by several psychiatrists who are in agreement as to the status of his mental health. Most importantly the individuals who contribute information and make decisions on that information have and always will ensure that public safety is paramount. Paramount.

I am not an expert in law or medicine. I have some information about each but my specialty is what it means and feels like to be caught between the two. If you want the definition of psychosis you can ask a doctor. If you want to know what the experience is like, you can ask me. If you want to know the intricacies of Not Criminally Responsible ask a lawyer who specializes in such. If you want to know how those processes affect an individual, you can ask me. I don’t consider myself an expert by any stretch but few know what I know. My journey is far removed from what most experience and I believe that is where my use is found.

Unfortunately, people with opinions often have no desire to hear from someone who actually knows something, as it interferes with their ignorance. Opinions have value but when their basis is ignorance they become water balloons without water; completely ineffective and they go nowhere.

I heard the voices that are incensed and incredulous over the appearance of the case. In my estimation most of these individuals are using headlines for a measure and as a basis of knowledge from which to form and progress their opinions. If a person looks only at the atrocity they can only make basic conclusions.

The severity of the offence is not the indicator of recidivism. If a person stabs another twice they are not twice as likely to re-offend as the person who stabs once. It is an asinine assumption and a distortion of logic. The brutality of the offence for which an individual is found Not Criminally Responsible has no bearing on their prognosis or recovery. The absence of blood in no way determines the effectiveness of medications and the presence of blood in no way determines the efficacy of treatment and rehabilitation.

Tim McLean who is the deceased in this case is clearly a victim. He was simply a passenger on a bus. However, there is more than one victim. We have to consider the families and friends connected to all involved. We have to consider witnesses and first responders. We have to consider communities. We also need to consider Vincent Li himself. Mr. Li is a victim of a mental disorder and a victim of public backlash, stigma and hatred. He no more asked for this event than anyone involved. To be a monster to a nation as a result of an illness is a weight that must also be measured. Mr. Li did not choose his illness and he is quite likely near the front of the line of individuals who would wish the event never occurred.

People confuse psychosis with psychopathy. They are two vastly different states and it is unfortunate they are phonetically similar. It is the same as confusing dentistry with dysentery. Psychosis and hallucinations are Axis 1 disorders while psychopathy is Axis 2. Twitter was awash with words like psycho and I would direct those people to the internet to actually find out the meanings and intricacies of mental disorders. Knowledge is power and slang is pathetic and painful.

I was disappointed to uncover the extent of hatred and intolerance that exists in Canada. People seem to embrace the biblical “eye for an eye” mentality all the while ignoring the New Testament and specifically the red letters attributed to Christ. I guess it is easier to cast stones. Possibly people gain a sense of self righteousness and can forget their own faults. An “eye for an eye” does not bring peace or restore the order of the universe. The universe is unfair and unjust. Just ask a child with a distended belly in a third world nation. People seem to believe the world is just and they become quite worked up trying to make it so through mental manoeuvrings. An “eye for an eye” leaves two people blind and it only expands suffering. It is rather imbecilic to think that suffering can relieve suffering. It is also a little sadistic to find peace in anyone’s pain.

Many individuals seem to think that Vincent Li may be better but Tim McLean is still dead. My sympathies go out to all involved but Tim McLean will be dead no matter what happens to Vincent Li. There is no logic in that argument or revelation and nothing that is done will alter what happened to those involved.

People were flying off the handle saying maybe Mr. Li’s psychiatrist who assessed him should have him as a neighbour. The fact is Mr. Li was assessed by several psychiatrists who came to the same conclusions. The general public and even Members of Parliament like Shelly Glover think they should be the ones assessing and that their opinions which originate from newspapers or less are the only assessment tool needed. We need to allow those who are trained and knowledgeable care for the community and Mr. Li. Despite the brutality of the offence Mr. Li is considered low risk and has been assessed and is being monitored. Few of us could say the same thing about our neighbours. No one is immune to mental illness and it does not discriminate. To an extent we are all capable of atrocity if we become ill to the point Mr. Li was. If you disagree please point me in the direction of the magic water you swallow to prevent mental illness.

I was called a douche, a jerk, a scumbag, a murderer advocate and was told to go hang myself. All were desperate and illogical attempts to overcome the disparity of being confronted by someone found Not Criminally Responsible and who is intelligent, logical and able to disseminate information, form relatively sound opinions and coherently craft them into Tweets. I got a little saucy myself but being the Not Criminally Responsible individual in these arguments I tempered my responses. I came to the somewhat biased opinion that I would rather have me as a neighbour than these scary and somewhat unstable twits. I have been tested and proven not to be a psychopath or sociopath but these individuals cannot claim the same. I don’t much care what they Tweet from their parent’s basement but I am concerned that they interact with others in person and that they are probably allowed to obtain firearms and most terrifying; can vote.

I came to the edge of being insulting and was uneasy with where I found myself. I am one of only a few who to a degree represent individuals who have been found Not Criminally Responsible. I do so not always out of desire but more so out of duty. There are many days I wish to be more ordinary and forget what is past. I realize though that my abilities, experiences and gifts are meant to be shared. I have near total recall of most of my psychosis and as much as it is a curse to remember all of that, it is somewhat rare and it would be a loss not to explain and share with others in an attempt for us all to understand each other. I don’t have fame or popularity to promote my causes. I am involved in the unsavory aspects of mental health: Not Criminally Responsible, the Canadian Criminal Code, Board of Review hearings, courts, police and corrections. Possibly I could let some of this slide if Clara Hughes jumped in but she’s busy on her bike.

I told one individual to “say Hi to everyone on his paper route.” I felt bad that I might be misinterpreted. I have every regard for individuals who support or supplement their income from delivering periodicals. Unfortunately, the 140 characters allocated by Twitter did not allow me to explain my meaning. When I was growing up teenagers delivered newspapers and I was implying that this individual was a child in his thoughts and arguments.

I think it is fair and acceptable that I get a little saucy. I don’t believe that since I was found Not Criminally Responsible that I need to portray something meek and gentle. I am and we all are many things. Part of my point is that I am no different from anyone and I posses characteristics that many and most humans posses. In a way being sarcastic and cheeky is an exercise in illustrating my ordinariness. I grew up with three brothers so I was born and bred to stand up for myself. For years I was unable to do this as I was in jail or hospital. If I had no voice I would be skinnier than I am. I traded barbs with my brothers as an exercise of intellect and debate and it was an ingrained and somewhat socially conditioned form of love. We did not hug each other though we do now. Instead we insulted each other as a form of attention and we found affection, comradery and even respect in its often humourous arms.

The one individual who seemed quite engaged in trying to enrage me gave up when I asked him his real name. He was calling me “champ” in some attempt to belittle me and I told him “my name is Brett and I do not hide.” My full name is attached to my Twitter account. This child was Tweeting from behind his mother’s skirt and when I said to “step up or shut up” he implied that I was threatening him. I reassured him and told him he couldn’t “hide and speak” and that I simply wanted to know if he “was a mouthpiece or a man.” He did not give his name which confirmed he was in fact just a mouthpiece. He was a noise originating from the area of the head but not the brain necessarily.

People were arguing that if Mr. Li misses a dose of his medications he will buy a bus ticket and repeat his actions in some form. Medications are important but only a fraction of the treatment and rehabilitation Not Criminally Responsible individuals receive. Further, these individuals are monitored and know themselves the importance of their medications and the other aspects of their treatment and recovery. In the case of Mr. Li there are a series of supports in place and extended that were not present at the time of the offence.

People think Mr. Li should be locked up forever and worse. Punitive measures do not alter the cause of the offence when the cause is mental illness. Treatment and rehabilitation of the individual with the illness is not only humane and progressive, it is the only successful and logical approach. Mr. Anonymity was trying to argue that all criminals should be medicated and why was Mr. Li so special? Firstly, Mr. Li is not a criminal and secondly they have not discovered medications for greed, stupidity and evil. As you might conclude it was draining attempting to inform such moronity. If I had to do it again I might just walk away as many of these individuals used their opinions as a shield to information. However, some of what I was saying was getting out there and their deflection did not mean I did not reach anyone. I am also pleased that there is a lasting public record of their stupidity. Maybe eventual embarrassment will guide them towards a book.

People were using the grief of those involved as a basis and argument for their hatred, ingrained ignorance and intolerance of people and circumstances they have little basis of knowledge in. People think they are being sensitive to victims and compassionate but compassion isn’t a dart we throw it is a net we cast.

Is London Police Chief Brad Duncan and Mayor Matt Brown A Power Couple?

Posted on February 26, 2015 by brettbatten

Power couples can seem like intimidating forces and can be politically influential. I was following Twitter last night and happened on a few of London Police Chief Brad Duncan’s official Tweets. Apparently he was at the London Club listening to London Mayor Matt Brown’s address. Chief Brad Duncan made several Tweets and relayed information that was flowing from Mayor Matt’s mouth.

It seemed to me that Chief Duncan had already entered retirement and was either freelancing or employed by some local news agency. I think Twitter is a great tool to disseminate information to Londoners but I don’t think it should be any chief’s beat to inform anyone regarding municipal politics, provincial politics or federal politics.

I don’t care if Chief Duncan becomes a reporter or a repairman in his retirement. He can open a Duncan Doughnuts or even pull a few in a parking lot. When Chief Duncan reaches that point he is obliged to relinquish his sidearm, uniform and official Twitter account. If it is illegal to impersonate an officer it is near being unethical for an officer to impersonate a reporter. Possibly the chiefs Tweets are fair, ethical and proper but I would think Mayor Matt Brown and Chief Duncan would be unable to deny that the optics are poor and even the edge of ethical can be problematic.

