Here's Your Cue

My father turned 66 yesterday.

To celebrate, I helped him put together a barbecue. 

Several times during the process-

and it was a process-

Dad said, "Whoever wrote these instructions never put one of these together."

I spent most of my time around the bay up at Turpin's. 

Because I'm trying to find new places to steal forks from. 

Claire was there with some of her friends. 

I'm not always excellent at monitoring myself. 

Like when Claire and her friend were going to bed?

Claire said, 'goodnight,' and I said, 'goodnight.'

Then her friend said, 'goodnight.'

And I said, "I'll see you in the morning."

Because I thought she was gone. 

But when I looked up, she was still in the room.

This belongs in Turpin's blog OR If She Asks, You Don't Know Me

There are certain aspects of Spring that tickle me just so. 

Wearing shorts. 

Feeding ducks. 

Ogling women wearing skirts and dresses. 

Being accosted in the park. 

Which just happened. 

Some snippets:

"Fuck!" She said from her bicycle. 

I look up and she says "Sorry," and I mutter whatever. 

That's how it began. 

Then this person is sitting next to me on the bench. 

"You look familiar," she says while she scrutinizes me.

"Do I?"

"Did you go to Coley's Point Primary?" 

"No, but my mom taught there."

"I thought so. What's your name."

I have no idea why I told this person my name. 

Well, I do. Because I didn't realize initially that I was speaking with an unbalanced person. 

It soon became clear, though. 

I started lying when it did. 

"I'm Rebekah Swaine. I know what you're thinking. But I'm not that Rebekah Swaine."

I have no idea what she's talking about. 

"So are you in MUN?"

"Yeah..."

"What're you studying?" 

"Kineseology."

"Never heard of it."

"It's like gym. We go canoeing and rafting."

"Oh, I hate you. Just kidding. I'm doing Sociology."

A pause. 

"Okay, I'll be honest with you. I am that Rebekah Swaine. 

But I never actually threatened those teachers. 

One of them I never even had before. 

My lawyers asked for them to provide all video evidence, and guess what?"

Nervous now.

"What's that?"

"They didn't even have footage of me in the library! I was sleeping, believe it or not.

They gave me probation. Two years. 

Bullshit."

Later.

"I'm epileptic. Sometimes I have seizures. 
I hit a nurse. She's pressing charges. That bitch. 

I should sue her."

"Absolutely."

"Well, I'll leave you alone."

"Okay."

Standing above me now. 

"You seem nice."

"Oh yes, I'm quite nice." 

She eventually left. 

By the end of it I was terrified.

Our encounter was truly a synopsis of this article. 

eDit: she wore her bicycle helmet throughout this entire exchange.

but she's no Marmaduke

I watched Nikki Payne perform last night. 

That joke is funnier uncensored.

Like most of them. 

Do you remember that comic strip Cathy?

Watching Nikki Payne is kinda like Cathy.

Off her meds. 

Doing so made me wanna do this gig for a living. 

Esteves and Steve Coombes got to open for her. 

Which I wasn't jealous about until I saw them get paid.

But then Bill (manager, tall) told me that it would've been me if I'd answered my phone. 

I was okay then. 

Yesterday. 
Shandera's putting in his PIN number for some transaction or another. 

And I say "Cock."

Because that's my PIN number.

And he immediately replies with, "balls."

Maybe you had to be there. 

The Handman's Tale

We have engagement rings.
We have wedding rings.
Well, you and I don't (though we would if I had my way).
But as a bunch of humans walking upright.
We have wedding and engagement rings.
Which is becoming handy these days.
Because I'm at an age where women I might otherwise flirt with are wearing these.
Saves me a great deal of time.
I see a pretty lass, I'm checking out her shoes, and then I notice:
wedding ring
Then I don't have to bother anymore.
I can let the door slam in her face.
It's a good system.
But we need a labeling process for men and women that's more sophisticated.
Here's what I'm getting at:
Sashes.
If you're dating someone for a month or less, you wear the yellow sash.
A month to six, you wear the red sash.
A year could be navy. Two; mauve.
If you're with someone but you think they're a prick, red.
Just like progression through swimming.
Unless you're me.
Then you stay at green or whatever the bottom colour was.

Flower Child

I think that the 60's would have been my optimal decade to live in. 

It was a time that involved a perfect balance of modesty and drug use. 

People likely would have believed me to be 'groovy' (whatever the hell that means).

I could have attended the Woodstock that didn't end in a bunch of fires and property damage.

That's what you get when you invite Kid Rock and Fred Durst to the same place. 

I don't know why they let those guys go anyway. 

I wouldn't share a bus with those two fuckers. 

Anyway, cats and kittens, swing on this.

...Is Another Man's Treasure

You know how every house or bordello has a 'junk drawer?'

