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.