Jellybeans

Here's a fun idea:
You know those songs that you share with a girlfriend?
Boyfriend?
Group of European travelers that you fooled around with while drunk on Tequilla in Cancun?
The songs that immediately make you think of them?
Take all of those songs from all of your relationships.
Put them on a mixtape (or CD. You kids are into CDs these days).
Write on it, in magic marker:
MISTAKES I'VE MADE.
Then listen to them alone in your bedroom in the dark.
Accompany the activity with Scotch, if you think it will help.
It has helped countless others.

Da missus and I are sitting in Ches's.
At 1 a.m. on a Saturday (I think).
While we're waiting for our feeds, I turn to her and I say:
"It's over."
And she says, "No it's not."

I'd like to play a game of ice hockey before I die.
A slow-paced one.
Twenty bucks says that after someone helps me into all of my padding I'll have to go to the bathroom.

While I have them seated around me under the oak tree, I'll tell them:
"Things are different now than they were when I was your age, little ones.
When I was a kid, the red light next to the TV's power button meant it was 'On.'
Now it means that the TV is 'Off.' But these days people don't say 'Off.'
They say 'Standby.'"
But none of them will be listening.
Because they're the generation borne of the 'TV generation.'
Which, on the whole, makes them very inattentive.
Especially to old people.

Still Got It

One of the members of Platinum Blonde died today.
Platinum Blonde fans around the planet have donned black pirate shirts.
I happened upon a memorial earlier today in my travels.
It was a sad sight.
The stench of hairspray was overpowering.

You had to be there.
Let me point that out first.
But I'm in the CMC (Education library) yesterday.
While Turpin was reapplying her eyebrows.
Sometimes the glue gives way when she sweats a lot.
Anyway.
I see a girl from my observation day school.
I didn't attend on Friday.
So, I thought I'd ask her how the day went.
If there were any school shootings, or other occaisons of interest.
Turpin gets back (right brow askew) and I tell her the situation.
Then I approach the girl and start with, "Hi-"
And she says, "Hello" politely and walks away.
You had to see it.
But she gave me the brush-off like I was handing out hooker fliers.
Or coupons for a fried chicken place.
We were in the car before I had stopped laughing.
At myself.

Some Shockin' Good

Well, at least I've eaten.
This education mumbo jumbo has kept me effectively downtrodden since Sunday.
How bad has it been?
I woke up this morning saying the word 'fuck.'
Before I'd even opened my eyes.
The alarm went off and I just said it semi-conciously.
Like Pavlov's cracky.
It's not over yet.
But my capacity to care is dwindling forthwith.
I'm just biding my time 'til the next mixer.
Which I'm going to attend.
And I'm going to get piss-wasted.
Because I think I can really stir up these doe-eyed collegues of mine.
After a few white wine spritzers.
We should just start calling mixers what they really are:
Sexers.
Is that only funny to me?

In other mentoring, I've been e-mail fencing with Pete Soucy lately.
Don't let his frail appearance fool you; he's quite the firecracker.
Aren't these wicked?
Note: the kids' costumes in the Halowe'en picture.

An Arrr!gument

Alright.
Now, I know that this isn't something that I should glamorize.
They don't necessarily deserve to be applauded for their crimes.
Unlike, say, the Mafia.
But for some reason I find it refreshing that pirates still exist.
And they're still boarding ships and pillaging swag.
Sure, they use machine pistols these days, and they probably all have their limbs.
Instead of wooden appendages.
But, for the most part, and you'll have to agree, pirates are keeping it real.
If that expression even means anything.
How long has it been since mercantile shipping?
Trade routes, and sloops, and spices that cost a fortune and all of that?
Five centuries? More?
And yet, pirates have kept up with the times.
That says a lot about a criminal entity, I think.
It's not like bootleggers kept going after prohibition.
"Oh, people can buy booze again? Well, we had a good run."
Why didn't one bootlegger pipe up and say, "What if we bought beer for minors?"
That kinda thing.
But pirates. They sat around with their various parrots, and they discussed.

Pirate 1: Well, we're in a bit of a slump. Swashbuckling is down considerably.
Pirate 2: This is cause of that friggin' Internet! Everyone's trading with that now.
Pirate 3: And airplanes! They're using airplanes.
Pirate 1: Well, people still take cruises.

That's business sense.
That's integrity.

Set! ...Set?

