In the Rough

I'm going golfing tomorrow.
I still snicker in spite of myself when I tell people.
For all intents and purposes, it's my first time. And I already know what the best part of golf is:
Coordinating the outfit.

greener grass

Stictches when I first saw this. I almost plotzed.

I knew Jane wouldn't find it funny. And she didn't.

But things were already spiraling by then...

Baby Penguins look as though they were designed specifically for cuddling.

Dump & Load

She was mugged in Zanzibar once, you know. She's a fascinating person.
I am wearing my 'Fuck Lineups' shirt. I picked an apt day for it, so I would discover.
We pass through the booth area. I am directed (by 'hit me first') into a spot. Marie hits the bathroom.
I buy our ticket. I am charged for one adult and one car. I am confused. They had seen me pass by with a missus some moments before. We had caused the stir of having insufficient funds.
"What are d'ey at down d'ere?
"Friggin' hippies don't have enough money to get on da boat."
And yet I'm charged for myself. Nothing ever came of it, but at the time I am confident we will be detained while trying to board.
A man glances my shirt as I pay.
"I'd like to have that shirt. Diane? See his shirt?"
I turn to face Diane.
"Oh yes," Diane says, "We all could've used that shirt this morning."
Cause the boat had been broke down. For hours. And the other was used for a medical emergency. People were kept from their jobs and errands for the better part of the morning.
This is the day we choose to embark on Bell Island. For fun.
We park. It is the first time I have been directed onto a boat while I am the driver. I mention this to Marie.
I notice a sticker in the back windshield of a nearby vehicle. There is a crest. There is an anogram.
I say: "Now, what do you suppose S.P.E.B.S.Q.S.A. stands for?"
Marie does not know. I promise I will look it up for her.

Who would have thought there would be enough people in the 'Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America' to warrant a sticker?

Marie and I go upstairs. We are instantly charmed by a Pepsi machine that easily pre-dates me.
I hug it. She takes a picture. Our camera is now out of batteries.
We hit the deck to get some air. We both discuss whether or not we are the family 'accident'.
It is far more likely that she is, though we come to no concrete conclusions.
I act as though the wind isn't bothering me.

It is dark by the time we actually, physically get on the surface of Bell Island. The last boat across is at 10:30.
I am certain we are going to miss it, we will be forced to spend the night in Bell Island, and we will discover our deep love for one another.
I am excited by the prospect.
No, seriously. I am very scared that we will miss it.
We go to Dick's to get fish and chips. They are renouned for their fish and chips. We have been advised to experience the fish and chips by friends and strangers alike.
On the boat Marie and I discuss Domino's pizza in her hometown (not the chain of Dominos...a different Dominos), and how they are renouned for their pizza simply because they are the only game in town. We discuss whether or not Dick's will be the Bell Island equivelant of Dominos.
I am unimpressed with the fish and chips. But it is the first thing that I have eaten for the greater part of the day.
Marie pays for it.

We prepare to play hangman while we wait. I have not played this game in years.
We cannot remember the setup for the scaffolding. Or the noose. Or the little doomed man.
Marie: "You've gotta draw the staff, then you get the beam, and then the rope. Do you see what I'm articulating? Oh! Our food's here!"
She is this charming the entire week.

We decide to explore.
Bell Island has no street lights.

Flora/Fadda

If you take the itty bitty brocoli bits that flake off of the fluffy parts, they sort of look like little sperms. Sperm. Whatever.
I just noticed it, and wanted to tell you all right away.
In other facts, I'm almost finished my job and I am happy about it.
I am going to play golf for the first time in about 15 years on Friday. I'm already coordinating my outfit, and am open to suggestions.
Becaue I'm impressionable. And I try hard to please people.
Is this post to your liking?
I thought not.

outbreak

I got Peter high last night. Good friend, Peter. Seen him naked a bunch of times.
I can't remember the last time I smoked drugs with this individual.
The first time that I smoked drugs was with this person. Behind his father's shed. Because I'm from Newfoundland.
He has just broken up with his girlfriend. It's for real this time.
He took her off of the insurance.
That's how his mom found out about the split; through the insurance guy.
Because they're from Newfoundland.
The first car I buy will likely suffer from some sort of ridiculous malfunction that the manufacturer has never seen before. Some sort of a defect that initiates a recall.
In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if my life will result in several recalls that begin with me.

Marooned

We weren't supposed to have the camera, you know.
It's my mother's camera.

My mother has pictures of the lives of my brothers and I in their entirities. She has dated and catalogued them. My mother appreciates her camera.
I once lost a sandwich.
It took much convincing.
Thanks mom.

This is dockside. We arrive at the dock initially at approximately 4:30ish. People are milling about. There are cars. I park, and we wander aimlessly.

We are dressed as we are, we are awaiting the ferry for Bell Island. I can feel eyes on us.

There is a ticket booth and a fellow doling tickets. It would seem that boarding is about to take place.

Luckily, we see a building harbouring a sign that says 'Tourist Info'. For all intent and purpose, this is a sign for us. We stride on over to the building.

Empty.

