Flash Flude

Doesn't 'flood' look as though it should be pronounced 'flude'?
...It doesn't?
Whatever. I'm not changing it.
My dad says 'matt-rass' instead of mattress.

He Shouts Back

This is for any doubters that are still out there:
Alright. It's boxing day. We are loaded. We are in Kelly's Landing.
For this is tradition.
We always get an apple at the bottom of our stocking on Christmas day. Because our parents received apples in their stockings, and at that time it was a big deal.
Then we have to place them on our heads as our parents throw beer bottles at us.
Empties, mind you.
'William Tell' mom calls it.
Dad doesn't speak when we are in the room.
So I'm not sure what he refers to it as.
So, we have two Christmas traditions.
And now you know.
Anyway, I'm spotlight stealing.
Kelly's. Everyone's drunk.
It's the middle of a bar. I'm shouting to speak with him.
I'm not altering a word of this, I swear.
Me: "Do you know how much beer is?"
Bussey: "No, but I know who Howard Hesseman is."
Me: "What?"
Bussey: "He was on Head of the Class. And WKRP in Cincinnati. He was Dr. Johnny Fever."
So, I immediately tell Peter.
Me: "...and then he says, 'No, but I know who Howard Hesseman is.'"
Peter: "Who?"
Bussey: "Dr. Johnny Fever?"

The Snug & The Restless

I am wearing two variations of plaid.
I have no idea how much I slept last night.
A maximum of seven hours, but I believe it may have been far less than that amount.
I have sleeping issues.
I don't do well with heights, either.
Colin woke me to shovel.
Contemplate for a moment the experience of being (violently) shaken awake so that you can immediately lift amounts of snow with an over-exagerated plastic spoon.
With a wooden handle.
How good could this day possibly be?
Marie is in town.
So, possibly quite good.
If she's on.
I'm not on.
Because I have no idea how much I slept last night.

Far From the Tree

And I wonder where the sarcasm comes from...
My mother said this during lunch:
"Everything's regulated to death these days; you can't even beat your children anymore."
I immediately write this down.
My mother asks what I'm writing and I tell her.
Then she says, "Don't tell anyone I said that, they'll think I beat you. I probably should have, but I never."
This is just one day after being back in the house with them.
Who knows how many more gems of widom they'll bestow before New Year's?

Commanding Miracles

It's like the parents are the peasantry.
And their kids are mighty warlords who eat the flesh of others.
Why else would one be so afraid of the other?
I do bask in my cynicism from time to time, sure, but try this out:
I'm in Starbucks.
I'm sitting in this cultural trend when I hear a commotion, stage left. I look.
There's a little girl - she's maybe four.
And she's on the floor, sitting in the entrance of the building.
Right in front of the security beacon things ('He took a french press, get him!').
She's saying in her kid-pissy voice (you know how they get), "No! I'm not ready to go yet!"
Guess she wanted another grande vanilla chai latte (I can't make the little hat over the 'e').
Which I can understand; I can never have just one either.
And the mother is hunched down to the kid's level, and she's reasoning with her.
"But it's time to go," and these sorts of witticisms.
So, now there are two people blocking the doorway.
One who is socially permitted to be irrational, and another who must be a dental assistant.
Ouch. Below the belt.
Apologies to any dental assistants who are reading this.
And are able to keep up.
I see scenes like this and I wish that all mothers were like my mother.
The kid weighs 35 pounds.
Why are you holding up traffic?
If this was me when I was four, my mother would have leaned real close to me and said, ever so softly, "You get up off of that floor, now."
She didn't need to shout.
She sure as fuck didn't reason.
She didn't negotiate.
And if she said that in her tone, it was psychologically equivalent to taking a switchblade and lightly grazing it over my cheek.
Parents are such gutless turds these days.

Double Axe Handle or Don't Try This At Home

I helped Shandera move on Saturday.
Myself and Peter Russell.
This equals a conglomeration of dufuses who have known one another for too long.
I have seen Peter Russell's penis on multiple occasions.
Robert's as well.
Knowing men for the better part of your life does, however, afford certain oppurtunities.
So, it is still early on in the moving process.
A great deal of time before dismantling the hide-a-bed.
Robert is busying himself with something.
Peter and I are standing about, awaiting command.
Peter picks up a metal folding chair.
The sort that they use in wrestling matches on the television screen.
You get me? Okay.
Now, Peter's holding this chair.
And I'm watching him, discreetely, from the corner of my eye.
You have to watch Peter because who knows what he may do.
How do you think I've seen his penis so many times?
Anyway, he's holding the chair at arm's length in front of him, a leg in each hand.
This is where our knowing one another comes into play.
I know what he's going to do before he does it.
I continue to watch.
He scrutinizes the chair.
He hefts it in his hands, empirically judging the weight of it.
Then he hits himself in the face with it.
Now, his intention is to hit his brow, which is firm and resilient.
However, he accidently hits the bridge of his nose.
He then immediately doubles over, while holding both hands to his nasal cavity.
For the mother hens who say that wrestling is poor viewing for children, this is a point for their side.

A Slash in the Pan

I'm watching videos of November Rain performed live by Guns 'n Roses some ten years ago.
Simply because the mood struck me.
It hasn't struck you?
Perhaps you're not dwelling on the girls of your junior high dance days often enough.
Whassthat?
The girls would never dance with you during your junior high dance days?
Me neither.
But that song has like...three kickass solos in it.

Here's the clip. 
And yes, Slash climbs onto the piano in this one.

Conception Contention

When you own your own house, you have to collect items that you would never otherwise search for.
I went with Robert to Canadian Tire today.
Robert has a new house. And a new Black Lab (the bastard).
He had to buy the following items:

• a clothes dryer hose clamp
• smoke detectors
• a doorknob (with deadbolt)
• a basic phone for the kitchen
• little brackety hooks for hanging pictures

The idea that I may have to go shopping for the same items some day makes me want to live off of the land.
Then again, perhaps it's worth it for the sake of having a dog.
They say childbirth is a miracle.
That's the thing these days.
You have sex a few times.
Sperm swims to the egg, there. Well, I'm sure you all had Mr. Galloway's pop-up sex book to teach you these things as I did in grade six.
You've been on safari.
I don't need to tell you.
So, the sperm gets to the egg.
Missionary. Magical.
Incubation.
You rush to the hospital, shoot out a miracle, (probably) tack a stupid name onto it, and bring it home.
I'm into starting families.
'What a bitter slut, he is.'
No, I get it. I'll be tacking stupid names to little bald children myself.
But a miracle?
Come on.
Have you seen March of the Penguins?
I tried finding another animal, by the way.
So as to make this argument less mainstream.
I searched for gazelle reproduction. Whale shark. Storks (because of the fun duality between stork and human babies). Rabbits.
I had trouble finding anything concrete.
Mostly I found scientific periodicals.
I'm not dedicated enough to you people to read scientific periodicals - let's just get that out in the open.
So, here we are:
Male Emperor Penguins.
Travel for 90 kilometers in -40 degree weather.
Have you seen a penguin move around? Do you have any idea how long that would take?
They search out a female penguin that they're into.
They bone. Missionary.
Incubate.
Toss out an egg a few months later. The mother is so taxed from the delivery she immediately has to enter the sea to eat.
She won't see her wee chick for an entire season, and will then have to pinpoint her offspring amongst a whole Chili Pepper's concert worth of penguins.
The male has to hike back with the egg in his little pouch, until it hatches 65 days later.
He can't eat the entire time, by the way.
And between the two parents there isn't a single thumb.
We use drugs.
Stirrups.
Surgical implements.
The mother is coached, months prior, on how to inhale and exhale at showtime.
There is a team dedicated to the big moment.
There is a person designated to hold a warm, soft blanket to immediately wrap the baby in as soon as the infant is massaged out of the mother.
If that's a miracle, penguins are messiahs of a whole other caliber.

Standup Washout

Never watch this film.
And for future reference, if you pick up a stand-up DVD that you might consider watching, and it's from 15 years ago, and none of the names are familiar, put it down.
The names are unfamiliar because these men are all drunk in a ditch somewhere.