Literally and figuratively if either the mayor or the police need to be “pulled over”, being too cozy with each other could impair the process and or result in a reduced fine. Considering that Chief Duncan is retiring I do not believe his Tweets or attentions are purely self serving but he is in fact planting seeds for the London Police Force and paving a path for his successor. Further, when the police promote the mayor’s agenda he may be inclined and or obliged to promote the police agenda. Both agenda’s may be good for Londoners but each may result in an increase in taxes or personally impact Londoners in other ways. What if Mayor Matt swallows too many suds? If he and the chief are even optically close or blatantly scratching each others backs it may impair rank and file officers in their duties. Londoners deserve fairness and objectivity not objectives.

If I could make a suggestion to Chief Brad Duncan or any other officer it would be that when in uniform or being official you need to remain on the appropriate side of the police tape. I would call Chief Brad Duncan’s attention to his own official motto. “Deeds Not Words.” Londoners really don’t need another reporter and I would expect that as a chief of police Brad Duncan would have his own reports and reporting to involve himself in.

I don’t care what Chief Duncan does in his spare time but if his hobby is the mayor I would suggest creating a new Twitter account where his name is not preceded by chief and it would be as important that his accompanying picture not include his uniform, hat or any other suggestion of authority. I don’t care if Mayor Matt Brown and Chief Duncan sleep together but when they are in office or acting officially they should keep enough distance so the hanky panky doesn’t screw Londoners.

I assumed the older individuals near me had been blasted by Bryan Adams from their basements throughout the 80’s by their pimple faced offspring

Posted on February 25, 2015 by brettbatten

A fine friend of mine took me to a Bryan Adams concert last night. I can still hear so I might as well speak. I had only been to one other concert in my life about 28 years ago. There were similarities and differences. For one I wasn’t infected with a severe case of Poison Ivy so this concert seemed shorter. People were using their Smartphone lights for ambiance rather than Bic lighters and the distinct smell of marijuana was missing. Possibly it was present but we were surrounded by retirees who may have traded their reefer madness for Robaxin.

When Bryan Adams came on stage over a thousand people with purchased floor seats jumped to their feet and through some sort of herd mentality remained standing for almost 3 hours. All it would have taken was the second row tapping the first on the shoulder to sit down but some mixture of moronity prevented civility and comfort. The event staff could have saved a lot of time by simply stringing numbered ropes to stand behind but I guess you need something to drape your coat over. It was rather pleasant to sit and be entertained and it reminded me of the more civilized hockey games I attend in the same building. I was appreciative of the wisdom that age enables being seated in front of me. I was also spared the indiscriminate use of cell phones and other blinding technology that permeated the seemingly different age bracket found on the floor.

The audience was a complete mixture of generations. I assumed the older individuals near me had been blasted by Bryan Adams from their basements throughout the 80’s by their pimple faced offspring. The individuals who were clearly born less than two decades ago must have happened on their parent’s old vinyl or heard his beat through their mother’s belly buttons. I do not doubt they too enjoy his music for it is somewhat timeless to teenagers and universal in its lyrics and lessons. However, I had my suspicions that they may have been fame magnets and drawn to any stage where they could claim proximity to a public figure.

Bryan ordered us to raise and wave our arms for one song and I felt like a prepubescent princess. It looked cool on the other side of the arena but I felt somewhat uncool. Even when I listened to Bryan Adams in my youth I did not and would not expose my teenage ego to similar potential ridicule.

Bryan picked a woman from the audience to dance on camera to one of his songs. I felt overlooked, ignored and found the gesture somewhat sexist. I can gyrate my hips at least as good if not better and it wasn’t exactly intimate with her remaining in her seat. Needless to say I wasn’t awarded a T-shirt and my private dancer practice was all but wasted. I don’t much like Madonna or Lady Gaga but I expect they might appreciate my gender and gyrations so I have ordered tickets to each on Ticketmaster which I am renaming Dancing with the Stars. Bryan Adams has a slew of hits but in my humble opinion I would have been a bigger one.

To my fine friend I say thank you for the ticket and for applying pressure to my shoulder when Bryan asked for someone to dance with him. It was an enjoyable blast from the past and a re-experience of some of my youthful memories and emotions. Music can be timeless and in this instance I almost forgot I am bald.

Welcome to Canada my friend and thanks for diluting these conservative creeps.

Posted on February 14, 2015 by brettbatten

I have been feeling a little low lately but I have received news that if nothing else has cured my cursed cold. It seems Sun News Network has gone off the air. I guess there was some truth to my mother saying “if you have nothing good to say, don’t say anything at all.” She was probably trying to get me to shut up but she might find peace knowing at least a few conservative morons can be muted.

Ezra Levant apparently “doesn’t know what he’ll do next”, like he ever did. I have some suggestions but my blogs of late have been peppered with profanity so I too shall say nothing at all. According to Ezra Levant he still has “a lot of things to say.” So does a three year old high on Kool-Aid but we don’t let them host their own news program. Ezra Levant seems to have borrowed some of the Prime Ministers skills for mathematics. Ezra Levant thinks “people had a passionate response to the Sun News Network, pro or con, that they didn’t feel for all news channels.” Only a conservative political pundit could project that 8 thousand viewers out of a potential 5.1 million is a passionate response. This goof must have had a honeymoon with every girl that rejected him in high school. With an ability to spin like that no doubt Ezra Levant will replace Stephen Harper’s chief spokesman in another 18 months. For some “reason” or lack thereof the Prime Minister goes through spokespeople like a three legged man goes through underwear. “DAMN! Laureen can you get me another one out of the drawer?”

While I am nursing on news we might want to discuss our disgusting Justice Minister Putrid Peter MacKay. His cronyism knows no bounds. In Nova Scotia it seems one can purchase the position of a judge. I’m not suggesting that Putrid Peter MacKay is being paid directly but then again I am. It seems if you practice law for ten years and make enough of a donation to the Progressive Conservative Association in Nova Scotia, which resembles a tit for Putrid Peter, you too can earn $300 000 per year. It must be like some pension plan you pay into and to me it resembles a construction contract in Quebec.

Putrid Peter will argue that no such unscrupulous appointments are taking place. Being a lawyer he will enter into evidence the best man from his wedding, the best man’s wife and Putrid Peter’s father’s campaign manager. All are now judges. I’m not sure what you call appointing your cronies but it’s a lot like institutional incest. I am officially frightened to travel to Nova Scotia now. I don’t know any MacKay’s and I’m a leftist lunatic. They will probably put me in front of a firing squad for going 80 in a 60 zone. If I’m lucky my fine will be filtered directly into Progressive Conservative coffers.

While we’re on the topic of stupid things conservatives do and say we need to turn to the “Turkey ala King” himself. Stephen Harper is a national nuisance and upon opening his mouth again he has revealed he is the nincompoop of nuance. He is force feeding the country that anyone with a tan or tint is a conspiring jihadist. He wants to be able to stick his nose where it doesn’t belong and root out anyone who doesn’t agree with his cocktail of confusion. It’s not enough to intimidate and audit birdwatchers so now he wants to be able to bust down their doors. Why you ask? Because he thinks he can best display his brand by being the party best suited to defend the nation. It is nothing short of baffling brilliance and strategic stupidity to find Sir Franklin’s centuries past sunken ship in the arctic when in fact we need bullets for barbarians. If this is what the prime minister considers a war measure we are all sunk.

Who wants to go fight anywhere so when you get home he can turn his back on you anyway?

I think we have a problem with ISIS but I don’t think we solve it by becoming anti-Muslim maniacs ourselves. The courts have ruled that signing a citizenship form can be done with a veil or Niqab. I’m not sure why anyone needs to wear a veil but why can’t people eat pork? Because it is part of their belief system which is theirs to cherish and ours to respect and vise versa.

The Prime Minister opposes the court ruling and in defense claims, “This is a society that is transparent, open and where people are equal.” When I hear that man use words like open, transparent and equal I am nauseated by the hypocrisy and I see in front of me the big bad wolf wearing granny’s pajamas. Stephen Harper is about as open as a fossilized clam and as transparent as any of his redacted media releases which usually need subpoenas and official access to information requests. This man’s idea of equality is a special paint job for his airplane while children on federal reservations go without food, medicine and clean water. We didn’t make Diane Finley show her face when she sat in parliament.

I don’t care what your religion is, what you eat, what you believe, what you wear or if you take the citizen oath covered in molasses. Welcome to Canada my friend and thanks for diluting these conservative creeps.

London Elect: You’ll all look swell when you’re sworn in. Thankfully only the mayor will have to pull something over his swollen head.

Posted on October 31, 2014 by brettbatten

I’m a little perturbed by our local politicians. Elected, incumbent and future. As I have stated earlier, I enjoy being alone and I am slightly agoraphobic. I like it out there but I am more at ease between my own walls. That being said or in fact re-said, I don’t often poke my head far from the perimeter of my property. For others it may seem odd but to someone who has spent a few days in cells of confinement, it is endless acres to stride and stretch about 200 feet by 75. I can run a marathon with such dimensions.

This is my present and most thought out excuse for not getting out to meet the candidates. It makes me wonder how many citizens with disabilities that make “getting out to meet the candidate” more difficult than my anxieties, were accommodated in some way?