There is a bench or two. And bathrooms. There is a desk that is positioned in a way that would suggest someone occaisonally sits behind it, but there is no one. Observe:

There is a kitchen nearby. It is housing the largest kettle I have ever seen. We are meekly calling 'hello?' throughout the building. Because we're misguided, you see. We need help.
No one.
A phone starts ringing. Startled, we run away.
There are men in 'hit me first' (Marie's term) vests milling about the dock, waving cars this way and that. She and I find the man who looks most tolerant, and ask him about the next crossing, and the cost.
"She's leaving in about a half hour."
We ask him how much the ferry is. He tells us that it isn't much; about $1.75, or $1.50.
Marie tells him that we have plenty, and therefore leave.
We prepare to smoke a bowl by the water. We of course have no flint.
Backtrack. Marie has to use the bathroom. She encounters, ironically, a man who played in a band on the Port-Aux-Basque ferry crossing. Aparantly he chose her as the recipient of many mirthful jokes he unleashed upon the ferry's bar. At her expense.
Whatever. It's better than being pissed on.
They speak. I have no idea who this man and his assumed wife are. I say nothing and try my best to look like I'm shy so as to avoid asinine questions.

We go to what is likely the only shop in the town.
Marie exits the car. I remain. She is paying for everything, remember.
She returns to rummage in the backseat. She has been id'd to buy a lighter.
We used to get id'd for lighters when we were 14. Da b'ys and I. And with good reason. We almost set fire to various areas that should not have been near fire.
She returns with a lighter she is significantly old enough to buy. They had no yellow, so we settled on purple.
"I told her I was 26. After she looked at the id, she said, 'Sure, she's older than Mike.'"
I think I'm dedicating this post to Mike. Wherever he is. Probably at that store...

We smoke a bowl.
We return to the store so that I can get snacks. With Marie's change.
We return to the dock. We get into the car lineup.
We joke that 'hit me first' told us the wrong ferry price because he had been working there for 30 years, and it was $1.50 when he started, but due to inflation, it was now $20, or something ridiculous.
Ha ha. Had a fine laugh at that one.
We get to the booth. Bright-eyed. We are ready to experience this place.

It's karma, or it is simply our being together.
"Eight dollars."
We immediately panick and look at one another.
"We were told a dollar fifty."
We were told a dollar fifty because we approached 'hit me first' without a car, presenting instead only our bodies. A walk-on is a dollar fifty. As soon as an engine is brought into the picture, things change.
We are now the people in the lineup that holds everything up. We are rummaging. We do not have enough change.
"We don't have enough..." admits Marie.
We were off by a dollar or two.
This is equivelant to the cost of a chocolate milk and a lighter, perhaps.

We begin to search for a bank machine, unsure of whether or not we will find one. We are beginning to grow concerned.
I remember that, miraculously, I have coffee change in the car. Fate has stepped in and dumped some coins on us.
We are now effectively back in business.
We go from the beginning of the line to the end of the line.
We wait.
Cars progress through sluggishly. A pickup truck gets to the booth. It does not move. For fifteen minutes.
Now they are the ones holding up the show.
Marie and I badmouth these people who are preventing us from boarding our boat, which we can still see in the harbour.
More time passes. Pickup makes no attempt to move. On closer inspection, everyone else in the surrounding cars seem suspiciously lethargic.
We stop a man walking by and ask how long it will take before the ferry leaves.
The ferry has left already. We missed it while acruing change.
"What about that one?" Marie gestures to the remaining boat.
"Oh, sure she's broke down."
This is why there is an hour wait between ferry rides rather than half an hour.
We have 45 minutes.
I still have not eaten beyond a few Wheat Thins and some burnt cheese.
We wait. I offer Marie some of my chocolate milk.
She declines.

my 'i just vomitted voice' fools no one

I called in sick at work today.
I am, in fact, well.
Don't tell them.
I've cut an awful lot of potatoes this summer. Far more than I intended to originally.
I'm a bad liar, and it kills me because my personality dictates that I should be an excellent liar.
Because I like to keep people on their toes, you see.
I've decided that I'm going to lie to people more often (honest). It was a fun thing I always enjoyed doing.
At Butler's wedding I intended to tell people I was an air traffic control person, in case they made chitchat.
Thankfully, no one talked to me.
The father of the bride sang a broadway tune of some sort while giving his speech, in order to commemorate his daughter's union.
I'd be lying if I said it was expected.
I'm going back to bed.

Flatered

After last night's show, I've been featured on CBC Radio, and will be again tomorrow morning, and I do short music reviews for The Scope now, apparently.

I look drunk in the picture because I'm acting drunk. I sort of look as though I'm singing, all sultry like, to a girl by the bar.
Incidently, no sex yet, but the day's not over.
7am. I won't hear it, but people driving to work will. And my dad is going to set his alarm.
And I finally get the impression that my parents are proud of this stand up racket, though they still haven't seen me do it.
I swear a lot. Mom won't like that.
Today was a good day.

The White Strips didn't make it. I forgot to use them for a decent week or so.
But you know me and commitment...