I would very much like to speak with this man.
For saying things like:
"I don't even know what a yeast infection is. I saw it on the TV and it startled me. I figured I'd work it into my act somehow."
Choke on this:



You may have seen him before.
I love it when the Canadians are funny.
Makes me want to shop in Roots stores.

it's funny cause it's a song

Also last night.
Colin is channel surfing.
The AMC is showing some movie that involves Jack Nicholson in his underwear, as well as some other people.
We're trying to guess the actors because the film is quite old.
There's a woman wearing a bra.
Colin speculates, "I believe that's what's her name from All in the Family."
Now, I know he's referring to Sally Struthers.
I choose to pretend that I believe he is referring to Edith Bunker.
This is because I purposefully try to be difficult with my brothers sometimes.
It's a defense mechanism.
However, I despise the show, and therefore forget that her name is Edith Bunker.
Instead, I think that her name is Alice.
So, (to recap) Colin says, "I believe that's what's her name from All in the Family."
I say, "Alice?"
He says, "Alice...Alice? (dawns on him) Who the fuck is Alice?"
And we laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

We're Off to Flee the Blizzard

I just woke up.
I was awakened earlier by the sound of intense, pouring rain coupled with severe and terrifying wind.
Because this province is actually uninhabitable, but no one who lives here is willing to give up on it.
I'm thinking of working Newfoundland's abusive weather into 'the act'.
It's clicheed (I can't make the little hat over the 'e'), sure, but I feel compelled just the same.
When mothers are sending the children to school through second-story windows, all you can do is laugh.
For example, Colin and I are speaking to one another last night.
Shooting the whadya call it? Shit.
We've unintentionally left the weather network on.
I'm glancing it out of the corner of mine eye.
Now, the red screen of bad news has been flashing for the better part of the day.
This is always an unfortunate screen to see if you have any plans that involve going outside within the next few days.
So, the weatherman, who is muted, mind you, is waving his hands around our wee island's general area.
He's saying things.
There are low pressure systems being displayed behind him.
Then, this is what he does:
He goes off-screen.
He comes back, holding a meter stick
He points out a line three-qaurters of the way up the meter stick.
Then he points at the Avalon Peninsula.

It was the Irish, you see.
They came here first.
And they were running away from a place that was accustomed to hardship.
(Ireland).
And that's why we're all here.
It's also the reason why all Newfoundland cuisine involves boiling things in a big pot.

"This one's for all the ladies out there..."

This one's for two females.
One whom I want to sleep with (more often).
The other whom I want to shoot out of a canon (into a net).

I wanted to put this on your mixtape, but didn't.
Now I sorta wish I had.

"Do you hear what I hear?"

Turpin: I just want someone to like me for my tits.
Me: I like you for your tits.

Anyan everyone.
Viewing Turpin's blog, and seeing what a busy little animal trainer she has been, makes me feel guilty about not crooning over my own little blog faetus.
You heard me.
Also, the picture of me during my evening of being painted on by the stippers (you'll know the one) always makes me feel like I should be doing something productive with my life.

During our doomed comedy show, the dinner, specifically, Tim mentioned 'The Croup', which is an old person term I haven't heard in eons.
My nan always feared the croup, for all our sakes.

Maybe two weeks ago?
Colin and I are sitting in his room.
Me: "Shit, I think I turned on the shower and left it running."
Our bathtub drains extremely poorly because my hair is thick and obstructive.
Colin: "Well, go check."
Me: "No, no. Then I'd have to get up. Just turn down the TV and listen harder."

Another reason he's alright to live with:
"That's one thing I hates about being older; I don't drink as much as I'd like to."
He owns a hip flask. He intends to fill it with something this weekend.
Likely something with alcohol in it.

I'm thinking of immitating, as closely as I can manage, a cat falling asleep the next time I'm on stage.
Because I think it looks really funny.

Family Guy is crashing and burning. No one will watch it within a year or two.
I stopped watching it a while ago.
It's not funny, everybody.
As you start to accept it, everything just feels better.

Pillow Talk

I'm doing some comedy tonight for the staff of some gym.
Which is funny in and of itself.
I lived with a personal trainer for a few months.
Francis.
He took me to the Rimrock gym and taught me all sorts of lifting...drills? Whatever.
I never went back.
I couldn't lift things from my sides very well. I had to use the 3-ounce weights, or some such quantity.
The smallest ones.
The weights that look as though they were designed for a joke.
I'm a joke.
I've shaved a man's back before.
Francis'.

Francis was one of those guys who was crazy about having an impecable bed setup.
He'd stolen hundreds of dollars worth of hotel linens (closer to thousands, probably).
And he'd lay there, looking at the ceiling as I played video games on the other side of the armoires.
And out of nowhere he'd just say, "...My bed is wicked."
He didn't even require an answer from me.
He just had to say it.

Blind leading the Blind

Maybe it runs in the business...
After the show.
Tim and I are in the parking lot.
"It's a red Civic. I thought I parked around here."
"Is that it?"
"No, that one has a K-Rock sticker in the back. Mine doesn't have a K-Rock sticker."
We circle the parking lot.
Twice.
"Oh wait. This is it!"
It's the car I just mentioned.
I'm thinking to myself, "Oh God, don't tell me you're like it too."
"...There's no K-Rock sticker in the back window."
"Yeah, I guess not. I thought I saw one. Where do you live?"

"Is this thing-" "-Pussy! Har har har!" "...on?"

My dear readers. I've missed you. No bullshit.
But enough about you.
With only one exam remaining, to be written some days from now, in which I have the exam questions already, in a course being taught by a professor who loves me, I am back.
My sleeves are rolled up.
It's Friday night. I have nowhere in particular to be, and no one to cling to.
Let's do some blogging guys.
Right hard.
Okay. Show first. Let's do that.

And did I ever have a show a few weeks back. For you cronies scratching your ignorant craniums, here.

Animals. Fiends. This show was monkies throwing shit, I'm not kidding.
It was a blast, though. Traumatizing in its own right, but a blast.
George, Tim (another up-and-whatever doing Victory shows) and I are sitting at one of the tables.
In front of our fish n' chips.
There's a Kraft portion of tar tar sauce sitting next to my plate.
It's looking at me. And I'm looking at it.
The first free food that comedy has ever afforded me.
"I won't be able to eat much," I told George as we were setting up.
"Oh, sure you will."
I didn't eat much.
It was cool to sit around and just talk about comedy for the sake of talking about it.
Now, our group is about 25 or 30 old...dudes.
As we wait to get started, I become increasingly more and more aware of the amount of booze these men are putting back.
Tim's first. ...
...
Man.
George gets him up. Tim launches. The wheels sorta come off quickly, though.
These men don't want to listen to Tim talk about 5-second bacon.
And they let him know.
And Tim has some solid shit, too. These guys were just impatient.
This one portly bald fellow yells "Pussy!" after a comment Tim makes.
"You know what tastes good?" was what started it. Something like that.
Too crass for the children.
It was awful. Then all of the men guffaw, heartily. Then they all start yelling it.
It gets ugly in a very short amount of time.
George gets up again. Tim begins to regain some colour.
I know I'm fucked, at this point. I say so to Tim.
I have an insult prepped for the Pussy gentleman, an ounce of Gin, and my soul, and that's it.
Some of them were into it. I'll admit.
But these men were not interessted.
They wanted jokes about Jesus and Santa defiling nuns.
They didn't want my observations on drunk women hailing a cab. And I know this. But I go with it.
The wheels come off, regardless.
I decide myself to cut the set.
One man slurs that I should keep going.
"Keep goin' buddy, I'm listenin'!" He shouts. Turns over his shoulder. "Shut da fuck up, b'ys!"
I point at him and say, "You sir, are my favourite audience member."
I think he is.
Or he was.
Until he gets up on stage with me in order to take the microphone from my hand (gently, at least) and say, "Shut da fuck up" again.
Which didn't really help.
But it was charming, just the same.
The point?
The point is this: when I was done, I was as satisfied as I was before getting on stage. I was, at the very least, entertaining.
It was the best bomb of my life, by far.
George got a shirt.
We didn't.
I might ask George for his.

I'm not not writing. I'm just not writing.

Hang in there. Few more days. My steam is depleting.

Is 'Christmastime' one word? It should be.

