Inflation

Inflation in the US and Canada as illustrated by the cost of a Big Mac:

I remember a friend of mine ate 15 Big Macs on a dare and a bet way back in 1976. The cost was 49 cents per. He did it. We called him Big Max after that.

In 2025?

One-U.S. Dollar bill, front Stock Photo: 61910413 - Alamy               =              Beggar Stock Illustrations – 6,420 Beggar Stock Illustrations, Vectors & Clipart - Dreamstime. Can’t afford a “Big Mack” but

“Hey buddy, do you have any climate change??? Hmmm? Or Bit Coins???”


My continued book pick of the month, although I may be biased.

I Thought I’d Died and Gone To Heaven

An irreverent look at growing up in a parochial, conservative environment in pre-woke era Toronto of the 1950s and 60s.

Just click on “Buy on Amazon” to purchase on line. You can also get this book in audio format. Go to Amazon.ca (Canada) or Amazon.com (US Residents) and type in audible and the book title.

A great memoir. Real cheap.

An excerpt:

“I ONCE KNEW A GUY, a very close friend of mine at the time,
who ate fifteen Big Macs at one sitting. It occurred very late at
night after an evening of drinking and debauchery. It was a small
bet to start with to see how far he could go as he loved Big Macs,
but the challenge progressed nonsensically as we kept egging
him on. Great fun! He did it although he was a wee bit pale at the
end of it all.

Those were carefree days, as all days are carefree when you
are young. And those burgs only cost forty-nine cents each back
then. Not too sure if he ever touched another one after that
though. I do think that he is a vegan today. I can still see in my mind’s feeble eye this same guy being dragged down a set of stairs by his shirt collar by a tall buxom blonde Norwegian gal who truly was an Amazon Olympian at
six feet and some. Very athletic and, as my friend told it later the
next day, very ambidextrous, triple-jointed.

This blatant kidnapping occurred at a country and western
club that we called the “Hug and Slug”—a colloquial term for
the Army, Navy and Air Force Club, so called by all the
WESTPAC Widows that frequented this abode. An appropriate
name, I can tell you. WESTPAC Widows were those women
married to sailors who were deployed from home in the Western
Pacific operating areas for very long periods of time. To normalize,
these widows would frequent this country and western bar
every Friday and Saturday night for a bit of dancing fun and then
some. And we, being the young and restless lads that we were—
naïve, thank God, and wet behind the ears—were navy recruits
who were alone from home for the very first time and were
delighted to provide the required entertainment, for we yearned
for motherly comfort. This was also a time when very long hair
was the fashionable norm so we, with our newbie brushed and
navy white-walled haircuts, were social outcasts, as the saying
goes, especially at the bars, the discos, and the dance halls of this
parochial port town. Yes we would tempt our fate from time to
time and test our sense of belonging and manhood at these
discotheques, but after striking out early we would all head down
to the ole “Hug and Slug” to test the waters. It never disappointed.

Country and western clubs are extremely down to earth,
value oriented, and patriotic, old-fashioned, but all-welcoming
fun. We would end up having a great time there to the wee hours
dancing with these widows to such memorable tunes as “All My
Ex’s Live in Texas” by George Strait. Or the equally memorable
and nostalgic “Ten Tall Beers with a Shooter of Whiskey Is All It
Took.” Great stuff! A good time was had by all, for these women
could not have cared less about our appearance. As long as we
had some hair on the top of our heads, that was all that mattered.
And my friend? Battered and bruised by the pounding he took on
those stairs and helpless as he was, he had a very big smile on his
face for he knew his fate. She wore a determined and predatory
look if I ever saw one and was, as I recall, entirely attuned to her
prey and purring, “You’re coming home with me, sonny boy.”
“Oooooookay!” he whimpered. To us, “See ya!”


Taylor Swift, Beyonce, Bieber et al? Eat your musical hearts out.

“Please dear Lord, let’s float into space.”

 

“Please dear Lord, hear my prayer.”

Shakeyjay out of sight, out of mind and out of here. Have a great non political day.

 

 

 

 

 

My Values

Money for nothing and your kicks for free. I heard that this band was in dire straits but they seem to be doing okay to me.

Prayer for the weak:

Lord, today’s music sucks. Please take Bieber, Beyonce and Swift and give us another British like music invasion. Hey, we’ll even take one from Canada. Please dear Lord hear my prayer.


I keep reading or hearing about some guy here in Canada that wrote a book called Value(s). Interestingly boring I am told. Well here is my take on values:

“Take the word value… please. How I hate this word. There
are so many variations to the theme that surround this word that
any smart-minded non-English-speaking immigrant to our
country would think twice about trying to learn or understand the
English language. For example, an individual or group’s perception
of worth, based upon personal or collective experiences in a
shared environment can only define or measure value. Value is
illusive, as there are more perceptions of value out there are there
are cars on the road. Let me try to exemplify exactly what I mean here:

In 2005, I picked up my dear ole mother’s car: a 1979
Mercury Zephyr, something akin to a Falcon or Fairmont—Ford
only knows. My mother could not drive anymore. She was
ninety-one, for heaven’s sake. The car had about 56,000 kilometers
on the O.D. Mint condition! Lime green with a sickly,
yellowed tan interior. Now the market value of that car in 1979 was $6,500.
Twenty-six years later the book value was about zilch. The
insured value—who knows, but the assessed value was about
$3,000 and climbing, as long as it didn’t disintegrate during the
long hard winters. Its value would continue to rise in value as
long as its condition remains, well, valuable.

Obviously my mother had considerable sentimental value for
that automobile. As I pulled away from the big city for the drive
back to my hometown, I came to understand the hereditary value
of this gift to me and the intrinsic value of the trust she placed in
me to take good care of Betsy.

I made it back home in one piece although the water pump
went out around some godforsaken country hick town.
Between that and thinking about the local Elvis sightings, I
was beginning to ponder the meaning of life and the mechanical
value of the car, the emotional value that this machine may
have had, and its effect on my own sense of value and
well-being.

Arriving home I thought about its economical value as it had
taken over a tank of gas to cover the three hundred miles from
the really big city to my hometown. Had I been taken for a ride?
Were there aspects of this car that were known only to my
mother, the parish priest, her hairdresser, and the bagger at her
local supermarket? I had to contemplate its utility value considering
the other two cars I had. Yet, thinking of my dear ole mother and somewhat excited about the possibility of getting perhaps $3,000 for the car’s
assessed value, I thought hmmm, but quickly shook any thought
of that out of my mind, for if I valued my life I dared not even
think about selling dear ole Betsy.

Trying to define value can be problematic, which in itself is
an extremely overused word. It’s like common sense. Something
that is taken for granted yet is extremely rare in today’s world.
And trying to make sense out of value—as in “What are your
values?” as opposed to someone else’s values—is like an academia
nut trying to make sense out of common sense and coming
up with pure nonsense.”

Taken from:

I Thought I’d Died and Gone To Heaven

An irreverent look at growing up in a parochial, conservative environment in pre-woke era Toronto of the 1950s and 60s.

Just click on “Buy on Amazon” to purchase on line. You can also get this book in audio format. Go to Amazon.ca (Canada) or Amazon.com (US Residents) and type in audible and the book title.

Real cheap. Buy one and support a struggling Canadian author.


Shakeyjay is out of sight, out of mind and out of here.