Liner Notes

Comedy again tonight. I show. I'm waiting to get on. Peter is trying to figure out how to insert the camcorder battery into the slot. Shandera didn't give him a rundown beforehand, aparantly.
Peter used to be a key grip.
Anyway, Shandera and Bussey show, despite having told me they were commited to another function for the evening. Others are milling about from various circles of groups that I have managed to infect at some point or another.
Tonight I experienced a realm of comedy that I have never encountered before: following good acts.
Which I did. And I killed it, but with less finese than last time.
An older fellow named George (no surname) hits the stage before me. He is slim, bent, bearded, and has a balding swooped-back coif of some sort that ties into a pony tail.
And we're looking at each other with sideways glances. And we're whispering "Is that George Carlin?"
I never would have thought there was a professional impersonator living in Newfoundland.
His material was original, despite having a borrowed look.
Amazing, this guy. So funny while making it all seem so effortless to him. Has been in the business for 40 years. Has an angent. Manager.
I write my advertisements on kitchen prep lists and post them to bulletin boards. I make facefuck events.
He and I spoke for some time afterward, and he told me many many encouraging things that leave me wishing that I could simply shirk responability and hit the road for the next few years.
My mother has a blood pressure condition. There's medication. Color-coded pills. It's not a good idea.
He told me to 'stick with it', amongst other things. I gathered more tonight than I have since I started.
He told me he is attempting to organize a competition in Mt. Pearl. $1000 purse. I told him that if he solidified it, I was 'in'.
I have VISA payments that need attention.
It felt good.
And for once, there's a tape.
That can be played in North American cameras.

"Sure She's Older Than Mike!" or, Per Axl

What did one pedophile say to the other pedophile?
Sociable!
I am a teensy bit hungover still after Butler's bachelor party the evening prior.
So far I have eaten cold, burnt nacho cheese from a pan that was on Shandera's coffee table. We had made them drunkenly at three in the morning. I almost, almost, took the pan out of the oven without any sort of temperature protection.
Both of his cats have furballs while I rouse myself from sleep. Both of them. Within minutes of each other. Have you heard a cat regurgitate a hairball?
I collect Marie from wherever I left her. She is sporting a New Kids shirt. Her stock raises a few points in my head.
We lounge about my house for a bit. I call people about drugs. I waste time.
We climb into the car. We drive downtown. I have to get gasoline. We stop.
I pump the gas as she shouts amounts to me from the passenger seat. I have parked too awkwardly to see them myself as I dispense.

Despite our working in tandem, we miss a perfect pump.
I blame her.
On my way towards the gas attendant hut to pay, I jokingly tell her that I may need her money in case my VISA does not work.
I have no reason to believe that my VISA will not be operational.
What happens if you pump gas into your car, and then have no possible way to pay for it? Will the gas attendant folks, in their shirts, call the cops? Do they make you syphon the gas back out of your tank?
My VISA card is not accepted. Luckily, Marie has a sufficient amount of money on her person.
We have been together for an hour or two so far. I owe her money already. She is getting a dose of me quickly.
Enraged, I call the VISA people to ask why my card is not being accepted. These people always sound so miserable on the phone. Dealing with people like me all day, I can only imagine their despair.
You can't use a VISA card if you have a few hundred extra dollars on there, over your limit. Silly me.

VISA mystery solved, we head back to my home. For Wheat Thins. I laden Marie with snacks.
We prepare for Bell Island.
Some things to note:
-we have no information on the Bell Isle ferry, barring that it leaves for the Island every half an hour.
-we do not have a great amount of cash on us, and with my now useless VISA, Marie is paying for everything.
-I have still only eaten that burnt cheese.
-we are both very ridiculous people, and unsure of what she has heard, I do not know if she is aware to what degree I am like this. I have not yet learned this about her.

We roll out.

The drive is very pretty. We banter.
There are signs for us to follow. In time, however, the signs become non-existent, and we still have not seen a dock or boat of any kind.
We begin to reach the point in which we wonder if we have taken a wrong turn of some sort.
Then, we crest the hill. And d'ere she is.

The crossing I leave for tomorrow. I'm too juiced from the comedy still to write more.

She's Marie to Me

I almost killed a man just now.
Well, I certainly could have bruised him up a little. But I was driving. And he was old. So it wouldn't have been that impressive.
Not like a barehanded kill. Or one that requires tracking the victim over several miles.
Luckily, Marie yelped a warning of some sort, and I locked onto 'er before I brought up on buddy.
He didn't even notice, as far as we could tell, that he had almost been ploughed by a Buick Sentry in a Sobey's parking lot seconds beforehand.
Marie needed red onion. And I always try to be accomodative to individuals as whacky as myself.
Which she is.
I will admit that I have been somewhat underground for the past few days, and it is due to the fact that I have been experiencing Marie during this time.
It is necessary to use the term 'experiencing' rather than 'meeting' or 'getting to know'.
However, you, the ever-vigilant reader, need not feel excluded, as I intend to report on many of our endeavours together.
You should ask her about monkeys sometime. Never have I seen someone so impassioned.
She listens to Alice in Chains. She is fantastic.
Here is how we met:

I am late. I am walking downtown. I have put a great amount of consideration into my outfit because I am meeting someone new. And she has to like me immediately. This is very important. Her name is Anne Marie Bourgeois. She is Turpin's friend.
She is waiting for me. She looks as she did in the pictures. Her teeth are very very straight, and very white. Like tictacs, her teeth. The white ones.
I order coffee and a piece of cheesecake. I ask her if she wants any of my dessert. It has caramel on it. This is breakfast. It is after 1pm. I assure her that if she says 'no' initially, I will eat the whole thing in front of her.
She says 'no'. She means it. Women often do with me.
Ha ha!
Moving on.
I cannot remember a single thing I said. I just remember that I was 'on'.
She warns me after returning from the bathroom that I should not exert too much force on the staircase banister in Hava Java. I maintain that I will heed her advice.
I still do.
She shows me the contents of her satchel ('things are beginning to heat up' I tell myself), which contains, amongst other things, a cucumber. A man was selling them. She had a smaller one, but it has already been eaten. AM explains that she intends to leave the other, larger cucumber on her friend's pillow, as a gift.