I hope it happened. It must have. It did! My mistake. It must have been in the small print on the thousands of signs I saw posted about the city. My windows were rolled up when they were shouting and waving from street corners to tell me the number to call if you have political and or municipal concerns you want to share with a candidate but are somehow disadvantaged.

I’m sure the city has accessibility plans for people with disabilities but how many candidates had that as part of their mandate and operating platform?

It does seem a stretch to accommodate someone politically who has a disability. Sure, you’ll pick me up and almost cast my vote for me but what about what I think? What about my ideas? Disabled may be a political disadvantage but it is rarely an intellectual challenge that would preclude being listened to. I know a man who uses a computer to speak and his wit is unquestionable. Did anyone take the time to listen to him? He is a citizen of this city. We can make voting accessible for him but democracy is lopsided when a citizen does not have the opportunity to speak. Asking questions and making your ideas and feelings known is what gives flesh to bone. Maybe my vote won’t count. Maybe my candidate won’t win but if I should be able to voice my ideas and concerns.

It would be a double stretch to accommodate let alone seek out a community advocate. I don’t have enough cash to propel a politician but the sadness is that none of the candidates had enough cents to question my questionable self.

I know many first thoughts will be: “the vanity of this fool.” I won’t argue vanity (though my baldness is a statement in itself) but this fool has been fairly front and center in the London community when it comes to mental health. It wouldn’t be impossible to overlook me but it could be argued that not a single candidate paid much attention to the citizens of London who have or do suffer from serious and persistent mental illness. I think it’s safe to say none were sought out and queried as to how to best serve them on council.

Can this city influence, progress and promote better mental health for its citizens?

I’m a fool for this page so I shall step on my tongue as to how but possibly one of these politicians elect can make up for not considering people who are marginalized and stigmatized; in their political vision.

Catherine Zeta Jones

Posted on October 6, 2014 by brettbatten

An anti-stigma campaign I follow on Twitter sent me a message that “Actress Catherine Zeta Jones has been living with bipolar for several years and rejects any stigma attached to it.” Easy for her to say. It was further Tweeted that Catherine Zeta Jones says there is “no shame in seeking help.” For someone with fame and finances this might even be true.

For Catherine Zeta Jones, mental health stigma and treatment are vastly different from the experiences of many who also suffer from mental illness. For her being open about her diagnosis and experiences is at least unintentional personal publicity. As they say: There is no such thing as bad press. In the case of celebrities a personal persona and public appetite is created and nourished by being a news story. It would appear that Catherine Zeta Jones has thrown herself in front of an oncoming car for the benefit of many but I would argue that the car has already driven by. The lack of blood and guts, spell evidence.

Catherine Zeta Jones is portrayed as some patron saint of bipolar but what has she really risked? Stigma is at a point that it is rarely rolled out for the famous. I am not inferring that there is no such thing as stigma but little if any cuts through fame and favour. Call me cynical but these revelations don’t seem to affect these individuals beyond increasing their brand, public persona and popularity.

If I’m depressed in bed or manic at the mall, am I apt to seek help or find relief in Catherine’s revelations? The rubberneckers look but the rest of us are too busy trying to survive. These celebrities don’t give interviews in their underwear next to dust bunnies; they follow a loose script in their personal libraries in Bermuda. Speaking of which, what meds do I take to find myself in Bermuda with a maid?

I think “Catherine The Great” has been a source of conversation around mental illness but I would argue that her battle with stigma is similar to Don Quixote who mistakes windmills for giants and charges at full speed. My suspicion is that stigma is a word, for Catherine Zeta Jones. For many stigma is no windmill but a true giant. It affects self image, personal and family relationships, employment and status.

When I think about bipolar I don’t envision a person like Catherine Zeta Jones who uses overpriced shoes for bookends because they’re too cute for closets. In my world people with bipolar have their shoes taken away so they can’t asphyxiate themselves with the laces.

I imagine Catherine’s experience with mental illness has been challenging and difficult but in the scheme of things we are talking about First World problems in comparison to Third World problems. Did she have to wait six months to see a psychiatrist? Were the chairs in the waiting room plastic or leather? Did she have to wonder if she could afford her medication? Was she worried about missing work? Did she have to resort to disability assistance to feed herself?

I’m waiting for one of these famous sacrificial lambs to tell us about their hemorrhoids. That experience is the same for us all and if I knew Catherine Zeta Jones used “Preparation H” I could actually hold my head higher at the pharmacy. There’s little fame in swelling so I shall suffer in silence.

Sorry Minnesota

Posted on September 22, 2014 by brettbatten

It is with great sadness that I issue the following apology to Minnesota. Flushing in my case could be considered a felony.

The issue of medications in drinking water has been with us for a decade though some would say “poo, we knew it in the 60’s.” Like every other ignoramus I never thought what I swallowed made it further than the local sewage treatment facility. Apparently, they have pipes leading out of these places as well.

According to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) I am responsible for “widespread neuro-active compounds including antidepressants, anti-seizure compounds (used as mood stabilizers), and mood stabilizers in 24 Minnesota rivers.” My anti-psychotics must be stuck on a rock somewhere.

More than 165 individual pharmaceuticals and personal care products have been identified in water samples. I know I am deflecting but who asked anyone to drink my pee? Note to self, it’s called the hydrologic cycle.

There may come a day when we have to ask our doctors and pharmacists if our prescriptions will interact with water. I can see the little stickers on my containers of pills, “Do Not Take With Water.”

Possibly this news will shine a light on our other activities that we assume have no earthly relevance. Contrary to popular belief the earth is not a toilet that God will flush after we do our thing. It is more so a bubble that we need to consider finite, cyclic and closed. We can keep moving the outhouse but eventually someone is going to step in one of the holes. It will probably be N.I.M.B.Y himself.

The pharmaceutical soup we drink and let fish swim in is creating “intersex” fish, with males developing eggs in their testes. This is not a good thing and may eventually lead to the long term extinction of the “Fillet O Fish” at Mickey D’s which in my short term intestinal opinion might be a good thing.

I know it is selfless but let’s for a moment consider two or three generations down the road of ruin. I long ago suppressed the question of what these pharmaceuticals do to me personally at full strength but as much as I like science experiments I’m not sure I want to find out what they do to fish and infants of any generation in any concentration.

Doctors might be the most alarmed as it won’t be long before prescription pads are obsolete. “Take two glasses of water and call me in the morning.” I too will stick my head in the sand and hope this cocktail will be a cure for cancer rather than a cause.

The CBC tells me that the risk is minimal but also that no one studies it. That sounds like an answer from the Prime Minister himself. We are told the trace amounts found in water are so low compared to a therapeutic dose that there is no cause for worry. So, as long as an unborn fetus is absorbing just a little acetaminophen, codeine, anti-biotics, hormones, steroids, antidepressants, anti-epileptic compounds and dozens of other chemicals we can ignore fish who have eggs instead of sperm. I don’t want to dwell on the past but such idiocy was surely on the lips of scientists before we had a hole in the ozone layer and glaciers became sea levels.

Like all humans I prefer to proactively ignore an issue until it becomes presently problematic but we might want to think about the billions of people who urinate. Researchers have asked whether this cocktail can cause cancer but they have yet to ask about behavioural changes, hormonal changes, reproductive toxicities and immune system compromises.

I consider myself mentally fit but I might be further ahead to filter my own urine so I don’t have to ingest whatever swims in the bladders on my block for which I have never been prescribed. It may also be the socially responsible thing so I don’t deform fish or my neighbour’s cat.

Again, sorry Minnesota.

It’s Not About Bullets, It’s About Bull!

Posted on September 2, 2014 by brettbatten

As a writer one dreams of putting their pen to a national headline with a national news service. I stumbled out of bed yesterday and for a moment I thought I had done just that.

“Stephen Harper takes big words, small stick to NATO summit”

Thank you Terry Milewski. With my foot close to illiteracy others would discount such words coming from me.
I’m not sure how Prime Minister Harper chooses his ministers but it can only be from physical attributes since they lack all others.

“We need a Minister of Science and Technology” says Stephen.

Everyone slides down in their chair as we know conservatives have an aversion to information, knowledge, statistics and studies. Scientists are suspects.

“Worry not children, I don’t expect you to listen to, let alone understand science. Is there anyone in the room who looks like Einstein? Ed Holder; you have glasses and an out of control perm. Fantastic! It says here your background is insurance sales. Fantastic! You must have a knack for convincing people they need unnecessary policies. Hell, you should be Prime Minister.”

“While I’m nominating nincompoops we need a Foreign Minister. Everyone show me their best scowl. Now shout, sweat and wave your hands. Beautiful! John Baird here’s your map. It’s not tainted blue like the ones you’re used to but just keep giving us your ‘ugly’ look and I will feed you with politically provocative phrases.”

John Baird was the first minister no one had to ask to swear on the Bible.

The prime minister and John Baird liken the Russians to Nazi’s all the while doing the Goosestep themselves. People don’t refer to the conservatives as the “boys in short pants” for no reason.

Big Bad Baird tells us “no other government has ‘stood’ up more forcefully and aggressively against the Russian aggression in Ukraine.” Possibly that is the problem itself. We have nitwits like John Baird who can’t order French fries without being forceful and aggressive. Shouldn’t a Minister of Foreign Affairs be a statesman rather than a belligerent statement?

Stephen Harper and John Baird stand proud of their phrases while Greece and Estonia contribute more muscle to NATO than the conservatives. For the conservative government it’s not about bullets it’s about bullshit.