You know how you spot the gym teacher?
When a volleyball hits the wall two inches from their head, they don't even look up.
Another observation day down, another path of molested children.
That's a joke.
So was the day.
I did some photocopying during a prep period and then I watched a volleyball lesson.
Three times in a row.
I could do an underhand serve for you no sweat.
Bump passes? Don't even worry about it.
You bend your knees to absorb the shock.
I don't have any advice for volleys, though.
That's next week's class, I guess.

Just Read It

http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/capress/081112/health/health_britain_sperm_shortage

Wankers.

Swing

Say what you will about my unsettling addiction to the game.
It's got a soundtrack with some bop.
Roy Brown.
Imagine if this guy had been recorded at a time when it wasn't
1940-whatever.

Pretty Tied Up

Holy My Michelle, b'ys.

They're releasing Chinese Democracy.

Will the tour involve Buckethead on top of a piano?

Only time will tell.

What A Way To Go

Everyone is getting off of the bus eventually.
That is, everyone's gonna die sometime...somehow.
This man's going to fall down his basement steps on his way to get some syrup from the pantry.
He's going to trip over the cat.
The cat's name is Trousers.
He'll haunt the cat.
This woman is going to fall off of a clift while skiing for the first time.
And her last words will be: "I think I'm off the trail."
But imagine dying because you went to an AC/DC concert.
I mean, I know Thunderstruck was a corker.
But goddamn.
...and Ticketmaster seals your doom...
As for me?
I'll probably be the first non-cartoon individual to have an anvil fall on my head.
Or, it'll be a platypus sting.

Odd Man Out

My friends-my penis friends, that is-they think that I'm different on purpose.
That I just look at what they're doing and then I do the opposite.
To, y'know, stand out.
I don't need to put in effort to stand out.
My gap-toothed, hee-haw appearance gurantees that.
When I'm the guy on the flight who spills his shot-sized cup of coffee on his lap.
While the plane's still over the island.
I don't need to work at it. I stand out whether I like it or not.
I like it.
But still.
I don't avoid Wal-Mart because it's trendy to avoid Wal-Mart.
I avoid Wal-Mart because when I walk in there my brain immediately begins slamming itself against the wall of my skull.
Until I leave.
Because it's trying to escape.
It's a breeding ground for people who wear black jogging pants to 'dress up.'
Who communicate with their families by shouting obscenities.
I don't give a fuck if I'm saving 85 cents on orange juice if I have to buy it in that environment.

We did Cora's last monthish.
I showed up last.
Cause I'm always late.
I am punctuality's anti-Christ.
My penis friends are right on that one. No arguments here.
Anyway, I show up last.
They're already seated.
And all of 'em. Missuses. All of 'em.
They start laughing as soon as they look at me.
And I don't know why.
Turns out it's because I looked so gross.
Which is why I ran into my ex-girlfriend's entire family during the same breakfast.
Existence isn't a treat for me.
But at least there's fresh fruit.

Don't get me wrong.
I'm just whinging, as the Australians say.
I wouldn't trade 'em for all of the gold in Ja Rule's mouth.

Skin Ticket

I am a learning disability.

I don't know what beers go with what beer companies.
Okay.
You happy?
I said it.
I have no idea who brews India, and who brews Black Horse.
However, though my patriotism is damned already, it goes beyond that.
Coors. Whatever.
I don't know.
Are you happy, hot bartender waitresses?
I fucking hate it when I go to order a beer and then they don't even say that they don't have it.
They just shout "We only have Molson products!" over the din of people trying to have sex with one another.
"Canadian, then."
If it's Molson, it's Canadian. If it's Labbatt's, it's Blue.
I hate both of them.
There are times when not being cool can be very debilitating.
Like when Max King plays November Rain* at the dance, and you have no one to sidle up with.
You wanna dance with the heartthrob for that one.
Cause it's ten minutes long.
That's not a Jennifer Clarke.
That's a Dana Puddicombe.
But that's another humiliating story.
(Still being told).

*I already linked November Rain in another post. This is another G 'n R classic.
And I didn't want to link Paradise by the Dashboard Light.

Mr. Warford is a Fraud

Dump the body in the dumpster behind Burger King.
It's Friday.

So, as I have hinted, I had an observation day on Wednesday of this week.
I got to go to a shop class.
I listened to a chapter of The Outsiders.
Though I have to say, it's just not the same if Harold Stanford isn't reading it to you.
For those lucky few who know Harold Stanford, imagine his voice saying:
"Stay gold, Ponyboy."
Kirk and I still talk about it.
H'anyway.
I'm trying to get used to calling teaching peers as 'sir' or 'miss.'
It's an adjustment.
These people are, for that day, your co-workers.
You know their first names.
Or, at least, you know that they have first names.
But as soon as you leave that staff room you have to say, "Hello sir."
Or, "You got some ass on ya, miss."
Now I'm being called 'sir.'
Or Mr. Warford.
It feels out of place.
Like I'm at the bank all day long.