Gimme a few more days, everyone.
Papers. Hard. I'll make up for this absence over Christmastime, when I have nothing better to do.

What's it like to know her? Well...

"You're going to have to talk to Imogen," Colin mentions as I rouse myself from my couch.
"Why is that?"
"She called at about 5 'o clock this morning and woke me up. If she does that again I'm gonna fly to BC and beat her." Colin's a surly man. It could be a legitimate threat.
I consider this odd.
So, I check my voicemail. And this is what Sarah Turpin has to say:

Paul. I'm drunk. I'm drunk, and it's...2 'o clock in the morning, which means you shouldn't be answering your phone anyway, and I'm glad that you're not, but at the same time, the woman that's in charge of your answering machine message stresses me out so bad. She makes me feel like I need to know what I'm talking about, and (unidentifiable word) let's face it, sometimes I can't remember that I'm calling you, sometimes I think that I'm calling someone else, and this woman makes me feel bad about that. I feel like she's judging me-mmhmm (note: I've never heard her make this noise before this message)-I feel like she's judging me for even calling you in the first place, like, 'who the fuck calls Paul Warford?' And on a second level, 'who the fuck calls Paul Warford so drunk?' And on a third level, and I don't even know if she knows that she's implying this, 'who the fuck calls Paul Warford so drunk at such a ridiculous hour at night?' No one. Probably just me. Oh! Oh. And I'm mad at you now because you're not answering your phone and that's completely... ...ordinarily that's completely acceptable, but not right now because I'm drunk. On top of this I was talking to your mom-uh huh (never really heard her make this noise either)-I was, and, um, she likes me better than you. Goodnight.

She's a catch, this one is. Wouldn't trade her for all of the sapphires in Africa.
Are there sapphires in Africa? How much are they worth?
Maybe I would trade her...
She has, in the past, been less eloquent than this on my voicemail.

[edit]: my mother has not seen this post.
But she is a frightening woman.
Ask anyone.
For fear of her, I took out a golden portion of this message that Turpin utters vagrantly at the end.
She commands respect, my mother. From everyone.
Like a mafia don.

Once I get to Know Him, I'll Like Woody Allen

I've been missing, and I'm sorry.
To sweeten the biterness, choke on these:
Brad Zimmerman. This guy is phenomenal, says I. He has a bit on attending a wine tasting that's far better, but I couldn't find footage of it.
For anyone who cares, he's performing in Caroline's, one of the more classic comedy venues in New York.
No one cares? I was afraid of that...

The best Christopher Walken impression.
And when it's Christopher Walken, that's important.
It's from this film, which is hilarious. You really have to see the film to appreciate this, by the way.
Gilbert Godfreed convinced Americans to laugh again after 9/11 with his rendition of this joke.

Did I ever have a show. Man oh man. Never before have I heard the word, "pussy!" uttered by so many middle-aged gentleman, being immediately followed by..."har har har har har!"
The show was so burnt, I have to use the expression 'man oh man' to describe it.
But I did get paid. I'm going to fill the car's gastank tomorrow.
And I did get fish and chips.
I'll tell you about it tomorrow as soon as coffee with Martin is over, I promise.

Somewhat Stanford

I don't notice toupees.
I think it may be one of my greatest weaknesses. Toupees and eggs.
They're designed to hide shame and ridicule. I'm designed to pinpoint shame and ridicule.
But not in this, the most base of instances of cover-up.
"Isn't it obvious?"
And it's not for me. And that brings me down, sometimes. On my weaker days.
I could never be a detective. Though I have been pondering a trench coat lately.
Because, let's face facts, a trench coat is one of these ideas that pops into my head that I get all excited about, and everyone thinks it's a stupid idea until I follow through with it, and then everyone agrees that I was not quite as misguided on the issue as was originally assumed.
This happens surprisingly often with me.
Occaisonally.
It has happened.

Fedoras are next.
All of the cool kids are going to start wearing fedoras.
Because our society, planet, what have you, has run out of ideas regarding fashion.
All of the mixers and blenders in SEARS look like the blenders and mixers our parents used before we were born.

"You're growin' man"

My favourite set yet.
Which, of course, wasn't taped. There weren't even photographs.
There will always be the memories, though.
That everyone besides me will have after tonight.
Friday I literally do it for my supper.
Everyone start lighting candles for my sake...now.

Wishbone

It's a day to be funny.
It's not easy, you know. Doing comedy on a Sunday.
No one is in the mood to laugh on a Sunday.
The weather is always garbage.
Your TV betrays you with movies like Marked for Death and Blue Streak.
You can't go to any stores because God says buying 2 DVDs for twenty bucks on His day is a sin.
Pushy God.
No one wants to do anything because it's too Sunday. You have work, or school, or alcoholism to return to in the morning. No one's in the mood on Sunday.
I'm hardly in the mood. I've been downing percacet all day.
I used to make drug jokes. In Banff.
If I was meeting someone new? Give it a few minutes and then make an off-hand comment about taking some sort of intense drug the day before.
The more unstable the drug, the better.
Crystal Meth has been a favourite of mine for a while. But I've been leaning towards mescaline lately (because I still make the joke occaisonally now). It works in Banff. Because the person doesn't know you. And people are on drugs constantly.
Maybe you were watching the locals play hockey yesterday afternoon after downing some PCP. How are they to know?
Exactly. They probably don't want to talk to you anymore.
Just as well. One less 'So and So's last night in Banff party!' that you are forced to go to.
If debasement were a town. Seriously.

In other goo, I went bowling yesterday for the first time in centuries.
Peter and his new girlfriend.
I kept looking at her bum while she bowled.
I swear on coffee, it's a reflex.
It was a timed session. Your score screen changes colour when time is running down.
The screen's another colour.
I bowl two strikes in a row. At this place, if you get three strikes in a row, it's referred to as a 'turkey.'
I don't know why.
Probably because they flash a large turkey on the score screen when you pull it off.
I'm on the third frame. The potential turkey frame.
The score screen shuts off. It's time to go home.
And just when I was about to do something worthwhile with my life.
My mom won't answer my phone calls.

Swim so Wild and ya Swim so Free

This one's for all of the female vegetarians who read my blog.
You're not included, Turpin. You eat animals all of the time.
Remember when we discussed whether or not manatee would taste good?
I still say it would be too gamey to enjoy.
Now beluga whales. There's a rare aquatic animal you can really sink your teeth into.
Get it everybody?!
Cause I'm talking about eating it!
And I say 'sink your teeth into'!
It's a double meaning!
Ah.
My teachers all said that I had a lot of potential.
...
Here's the song.

Divine? Right.

I have this uncle.
Fake uncle, really.
Well, he's an uncle for someone, I'm sure. But not me.
It's not important, really.
This uncle, he had surgery yesterday.
They opened his chest up, and they tossed six bypasses onto his heart.
And they 'cleaned up' some other tubes and aortas and things.
I've never been hospitalized. Which I consider to be a curious thing about me.
Because I'm frail.
I was in a wrestling match with a woman, once. Twice, actually (Andy Kaufman, eat your heart and aortas out). And really, I lost both times.
Melanie Morgan is wiry and taught, first of all. That's why I wrestled her.
And the other woman, well, you could have strapped some socks on her and tossed her onto the Acadia rugby team, easily.
Men's or women's.
Her frosh shirt had some sort of barbaric title on it. 'Killer', or Butch', or some such threatening word.
I can't touch my toes.
I can't dive into a swimming pool.
I have never, in my life, won an arm wrestling match.
"Alright, Paul versus Leanne!"
HAHAHA
That's good for my self-esteem. Thanks hockey players.
You would think I would have had rheumatism as a kid.
Bronchial Meningitis. Something.
Metabolic Acidosis.
I encounter friends with allergies.
Back problems.
Astigmatisms.
Ever go to class as a kid without having finished your homework (everyone but my mother will say 'yes'), and you sit in your seat, praying the teacher won't call on you to answer a question?
Then the class ends. And you get away with it?
I feel like I have done this every day since I've been born.
With God.
He's moving the magnifying glass, but whenever He spots me outside, it's always cloudy.
Ironically.
Because He's God.