The Conference of Defence Associations (CDA) has different numbers for Canadians. They aren’t trying to get re-elected so their statistics are no doubt suspicious. The CDA concludes that “the Canadian Armed Forces’ operational readiness is dropping, its purchasing power is being eroded, and future military capability is being reduced.”

Do you think Vladimir Putin listens to John Baird’s bull or does he see the same things as the Conference of Defence Associations? I’m sure Putin trembles at photos of the prime minister and his wife on a ship in the arctic. He laughs because it’s one of the few we have.

As Terry Milewski says “if words are needed, Canada stands at the ready.” If this government wants us to consider Russia invading our sovereign arctic, frigates are better ideas than phrases. This government is identical domestically and internationally. They have more sentences than sense.

If Vladimir Putin watches Canadian content he must be convulsing in the Kremlin watching the Three Stooges. If he lived here he would realize its 39 stooges.

Laying Eggs, Lifting Lumber and Other Painful Moments

Posted on August 27, 2014 by brettbatten

I went to visit my mother and step-father today. Being a quadragenarian makes one susceptible to the company of septuagenarians. I don’t know about others but such terms make me feel like something with a pin through its back on a specimen board. Earning my grade 12 diploma in my thirties obliges me to borrow obtuse and pretentious phrases but in my heart I mean forty and seventy.

My mother mentioned she had a couple of errands in town and since I had ingested a meal I felt obliged to assist. Our first stop was a TSC store which is a farm store. I like TSC stores. My roots are rural and I have pleasant memories when I can browse work boots, pellet guns and fencing. Mom wanted to pick up some chicken feed for her several hens. I was there just to check things out but I found myself next to a 50 pound sack of chicken feed. It suddenly became clear why chickens produce more poop than protein. I’m fairly logical and literal and I stood in disbelief at the size of the bag. I was expecting something about the size of an egg carton. If what goes up must come down then it stands to reason that what goes in should come out. Apparently I had failed agricultural arithmetic.

I looked at my mother. I looked at the feed and again looked at my mother. I waited for what seemed like minutes expecting her to grab the bag and get on with it. She didn’t budge. She mentioned that she usually uses one of the carts which were in the vicinity. It was a subtle challenge and I grabbed the bag and awkwardly threw it over my shoulder. It became a bad idea about halfway to the checkout. I struggled with the weight and my legs were wobbling. I bumped into the display of garden seeds and frantically searched for my mother. I have never wanted to pass an object as much since I was running down the football field in high school with fierce athletes on my heels. Like then I was on my own. I suddenly didn’t want to be at TSC. Normally I would be cursing but I kept telling myself there are eggs in butter tarts and biscuits. My mother is an exceptional cook. I wanted to explain she could obtain the same results with store bought eggs but I needed to save what little breath I had.

I made it to the checkout sweating profusely. I wanted to ask the cashier why the damn batteries were near the door but the 50 pound sacks of cat, dog and chicken feed were in the back corner. Fighting back tears of frustration I asked the woman if they guaranteed that my dog would lay eggs if I fed this to her. Not missing a beat she retorted with “not in writing.” It seemed she was trained to deal with difficult customers.

I was spent but we had to make a stop at the local lumber store. I like lumber stores. Trees are one of the few things that smell good when they’re dead. I entered the store without trepidation as I know they have employees who load your larger purchases.

We backed up near the loading bay with our slip of dead tree which is used to inform the yardman that you want more dead tree. I turned the car off and looked at my mother. She didn’t budge. I flung open the door. “Seriously?” “This is ridiculous and repetitive.” I met the yardman with curses on my lips and we nearly ended up with lattice and a bag of cement. I finally sputtered darn board and he clued in and climbed the shelving to fetch some barn board. I couldn’t quite understand why he was making money sliding two boards off a shelf while I had to drag it across the parking lot to the car. I pinched my hand between the boards which sent me off on a tirade. “She probably wants me to cut and nail this crap as well…I’m in hell.”

Joking aside and as lazy as I am there is a degree of defeat in doing favours for my family. I give up on any sense of balance when I look back at all the jail visits and court appearances. I can’t compete with lawyer’s fees, canteen money and a roof over my head. There have been so many meals and forms of love that can’t even be logically listed.

Chickens are like children. We put bags of food into them and usually end up with more crap than accomplishments but love isn’t logical. Like an egg it forms naturally and sustains, fortifies and is often made into something nearly as wonderful as my mother’s butter tarts.

Birthday Beliefs

Posted on August 19, 2014 by brettbatten

I wanted to thank my friends and family for the multitude of birthday wishes I received today mainly through Facebook. It was closer to a baker’s dozen but even the ostracised are prone to projecting popularity.

I received more wishes than on any of my other birthdays which is ironic considering that at 11:48 pm last night I became a Jehovah’s Witness. I was brushing my remaining teeth before bed and the mirror itself was a religious revelation I could not ignore. With hair poking far beyond my nose and much of my receding hairline coating the sink I saw a sudden flash. Possibly it was the bathroom light reflecting from my forehead or off the grey throughout my head and unkempt beard but I fell to my knees and converted. Like Lot’s wife I looked at the mirror and my age become a pillar of salt. I was and always will be 45.

God is good, God is great, thankfully I have a fiancé for I could never find a date.

It feels good to deny my life the opportunity to dip into another decade. I have found the fountain of youth in faith itself. For those who are alarmed at my new religion fear not. I did a little research and my “present” plan is to denounce my denomination on Christmas Eve. As devout as I am I am not stupid. Birthdays can be manipulated to manage my mortality but Christmas is a season of gifts more than Wi-Fi wishes and that I will endure.

All I wanted for my birthday was to sleep in but my “dumb”phone started dinging at 6:30 am to inform me I was 46. I smiled at the first few beeps but they soon conspired to penetrate my late night devotion of denial. “DING…you’re 46” is all I heard all morning. “No, I’m not damn it…I’m a Jehovah’s Witness. You heathens can age but I will not!”

Thanks for the birthday wishes and if any of you are more Jehovah than me I apologize for borrowing your beliefs and fashioning your faith into humour. I’ve already been to hell so save your breath.

The Hands of Hell

Posted on August 9, 2014 by brettbatten

I have had a toothache for a month now and I made the mistake of calling my dentist. The receptionist being part of the torture team gladly fit me in right away. It took everything I had to calmly read the newspaper in the reception room. “Brett?” I suddenly considered a name change. “No, I’m Jack you have me mistaken for someone who wants to be here.” Never make a last minute late afternoon appointment. It was an innocent call that was written on the bill as an emergency procedure. I waited a month but the dentist’s mortgage must be due tomorrow.

I recounted my painful moments from the past several weeks to the dentist never expecting them to be amplified. I thought they were concerned about my sperm count as they immobilized me with their lead blanket. As near as I can tell the blanket is a ruse to make you feel like they are concerned about something.

I could see the x-rays on the computer screen but his keen eye or lean wallet seemed to see a cavity below an old filling, AKA ordeal. Regardless, fillings are easier to put in than take out. Trust me.

“I can’t freeze you locally for this” and he said the freezing has to penetrate the marrow. Frozen with fear I wanted to explain I was there for my teeth not my damn jaw bone. “You won’t feel your tongue so be careful not to bite it. Easier said than done, I thought. I had been biting my tongue ever since his beefy hands entered my mouth.
After he froze me he scurried to a female patient in the next cubicle. I could hear him conning her into several procedures and she was foolish enough to mention that she wanted some work done now that she had insurance coverage. That’s like giving him a blank check in return for a prescription for pain. I didn’t think much more about her; I had my own problems. I’m sure she was regretting her words after he returned to me. She must have been terrified listening to a drill for 45 minutes; I surely was! If I heard anyone having half as much work done I would run home and see what I could accomplish with my own pliers and drill.

He mentioned that I should brush and floss more and I held back from mentioning the dust bunnies next to the computer tower on the floor which did nothing to inspire confidence.

“Is the freezing working?” “Ya, I can’t feel my nipples.”

He and the dental assistant had their own language and referred to things with letters and numbers. I now know that C-68 means the big damn needle. I’m not sure if he hooked his two fingers into the side of my mouth to let more light in or to control me if I actually reacted like I should have. It was bearable until he started reaching for implements of torture somewhere I couldn’t see even though my head and half my body followed him to the far away tray. I’m a tradesman and had I fewer fingers in my mouth I would have recommended a tool pouch like a compassionate carpenter might use, but what’s the fun in that. I’m considering giving up fishing as it is in fact traumatizing to be pulled by the mouth in any direction.

I can understand needing an assistant but surely she doesn’t need to get her paws in my mouth as well. I had two sets of hands which is something like 12 fingers, 2 suction tubes, a drill, a makeup mirror, some laser light that beeped and that sharp pointy steel implement he had no compunction about sticking into my tooth and wiggling my whole head with. This was all infused with something that blew dry air and a jet of water, like make up your mind! I think the first thing they teach dentists is that lips will stretch without tearing.

“You can’t close your mouth from here on.” OK, I nodded, oblivious to his perception of time. He mentioned something about acid and my leg started twitching uncontrollably. Is there not a code word you can come up for something like that?

They kindly let me sit up to choke on spit, tooth filings and irrigation. I coughed on and off for 15 minutes in an attempt to signal my distress at things trickling down my windpipe. They really should have a diagram board with images of choking, unbearable pain or loss of consciousness a patient can point to.

