Getting Somewhere

I use two Bounce sheets when I dry my clothing.
Outwardly it's because I'm passionate about making my clothes smell extra nice.
The fact is, though, that static cling fucking terrifies me.
"He's talking about laundry again."

Alright. Big deal.
I'm going to interview Mike MacDonald* tomorrow.
Over the telephone.
He's in L.A.. Because he's not a hack like I am.
If the interview goes well, I'm thinking of asking him to reimburse me for the phone call.
"When you get a chance, could you just send me some cash to cover this call.
I don't know what this is costing me, but I know my long distance plan isn't covering it."
I want the interview to go well.
That way, I can meet him when he comes here for the comedy festival that's going down.
And maybe he'll drop by The Victory and watch me do a set.
And then I'll go on tour with him.
Which would be great.
Because then I would finally have an answer when people ask me, "What are you up to all the time?"
Knowing my luck, he'll probably find me boorish and daft.
It'd be pretty good if he got my name wrong.
"Alright Phil, well it was great talkin' to ya, but I've got a roast on, so I'd better get going."

I once was the victim of a prank call.
This kid called up, and he said, "We're calling from McDonald's in Bay Roberts.
You've won a free Big Mac!
To claim it, stop by the store tomorrow morning at 7a.m."
Giggling in the background.
So, I just patiently call him out, "Alright buddy. Sure I have."
He argues a bit further, saying, "No, really. You won. Blah blah, et cetera."
I keep saying, "Sure, good one, okay."
And then suddenly the kid interrupts me and says, "Alright, I've gotta go. I've gotta take a shit."
And hangs up.
To this day, I still feel as though the kid bested me when he did that.

*This is the only clip I could find so far.
Which is bullshit.
I keep finding clips of some other guy named Mike McDonald.
And a Michael McDonald. Who looks like Kenny Rodger's aborted fetus.

Up First

Tonight I have a show at Distortion.
Well, I don't have a show.
Jerkoffs with instruments have a show.
But I'm definitly opening.
Says so on the sign.
I don't know what I'm going to talk about yet.
Something funny, probably.
Hopefully.

Road Irrational

You wanna know the key to drying laundry?
Smaller loads.

If a motorcycling enthusiast suddenly wanted to become a bondage enthusiast, it would be a very easy transition.
Because the wardrobe would be taken care of right off the hop.
A motorcycle guy came into the Starbucks I was scoping yesterday.
Leather head to toe. Sunglasses on (inside). Cradling his helmet.
It was a beautiful day outside.
And I felt like asking him, "Aren't you warm?"
He left.
Not five minutes later, another motorcycle enthusiast came into the Starbucks.
Wearing the same jacket.
I went into the parking lot, and they were both out there.
Eyeballing each other.
I guess one of them had to cycle home and change.

Wet Behind the Ears

Today I contemplated applying to work in a pet store.
I'm an animal kinda guy.
Big, small, dorsel fin, four stomachs, you name it, and I'm willing to admire, and eventually eat it.
And, not to put you in the mood to have sex with me or anything, but I do know a thing or two about tarantulas.
Even now I know what my favourite part of this potential job would be.
When the kids come in and ask their dad if they could get that dog please cause he's so cute and we'll feed him every day and we'll name him patches and can we get him dad please please can we get him?! Please?!
And the dad says, 'no.'
That'd be my favourite part of the job.

MarkMyWords

I ate microwaved potato wedges yesterday.
Because I'm a man who takes risks.
Andrew Butler had the same.
Peter Russell had an Italian submarine sandwhich.
Although I personally question how authentic that 'Italian' label was.
We had coffee in Starbucks adjacent all the books.
The other two said that the girl who was re-stocking the magazine shelves kept looking at me.
But I'm sure that she was just re-stocking the magazine shelves.
Besides, I was wearing a hat that screamed, "I'm not interessted in sexual intercourse."
Which I lamented wearing when the other two mentioned that the girl was looking at me.

I managed to lose my car and apartment keys yesterday without leaving my apartment.
I still haven't found them.