So, right off the bat, I learn that this person is thoughtful. No one ever leaves elongated vegetables on my bed.
Her laugh is boistrous and full. It rolls around within the coffee shop. Feels kinda like a blanket. I describe her laugh to her as she is laughing. Makes her laugh more.
"It kinda has a musical quality to it, your laugh", and so on.
She's a humour repeater. So, I say something funny, and then she laughs with gusto, and repeats back what I have said that is so amusing. I like it when people do this. Sort of gives you a taste of your own material. Maybe gives you a chance to find it funny as well. Though this is not the case on this particular day. I usually find myself quite boring.
We discuss our plans for the following day. She recommends we go to Bell Island. I immediately concur.
We leave. We are traversing the concrete steps between Water and Duckworth (you know, da ones by the courthouse?) and she tells me that I'm 'so cute'.
I proceed to forget what I was talking about.
She likes me immediately.
We part. I go to a bachelor party.
We have a big day ahead of us.

she was the snack passer

Hello everyone. I do apologize for being a little behind on my posts lately.
Crystal Meth really eats up your time, once you get into it.
But eventually I'll come down, and then I'll have plenty to tell you about, including ferry rides, Dick's Fish & Chips, my first lapdance, and meeting Anne Marie Bourgeois, who has been consistently blowing my mind since our first encounter.
But for now I'm back on the horse (work).
Remain dedicated, fair readers. You'll be basking in posts eventually.
When I get around to it.

edit: after re-reading this post, I feel as though I should specify that my first lapdance was not from Anne Marie Bourgeois, as my wording may imply. I was in a strip club. Her name was Madison, though I'm skeptical of the name's plausability.

Title and Registration

I just registered for this:

www.nlboxoffice.com

I said this underneath my personal info, because they asked for my comments (which I really do hate leaving):

Am I supposed to type funny comments here, or background comments here?
It's very difficult to be affable through a comments section, I find. It's unusual to find me with nothing to say, but if you put a comments section in front of me, different story.
Especially in guest books. I never know what sort of comment to make in a guest book.
You sign your name, and then there's that little space across from it to write a comment.
Weddings are the worst. People say 'best wishes!' and 'all the best!'. I don't want to write something like that.
What if I don't want the marriage to work out?
Maybe I think she's not good for him. Something like that.
I find it best to comment on the decor. "Nice colour scheme", something like that.
I started doing original material in my second year of university. I hit the stage whenever I get a chance, which is never often enough. I'm doing this because I hope to meet Tonie Marie, so I can ask her to marry me.
Then it will be us choosing the colour scheme. I'm sorry if I accidently submitted this twice. Which I may have.

I think I did submit it twice. I clicked back, and copied this, and made an ass out of myself because I wanted to make sure I posted the comment here. For you! For my audience I made an ass out of myself.
And will again.
On the 25th or 26th. I think I'm going to have to quit my job early.

Of Horus

My brother once commented on Kirk Bussey by saying that Kirk "doesn't really seem to say much."
Which is true.
But I told my brother that Kirk is easily one of the funniest people that I know. And you would swear he never tries.
If I found out after dying (we're entertaining the idea of an afterlife here, for a moment. My apologies to the particularly surly atheists) that one of the friends I grew up with had been an angel all along, Bussey would be my first guess.

It's his birthday. I am late. Appetizers have already been ordered, prepared, and delivered. I have just gotten off of work an hour and a half beforehand, you see.
We are in Swiss Chalet. A lot of families eat at Swiss Chalet. We are fortunately seated away from them.
Our waiter/server (whatever) is very good. I tell him I want only dessert. He informs me that I want the chocolate eruption cheesecake.
Perhaps I do. I have a penchant for cheesecake, after all, as any friend of mine worth his or her salt would know. Furhter, My rapture for chocolate has grown considerably since my time in Banff, which I contribute to great quantities of refer and individually wrapped brownies always being available at the 24 hour Mac's on Wolf Street.
So, perhaps I do. I peruse the fattness menu some more as everyone patiently waits.
The balls on this guy.
He says, "You want the chocolate eruption. I already wrote it down for you." Then he shows me his little pad thingy. And he has. I am so impressed that I agreed with him. This is how many men talk women into sex, I think.
"Of course you want to sleep with me. I bought condoms earlier today and a flask* of peach schnapps, see?"
None of this has anything to do with Bussey. I just wanted to mention that gutsy move with the cake. I'm going to marry that man, someday. Greg. Greg is the one I'm going to marry. I don't know his last name, but his eyes are blue. He works evening shifts.

Later, we are in Bussey's apartment. Men are sitting about. There is another cake. For Bussey.
Some of us suggest he cut the cake, make a crumb, and tell us who he is into**.
Bussey: "Why do I have to cut the cake?"
Us: "Because it's your birthday, b'y!"
Bussey: "Shouldn't someone else do it for me, then?"
Us: "No man! You got to make a crumb and tell us who your girlfriend is."
Bussey (as he gets out of his chair. more to himself than to us): "I think I'll get Miranda to cut it."
You would have to have grown up with him to get it. But Bussey sees and knows everything. He was likely a pharaoh in a past life.
One of the good pharaohs who used slaves as infrequently as possible.