“Chomp, chomp on this. No, chomp harder!” By this point I couldn’t feel my ankles so I had no idea what I was doing with my mouth. I could smell some sort of epoxy. My eyes were closed because dentists seem to need more light than a proctologist but for a few brief moments I thought he might be making a model airplane.

The dentist shook my hand twice when he was done. The first I assumed to be for the small fortune he just made torturing me and the second must have been out of respect for not screaming at what I endured for over an hour.

It was my first visit to the dentist where I came out with a diploma. My fiancé said it’s only a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers. I was still proud. It was like one of those ski hill tags people keep attached to their parka zippers. Look where I’ve been! I wanted to bound into the pharmacist but he’d have thought I was drunk as I deliriously smiled with more saliva than recognizable words. I like my pharmacist. He has a better sense of time and he keeps his hands out of my mouth when he picks my pocket. With him I know the value of 15 minutes. My dentist just keeps saying were almost done which really means its 15 minutes until he says it again. I should take the pills that I paid the pharmacist to count and the dentist to spell but I had a wardrobe change with my first sip of water so I will delay further humiliation.

I don’t mean to whine. It’s a confused sort of pain presently. My neck muscles hurt from extending the opposite direction of my jaw for far too long. All I can smell is ground tooth that has permeated my shirt with the rather large armpit stains.

As painful and traumatizing as a trip to the dentist is, it is good for my health. I’ve been trying to smoke a cigarette for an hour now and I’m finding them difficult to ignite when they fall at my feet. I have a slight tingle in my left nostril so there is hope.

Now that I can feel my tongue I have figured out how dentists get repeat business. I may be simple but if I was building a new tooth I would make it flat so black licorice has no place to anchor. I could lose a Chicken McNugget in the crevice he filled then reground out.

There are lessons in all this. Brushing twice a day is a gamble. Eating candy is a risk not worth taking and toothaches are easier to endure than dentists.

Nocturnal Nuisances

Posted on July 29, 2014 by brettbatten

I started about twelve dozen tomato plants from seed in my basement this winter. They included beefsteak, yellow plumb, cherry tomatoes and more. I gave some to my mother and other dear friends and family whose past patience was more than deserving. My plants have done well and others have reported the same. One friend was foolish enough to agree to a friendly bet about who would have the first ripe tomato. I won a few days ago as I swallowed several cherry tomatoes. (or so the lie went)

As satiated as I am, my tomato growing has turned tragic. My dog was the first to trample stems in pursuit of a toilet. I staked them back up and removed her evidence. About a week later the same area looked like someone had pitched a tent on top of my plants. The dog denied responsibility and I cast blame on the community raccoons. This past week I keep finding rather plump green tomatoes on the back stairs and balcony railing. My dog again denied responsibility as I swung my foot in her direction. “I didn’t leave a damn tomato on the railing, let’s be reasonable,” she seemed to say.

I was awash in disappointment and a danger to be around. A gardener with a grudge. As the blood returned to my face I brandished blame on anything I don’t take to the veterinarian; raccoons, skunks and squirrels. There is a six story walnut tree at the rear of the property. I can only assume the squirrels in the area are afraid of heights as even without my glasses I can see seemingly similar green orbs plentifully scattered among the plethora of walnut branches. If I had a ladder I would pick a bushel of walnuts and pummel the beady-eyed brats anytime they ventured on my veranda.

I haven’t seen any sign of squirrels on my property minus the half eaten tomatoes that make my eyes tear. I attended college to learn about fish and wildlife management, but I must have been absent the day they divulged that these creatures eat green tomatoes. I’m convinced tomatoes are not part of their natural diet and I can only hope they all get the shits.

I don’t mind sharing tomatoes as my friends will confirm but these creatures are clearly uncouth. Do they not realize there are people starving in the world? Even I don’t have the gall to leave half eaten tomatoes strewn about my stairs. It is in fact a health hazard. Some child might ingest one of these chewed morsels or worse, I could slip on one. The jig would be up if I couldn’t water their green gems because of the cast on my leg.
The more disturbed I become the more desperate I get. This morning I checked on the plants that held my prized and largest tomatoes. All were missing. I searched the area for evidence and remnants as even I would need two hands to carry them. They may have swallowed them whole but my suspicion is that these vermin are also responsible for the stolen shopping carts from the neighbourhood grocery store. How else does something that walks on four legs cart off a prize winning tomato? Possibly they have an arrangement with the grocery store manager. “Hey Stan, loan me that shopping cart and this idiot will be forced to purchase your overpriced, tasteless tomatoes.” Squirrels and raccoons can’t talk so I am more inclined to think it is theft. This would also explain why so many of these grocery carts end up in the Thames River. After they ravage my garden they pile in the cart and head for the wastewater outlet from the local brewery. Party animals.

Screw them all! I have started to harvest my tomatoes green. They might be as tasteless as those on the grocery shelves but they are free. The next time these nocturnal nuisances come in my yard with a cart they can fill it with walnuts.

26.2 Miles

Posted on March 6, 2014 by brettbatten

I was reading an article on the popularity of running. I used to run. I started questioning the health benefits when I realized sidewalks are next to roads. It’s exhausting, literally. I gave it up when I rolled over the hood of an automobile making one of those rolling stops. I don’t have a problem with running but I do have a problem running. Cardiovascularly I’m a mess. Thank God for evolution. If I had to chase down my dinner I’d be eating snails. Running doesn’t sit well with my addiction to cigarettes either. Please don’t call me a hypocrite; it’s already on my driver’s licence.

I started thinking about marathons. It seems everyone has a 26.2 sticker on their car. It’s actually dangerous as I am obliged to pass them. I find it a little illogical that people use trains, planes and automobiles to run in a race. It’s like parking lots at health clubs.

Couldn’t we run 13.1 miles from our front door and return with the same admirable time to brag about? Nike would choke without somewhere to dump their advertising shirts and bags but possibly our grandchildren wouldn’t if we left the airplane at home. We could pin a paper towel to our backs with a number and I doubt people would question the validity of the 26.2 sticker. I’m guessing half of them are left from previous vehicle owners anyway. Couldn’t we pretend instead of being pretentious?

The Boston Marathon had just under 27 000 participants in 2013 and they expect 36 000 this April. I couldn’t uncover how many are actually Boston residents but last year 96 countries were represented along with 56 states and territories. I calculated almost 4000 entries from countries outside of the U.S. They included Russia, the United Arab Emirates, Iceland and 209 from Italy. Are there not roads in these strange lands? I’m not sure how to calculate the jet fuel but I can see some of it in the clear blue skies above my home.

Running can be an admirable addiction but when you run until your toenails fall off and you have to tape your nipples so they don’t wear and bleed from your shirt rubbing, I wonder. Maybe I’m just not that healthy.

I realize these events are great for charities but do we need to use trains, planes and automobiles to raise funds for these worthy causes? Couldn’t we use our SMART phones and have a telethon? It sounds like marathon and it may even make more cents. I guess it’s like real estate…location, location, location.

I love marathoners; my brother is one. Thankfully he doesn’t read my blog either.

Touch

Posted on February 10, 2014 by brettbatten

I sat in on a presentation on sexuality among mental health patients. The whole topic is a little like making love to a Porcupine. There are many points to consider. I wasn’t as fortunate as some patients but there was certainly sexuality among us. I can remember smoking and drinking coffee while people rolled on a blanket in front of me kissing. I enjoyed the coffee more. There were certain stairwells that were considered intimate no matter the weather. We were also blessed with a well treed knoll on the hospital property. We called it “Pecker Hill.” Even when I was not well the naming was evident and amusing. I know of one poor individual who didn’t quite make it to the hill and found ecstasy among the long grass not far away but apparently far enough.

We can laugh or shake a finger but I was without an intimate encounter for 7 years. I don’t know about the 7 year itch but I wallowed in the 7 year rash. Had the opportunity presented itself to me I’m not sure I would have made it to the long grass.

The World Health Organization defines sexual health as a state of physical, mental and social well-being in relation to sexuality. Being on a locked ward for me was just that. If my footsteps had boundaries you can imagine the same on my sexuality.

I can remember being on the Forensic Assessment Unit on a vacation from jail. One day I walked by the common area and saw a hairdresser giving a patient a haircut. I was months without a trim and was eager to find out how this all worked. I paced by a few times and finally asked if I needed an appointment or money both of which I was without. I needed neither and when I sat down I was astonished by being touched. Usually you check how much hair is falling on the floor but each time my scalp was touched that’s all I could focus on. All my visits for months were from behind glass and my fellow prisoners were not known for hugging.

If we are placing individuals in situations where touch is unlikely it becomes imperative to introduce a healthy replacement. Some in the psychiatric community are unlikely to encounter touch because of their symptoms and or resulting circumstances.

Part of sexuality is a connection. Consider what it would be like to go for months and years without being touched. Even those of us who have the benefit of touch can recognize its power and importance when we visit a massage therapist. The social, mental and physical benefits can only translate into improved mental health and overall well being.

Segregation; the Hole is deprivation of everything. I was psychotic for most of this deprivation but pulled an important truth from the experience. I had a cheap French/English dictionary in my pillowcase. I wrote a note from the Hole to one of the guards who were bilingual. In choppy French I wrote the following:

“I need love and touch I beg you, more.

I’m not crazy or madness, truly yours

I’m tough and strong angel.

Please mention it nay not what

In any manner that push me by heart and has your friendship; we shake on it.

Please mention it nay not what.”