Self-Probing

I've been really attentive to good days versus bad for me, lately.
When I say 'good' I mean funny.
Are they off and on because of weed inhalation?
(no) Sleep?
Diet? Vegetables are important, maybe? I hear Vitamin A really helps with deadpan humour. I read that Jeff Garlin ate a bunch of apricots while writing his new film.
Maybe it revolves around solstaces. Or the tide.
It's a process. Like doing a psychology study with no control group. Or participants.
Or funding.
I have noticed one thing so far, though.
On good days, I talk to myself when I'm alone.
Speaking of psychology...
In all likelihood, it's probably immediately relative to sexual activity.
That I'm involved in.
Before I got laid everyone was just laughing at me.
Now, the only ones still laughing at me are the girlfriends.
Hiyo!

There are more. But this is enough.

Lighter than Air

Colin is cutting out the figures. Of us.
I'm giving occaisonal instruction and cleaning up all of the remnants of chopped pictures.
Colin really pulled through on this one. He cleaned the stovetop. He exercised far more patience than I'm accustomed to seeing him exhibit.
You know what they say: when it comes to entertaining female guests, brothers stick together.
Is that an expression? It should be.
Anyway, I'm discarding photo portions. Colin is cursing because he has just cut into a staple, thus dulling the blade of the box cutter.
Pressure's mounting.
Time is running down. It is 10ish. She arrives at 10:40.
My logic revolved around cleaning the entire day.
The apartment.
The car.
Then to the shrine. Cutting out the figures.
The pictures.
The candles.
During all of this hectic, sweaty work, I never thought to get a shower. I still have to do that.
Me: Shit! I just remembered something.
Colin: You can't start remembering stuff, her plane is rounding Torbay now.
Which is probably true.
I shower and book it. I have a helium balloon that says "I'm over here" because I believe it will seem cute.
You decide:

I have three helium balloons. One for me.
The other two I plan to take in case there are children in the airport. Kids love helium. Gets them all fucked up and light-headed.
I figure if I see a kid or two in the airport, I can give the balloons to them.
Thus making me look like a fantastically thoughtful person.
I walk into the airport with a few minutes to spare. There are no children.
Pissed, I take the two remaining balloons and leave them in a men's room stall in one of the bathrooms.
Because I only want to be holding one. I'm not a guy at a carnival.
She arrives. By the time she does so, there are kids running around everywhere.
I consider doubling back to the bathroom, but deciding that the whole thing would lose its charm if she entered the airport unable to find me because I'm extricating helium balloons from a men's lavatory.
It would be a poor start.
Appropriate. But poor.
We didn't have the common sense to get a picture together. The thought occured during her departure, but we were too short on time.
Curiously.
I took her to Ches' and Signal Hill.
We ate chicken breast stuffed with brocoli, cheddar, and garlic.
In bed.
And that's all you're getting. Besides these pictures. Ches'.
And the last one is her looking pretty in front of Moo Moo's.

In the Nick of Shrine

I'm in pajamas.

No Rolaids today.
I was asked to 'stay behind after class' this afternoon. No. Really.

Luckily, I was not alone. Though the rest of the people who stayed behind I would likely classify as putzes. There are a lot of putzes in my classes.

Today was an okay day. I bonded with three of my four professors, and with (late) papers on the horizon, this is important news. It's a dance, really. An elaborate, sweaty dance.

Speaking of which, I had a girl come visit me recently. Let's talk about that.

I'm not telling you a lot, but I will tell you some things.

Now, just in case you've been reading my blog while intoxicated, and need a refresher, Imogen came to see me.

We had never met.

We were just attracted to one another, she had a vacation, my car gets 22 to the gallon in the city, and the rest writes itself.

To welcome her, I immediately decided to make her a shrine.

Because nothing says 'It's nice to finally meet you' better, really.

So, here's some pictures of that:

Notice that all of the pictures are doctored to have my creepy head in them.

The sheet of paper contains the lyrics to Lionel Richie's "Hello". Look it up yourself, if you're curious.
Da b'ys were all concerned that this was perhaps not a good opener. They thought that perhaps the shrine, with the candles and the 'Imogen is Life' banner might be a little heavy to start with. I disagreed. I was right.
Now, a shrine's not a shrine without giant cardboard cutouts holding hands, so here's that:

Never one to let me use anything sharp, here is Colin cutting the figures out.
While doing so, he said, "Why can't I have normal brothers?"

Posts with a lot of pictures are difficult and wacky to edit. Let's break this into two.
I've got nowhere to be.
Do you?

This One

Bust a girdle.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A3nacX_9e_w&feature=related
Huge fan of this person. I wish my voice was as scratchy as his.
I wish my parents were Irish (sometimes).
Dad's close.

"Blame it on the Toutons"

It is last week.
I am huddled in Wal-Mart, wishing brimstone and blight on the entire building, waiting to use the ridiculous photo-printing machine.
I glance a rug on display. It has two toothy children, all smiley and mocking, emblazoned on it.
I notice a sign below. It says that I can put any print onto a rug for just $179.99. Large bursty yellow sign. Red font. So on, so forth.
I stare at this thing and think to myself that if I was a millionaire, I would send a lot of ludicrous shit to Sarah Turpin.

I interviewed a band member a few days back. I can't say which band he was a member of, but I can say this: he was still very much asleep when I spoke with him.

I'm on my third Rolaid of the day. Not sure what I think of that.

You know the fun thing about having a non-existent memory? You can read notes in your little notebook that say things like: "ass pocket nutrigrain" and wonder what it is that you may have meant by that when you wrote it.

Ever notice that when someone admits that they are "really bad at telling jokes", it is always to preface a joke that they are about to (badly) tell you?

When did ugly boots become okay? Banff was huge into this. All of the women wore hideous winter boots.
Of course, this is because of Australians and their Ugg boots. Clearly.
So maybe my question is this: why are we doing what Australians do? We don't pay attention to them in any other respect. Have you ever eaten Vegemite? Of course you haven't.
Most people dislike Russell Crowe.
Most didn't even have a practical ugliness to them. They were simply atrocities. $300 atrocities.
This girl I saw naked for a while had winter boots that made me want to dart out my fucking eyes every time she put them on.
But then, what do I know about fashion?

Vegemite?
Yeah, I've had it. It tastes terrible. Imagine molasses. Imagine the taste of it, in your brain. Got it?
Now, take the complete and utter opposite of that. And put it on toast. In thick globules.

if a post were untitled, this would be it.

Sorry everyone. I haven't the energy. Not yet.
I ate Earnie's this weekend, and am only just beginning to come down.
I'd upload the Imogen pictures, but I forgot to get the necessary cord from Shandera.
He's off to Labrador again tomorrow.
I was in Labrador once. I was twelveish. I got married on the plane.
Turpin would have more details.
Alright, choke on this for now. I'll crawl back into my life tomorrow, and start telling all of you my witty commentaries on daily life.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2mmqamjomZM

Just when I thought my life couldn't get any more...

...ridiculous.
I spoke with Edward Wielding, a former high school french teacher, in a men's lavatory at Memorial a few days back. For at least 15 minutes.
He's doing well. He can teach two courses at Memorial without having it affect his teacher's pension.
Score one for our side.

Drowsy

Good morning, dear readers.
It's currently 6:15 AM. Imogen should be boarding a plane presently to fly to Montreal.
They have little bagels there. Or so I've heard.
It was a busy few days. I skipped several classes.
I'm going to eat cold fish and think about some things.
There's pictures. I'll post them eventually.
Ringo Star looks hideous if you really take a minute to examine him.
I'm going to go now.

Living the Lie

My day so far has consisted of making lists and then attempting to complete them.
Putting on gloves.
And then cleaning things.
The whole effort is a lie, of course. We all know how I live.

Forgot to do this sooner:
http://www.myspace.com/daftpunk
The track should play automatically. Even if you're not into the glowstick scene, give it a go.
I recommend headphones.

disheveled

Women like it when I have a beard.
Imogen gets here soon.

Back to the middle.

A little sex-laced comedy tonight.
Went pretty well. Which is strange. Because I totally fucked up the set.
Beyond repair. Irreparably fucked it up.
But things got funnier only after that happened.
So it felt all tingly in my brain.
A good sort of tingly.