*Flask is Newfie nomenclature for a 375ml bottle of liquor. For anyone who may not know.
**Is this birthday practice done everywhere? Or is this a Newfoundland thing as well?

The Ryans and the Pittmans

Is it just me, or does German sound like another, more recognizable language, spoken backwards?
Not necessarily English, mind you, but a language more familiar to we Western folk. A language you might stumle upon while channel surfing at 3am. Possibly Spanish.
I'd like to learn Latin. All languages come from Latin, you know. I wonder if Ostracize comes from Latin. Perhaps it comes from Ostriches.
If I encountered an ostrich in the wild, I would scream and run in the oposite direction. I believe that ostrichs are easily the most terrifying member of the bird family, but I believe them to be in the upper echelon of the animal kingdom as a whole.
The upper echelon of the frightening spectrum of the animal kingdom, that is. They have nothing in common with fruit bats, or lemurs.
Because they look ridiculous. And they seem very unbothered by it. If you study a picture of an ostrich face for a few minutes (I have a lot of spare time), you could swear that it was intent on eating you. Or the photographer.
They kick, you know. Ostriches.

I attended a Screech-In last weekend. In the Turpin backyard. I hung balloons for Anne Marie. Then we had a can of beer (each) and shot the shit. When she's not crazy, she's a very astute woman.
Again I felt an astounding degree of provincial patriotism as I watched a misguided family of five get welcomed into our fold.
These are becoming rampantly more frequent. Which is odd.
What is far stranger, however, is that I feel less and less bothered by my sudden island pride each time I experience it.
Kind of like how carbon monoxide poisoning seems scary at first, but by the time you've experienced it for a little while, the whole idea just seems fine. "This is acceptable."
I hated this place in high school. I just wanted out. I never wanted to come back.
Except for funerals, I suppose. And The Blueberry Festival.
Because that's always a time.

If They're Dead, They're Not Lucky

http://www.forbes.com/2006/10/23/tech-media_06deadcelebs_cx_pk_top-earning-dead-celebrities_land.html

Sometimes, just sometimes, society makes me want to vomit for hours on end.
And my brother wonders why I hate watching TV.
Smells Like New Revenue?
I hope Cobain haunts the writers.

Sorry everyone. I'll post something less angsty tomorrow.

Day In, Day Out

The four siblings sleep here. I am demoted from my ironically spacious futon, and exiled to the couch. The newlyweds get my bed.
Andrea: "Paul, I found your thumbtacks. They're beside your bed. I almost stepped in them."
Me: "Oh good, I was looking for those." I was looking for those. Though I could no longer remember what it was that I needed them for (and still can't).
Brian and Colin proceed to make fun of me for being only a percentage of a human.
Andrea (from the bathroom): "Where do you yahoos keep the toothpaste?"
Even I can't help but laugh: "On the floor in the living room."

Just a Bit

In comedy, if you do very poorly, you "bomb".
I've bombed before. I'll tell you about it sometime.
If you do substantially well, you "kill".
I killed. And it was fucking great.
I thought it was going to bottom out because the crowd was non-seated, which is something I consider to be a negative thing, and an overall bad sign. Because of those bombs I just mentioned, you see.
My friends kept asking if I was nervous. I explained that I was just bummed out. I figured the set was doomed before I started.
Not so. Worked out.
No co-workers came. Just one. Shannon. Good guy. Wears a lot of sleeveless shirts. Basketball jersies, and the like. Good guy. But not female.
Speaking of 'not female', I really wished Turpin had been there, after I was done.
Amy said she was going to make it, if she could. She didn't make it. I found myself wondering if she could.
I thank everyone who came, if any happen to read this (likely just Trace).
And, I learned something as well from a fellow comic.
Closing with a bloody cervex joke? Not a good idea. But I think that, deep down, I already knew that.

Funnier than me, and the human anitomy jokes that evening was this:
We're leaving the bar. My two brothers, my brand new sister-in-law (I called her sissy while drunk last week. I promised to never do it again), and I are walking the length of Water Street. Whenever I park downtown, I focus so diligently on finding a parking space, I tend to overlook the distance from my destination.
We walk.
We arrive at our vehicle. Colin is going to drive because Andrea is 'from away', and therefore cannot hope to navigate while downtown, and Brian and I are too high to drive (thanks to Shannon. I believe it was the LA Lakers that night).
We all stand at our respected doors. We wait. Colin hits the obnoxious unlock button on the keychain thingy.
Nothin'.
Hits it again.
Nothin'.
I am beginning to assume that I have broken the car's remote device somehow. Probably because of a lifetime of Colin saying things like:
"Did you break this thing, somehow?" Which he says at this point.
I tell him "no", while desperately searching through my lacking memory for potential tidbits of me dropping, mashing, or otherwise mistreating the keychain thingy.
The three of us mock Colin for not being able to operate a simple piece of machinery. We accuse him of being technalogically inept like dad. We pull on door handles.
Four of us. Two of us are sober. And Andrea just got into the family. None of us realize that we are trying to get into the wrong car.
And the Buick that actually belongs to us? Three spaces away.
Maybe Dad's sperm was exposed to a lot of radiation in his younger years...