I Still Think Prime Minister Harper Has Some Mike Duffy On His Tie

Posted on November 3, 2013 by brettbatten

I was in Calgary at the Conservative Convention.

I brought my high tech shot glass to put my ear on the odd door but the volunteers in blue shirts would have none of it. I wasn’t worried about long guns but I retreated quickly as tasers and mental illness don’t mix.

I was blasted by empty words and statements that can’t be argued but add nothing to the truth. The entertainment was a concession. I could clearly see the Teflon Toupee at the piano. At least now I know what the Prime Minister does when people are scheming and cutting checks. “It wasn’t me; I was practicing ‘C.’”

I was expecting the stage and hall to have a European motif. Canadians need to be mindful of the fact that you flew across the world to shake a hand so we would forget the pointing fingers. You can paint a plane but you can’t paint a smile on John Baird’s face and have him shake a hand?

I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this whole convention thing. It worries me that the Prime Minister who answers to few will be taking direction from Conservatives who can see no wrong. The country needs a change of tune but those notes should come from all Canadians not a party faithful. They clap as you hit each key but you need to be careful thinking the audience is representative of Canadians. While conservatives stand, clap and cheer as you dodge each question, the majority of Canadians sit and shake their heads. What is the harm in letting Canadians see the sheet music you march us to? All this “it’s good for the party” is not always for the good of the country. Mr Prime Minister, you may be a Conservative, a Reformer and more but PM shouldn’t mean Please Members.

You can call it politics but please don’t refer to your dealings as democratic. The fact that you have painted yourself as the leader of this government makes it difficult to hear and say otherwise at this point. There is mud on many and it seems illogical if not hysterical to think that there is none on you. You have us fairly convinced that the “vision” is yours. The puppeteer draws attention to self when he starts to cut the strings. Eventually the show is over and the Harper government will be remembered for what it was. Sad.

As an aside:

Stephen Harper’s ex fiance Cynthia Williams is quoted as saying “He’s very honest, and he’s very, very loyal, “You can never question that. If you are somebody that he cares about, he will be there for you.”

It’s not hard to see the ghost writer on this eBook. Loyalty is easy to recognize when you’re not under the bus. To never question loyalty is either slight brain damage or simple brainwashing.

“Many people described him to me as, ‘the reluctant politician.’ He had to be pulled into the job.”

Possibly he had to be pulled into the job because he was meant for a different one. I feel bad for the guy. He really never asked to be there and now he has to deal with Senates and prorogue what can’t swim on its own. For someone who is a reluctant politician Mr. Harper seems to find no contradiction in smear campaigns or hyper control of content and image. I guess you have to ask yourself is he running the country like some guy who was pushed into it or someone who clings to it. I would expect more honesty and openness from someone who isn’t there for themselves. Seriously, if you are there for Canadians it shouldn’t matter if you keep your seat, it should be a day by day honour.

If you really care about Stephen Harper as a person, the only fair thing to do is pull him out of the job.

Seven Geese A Laying

Posted on November 2, 2013 by brettbatten

July 10, 2002

Dear Mom,

I was awakened at 6:30 instead of 7:00 with an angry guard staring at me. One of the guys from my dorm got up for an early cigarette. They smelled it and my consciousness was met with accusations and questions. They didn’t know which one of us it was but they did catch the right guy.

They moved him up to “A” Dorm where they have a window looking out from the office. It’s essentially an observation area so now he’s screwed. I don’t feel too sorry for him. He was starting to smoke in my bed area because I am near the end which best exhausts the smoke. It stunk and he left ashes which is incriminating but also a reminder of my smoking days. He does have a strong addiction. The poor guy chews Nicorete like its jelly beans. He was smoking about five times a day which is considerable in here.

I have actually seen guys use the electrical sockets in the wall to spark toilet paper for a light. Possibly I have a different view of the addiction when I see sparks fly five feet across the room. It’s usually only a matter of time before a person gets caught. This guy is now a bug under a microscope until he figures out another way, possibly during yard.

I saw the geese again this morning for the first time in several weeks. Three weeks ago I enjoyed seeing them, this time it wasn’t so. What has changed in those weeks is that I have been elected as the patio representative. I am in charge of cleaning the goose poop from the pavement. Seven geese can soon make a patio man cry.

Love Brett

Mental Illness Awareness Week

Posted on October 7, 2013 by brettbatten

It is Mental Illness Awareness Week. It’s an opportunity to consider what the world might be like for someone living with mental illness. Awareness is an effort. We can put posters up or paint a bus but if it is viewed from our usual perspective it is paper and paint. We need to recognize that mental illness is illness. Some people believe they are far from mental illness but there are recognizable aspects in many mental illnesses. If you are unfamiliar with depression consider your own moments of sadness and apply that understanding to the situation of those who are familiar with depression. Empathy is not knowing the struggle necessarily, it is simply the recognition of it.

I often find myself pointing out the negative in an attempt to alleviate it. I was at a dinner the other evening. It was in part a fundraiser for mental health care. I was a little out of my element. An hour into this knowledge I found myself in front of enough silverware to confuse an octopus. I prayed not to drop a fork as it would have a specific name unfamiliar to my tongue and mind. I think I made one of those faux pas when I poured my salad dressing from a bowl with two pouring things and a nice spoon. I’m a tradesman at heart and went with efficiency over elegance.

As I said, we were looking for money to make change. I was looking for a couple of friends who were volunteering at the event. The only person in the room I recognized was the retired chief of police. I was hoping he came close enough that I could confide that I believed myself to be the only one among a thousand who had been behind bars. I thought it likely that he was the beacon of this knowledge and could confirm my suspicion.

It was a successful evening and I felt honoured to be included in a room with so many generous people. As I was finishing my meal with my remaining fork I caught a glimpse of one of my friends as she scurried about selling tickets. I saw a sermon. My two friends spend their days applying their knowledge and abilities to further the cause of mental health. Their compassion and fine qualities are revealed by their volunteerism but easily seen in its absence as well. I saw in the glimpse of my friend the many people who do so much for mental health. It would be a lost cause if not for the personal contributions of so many.

I would like to welcome Mental Illness Awareness Week with thanks and gratitude to the many who contribute.

Mental Illness Is Next Semester

Posted on September 17, 2013 by brettbatten

It was brought to my attention from a learned friend that the University here in London has run into some publicity. The University of Western Ontario newspaper, the gazette, published a cartoon with words to the effect “Why are you so happy?” “My brother was really depressed, but he finally hung himself.”

My neighbour hung himself as did his sister. I had a relative commit suicide. Two good friends from my hospital years killed themselves. There were more but I was less familiar with them. Therein lays the problem, familiarity.

I can recall coming out of my 30 hour coma and my brother saying quite the opposite.

One of my first thoughts to this was why this was not considered as offensive as the chants condoning non-consensual sex with a minor that we have come to know through other places of higher learning. Are there actually people on talk shows defending this cartoon and its publication?

The defense of or minimization of this cartoon is in fact stigma. We don’t condone sex with minors but we condone making fun of minors who commits suicide and therefore infer those who have similar thoughts are laughable at best.

I read a comment in response to the cartoon from someone claiming to have suffered from depression. They saw humour in it. It can be a blessing to have depression that does not involve suicidal ideation. It is also a blessing to be on the side of mental health that has you on a message board making opinions. We need to consider the student in her room. The one who although beautiful and bright is unable to see her place, success or happiness in this thing called university. To her friends seem to belong to others and her isolation is found in crowded hallways. This young woman needs our help not our laughter. When she sees a publication representing her peers and the university community in general making light of the very thoughts in her head, she can only hang it in shame. She keeps quite, she masks, she isolates and her wounds become infected by our very words.

Crazy, out of it, best let be, she internalizes our attitudes and they become fuel for an ever unfavourable opinion of self. She becomes slang, she becomes a put down, she becomes a joke.

For those who see no error; no foul, it may be constructive to self reflect. It is possible your attitude of indifference or acceptance is stigma itself. To not be offended about this cartoon raises more questions about the self than about any larger argument. A joke is not funny because someone calls it a joke. If it was a race, a sex or even a sexual orientation, students would have signs about the campus. Mental illness is next semester or an elective at best.

You can call me thin skinned but as likely we have grown thick in apathy. It was only a cartoon, there must be larger fights; maybe so but you have to stop the dog from digging before you can fill in the hole.

There was humour in the underage sex chants, no one meant any harm. A nation said no. An institution said no. If we are to combat one of the worst side effects of mental illness we must again say no.

We can be forgiving of all this. We are all learning, students more so. We need to impress on our students that the pages they write on are empty if not saturated by their humanity and the fine things they already know. To make grades is a worthy aim but if respect, love and compassion are left in lockers they are only ink on a page. We all make mistakes but if compassion, love and respect are woven into them, they can never be called failures.

I drive by the University of Western Ontario most days. Hope walks past my car when I wait at the light. The young men and women I see carry the cures, the solutions and they are being carved to make the decisions that will shape a future that I may reside in and surely my blood. We can be disappointed in what is instilled in a generation but the responsibility belongs to us all. How can we expect our children to have the discretion to not make light of the suffering of an illness when we laugh at the same jokes?

I suspect this news will not hit the funny bone of the roughly 4000 Canadian families who are affected by suicide each year. We can only hope they are too busy running fingers over old photographs to see this story.

It is not my place but it seems to me if resignations were in order at universities where chanting was heard, the same might be in order at a broader distribution of offensive utterances. As a solution to the very stigma they spread, those responsible should step aside. Your peers can only have respect at your active acknowledgement that mental health stigma is wrong; unacceptable.