Did I ever tell you that when I clean my left ear with a Q-tip, I cough?
I do, I swear. Started at Acadia.
A small, pathetic cough.
Come by after I'm done showering sometime. I'll show you.

My first paid gig of my lifetime. Coming up.
I get $25 and a dinner.
My university education was a waste of time.

Outside. The Box.

How was my day?
Glad you asked.
Today was to be my first real effort at preparing for Imogen's arrival.
I woke at noon, feeling groggy and disoriented.
I made ovenable chicken wings. They were terrible.
Shandera and I talked dog.
Imogen and I talked Australian caramel and the predictability of femininity.
I told Colin on three separate occasions that I was 'leaving now.'
I finally got out of the house by 5.
To get a refrigerator box.
I'm not sure what sort of box it is that I attained.
But I do know that it spans the length of my kitchen when it's stretched out.
I walked through the mall with this. I parked at the opposite end of the building.
I heft this thing to my car.
...
I briefly considered, for Imogen's sake, photo documenting the retrieval of items relating to her. I now wish I had.
I needed a cigarette afterwards, that's how much effort it took to get this box in my car.
I talked Guitar Hero with four fellows as I tried my best to act like I knew how to smoke properly.

Kyle from SEARS got the box. I spoke with another employee who sold vacuums and sewing machines.
We watched Jeopardy for a few minutes.
I bought a Poppy.
I lost it before leaving the mall.
Phase one down.

Knock the tattoo; not the hobby.

It's footage of a re-make. The original came out when I was fourteen.
I have no idea why I am posting this. I still need to get that fridge box. And some helium balloons.
Maybe I should have went with barbed wire around my bicep, instead.
But doesn't it look fun?*
This was a very innovative title, by the way, before Angelina Jolie fucked it up.
Ditto for The Rock (speaking of barbed wire).
Ditto for Jean-Claude Van Damme.
But then, he could fuck up anything.
Including your face.

*You may have to first watch an ad for the US Army, which I apologize profusely for.

What Started it All

Oh! Right.
I received a shirt in the mail. I hinted at it on Facefuck this week, if you're keeping tabs.
It is an instant classic.
If all females on the planet knew the library of fantastic children's literature (the dedicated fans will check each link) from 'back in the day' as well as Turpin does, this shirt would get me inordinate amounts of sex.
As it stands, it will only result in an awkward vibe between Turpin and I when I wear it.
And no one wants that.
When I was fourish, it was my favourite picture book.
And now I have the character on a T-Shirt.
Alex Emerton from Australia gets all of the credit.
She offered to send it in exchange for nude photos of me (she must have a seance coming up). I believe she was joking. If she wasn't, I'm going to have to comply.
Which is concerning because I don't have a tripod anymore.
I left it in Banff.

Man's Best Friend's Best Friend

It's yesterday morning.

ALARM

ALARM

See how I used capital letters to signify the loudness of the alarm? It's like I'm bringing you right into bed with me. Except I sleep on a couch.
I reach over to turn off my cell phone alarm, and instead put my hand into a pile of caramel.
This is how my day begins.
I'm conscious for twenty seconds and am already sticky.

Last night was spent within the safe confines of Kirk Bussey's apartment. Peter joined us.
I don't have any gems recorded, but it was an amusing night.
But when the hookers speak a different language than you, that's almost a given, isn't it folks?
Then they start striking their open palm with the tip of their index finger. Rattling on in German, or Mandarin, or what have you.
"Sorry, I can't understand what it is that you want."
My student loan is getting low.

Anyway, in other runoff, Shandera is getting a dog.
I look at this as my getting a dog as well. I am incredibly excited.
This will be a buddy for me in his apartment. It'll be good to visit him and finally have a friend to talk to when I get there.
I usually tell dogs all of my secrets.
I will take care of it when they go on trips. I'm already beginning to look forward to Robert and Christa's honeymoon.
Not as much as Robert is, though.

Alright readers, you take care of yourself. Get out there in that Saturday; absorb it.
I'm going to see if I can find myself a discarded fridge box.
For shelter? To build a little indoor fort?
Oh ho, readers...
No. Those guesses are wrong.

riding coach

I always sit in the back.
I don't even think about it anymore.
My brother's made me sit in the backseat of the car for my entire youth stage of life.
Getting into the front seat was a joke.
"Look, the little one's being funny again."
Brian pulled me out of shotgun while visiting Nan once when I was about 13, and he almost broke my tailbone. I should have known better. I was in the jeep. There's a lot of height to the jeep.
It was a rugged vehicle.
I used to ride in the back of all of the 2-doors because of my size, which never stops haunting me.
My gauntness. My gangly routine.
Now I must give way to girlfriends and fiancees.

Antoine made me sit in the back if we were going anywhere in his car, and more than he and I were involved.
"Paul, get in the back," he'd say, while unlocking the door to the Laser.
Antoine refused to put the windows up in his car while driving. He is the first person I have met who legitimately enjoys being cold, incessantly.
I do not enjoy being cold.
So, it's February, and it's -30 degrees outside, and Antoine has the windows on both sides of the car down. To the jamb.
Snow is blowing into my face. We're doing 100km plus on the highway.
Me: Hey dickface, you wanna put up the window a little bit?
Antoine (inhaling cigarette smoke): No dice (exhale).
The fact that I'm 25 now changes nothing with my brothers and transport.
I am still the youngest.
It is not a matter contested, even to this day.
It's truly a surprise that I turned out as 'normal' as I did.
And that I did not start seeing a psychiatrist by the age of four.

slide whistle

I cannot make a lot of claims regarding sex with confidence.
God has a plan for me, maybe. I'm patient enough.
But, with authority, I can assure you that the trombone is a funny instrument to suddenly hear during intercourse.

you name it

Just in case there's anyone left who hasn't had the pleasure.
You know what, even those who have had the pleasure, it has likely been too long since you last watched it.
Because a day is too long.

(called across a room) "Julia! ...Julia? How do honeydews propagate themselves as a species?"
She's a lot of fun.

Entitled

While speaking on the phone.
Mom: What's her name again?
Me: Imogen.
Mom: ...How do you spell it?
Me: I-M-O-G-E-N.
(pause)
Me: What, are you writing this down?
Mom: I find I have a better chance of remembering things when I write them down.
Me: I'm beginning to wonder who I get it from; you or him. I'm starting to think I've been wrong all along.

Bussey: What's her name?
Me: Imogen.
Bussey: How do you spell it?
Me: I-M-O-G-E-N.
Bussey: Where do you think the name comes from?
Me: I dunno. Her dad's Irish.
Bussey: Maybe it's an Irish name, then.

Colin: What is it?
Me: Imogen.
Colin: Sounds like software for a new monitor.

It will take several attempts to explain this name to dad.
He will pronounce it wrong. Perpetually.
He said 'Kurt' instead of 'Kirk' for at least the first three years that we knew one another.

Onset of Calamity

It is approximately two weeks ago.
I have been working on a 200-word outline for Military History for the better part of a fortnight.

Having finally accrued enough secondary sources to compile said outline, I decide to retire for the night, and finish the actual writing process the following day.

The bibliography has been completed in a word document, and I consider this to be a tremendous amount of headway.
I decide that two hours before class should be more than enough time.

Alarm.

I snooze.
For about an hour longer than my schedule deems permissible.
I forgo a shower.
I begin to gather particulars that will be needed for the morning's tasks.
This is a daily routine.
Bank card. Who knows if I will need to buy print credit, pay a library fee I have forgotten about.
One of my regular loan sharks stops by the library. Who knows?
Who knows.
MUN id. Pens.
I scramble for these things every morning.
Should I check my Facefuck messages?
No.
I have to be responsible.
I haven't the time.
Head to the car.
Shit. Nutrigrains.
I go back to the house.
To the car.
Shit. Coffee change.
I go back to the house.
I book it to campus. I have about an hour and a few to complete my outline.
I have to sit and wait for an available computer.
Minutes pass.
Log on.
Get all of my books out. Notes. All of that.
Then I remember that I have forgotten to e-mail myself the outline word document.
Which I would have remembered if I'd checked my Facefuck messages that morning.
So, I am sitting there. With no feasible way of accessing my work. Wondering what I am to do.
And this song happens to be playing on my iPod.
Listen to it and picture me there.
There are 2, 518 songs on my iPod, currently.
There is a larger force at work here.

in your daily planner

Write this down:
One cannot write a paper when one is hungover.
This might be an excuse, of course.
But it is thoroughly difficult to focus right now.
Moreso than usual.
It was worth it. Any excuse to get myself back into much too-small spandex.
Dear Lord. There are so many embarassing sides to me.