Is this thing on?

Comedy open mic is going down tonight. Too late to back out now. I've told too many people to come. If I go there now and back out, then what? Family is there. Friends. Ask them all to go to Tim Horton's? No one will respect me after that.
No one respects me now. I know.
It took me a while to decide on a bit to do. I've figured it out now. I think.
"I just flew in from Chicago, and boy are my arms tired."
That's the opener. I've got a good feeling about it.

I have to go buy a pink shirt now.
10:30. The Victory. Used to be The Spur.

Until then, watch this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9TYzRanykbQ&NR=1
It is bullshit that Soundwave wasn't in the film.

As if advertising my set in my blog post is going to draw a massive audience.
I fill the bar.
Knowing my luck, that's when a fire would break out.
Some sort of methane leak.

Over Quality

It's hard not to be impressed by a large number of something. People are swayed by great quantities in general, I think.
I was driving home from work today and I passed a motorcycle expo or retreat, or whatever. I couldn't help but gawk simply because I'd never really seen so many middle-aged men with too much money at one time before. Or motorcycles. There were a lot of those, too.
Ever watch Troy? People were impressed by the number of soldiers and armies that the computer guys were able to get on-screen.
Of course, Helen was a fox.
She launched ten thousand ships. Or so they say.
I couldn't launch a dingy. Or a punt.

In other yammering, tonight is Brian and Andrea's reception (their second, really). I have to be funny in a few hours.
Until then, I'm trying not to over-strenuate, so I've been focusing thoroughly on being dull.
I've refused to discuss anything but crotcheting all day.

How Bad Can It Be?

I'm driving. I'm late for work. This is becoming more and more standard lately. Likely because there is no supervisory individual per se at my place of employment, and so there is no one to scold me for being late, or to even take note of it.
I remember that I have to call my landlord and give him my chop of the rent, since I keep forgetting to do so.
I scribble the reminder on a scrap of paper that I have pressed against the steering wheel, and I write it as I look straight ahead and steer. Because I am concerned that by the time I hit a red light, I'll have forgotten again.*
I stuff the scrap into my pocket, and then I go back to eating my toast.
My car has a lot of crumbs in it.
Now, if you will excuse me, I evidently have to call my landlord.

*I also had to make a reminder on the note to write this post.

Spilled Milk

I am putting tex-mex cheese into itty bitty bags. Two ounces each. This is 'portioning'; my least favourite aspect of kitchen work.
A co-worker tells me that he has inflamatory bowel syndrome. He informs me that dairy intensifies it.
I say, "If I couldn't eat dairy, I'd fucking kill myself. ...No offense."
It takes me a minute to realize that I'm eating an ice cream sandwhich as I say it.
I'm also snacking on the cheese.

Rock On

I'm going to commit a felony tonight.
By gar, it's been a while.
She better appreciate this.

And they're aiming for your crotch...

I'm in Hava Java. Which irks me to begin with because of the turgid fog of pretentiousness that I have to sift through just to approach the counter. Fucking university graduates.
I stumble upon one of Tracey Brown's friends who I had randomly met a couple of nights prior. We chitchat. I don't know what to say to this person.
Moot.
I peruse a bulletin board near the coat rack, and I notice an ad for an open mic comedy night happening next Sunday. Before contemplating anything, I start writing down phone numbers and starting times. I am already asking friends to go. All three of them.
Because I miss it. Badly. Even though it is terrifying.
I'm far from good (that is not modesty; it's rationality), but if you're curious...
I tell people that it's like a dartboard. It's like you're standing in front of a dartboard.
There is no lonelier version of performance.

Metamorphisis

I just got back from coffee with Martin. Amanda. Martin's her last name. I've already decided that I'll be calling her by her last name from here on out. She looks like this:



But not all of the time. Sometimes she does not make the fish kissy face. As a matter of fact, for all I know, this is the only instance of her doing the fish kissy face ever. In her existence.
I didn't ask her if I could use this photo. I stole it from Facefuck.
I figured that, since she's a girl, I should try to find the prettiest and most attractive photo of her that I could find. Because this is a public thing, and my HUNDREDS OF FANS will see it. And girls are like that. Then I decided that I don't have the energy to look through over three hundred pictures, and therefore settled on this one. Besides, she doesn't seem to be 'like that'.
Although she was dressed far nicer than I was.
Her dating stories are generally entertaining. She's refreshing to hang out with because I'm not trying to have sex with her. She has various outlooks that I appreciate. She seems punctual. Which is nice.
Gives me something to aspire to.


In other news, I believe I will be seeing The Simspons Movie tonight. I've been told that it is not that bad. I am still nervous. Never before has a television series made me feel so...let down.
In the film The Fly, Jeff Goldblum looks as handsome as he did back then. He and that big adam's apple of his. Climbing into the teleport chamber, as nude as Jeff Goldblum should be.
At the end of the movie, he looks like this. And Geena Davis is very sad about it.
The Simpsons has undergone a similar transition. The series is Jeff Goldblum, or Seth Brundle, if you prefer, and I am Geena Davis.
This film is my last hope.
Now that I think of it, if I was on a crime spree with one of my care-free buddies and I came across Brad Pitt, I'd probably stop and pick him up as well.