I agree with Colin on this one.
I caught this quote of his during one of his rare, booming announcements:
"People talkin' about rich people bein' spoiled?
If I was rich I wouldn't do a fuckin' thing."
It's the way that he says these things that makes them beautiful.
He hates that I mention him in this blog.

Love him or ridicule him, Jerry Seinfeld has a very apt bit in which he describes the toilet water going up instead of down.
He suggests that this is the scariest possible moment in a human being's life.
I think he's right.
It happened to me recently, during which time I made several panicked phone calls.

If someone had told me, at the age of seven, that playing the piano could yield a lot of sex, and that sex felt good, I would have stuck with my piano lessons.

I encountered my first-ever non-fan.
I guess that's what he was.
I met some fellow named Mark, and while shaking he said, "Yeah, I've seen you do standup at The Victory before."
And so I said, "Did you think I was funny?"
To which he replied, "Uh, I can't remember."
I said, "That means 'no'."
If I ever make an album, Mark's going in the liner notes.
Though I imagine he won't notice.

Dear Lord.
Is that all I've got?
I've swept back through my ass-pocket book, and that's all I've got.
I'm onto a new book, by the way.
I'm just proud of myself for exhausting something to completion.
I took pictures of the new and old, side by side.
I've been wanting to upload them, but I can't find the necessary camera cord.
Maybe I'll find it while I'm looking for my keys.

Great For A Boy or A Girl

I'm frequently hungry.

I'm squeezing my brain right now because I haven't written any friggin' posts, and it makes me feel rather slobbish.
That's why we, the artsy crowd, make these blogs in the first place, you know.
So that when we're sitting around, unemployed and loathsome, we can pass the time and feel as though we're accomplishing something while we're at it.
I am discussing my girl problems. I am getting things done.
Speaking of which, I think I'm due for regular sex again.
I deserve it as much as the next testosterone holder.
Moreso.
I buy flowers at appropriate times.

My favourite Newfoundland-sounding name?
Rodney.
I told Sarah Turpin once that if she and I were ever to bore child (she'd be doing most of the boring), we should name it Judas.
That's a baby name that gets entirely overlooked.
Judas.
Say what you want about the Bible character, the name does have a ring to it.

ShortCut

Sorry about the abscence everyone.
I dropped by the diamond mine in Africa.
My go-betweens told me that the locals weren't stealing from me, but you can never trust the go-between. Or the locals.
You know how it is.

I got a haircut yesterday.
I don't like getting haircuts for a number of reasons:
To launch, all of the hairdressers have to make a deal about my hair.
"Got some curls," they say. Which is meant to be complimentary, which is fine.
But what am I supposed to say to that, really?
"I grew them for you." That's what I've been saying for years.
I have to judge a length. How much do I want removed?
Well, I know what shape I want it to be in when she's finished.
I don't know how much needs to be taken off for that to happen.
My hair bunches up, you see. Length is hard to determine at times.
They comb without being mindful of tangles.
They ask questions that I don't know the answer to.
"Do you want layers?"
I have no idea what that means.
And there is no worse form of chit chat than hairdresser chit chat.
What do we have to say to each other?
Who could possibly care less about me and pretend to be more interessted than the hairdresser?
I have to tell them what I'm doing, which is bad enough, since it's inevitably nothing.
Then I have to ask them questions.
Otherwise I'm an asshole.
"Is this job as miserable as it seems?"
That sort of thing.
Then it's over and I have to tip them. They stand there, too, and wait.
When did hairdressers start getting tips, by the way?
Because it's bullshit.
They already charge completely unnecessary prices, and it varies every time you go there.
It's like booking a plane ticket.
Sometimes it costs $18. Sometimes it costs $28. For the exact same process.
What service did they do for me besides their job?
It's not like you tip your dentist.
I hate getting my haircut.
The very first time I received a haircut I cried like a bastard.
I still do.

Sleep. Deprived.