Coming for Dinner

So then.
There's this person. Who I've talked to a bit.
Named Imogen.
Follow so far?
She's been subtly mentioned, but otherwise out of the 20-watt limelight of this blog.
By my own choice. That I have yet to qualify. Even for myself.
Okay. Well, she's in BC.
It's sunny there. They get a lot of rain, I hear.
I was there once. BC. I went to Tofino. With Antoine.
No one ever says his name properly if they read it aloud. 'Ant-woyne?'
We ran into an Australian fellow in Tofino that we truly believed we would never see again in our lifetimes.
At a fish n' chip place.
Those Australians and their seafood.
So, she's coming to visit. And is thus metaphorically pushed into the limelight, presently.
I've told several people that when it comes to myself and girls, things are never straightforward.
My true friends have already grown accustomed to this.
"Well, I'm moving in with her, but she sort of still has a boyfriend in Ottowa, but I think she likes me more. She says she does. We're sharing a bed, but she's not sure if we should be 'sleeping together.' She says maybe I should get my own bed. I'm moving out."
"Yeah, that makes sense," my friends would say.
We've never met. Imogen and I.
Which is moot, as far as I'm concerned.
That's why she's coming.
That and the mussells.
We Newfies and our seafood.
She informed me that she would be 'stopping by' during a vacationing trip to Montreal.
I primarily just sat and sweat for a moment.
Then I asked questions. Some appropriate, some less appropriate.
"That's a really strange thing to ask, I'm going to tell Turpin," she said at one point.
Sort of like tattling. If Turpin were any sort of authoratitive figure. Which she isn't.
But she's quite nice. She collects her menstrual blood in a different way than she did before.
I'm excited for her.
Where was I?
Ah yes.
Midnight. November 6th. I've already begun to coordinate an outfit in my head.
I have nine days and counting.
I have to do laundry.
I have to clean my tub.

"Quick and to the Pointless"

Did you say 'malignant tumour'?
Cause that's our word of the day!
Words.
Words of the day...

"You just keep on drivin.'"

I have accomplished the following things so far today:

• attended a scope meeting. Only one half of an hour late. I also managed to interject some witty comments despite my sleep deprevation this week. I asked Elling how he heats his house (it's old, and the ceilings are high), but he didn't really answer my question
• ordered a Zutons cd while flirting with an HMV employee. A female one.
• bought a Bush X album for the sheer 90sness of it. Spacehog is next.
• managed to find a Halloween costume while putting in very little effort. And it cost me less than $4.
• filled the car's gastank with gas.

That's about it.
Come to think of it, I haven't even gotten around to eating yet. And it's 2 o' clock.
I was just excited about the Halloween costume.
What are you gonna go as?

Outside of trapeze artists, I do not believe that trampolines are a wise decision to invest in.

I'll do this occaisonally from now on. Maybe a Friday thing.
Here's a musical performance by a band I like.
It's not ego. I don't know enough about music to have musical taste. I come from a line of accordian players.
But in case you're curious.
I believe that picking a favourite band is a waste of time. But if I was asked, I would likely say Queens of the Stone Age. Because they are rock n' roll. When the dust has settled on this decade, it's a band we'll be proud of.
Unlike Rascal Flatts.

He Invented Anarchism

Pie is both my favourite pastry, and my favourite graph.
Venn diagrams are okay, too.

Milk doesn't have as much calcium as I thought.
This will not keep me from drinking a litre of it a day. If I can get my hands on so much.
Once I ate a bunch of shrimp circled around a shrimp ring while drinking a huge glass of milk.
Shandera and Pete were disgusted. They said that it was the sort of thing someone would eat on a dare.

I've been using my brother's shampoo as a body wash for a few months now.
It's a very large bottle. I'm slim.
I'd buy body wash, sure, but I keep forgetting to.
I don't use my own shampoo as a body wash.
Because it's TRESemme. And that stuff is expensive.
Doesn't she look nervous in the picture? I don't believe she likes the man touching her hair.

I'm going to write a paper on Mikhael Bakunin this weekend.
If you have any insights, please. Feel free.

MUN is having something called 'kindness Friday' this week.
I do not feel inclined to go.

I saw a woman walking a pair of Pomeranians today. It was very adorable and trivial.

The girl who sits in front of me in Canadian History constantly wears dangly earrings.
They're very distracting. And occaisonally hideous.
There's another potential friend, down the drain.

I realized in my Military History class the other day that if I was around during the Medeival period, I would have been a bowman. Because I'm so scrawny.
I would likely be cut down by some strong fellow on horseback.
Far more likely, I would have been an artisan.
Me: I wanna fight too, guys!
Burly Soldiers: No, you stay here. Make us some clay cups for when we get back. So that we may drink from them the blood of our victims!

Halloween's coming. Have you inserted needles into your apples yet?

On Sex.

Me: I don't mind the gaps, but the more time that passes, the less cool it gets.
Shandera (whilst laughing): Fucking right.

A librarian scolded me a few days back.
I still have a knack for sweet-talking professors which I was concerned I had lost.
This will prove invaluable as my deadlines fester and breed.

I have my hoodie back. It's an oldy but goody, like much of my clothes.
I left a winter jacket in Banff, accidentally. This was in February. Newfoundland is cold in February. Newfoundland is cold in September.
I had to hide the fact that I had left my jacket in Banff from my parents, as they constantly remind me to be more responsible with in-season clothing.

Dad: Did you bring home Colin's jacket from Alberta?
Me: Yeah, I brought back Colin's jacket...

Now I have it back. It's a pea jacket. I look quite dapper in it.
I left a suit in Banff, speaking of dapper.
While I was packing I simply couldn't find it.
My family still gives me a hard time about that one.
I moved six times while I lived there.
I lived in a closet for a while.
There were no electrical outlets in the closet.

"Gonna shoot my face with a gun/Cause I can't get my work done"

I sang to myself as I left my apartment for my second trip to the library of the day.
I have a thermos to put coffee in.
It makes the coffee taste like plastic.

The Tragic Mentor

I don't do the whole celebrity thing.

Not anymore. I once did.
I got my picture taken with Hayden in '04. And I was excited about it.
But I believe that I've grown out of the fanfare.
Cause they're just people really. That lucked out.
Jennifer Garner poops.
So does Mic Jagger.
Except for Larry David.
Larry David doesn't poop. He's too funny to need to.
It's not his co-creating Seinfeld. It's more him. He just seems like a person I would legitimately identify with. Excusing the Judaism, the 450 million dollars, and the male-pattern baldness, I think we have a decent amount in common.
I used to point out examples when watching his fancy HBO show.
Jane would say that I was just trying to sound like I had a lot in common with him.
Which is true.
But sometimes, when I'm late for something and I'm sitting waiting for my third red light in a row to change, and I'm shaking my head sullenly as I watch the front-end loader lazily make its way down the street ahead of me, in the only lane that's open because the other is being painted and then the Burton's pond ducks (adorable as they are) end up crossing the street in front of me and I get to the campus to find no available spaces in the Cabot lot and I park in the first space I come across and I make my way across the lawn and then I turn back for my books and I sweat as I scurry to the class that I'm late for and I find it to be cancelled and I return to my car after a ten minute period to find my freshest parking ticket, I think to myself that maybe, just maybe, I'm a born loser.
And there's not a lot wrong with that.
Because that's funny.
It's just that I happen to think that Larry David is, too.
He's the guy who always misses the bus by inches.
But he lucked out.
So, he's the only celebrity I would like to meet.
Of course he ate dinner at the restaurant I worked at in Banff 6 months after my leaving the town.
What would I say to him anyway?
"You and I are of the same mold, Larry David."
"I think one of your hairs is in my food."

'Extensions be with you'/'And also with you.'