Party Favours

Tracey Brown had herself a birthday party last night.
I went.
I initiated the evening by getting very lost. I curse a great deal when I get lost. I get very infuriated very quickly. I usually keep a close eye on the gas tank to ensure that I don't run out of petrol in some strange and unknown area. That's how horror movies get started.
I would definitly be the first to die in a horror film. I'm amusing, but generally not attractive, or, to my sympathizers, I'm cute at best. I am someone who will be missed, but I am certainly no love interest. Do you know what that translates into? I do. An axe in my temple.
I have Gin and diet tonic water. I'm eating pizza as I drive. And curse.
There was a Barbecue, but I woke and dressed far too late to be a part of that.
I rarely meet new people these days. That is a priviledge too easily taken for granted. There are no more SHOUT conferences to attend. I would love to link 'SHOUT' with an old photo or some such nostalgia, but I have nothing. Turpin might help me with that.
Irregardless, I show and mingle. Tracey introduces me to her fish. I try to be witty and boistrous. It is an easy crowd. A lot of ambient noise, though. Multiple conversations flowing at once.
If there's one thing that I greatly rely on when making first impressions, it is words in edgewise. So, ambient noise is a challange. So is a drunk rotund woman with very large breasts.
"The alcohol is making my drink fizzy." I can't remember her name...
Tracey has a deuce of friends I'm attracted to. Funny girls drive my brain crazy.
I find hip bones sexy, I've realized. As long as they're smooth. Well, bones are always smooth. The skin over the bone is what I'm referring to.
Tracey has a friend with testicular cancer. I finally met him last night. He is far more upbeat about it than I would be.
I'd probably be a real wet blanket cancer patient.
I'd wear an afro wig after the chemo started.
Because my scalp probably looks hideous.

Just 13 more days...

I just applied my first-ever Crest Whitestrips.
It was exactly as frightening as I figured it would be.
Actually, applying them felt like putting on my first condom.
No, seriously.
I'm alone in the bathroom, I'm reading instructions, I'm lining things up; "Does it go this way? No...this way." ..."That doesn't feel right. Maybe it's the other way after all."
They come individually wrapped. You're mindful of tearing as you open them.
It says I can do all sorts of normal activities while I wear these. I can ride a bike and check my stock options and all of that.
All I want to do is take them off.
And I think I put on the bottom one backwards.

edit: I swallowed a lot of that gel stuff.

Dial Tone

It's eery how quickly I can make the transition from waking, on average, at around 8am for a week, to waking at 6pm. Which is when I get up now. Because, of all of the restaurants downtown, I choose the one that is in 24-hour operation.
I think I could convince Emily Haines to go on a date. She seems down to earth. If I had a few minutes to talk to her, I think I could do it. If she was standing behind me in line for coffee somewhere. Then I could do it. Or, if I called her.
Preposterous as I may be, I am actually the most charming man in history...over the phone. I ordered an RJD2 disc from HMV over the phone when I was still working at EB, and the girl who took my order was in love with me by the end of the conversation. It was ludicrous. The transition from her taking down my address to my taking down her panties would have been effortless. I realized this, and resolved to go down there.
"Watch out Nicole, whoever you are, you don't know what you're in for."
But, as I was getting my jacket, I happened to glance down, and then I said, "Ah yes, my ridiculous physical appearance."
I left Nicole to her dreams.
I had money to steal anyway.

Fall From the Tree

Sweet Christ, I can't believe I forgot to post this sooner.
There's this thing that my brother Colin and I dwell on from time to time:
My gradual, and yet assured transformation into my father.
This happens to all. You vow you will never be as your parents were, right before you become them.
I can remember the first time I ever thought I resembled my father in mannerism. I was sitting on a bench in the Avalon Mall (it was probably not in the Avalon Mall. It was probably not even in Newfoundland), and I took a 'step back' from my whirlwind thoughts for a moment to note my sitting posture. And I realized I was sitting exactly as dad sits when he is waiting on a bench.
It's different now. Things are a little more specific. It is impossible to describe unless you not only know my father, but know him well.
My father cannot use cell phones. He has little patience for them. My dad was alive when Newfoundland was still its own country.
He holds the phone very far in front of him (he's near-sighted), and randomly jabs at numbers with his calloused fingers. He doesn't press send. He holds the phone to his ear. He sputters: "I can't get 'dis fucking thing to work." The three Warford sons keel with laughter.
Okay, cut to last week. Colin, Brian, and I (just typing out the words makes me feel good) are running errands in Toronto.
Brian drives like someone from Montreal. His car is very peppy. It would have to be to be Brian's car. Turbo charged? Of course it's turbo charged.
We are preparing to go to Best Buy because Brian has to buy some sort of adaptor...thing. I have to eat because I'm getting irritable. We go to Burger King.
People are milling. I hate Burger King. This guy shouldn't be allowed to sell anything.