I don't really have sexual dreams about women.
It's true.
I have dreams where women are involved, and there may be romantic allusions within the dream.
But I never score.
It's as though my subconscious knows that I could never pull it off, and so chooses to compensate for my benefit.
Do you know how depressing it is to wake up after having just dreamt about that girl who used to work in pastries, and you were unable to get past first base?
That's a start to your day, right there.
"Might as well get out of bed and start living it..."
On the bright side, if I ever try to proposition a girl for sex, and she says, "Pff, in your dreams!" I can say, "Shows what you know!"

3-Piece Suits

You guys know that arcade next to Studio 12 in da mall?
It's a fucking tragedy.
Kids like the stupidest shit these days.
My days of Golden Axe are over.
Unless I become famous.
In which case my days of Golden Axe will take place in my games room.
Which will also contain a pool table.
And youthful, supple virgins, scrubbing my floors, and preparing my meals.

Jimmy Falon is going to replace Conan O' Brien.
To be absolutely honest, I frequently fantasized over the past few months that it would be me.
Only one thing overrides even comedy with me.
Hosting.

Cleaving Wood

I think it's important that I mention my using a maul last weekend.
It's a big hammer.
I did this with my father.
He used the axe, which is probably for the best.
He switched hats halfway through.
He took his time, citing that this was important.
I almost hit myself on the foot a few times while swinging.
Which would have likely broken a toe.

"Shake It Up"

When you're a guest in a bachelor's home, have you noticed that when you're offered something to drink, you're given a list of specific beverage options?
Because the bachelor can't afford juice and milk at the same time.
And if you were to visit eight different bachelors in the one day, you'd get eight different combinations.
"Would you like something to drink?
I have chocolate milk, water, and I think there's a can of gingerale that someone ended up not using for mix."
"Can I get you something?
I have apple juice, Pepsi, and some sort of mango, banana orange juice. I don't know where that came from...I think someone was using it for mix."

I Wear Mine At Night

Imagine how shitty it would be to work at a sunglasses hut.
Especially for a woman. That must be awful.
Getting bald guys coming by, trying on one pair after another.
Sizing up their fat heads in the little mirrors, the price tag hanging down over their upper lip.
"How do I look?" They'll ask, and they'll do so with just a hint of flirtation.
And what does she say? "Oh, those look good on you."
She has to.
How many times must a sunglasses peddler say that expression? "Oh, those look good on you."
Terrible jobs fascinate me.

Autumn's Here

Ever think to yourself, 'This would be a good season to start mountain climbing'?
Me neither.

Speaking of dying, I've got this recent issue that I'm somewhat out of sorts with.
It started with Colin's room, but, favouring my bed lately to my couch, in the hopes that I'll have some woman or another in it soon, I've had it happen with my room as well.
There's this bird. I haven't seen him or her. They have.
But there's this bird. That keeps flying into our bedroom windows. Every morning.
Noon, every day, on the nose.
Just kidding. Like, six, seven in the morning.
And this bird just flies into the glass, repeatedly, unless I hit it from my end to startle it away.
Isn't this a classic omen? A bird flying into your window?
Doesn't that mean someone's going to die?
It's probably going to be me.
But I have to win the lottery first.
Or find that special someone to share a couch with.
Then I'll die.
And the bird will say, "Finally. My head hurts."

Quick Blunt Goodbye

This was about an hour ago. I was still wrapped in a bedsheet at this point:
Me (referring to Colin's missus): What's wrong with this one? She's awful quiet.
Colin: She's getting worse, apparantly (asthma).
Me: Take her to a doctor, maybe?
Colin: No point. He just tells us to go to the Health Sciences, and they take x-rays, and then she has to wait three weeks for the results.
Me: Maybe we should take her to the backyard and shoot her.