If procrastination was a religion, I would be Jesus.
Disciple #1: When did the saviour say he'd be here?
Disciple #2: Our lord said he just had to get a shower and then he'd be over. Won't be long, I guess.

Too far? I think it's okay.
I was going to capitalize 'he', but decided against it in case my mother ever reads this.

What A Party!

The following men will be in my wedding party for the following reasons:

Robert Shandera will be in my wedding party because he consistently passes up the oppurtunity for sex in order to play video games with me. If the shoe were on the other foot, this would not be the case.
The shoe would not be on my foot. Because I would be undressed. Having intercourse.
Robert's mother fed me more than my own mother.
Robert (and this is a big one) introduced me to pornography.
I have never looked back.

Peter Russell will be in my wedding party because he taught me everything bad. Whatever bad things that I have done in my lifetime, I have done because I learned them from Peter. Except for swearing. I learned that my brothers. And Eddie Murphy.
My mother and I had an argument one morning before school as to whether or not Peter Russell was a bad influence on me.
He was suspended from school that day for calling his teacher a 'stupid bitch'.
Was that the line?
I guess mom was right.
Peter also looks good in a suit.

Kirk Bussey will be in my wedding party because he once drove around the bay in a snowstorm so that I could have sex with someone.
This is a friend.
Kirk remembers everything I forget.
Kirk was the sole reason my application to the Memorial Faculty of Education arrived on time.
It is also not his fault that I did not meet the requirements for said application.
That was me.
Kirk and I discovered the particulars of underage drinking side by side.
That sex weekend I just mentioned?
Bussey helped me dislodge his car from some tenacious ice in a glazed-over parking lot, so that I could engage in some foreplay.
Same girl.
Same visit home.
Seperate snowstorm.

My brother Colin will be in my wedding party because he will end up building most of the things in my house.
He protected me from Brian.
Colin got me drunk for the first time.
Technically, it was Trevor Luedee. But Colin laughed at me just as much.
He trusted me to steer the jeep while he smoked as he drove me to piano lessons, despite my being twelve.
Whenever I was hungover at fifteen, he would never tell my parents.
He would just make fun of me.

My brother Brian will be in my wedding party because I read his books when he wasn't reading them.
Brian taught me to be afraid of him.
The first time I ever stood up for myself, it was against Brian.
I threw a box of Purity crackers at him and told him to "Fuck off!"
He made me pick up the crackers.
Brian didn't really mind when I vomitted in his apartment on his 22nd birthday and prevented his female friends from using the bathroom. He let me pass out in his friend's porch, using their shoes as a pillow.
Whenever I was hungover at fifteen, he would never tell my parents.
He would just make fun of me.

Sarah Turpin will be in my wedding party because it is the only way I can avoid marrying her.
She and I will emcee the event in tandem.

That's the rundown.
You're all invited.
All I need now is a wife.
With huge tits.

Little Doubt on the Prarie

I once had a person from New Minas, Nova Scotia apologize to me for being from Newfoundland.
She asks where I'm from. I tell her. She says, "Oh, I'm sorry."
The irony comes into play only after you have personally visited New Minas.
People from Ontario are the ones who mispronounce Newfoundland most consistently. Even the French fuck it up less. And they speak a different language.
They say that Newfies are the simple ones. I'd elect that it's the group who hasn't learned the names of all of the provinces of their own country by the time they're 20. Call me whacky.
"Well, I've never been there," they often say.
I counter that I have never been to Sasketchewan, but I know how to say it.
And that name is far more complicated. No place name needs that many vowels.
Sasketchewan is the reject province, by the way. Even people from Sasketchewan can't say where they're from with a straight face.
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"So am I," they'd likely reply.
But people do miss the Jets.
I had a thing for a girl from Sasketchewan once, which I didn't really see coming.
Dana.
It was a pretty decent obsession I had. And to this day I'm not sure what the cause of it was.
I think I was primarily attracted to her because she had piercings that I wouldn't be willing to get myself.
Big smile. I'm into big smiles, maybe.
Matt Cooke gave me her number. He has many siblings, Matt Cooke.
I wrote it on my arm. I was drunk.
We had coffee once. I thought it went well.
But I'm not that perceptive.
Which is possibly just as well. Her taste in music was simply awful.
"Won't return my calls, will you? Well, once I start my blog you'll get it!"

And That's All You Get

So many released endorphins and no stick and hoop to play with.
No people to bask with.
I've gotten A papers before, sure. But it has been a few years.
There's a man walking around in the library, and I think he may be drunk.
He's middle aged. He's wearing track pants. One of the buttons that fastens that pants together has come undone, exposing a minute portion of his bare thigh.
Where was I?
My parents played with the hoop and the stick, by the way. I know that my father did, at least.
Just like The Little Rascals.
He's sauntering this way.
He seems very aloof.
"I can wield a cleaver," she said with confidence.
I am meeting a new person.
My brother is 31 today.
My family is becoming crow-footed.

Comedy Sunday. It has been a long month.

Rubbing Elbows

My greatest regret of today (this week, this month):
Moments ago. I'm walking home from the library.
I mentioned in an earlier post that I could not read the article I wished to read.
I decided to read it after class, and found a random stoolie to get the article out for me.
Ian, wherever you are, I now have your back.
Which is key to getting mentioned in this blog.
My regret is not telling him that I love him.
And his orange toque.
Just kidding.
I pass the fancy new building that MUN has. Whatever it's called. I look through the glass walls and see there is a function of some sort going on.
There are students. There are professors.
More to the point, there is a buffet.
And I'm standing there. Looking in. Trying to figure out how I can lie to these people long enough to get some food from the buffet.
I stand outside the building for (without exaggeration) a decent minute or minute and a half, contemplating the necessary moves.
And I back out. I do not enter the building and weave whatever magnificent lies I would have came up with.
Twenty minutes later and I'm appalled with myself already.
People always say 'next time'. But I swear, dear readers, next time, next time I'm going in that building.
Though I get queasy when I play sports, I was never one to be socially nervous.
I am in the process of kicking off flaked rust.

Tobaccoh?

I can't determine which it is that affects my mood more; the weather or a lack of sleep.

I did smoke for a while. I never smoked as a teenager.
I am from a small town. Everyone knows my father.
My brothers always promised that they would beat the piss out of me if they found out I was smoking. Y'know. Because they cared.
Everyone knows my brothers.
I blamed it on women (who wouldn't?), but it was also my whack sense of humour that started it.
I sat in the smoker's lounge. It wasn't the cool thing to do. It wasn't the fact that I enjoy yellowed ceiling tiles more than white ceiling tiles.
It just so happened that while I was at the hotel, a slighter percentage of assholes smoked, for some reason. The few people I liked smoked.
So, I ate in the smoker's lounge. I was the only non-smoker (besides Shelby) who ate there.
Some of the smokers would eat in the non-smoking area, and then switch rooms after the meal.
That's a lack of dedication to me.
Which I would mention.
For fun, sometimes, without a word to anyone, I would take Antoine's cigarette pack from the table, proceed to take out a cigarette, light it, and smoke it. To get a rise out of people.
"I thought you didn't smoke."
(while coughing) "No time like the present."
I almost became a smoker at the age of 24 because of a running gag.
The process became more delicious and fantastic each time I did it.
Catherine got me smoking regularly. When we started discussing our fucked up relationship, cigarettes helped me concentrate on not snapping.
Then I went on a roadtrip to Tofino. With Antoine.
Antoine smokes a great deal. He has to; his father is from France.
I bought my first pack before leaving, but I bought many packs while traveling.
Export A Gold. Whatever the Gold represents. I never bothered to learn.
It's funny, but I did start to notice a difference between brands. I thought that whole thing was an act smokers put on.
I held my cigarettes very awkwardly.
I concentrated on holding them as stylishly as possible while I smoked.
I stopped smoking because I started to feel bad about it. Not because I smoked, but because I started at the age of 24. And after my brothers had put so much effort into frightening me.
They killed my apetite.
I kept losing packs. And lighters.
I figured after Tofino that I was a goner. I was buying packs regularly at this point.
"I'm a smoker, now" I'd decided. So, I thought I should see what cravings felt like.
Might as well get used to it.
So, I stopped and waited.
And I'm still waiting.
I lucked out. Because I loved it.
I wish I was smoking right now.
But they say it makes your ceiling tiles yellow.
And I don't need that.