Fucking terrifying. Seriously.
Anyway, Colin and I order first, and Brian is left to order and pay. I approach the soda fountain to get my beverage.
Let me paint it for you: It's your standard affair. Buttons with markings to distinguish which dispenses which drink. A spigot for each beverage. Space. For your cup.
Root beer. That's what I choose. I hold my cup under the spigot, then I press the Fruitopia button next to the root beer button, and watch with surprise as reddish-pinkish liquid spews from the dispensor adjacent my own. And I'm holding my empty cup underneath my inactive faucet, curiously watching this stream rush by, right next to my hand.
In retrospect it must have been funny to see how confused I was. It really took me a few seconds to piece it all together.
Which is precisely how dad would experience the same situation. And only someone like my dad would do something so ridiculous in the first place.
I honestly don't believe I have ever seen Colin laugh so hard before. Brian is still ordering as Colin and I make a scene with our roaring, hysterical guffawing.
Brian does not know what has happened at this point.
I'm confident that no one witnessed it besides the two of us.
It's only a matter of time before I start feeding my Visa card into ATMs.

Lady Luck

For you doubters out there:
The day after Brian's wedding, I wanted to play pool in the hotel games room. I play pool. Whatever. Moving on.
I scoped it out beforehand, and I knew that the price was $1.50 (which is unreasonable, by the way). I always check the price on pool tables when I'm in an establishment that houses one.
Also, if I'm eating in a fancy restaurant, I check the flatware and silverware to see who made it. In case I recognize the name. Remember when you used to go to birthday parties, and they had the "special cup"? Everyone had a styrofoam cup for their Dr. Pepper, but only one cup had a squigly marked on it by the mother of the birthday boy/girl. If you were the one who had the cup, you won a prize? Remember? And you'd lift your plate and cup while they still had food on them/Dr. Pepper in them? It's kinda like that. I'm very strange.
I can recognize Steelite these days without even checking, usually.
So, we're preparing to check out, and I decide I'm going to rush a game of 9-ball while my other family members do things that are organized and rational.I have a two-dollar coin. I know I need quarters and loonies for this deal. I find a pop machine in the little icebox alcove on our floor, and I insert the toonie. I hit the change button.Nothing.I curse, and try to get a root beer, since I know damn well that this edifice isn't going to be dispensing any change for me.
Nothing.
I didn't really want to play pool anyway. And I didn't want to drink anything.
That's one Warford.

Colin and I have to fly home the following day. There appears to be no obnoxious children frolicking about our gate. There are two button-down children of about seven who appear to be more mature than us. They appear to be the only young'ns flying with us.
The parents of those three seperate babies who were seated within two rows of us must have been buying magazines as we were examining our chances.
The button-downs were in first class.
That's two Warfords.

Mom and Dad are flying home from Toronoto the day following that. Meanwhile, Colin has a seperate flight to Labrador on the same day.
Tropical storm.
That's three Warfords.

I suppose that if all five of us had to do something important on the same day, North America would simply sink into the sea. Or it would rain car batteries. Something.
I never once had the special cup. Or plate.

Pac-Man It

Jana's getting married tomorrow.
Some of my faithful readers (there are not many of you, but my number of fans is a positive interger, and that's enough) know who she is. Some don't.
This is what she looks like. I lifted this picture from her Facefuck account (I hope she doesn't mind). I think this was taken during her stint with a drug cartel of some sort.

Jana believes that the whole "Fur is murder" fad is so blase. They probably had it comin'. The animal, that is.
She's...well...she used to work at an information desk that I would frequent from time to time. She sold stamps to Acadia students. And if someone came to her regarding a lost and/or found item, she would direct them to Security. I never actually witnessed this, but I'm sure she would have pointed people in the right direction.
She provided phone extension numbers.
She gave me a reason to write things down. She was rationality in a place of turmoil.
Any living situation in which Brad Nordall could be found making Kraft Dinner in his underwear at two in the morning is a place of turmoil, I assure you.
If there is such a thing as a muse, then Jana was mine. Is mine.
I used to bring her peach yogurt and leave it on her doorstep. Because I'm like that.
She bought me a typewriter once. The 't' would stick sometimes, but it is still a very prominent gift among those that I have received.
Crono Trigger still wins. I asked mom for Crono Trigger for Christmas, knowing full well that the rule for my mother and gifts was that she would never buy us the following:
Alcohol
Cigarettes
And video games.
It was the last gift that I opened that year. I can't remember the last time I had been so surprised. And if there are girlfriends reading this who believe that Xbox 360 games are expensive, let me tell ya, they were far more pricey back then.
I still can't believe she got me that game...
Jana paid attention to me. Everyone else just acted like they knew me.
I've been pining over women since my adolescence, but she was my Goliath.
I danced with her in a courtyard once.
I forget most things. But I'll never forget that. She cried a lot. It was fantastic.
She has insomnia too.
They say now that sleep deprivation can lead to a dramatic loss of brain cells. It also leads to daytime naps. Take it from me, the last thing that is going to rock you to sleep when you haven't had a wink in a day and a half is the thought that your brain cells are slowly perishing. They should have kept the results a secret. A lack of sleep comes from anxiety. What are they trying to do to us?
Nytol is the best over-the-counter. I know that Sleep-Eze D is the tempting choice because of the advertisement with the sheep and the rooster, but those two have obviously never had it bad. Otherwise they wouldn't have been pushing such an ineffective Diphenhydramine. They were likely paid well, of course. If they weren't puppets.

Lowely Mortal, or Arahant

If this portrait of God is even remotely accurate, then I think that He probably appreciates my style, and what I'm trying to do.

In case Christianity ends up being the winner, let's hope so.
I'm banking on Buddhism though.