Now, lemme axe you something:
If you were at a deadly concert with a rock and roll band, and someone threw a shoe onstage...
And the band stopped playing their wicked show, with its thousands of fans, so as to berate, and humiliate the person who threw the shoe, going on to ask that no more fans throw blunt objects onstage, wouldn't you keep your blunt objects to yourself?
Fuckers. Certain people shouldn't be permitted oxygen.
Josh Homme tore into this guy, too. For minutes. Uttering curses and insults, and making comments about the individual's mother.
Then, three or four songs later, right at the close of the Queens of the Stone Age show, some other waste of skin threw something onstage, Josh Homme said, "Goodnight everybody," and the band walked off.
Some people didn't even realize what had happened. They thought it was normal for a band to stop in the middle of a song and end the night there.
I was pissed.
But they were deadly. And they played (these are not in order):

• Era Vulgaris (Era Vulgaris [Canadian] re-release)
• Sick, Sick, Sick
• Burn the Witch
• Go With the Flow
• In the Fade
• Avon
• Tangled Up in Plaid
• Misfit Love
• First it Giveth
• Little Sister
• You Can't Quit Me, Baby
• I Wanna Make it Wit Chu
• Turnin' On the Screw
• 3's & 7's
• Song for the Dead
• Do it Again
• No One Knows (the song they walked out on)

I think I got 'em all.
Were you there?
You should've been.
Phillip Kearly was there.
He was talking about you.

Tomorrow: The Vulcan Salute

What's up groupies?
Tonight I see Queens of the Stone Age.
Again.
For the very first time.
And I'll be there, with my arms raised, and my hands will be in the traditional formation so as to communicate 'rock on.'

And I don't know why.
In my experience, when I attend concerts, my hands just naturally do this.

Some Odd Ends

Tidings, everybody.
Good tidings.
When I'm sleepy, my yawns are incredibly wide.
Which is something that I can't prevent.
Ever see lions chilling out on the Savannah? And they'll yawn every now and then?
It's like that.
If my buddies were smart, they'd jam their fist in my mouth just as I was doing it.

Alright, so I haven't been around.
What's been happening?

I was in the shower the other day, and the soap I was using (to wash my nude body) was worn down to just a sliver, due to moderate use.
And I dropped it, and it went down the drain before my hideous foot could stop it.
That's the most exciting thing that's happened to me this week.

I went to a party with a lot of engineers.
Drunk, middle-aged engineers.
It was strange.
They drank all of the mix before I showed, and so I drank beer out of some cooler.
There was an overweight beagle there.
I tried to call Turpin (long distance) from this strange man's house.
And he entered his den while the phone was still ringing.
So, I asked him if he wanted to say 'hello.' And he did.
But he hung up after a moment, and said, "voicemail."
I should have told him that that was my reason for calling in the first place.

I went to my first-ever Game Pot at my Uncle Bill's.
I'm choosing to not give you the details, but I will disclose that I have a leftover stew in my fridge right now that contains the sauteed remains of rabbit, moose, and partridge.
The partridge tastes like chicken.

I forgot to tell you this weeks ago, but Robert and I finally got Queens of the Stone Age tickets.
In fact, we managed to get two sets.
So we're taking women.
I won't be having sex with mine by the end of the night, though.
Heaven forbid.

"Don't you walk away from me!"

And here it is.
It kinda stops short at the end for a reason.
I sent it to Elling to whittle down what I had already written, so I could get it back and continue with it.
But I didn't explain that to Elling. So, he didn't send it back.
I'm still satisfied with it.
Don't bother reading it unless you have, at the very least, a mild interest in what this game is all about.
Oh, and underneath the flashy red title, I had originally included the tagline, "Hey, do I look like I got funny balls to you?"
Which is a direct quote from the game.
It would be.

Phallacy

There's a giant banana in Australia.

Not an edible one, mind you. It's probably made out of fibre glass...

I've said it before and I'll say it again:

If I was a millionaire, I would send a lot of ludicrous shit to Sarah Turpin.

Case and point.

The Theme of the Day

It's Saturday.
Are you going to the mall?
See you there.
After you're finished admiring your purchases, check out this tune:



I'm not obsessing, or anything.
I just happen to think that the song is wicked.

Keeps You Dry

I dropped my deoderant in the toilet today.
And the wolrd spins on.

Under the Sheets

You wanna know the best part about having a girlfriend?
Clean towels.
Women always seem to have clean towels around.