"Tater, come ta Nan."

She: I'd say you're pretty virile for 26.
Me: Would you?
She: Well, you keep up with me.
Me: I get so winded...
She: I didn't say you were in shape.

She enjoys having cats placed on her head.
Literally.
She's asked me to do this for her on several occasions.
There's a long list of things that cats don't want to do for the benefit of humans.
This is just another one.
You should hear the way she talks to them.

She has a habit of saying the funniest things when I least expect it.
You should drive her through Island Cove sometime.
"Holy fuck! That yard has a horse in it!"
"Oh my god! What was that?! It looked like a field of rabbits back on buddy's lawn.
Or gerbils. They looked like they may have been gerbils."
So, we drove back down Bishop's Cove Shore, and we're all looking for the yard.
With the gerbilery in it.
"Oh, it was just cats," she muttered as we passed by.
Two of them. Two cats.
Colin said, "I'll tell ya one t'ing, a woodsman yer not."

Last night I wanted to pick up her Wendy's potato for her.
So that she could shower.
Allowing us time to catch the opening of Law & Order.
Me: So, ask him for the sour cream and chives, and you don't want anything else?
She: Yeah. They only have two kinds of potatoes; sour cream and chives, or theatre cheese and dodgy fuckin' bacon.

Kloreroe

In my first 'teaching English' class, I said that I was in the faculty because my mom made me apply.
Which is more or less true.
But, when I'm in doubt, and I think that I should maybe run off to some other province.
For some other exploit (dentistry, for example), I remind myself of what I said to myself when I brought in the application:
'Hey, if I teach for 30 years, at least the job will never be boring.'
More proof:
Tech education class. They're doing an animation thing in Paint.

Some random kid: Would it be inappropriate to do an animation with the Ku Klux Klan?
Teacher: Yes. Absolutely.

And I'm biting the insides of my face, I'm trying so hard not to laugh.
It's not just that this kid is saying this that's flooring me.
It's 9a.m.
If a kid is asking you that before recess, who knows what else the day might bring?

Bees Attack Stars!

I just finished sticking a bunch of shit to my walls.
With that tacky adhesive gear that may replace scotch tape one day if it gets its act together.
It's a long shot, though; the Scotts don't go down easily.
The French, on the other hand...
But we're not talking global issues right now.
The stuff on my walls is a mish mash of mementos and used condoms that I have kept over the years.
Because, when not mocking old people or inhaling inhalants, I too can be wistful.

So, I watched Hey Rosetta! play music last night.
They look more like a Nova Scotian band than one of ours.
These days.
The bass player lost his glasses.
Not literally. Cosmetically.
Turpin and I watched the band for a while before we grew bored.
Then we watched the bassist (him again) make his bass-player faces.
And equated them to his having sex.
Because he was making fuck faces. Onstage.
I wonder if anyone has told him yet.
Hopefully his mom reads my blog.
Stars came on afterwards.
What a bunch of florist jerkoffs they are.
Throwing roses to the crowds, and rose petals when breaking into choruses.
Don't get me wrong; I dig the band.
But sometimes the stage antics of a group can really sour the milk, y'know?
Ever watch Thursday live?
Exactly.

Side note for all of you 7-foot tall, well-endowed assholes.
If you're at a concert. Or a play. Or one of those deals where people have orgies onstage.
If you're at one of those. You can look around and say to yourself,
"I'm easily the tallest person here."
So why are you standing in front of me?
And when you put your lightweight girlfriend on your shoulders?
Even better.
Next time I hope you drop her.

Half-Life

I'm not writing a bunch of stuff down for the likes of you people!
I'm kidding. You're a fine gaggle of readers.
This is me up for oxygen.
I've been sacrificing hygeine and sunlight for the sake of this game.
Though, from what the weather woman has been telling me, I'm not missing much.
You know the one.
With the gappy teeth and pleasant behind on channel 17?
I'm sure she has a lovely personality as well.
All weatherpeople do.
They're also great at making swooping, elaborate gestures with their arms.
Am I still talking about this?

I'm going to see Stars tonight.
Not the anvil-on-your-head kinda stars.
The band.
Shit!
My pie's burning.
I've got class anyway.
I might be back again later.
Maybe not (Fallout).