Yellow Card, Red Card

I need to read an article.
It is on reserve.
I tried to be proactive. I tried to be keen.
I tried to read this article on Friday. The article was missing a page. The copies had been pulled.
Yes, of course.
Peter and I drove around the bay on Saturday.
I was wearing a newly acquired pair of dad's slacks. That's what they were; slacks.
With gaping pockets.
Before we were passed Donavan's Industrial Park I had misplaced both my MUN i.d. and my bank card.
I had these cards loose in my front pocket because my wallet has been too fat as of late.
They say it can lead to back problems, having an overtly massive wallet.
Back problems at 30. Due to a wallet stuffed with random e-mail addresses and coffee cards and no money.
No thanks.
So, the wallet has been temporarily retired. I carry my MUN i.d. and my bank card because they are central to my daily survival.
This is foreshadowing.
Today, I want to read the article.
I cannot take out a reserve article without my MUN i.d.. It costs $15 to replace a MUN i.d., which I cannot afford because I have also lost my bank card.
Three hours between classes.
I drive to the bank.
And I wouldn't even mind, if the dawning occured sooner.
It doesn't dawn on me during the drive. It doesn't dawn on me while I park. It dawns on me the instant my hand touches the car door handle.
After I've burned the greatest possible amount of gasoline.
I can't get a replacement bank card because I do not have any proper identification because I have temporarily retired my wallet because I do not want to give my future self back problems without even doing actual, physical labour.
I could swindle the bank staff if I had a student i.d., even, but then...
I cannot read my journal article.
Because I am a percentage of a human being.

Bump in the Night

Possible ideas include:

• gluten (my top choice, but I don't know how to dress up as a chemical strand, or mineral, or whatever gluten is).
• a goldfish (because I always forget shit).
• that record from size small. the one with the wooden spoons? That's likely been done.
• Milhouse. Van Houten.
• Kraft Dinner (a noodle [if you can call it that], not the box).
• Rosa Parks
• A draedle
• dignity (I also do not know how to dress up as this).

Failing all of that, I'll just wear a slutty top and go as a butterfly. Or a cat.
Alright. That's it. Eyes forward.

Front Row

My brother turns 31 in two days.
Although it is October, I am beginning to look forward to Christmas.
I am trying to figure out the best possible Halloween costume.
It's a stressful process because I feel as though my choice has to be better than everyone else's in the province.
It takes time.
I skipped a class and called Turpin in order to wake her up.
For fun.
I have important things to write soon that I will eventually be graded on.
I'm wearing pleated pants.

What do you think scalpers do with their tickets that they don't sell?
Do they trash them? A sauve ditching of evidence, maybe?
Do they promise them to their friends? If I was a scalper, this would be my route.
Because you can buy companionship. Not sure if you knew that.
"I want a good seat if you don't sell all those."
It's a less legal variation of 'I'll eat whatever pizza you can't finish.'
I like dating girls with small appetites.
But scalpers always seem so seedy, they strike me as the type to not have friends.
Well, television scalpers, anyway.
Do they go to the shows themselves, or is that too incriminating?
If you have no friends and a bunch of extra tickets, why not take in a little David Copperfield?
Were there scalpers during the 16th century?
Because then you could catch all of the Shakespeares and Marlows you wanted.
"Give me a seat away from the peasantry."
Scalpers would have been very cultured during this time frame.

"He Wants His Shirt Back"

Martin and I drank coffee.
I showed up before her. Which I believe needs to be documented.
She bought me a gift. And carried it in a very decorative bag.
She bakes most when she's upset.
I drink alcohol from wide-mouthed bottles when I'm upset.
Or I make jokes (crying out for help, I am).
I was taken aback because I had forgotten that I'd asked her to get me a gift.
I frequently do this.
Robyn in Banff went home to Edmonton for a week. I asked her to bring me back a bar.
She did. Mirage. Which is up there.
So, I asked her to the Christmas formal. Which I was late for because I had to first plate the meals all of my co-workers were eating.
Then I changed.
Then I went.
Her dress was green.
It didn't pan out.

I went around the bay to see Williams.
Peter's mother asked about my comedy. She wants to come and see it.
"It's a side of me you probably haven't seen before,"I told her.
There are many sides of me that Jeanette Russell has not seen.

Me: I'm gonna stop wearing my headphones in public for a while.
Peter: Because it's Ramadan.
...
Peter: It's Wango Tango!*
Satellite radio makes the past the present.

*This site has pop-ups. None that involve penis enhancement, but still.

Don't Say Nothin'

I've got little for today.
I had a three hour nap.
I had coffee with Martin last night which I have to detail more.
Tomorrow.
She bakes.
She plays water polo with boys.
Glad she's on my side.

I'm glad Elling is on my side as well, as he festooned this tasty treat.
...
Okay. That didn't work.
Elling transformed my published TragicHero strip into a .gif. But it's too itty bitty to decipher.
This is because of me. Not Elling.
I really need a roll in the grass with Photoshop.
Thought that counts. I'll get to the bottom of it.
He will get to the bottom of it. And tell me what to do.
My father has gotten me out of several jams in a similar fashion.
They had tea for me last time. I was cold.
There was a bread item of some sort. I didn't have any.
I didn't want to make a mess of myself immediately after meeting these people.
As for this week's baked gear...hard to say.

Few days back my brother and I marveled over the fact that I have never been arrested.
Then we discussed what I should do when it happens.
Just to be safe.

The Rest

About a month ago I passed three custodians who were smoking outside of the Science building.
I almost, almost asked one of them to 'save me a draw'.
Maybe next time.

Sometimes I walk around campus and am relieved to see people reading at the base of trees.
We, as a race, are supposed to be reading at the base of trees.

The day after the Metric show.
I'm in Military. This class has a frightful number of students with useless opinions.
I get impatient easily. I dislike most people.
How bad do they get?
On an occasion or two, they've said things so outlandish that I've suddenly turned towards them while shrugging. The way you shrug when you're exasperated with someone. Who isn't making any sense. I am not in the least bit subtle about it.
I dislike most people.
So, the blond one. The female. She may even be the worst.
Mentions something about the Metric show.
Attractive Professor: Oh, I didn't realize Metric was playing.
The Female: Nobody did.
Me (immediately): I did.
Everyone looks at me.
Me: What? I never say anything in class. I thought I'd speak up.
The show sold out. 600 people.
Who says that?

You know the pretty ones? The ones who spend more time on their makeup than they do on their homework?
If you watch them really closely, you can tell that they're concentrating more on not bailing in the hallway with their mid-week pumps, than they are on the route they need to take to get to their destination.
Why do they call heels pumps? I never did understand that one.

While on that. I check out a female in the following order (they'll be lining up at my door after they read this one. To be fair, all men have an order. I'm just honest about it):

• face.
• breasts.
• shoes.
• ass.
• teeth.
• eyes.
• the rest.

Why is shoes number three? Fair question.
I believe that you can determine a great deal about a potential life partner by the footwear they don.
Certain shoes suggest laid back. I need laid back.
And if a girl is wearing something like, oh, I don't know, pumps, at a barbecue, it's best I move on.
With many girls that I've seen naked, I can recall the shoes they were wearing when I met them.
Do not mistake this as a fetish. I find feet kind of gross, actually.

I'd like to ride in a zeppelin before I die.
Because you're not one with air, as you are in a plane. You're beating air.
I compete with most gases.

Guys can't handle having other guys hold a door for them.
Homophobia for some is not an edict, it is a way of life.
They'd sooner wait until you let go of the door.
Guys are idiots.

Lastly, Tragic Hero is going on paper.
The Scope is going to print it. At least once.
Every time I see the layout (which I am not unveiling until after the issue's out) I feel like I'm about to ask out Heather Bartlett in grade 9 all over again.
I still can't believe she said 'yes'.
We've since went our seperate ways.

edit: The Scope is actually on the go now (I forgot which day of the week it was). But I'm not sure how to turn a .pdf into something I can have you all look at on this site.
I'll get back to you.