Lend Me Your Ear

Posted on September 15, 2013 by brettbatten

I was thinking about idioms. Fair game for an idiot. I thought maybe mental health stigma is a series of idioms. We all have little messages floating about in our heads. It could be “a dime a dozen” or “a picture paints a thousand words” but it is as likely to be “schizophrenia equals dangerousness” or “depression is anger turned inwards.”

It’s all nonsense if you shift your perspective. A dime a dozen means easy to get but scarcity can be just as costly. Ten cents for a dozen seeds would seem precious to a man feeding his family. Why do we cling to only the one meaning?

A picture paints a thousand words insinuates the visual is more descriptive than words. As a writer I am biased but I put forward the challenge for any artist to paint what I say with these 600 words. Take your time.

“Schizophrenia equals dangerousness” is statistically false.

And “depression is anger tuned inward” only makes: “happiness is anger turned outward” as true.

We assume the world is full of absolutes as our very bodies swim in flux upon a spinning object.

Impressions and ideas are filtered through knowledge, experience and emotion but we assume it drops cleanly in our laps. Many of our ideas are fouled by knowledge, experience and emotion. It is often only a version. I share my life with a Doberman Pincer. It is usually with me 24 hours a day. If anyone knows her, I do. My favourable opinion of her is clouded by my emotions such as love…I literally kiss the mess. Others see her differently. People sometimes cross the street and I had one couple following us stop in their tracks as she did her business. They could have passed but that would have lessened the distance. Their ideas of a Doberman were filtered through what? A photograph, a movie, TV show or headline? We can stand back and see who is more informed as to what a Doberman is. I have lived with her, taken food from her mouth and had her obey only a motion or noise I make. She is More Bark Than Bite.

Watch a film with a character suffering from schizophrenia next to a real person also afflicted and it all seems like a cartoon. I wonder what is worse, to live with the illness or have a world blind to your humanity and very feelings. You wonder about the idiom and why it is not called a contradiction.

There is a large difference between an idiom and mental health stigma. Only one hurts. Only one bestows suffering upon those who suffer, only one demeans and only one pushes people away. When we see someone with a limp, we notice. When we see someone with mental health symptoms we form opinions and ideas. Pity is replaced with prejudice. We rarely gossip about, point at, laugh at or discount the person with the limp. What slows us from learning that it is offensive to do so with a mental symptom? We must see more than consonants to make sense of a word as we need more than a word to make sense of an idiom. Schizophrenia, depression, bi-polar, OCD or ADHD are not idioms. We are not meant to take meaning from only these single words. They must be linked with descriptors such as son, daughter, aunt, father or sister. These illnesses are deserving of a shift in perspective, they are worthy of more consideration and expanding respect.

I apologize as this was written Against The Clock. It is probably All Greek and like Beating A Dead Horse but we’re All In The Same Boat and are equally vulnerable to having the same Axe To Grind. If I have offended, keep in mind there is a Method To My Madness.

Miley Cyrus

Posted on September 14, 2013 by brettbatten

I sometimes go to YouTube to search a lovely song.

When I see what is popular, it seems something has gone wrong.

Silliness and humour I completely understand.

When I see Miley Cyrus, it’s a little less than grand.

Among the popularity: numbers and views

Children; sons and daughters are given cues.

You twist and suggest, little left to imagination.

Life for the young is often imitation.

Little more than sexual; gaining popularity and fame,

I don’t want my daughter becoming half the same.

She is beautiful, intelligent, kind and caring.

To me at least she has so much more worth sharing.

Let us see you swimming, playing tennis, any kind of sport.

Show the world some modesty not a skirt which covers short.

Let us see you learning and reading from a book.

Intelligence is longer lasting than the places you have us look.

Miley: we like you for your voice and the words from in your heart.

Do the world a favour and cover up from where it is you fart.

Crackerjacks

Posted on August 26, 2013 by brettbatten

When I was in primary school, part of my path was lined with huge old Horse Chestnut trees. Even before they fell to the ground I would stop and see if any nuts were ripe enough to knock down. It mattered not whether I was on my way to school or returning home; I would spend timeless minutes stomping on the prickly fruit, doing my best to expose the smooth, shiny nut within.

In some ways I am still the little boy. Through lessons learned I often watch trees and keep an eye for their fruit. Today it is often a discarded piece of wood for my lathe from something fallen. I don’t fill my pockets with chestnuts but I do carry three or four marbles. I see a similar currency now as I did then. My marbles and chestnuts are worthless but they have purchased hours of amusement for generations.

With my brothers and friends we devised or inherited a game. We would dig a hole in the center of the nut and knot a string through. They became war clubs and we would surrender each to the blows of another. The chestnut that didn’t crack was the victor. Sometimes it was the one laid on the ground and other times it was the one swung downwards. Resilience is a funny thing.

When I see chestnuts as an adult I am still drawn to pull the shiny nut from the prickly shell. Like the Crackerjacks I ate those days; the prize is on the inside.

Justice Minister Peter MacKay

Posted on July 15, 2013 by brettbatten

I would like to welcome Peter MacKay to the position of Justice Minister. What an honour it must be to sit in that seat. Your new position will require less time in military jets but with your good looks you’ll still go far.

I’m not sure if you have been briefed much about your new portfolio so I thought I would take the time and describe your position at least in relation to Bill C-54.

You have made the decision to “not punish” but for sure incarcerate, mentally ill individuals whose delusions result in some yet to be agreed on form of brutality. I agree Peter; three years without any contact with the outside world despite any progress in treatment sounds like not only punishment but in fact a sentence. I only pay lawyers so possibly you could explain to me how you sentence someone who is neither guilty nor innocent? (Send me the bill but don’t forget to claim it.) If a person can be sentenced for being the accused we’re all in trouble.

Don’t worry Peter all you have to do is maintain a vague sense of what mental illness is and what justice is. I sense you’ll do fine. I think your predecessor used crayons to write this Bill. Only a child would kick dirt on someone who has fallen because of an illness or disability.

I have faith in you Peter. I already know you’re the type of person who would fly across the planet to get a feel for the conflict. The conflict is that your political ideology clashes with medical understanding of mental illness and true justice.

P.S. Tell your boss that when he tries to bring democracy to another country he might want to practice a little at home.

Yours truly,

Pierre Poutine

“Shotgun”

Posted on July 7, 2013 by brettbatten

I remember when I was finally transferred from jail to the forensic hospital. As I exited the jail handcuffed and shackled I was at first struck by the open space. Being transferred is usually pleasant and a little like watching a movie. You see and hear things you are unaccustomed to. Green grass or the sound of tires on pavement. There were several jail nurses sitting at a table outside on break. I bowed my head and thanked them. They did what they could.

I climbed into the kennel of the transfer van. It was basically like being a bean stuck to the inside of an empty tin can. I didn’t have much of a view and can recall no landmarks. I knew I was heading to St. Thomas but did not recognize the fact until we parked.

After I left college and my lifelong dream of being a Conservation Officer, I applied to several police forces. At that time there were many more interested in police work than were ever hired. I did have one interview. It was with the St. Thomas Police Force.

I should have been more specific when I prayed to ride in a police vehicle in St. Thomas. I should have specified it was the front seat I was interested in. I’m pretty good at reading people and I sensed that the two officers who transferred me would be unappreciative of me yelling “Shotgun.”

Both Sides of Their Mouths

Posted on February 26, 2013 by brettbatten

I really don’t mean to pick on the conservatives but there is so much wrong with them it’s hard not to stare at the train wreck they consider governing.

This time it is a provincial “leader” who is disguising himself and his party as caring. I don’t disagree with Mr. Hudak’s statements that we need to expand mental health services for our youth or that mental and physical health is equally important. What I find perplexing is the fact that he actually believes he can stand in front of the disaster he and Mike Harris created by cutting health care and mental health services to begin with. It’s like taking a pee on the side of a highway with your back turned. We all know what the hell you’re up to. I may be disillusioned but I am skeptical of what trickles from his mouth today, considering what he did yesterday. It’s a bit like condemning the Klu Klux Klan while slaves pick your cotton. Tim Hudak shouldn’t be issuing statements, he should be issuing apologies.

Maybe Tim Hudak is the man for the job. Who better to “reinvent” the provincial health care system than the one who disassembled it brick by brick? On the other hand builder’s tools are quite different than the wrecking ball. Anyone can knock mortar from bricks but only talent can use it to build.

Despite this idiocy it is nice to see politicians talking about mental health. Just be wary of those that speak from both sides of their mouths; it’s a common birth defect among politicians and exasperated by re-election.

Michael Jackson

Posted on January 5, 2013 by brettbatten

I’m a little slow on the take but I have been informed it is a new year. What the hell does that mean? Longer days and spring on the way? For the impatient and intolerant it may mean migration to warmer climes. For most of us it is a belly full of booze and food and a list of ignorable resolutions.

Why does the sun have to be at a certain point in space to summon the willpower or lack thereof to make changes to our lives? Is it easier to lose weight in January than in June? I might argue it is less so as we cozy up in our dwellings. I for one don’t even try my “Speedo” on in January which for anyone familiar with me would provide sufficient stimulus to do several crunches. I keep a few old outfits which when worn would shock any self-respecting person to purchase, rent, borrow, fabricate or steal a treadmill. This time of year the beach is so far from my mind that I am oblivious that I undo my pants anytime I am not in public. I am not a closet exhibitionist by choice…I only own one pair of stretch jeans!

I am inspired by the many joggers I see this time of year. I honk encouragement which is a subtle disguise for my theory that I will never see them again despite their new shoes and insulated spandex. I may be jaded. What resolutions do people make where it is seasonably warm? They live with the horror of being called on at anytime to wear a bikini.

As my partner who is ironically a personal trainer points out, there is no shortcut to symmetry. Symmetry? I just want to do my pants up! I just want to pull the seat-belt in one smooth motion without it locking up at the point where a fit person fits. I just want to be able to utter complete sentences at the top of the stairs.

Please tell me how to keep a resolution. I think my problem is I have “nervous” habits. No, I don’t bite my nails or bang my head but it’s the damn “Speedo.” If you saw me in it you would be nervous too. It’s a bit like Michael Jackson showing the world his baby. There is a bit of beauty but all you want to do is scream.

Happy New Year!

20% off

Posted on November 15, 2012 by brettbatten

I was at an auction today. I was standing in line to pay for my purchases – deals really. I had a good look at what other people bought. I saw boxes with puzzles and posters, dishes and trinkets, crappy art (though who am I to say) old chairs and barbeques I wouldn’t boil water on. One man’s junk is another’s treasure but I saw no treasure.

It became apparent to me that if one can purchase something for less than it might usually go for we gladly throw money and pee our pants all the way home until we are faced with the reality of where to put everything. Isn’t our world based on getting something for less? I can’t think of much that doesn’t come on “sale”. Aren’t we all drawn to 20% or even 50% off? If someone or something tells us we are getting away with more for less we take it; on credit no less. We borrow money to buy something that has seemingly lost some of its value.

I have three days worth of dog poop in my backyard. It’s a door crasher, 75% off; early bird special and while quantities last. Products may not be exactly as shown. Seriously, I’m giving this shit away! I imported it and be damned, I’m taking a loss on this product because I’m a caring capitalist- we’re rampant, just check your flyers.

I Quit

Posted on October 19, 2012 by brettbatten

I suspect there are a multitude of reasons and excuses for being sporadic with a blog. Mine usually have to do with inspiration. I’m not always moved to write. My other monthly reason is quitting smoking. Without fail each attempt leaves me in bed struggling for consciousness. I am unsure if there is something beyond nicotine withdrawal as I am on several medications but food or friends fail to rouse me.

Typically I tire of being tired and use that as my first excuse to purchase another pack. I suddenly find myself with 25 reasons to keep the covers pulled back.

I have had a little more success this time though I am reluctant to claim victory over a long held habit. My usual scenario is a day or two in bed with a quick trip to the corner variety store for my cure to sleep. Miraculously I rise from my bed and sit in a chair on my balcony with smoke circling my head. I may not have the best perspective but this seems like progress. I have restrained myself from this small failing so far but it has been a struggle. I got out of bed today to vacuum up the dog and cat that lay scattered throughout the house but the vacuum was in danger. It conspired with its cord, corners and walls to not follow my intentions and came close to being broken further.

I use an empty kidney bean can for an ashtray outside on the balcony. Unfortunately we have had several days of rain and none of my butts are of any value. I took a decent one and held my lighter to it in an attempt to dry it out. If they weren’t so fragile I would have wrung it out first for better success. I put a few in the microwave for which I have paid dearly. Everything I have warmed in the last two days tastes like a cigarette minus the nicotine. There is no value to a cinnamon roll that tastes like tobacco.

I do have nicotine gum when I remember to chew it. I’m pretty sure I can chew and suck all the nicotine from a piece in under a minute. I swallow each piece as I am sure this is the only way to replenish what has seeped from my bones.

When I drive I have to restrain myself from pulling up to the people I can see smoking and offering two bucks for a smoke. I’m sure I could get one for free but I figure being accosted has a price.

I have been told exercise helps and as soon as the rain stops I intend to take my dog for a walk downtown with a baggie. I could care less if she poops on the sidewalk but I’ll be damned if I will pass by any juicy cigarette butts.

I’m Thankful I Can Sit in the Front Seat When I Go Places

Posted on October 9, 2012 by brettbatten

Happy Belated Thanksgiving (or happy ordinary day in the States)

This gratitude list is probably not like most you may encounter on the internet about this time. My list is in part hopefully just like yours. These may differ.

I’m thankful for daylight all day instead of the fifteen minutes at yard.

I’m thankful I can turn the lights off and on when I need.

I’m thankful I can eat with more than a spoon.

I’m thankful I can walk outside in every direction for as far as I like.

I’m thankful I can see trees and squirrels and traffic and birds and buildings and on and on.

I’m thankful I can dress in whatever I dare to choose.

I’m thankful I can eat mostly what I like instead of whatever they plop on the tray.

I’m thankful I can see and touch my family and friends whenever we choose.

I’m thankful I can experience hot and cold outside of the shower.

I’m thankful I can live with my pets.

I’m thankful I have control over the noise I experience.

I’m thankful I can eat when I’m hungry instead of by a clock.

I’m thankful I can communicate beyond a letter and stamp and without someone reading it first.

I’m thankful I can sit on comfortable furniture.

I’m thankful I have as much privacy as I need and want.

I’m thankful I can vote and enroll.

I’m thankful I can choose the channel on my TV.

I’m thankful there is a door on my bathroom.

I’m thankful I can brew real coffee.

I’m thankful my shoes have laces.

I’m thankful I can access my bed and pillow without someone’s command and key.

I’m thankful I can wear a watch or any form of decoration or declaration.

I’m thankful I can play cards for fun instead of to pass time.

I’m thankful I don’t have to live with 20 other people.

I’m thankful there are no video cameras surveilling me when I walk from the kitchen to the bathroom.

I’m thankful I’m not locked in a space where violence is probable.

I’m thankful I don’t have to wait to use the phone or for my medication.

I’m thankful my toilet has a seat and my toilet paper is two ply.

I’m thankful my juice doesn’t come in a foil topped cup.

I’m thankful I can see and manipulate my food before it is cooked.

I’m thankful I don’t have to rely as much on memories.

I’m thankful getting out of bed doesn’t involve the person on the bunk below.

I’m thankful the uniforms I encounter are from Tim Horton’s

I’m thankful that when I go beyond the walls of my home I am not handcuffed or shackled.

I’m thankful people don’t work shifts to watch me.

I’m thankful I can sleep with someone in my bed and my dog beside it.

I’m thankful I have a door people can knock on.

I’m thankful I don’t have to sign in and out or carry a notebook to record where I am.

I’m thankful anniversaries don’t involve the Ontario Review Board.

I’m thankful I can sit in the front seat when I go places.

I’m thankful you finished reading my thankful list.

The Year is 2012

Posted on October 8, 2012 by brettbatten

I am my ideal body weight so I must be ideal.

We shop at “Forever 21” because no one wants to be 12 any more than they want to be 40.

We consider baldness bad unless it is self inflicted in which case it’s hip.

We are born with breasts, yet we buy them.

We throw away our boots because all of a sudden it’s fashionable to wear something a rattlesnake would pop a vertebrae trying to bite above.

We leave factory stickers on hats because some popular hipster was too lazy to pull them off.

We build houses with 3 garages and 4 bathrooms for two cars and three rectums.

We have walk in closets but never step foot in our neighbour’s living room.

We wear clothes emblazoned with the name of the school, store or business we purchase from without credit for advertising.

We pull out carpets and counter-tops so we can rip oak and granite from the earth.

We wet ourselves when we see Justin Bieber on the street while we pass each other by without a nod with ear buds blaring “Baby”.

We have 40 flavours of salad dressing while billions don’t have two carrots to rub together.

We gel, spray, condition, tease, curl, shampoo and massage something that is dead while our partners live and breath next to us without notice.

We build cars that can go over 200 kilometers per hour weather permitting.

We look up to sports, MTV and Hollywood stars but fail to notice the real ones.

We drill wells for oil but seldom water.

We practice democracy on American Idol but fail to notice it’s demise elsewhere.

We have at least seven banks you can cash a cheque at and only one for food.

Only the crap you don’t need comes on sale.

Why is my surface considered my substance?

The Digger

Posted on September 29, 2012 by brettbatten

This piece was written while I was in solitary confinement; the Hole. If they wanted to threaten you, the Hole was referred to as the Digger. Many found any time spent here to be excruciating. In my psychosis I made peace with some of my time there.

I don’t look at what’s behind me in here, it’s just my ass. Most would not understand what I find entertaining in here. It is essentially everything. When they unlock my food slot a whole new world opens up for me. I can see light and hear things I am usually deprived of. I’m quite certain no one knows I’m here. I am unimpressed with the jail postcards. What parent doesn’t long for a glossy photo of their child in handcuffs or shackles? If this were an amusement park I could put my head in various cut outs. My friends would be amused to see my head poking out of the stocks or writhing at the whipping post. The Hole is visually boring, oh the good old days. It might be fun to have a cut-out of the Warden with his arm about my shoulder. If I wasn’t alone I might rally the others into forming a sculpture of the Warden at yard. We could pose in front of him or hang from his flabby jowls.

His rules are simple and we laugh at the comfort they provide. Without my mattress during the day I might not appreciate her at night. You devise ways to break me without knowing me. You expect me to pound on this door and beg for release but if I can’t be alone there is little hope for me. Dear Digger you complete me.

Brett Batten

Author. Advocate. Educator

Category Archives: Humour