Which contains, amongst other things:

- scotch tape

- stray paper clips

- emergency candles

- that spray stuff that you use to clean the lenses of your glasses

- a copy of Aerosmith's Get A Grip (cassette)

- a change purse from PEI's Rainbow Valley

- 'C' batteries. Which go in nothing

- pennies

This is the best metaphor for my life that I can find.

Memories. For Lease.

Since we're (I'm) talking drama festivals...
I've seen her perform in a bunch of roles. And I never got tired of watching her.
She was (a less traditional) Bianca once.
She's something different now.

You're all going to click it.
Because you're thinking to yourself:
"By 'something different,' maybe he means 'stripper...'"

I sometimes like to offer up my musical selections on Friday.
Which is not today.
But they all feel like Friday for me lately.
But as Ponyboy told us, nothing gold can stay...

Better than any Hippie Festival

I wanted to play Thriller during the scene where 'the dead' come out. 

But it wasn't my play to direct. 

I was only the intern. 

I've been working on their drama festival play for a while. 

Mostly so that I could afford myself a chance to watch the students change. 

Which proved to be fruitless. 
What a frigging waste of time. 

Story of my life.

Anyway, the kids killed it. 
I was legitimately surprised, impressed, and proud. 

It was extremely unsettling. 

I hate being in a grown-up's body. 

Everything's so vicarious. 

Except for the back hair. 
That's first-hand. 

I was at MUN with them for the entirity of yesterday. 

I made fun of them for having no friends. 

I took pictures of them with my cell phone 

("Is that your phone sir? Why's it pink!?").

I got them to sign my script. 

Seat Yourself

I ate at the Yellowbelly yesterday.

Pete and Turpin followed me there (they follow me everywhere).

I had the lamb.

If there's lamb on the menu, I'll often have the lamb.

Because there's no taste quite like youth.

Our waitress terrified me.

Because I was attracted to her.

And she acted as though she was attracted to me.

That's terrifying.

In a pitfall similar to the one that strippers hurtle me into, waitresses are obliged to seem more endeared to me than they actually are.

Which makes sense to me.

I would do the same thing in the same situation.

So, she skirted in and out of my life, making sure the fries were okay.

At one point I dropped my fork.

"I'll get you another one," she offered.

"She's the one for you," Pete said.

He's probably right.

They all are.

This song.

This song.

And this song played on the radio while we (I) dined.

I tipped her $4.12*.

Whenever I buy coffee, the lid is never fastened properly.
Whether I secure it or the barrista (speaking of being right for me) does.

And it's never apparent right away.
It's always a warm dawning that occurs for me.

Usually on my crotch.

*I picked this amount because I wanted it to work out to an even 20 bucks.

But I fucked up the math and it turned out to be 19-something.

Are you running a bath tonight?

If so, listen to this once you're in there. 

Keep all electronics away from water that you're lounging in, though. 

"The road is lo-ong..."

I don't care how whiny or first-year university they sound. 

Actually, I did start listening to them in my first year of university...

I still think it sounds nice. 

Unlike most people, I make no apologies for my musical history. 

It's always in the last place ya look

The penis is a member of the mushroom family.

It's also a member of the member family.

I'm just sick of looking at that line in my book.

Alright.

Picture it.

You're in a dank place.

Candles flicker along the stone walls, sporadically lit down a long hallway.

The flames do their trapeze as you slowly etch your way forward.

The air is humid and moist.

It lays thick upon your skin like an extra set of clothes.

You blink and your eyes, once finished protesting, adjust.

This tributary oceans into a clearing just a few feet ahead of you.

A spacious, echoed room.

You're afraid to enter it.

Yet something hearkens you to it.

Something inside of you is pleading.

You enter the room.

And I'm there.

On a stone slab.

I'm naked.

And I have sushi strategically placed over my erogenous parts.

Alright.

That's a joke.

That's not what I wanted you to picture.

Thought I'd have some fun there for a second.

What would you do, by the way?

What would you do in the sushi cave?

Anyways.

Picture it:

You're watching TV.

Lights are low. You're eating chips.

You're smearing onion dip all over your stomach.

It's a typical Saturday.

Now, you take out your favourite emerald because you want to examine its lustre.

Then you drop it.

"Fuck, I dropped my emerald," you mutter to yourself.
Now, this is what I wanted to talk about.

You reach blindly under and around your seat for your emerald.

While you keep your eyes on Danger Bay.

Finally, your hand finds purchase on it.

You pick it up, blow on it, and put it back in your pocket.

With all of your other precious gems.

Never in my life.

Never in my life have I been in this situation and not had to get down on my hands and knees to find whatever I dropped.

This isn't exaggeration for effect.

I mean it.
Not once.

"Pretty Much the Most Amazing Thing Ever"

See. 

Youtube is bullshit. 

And this is why. 

The whole planet was not meant to be viewed. 

I think that what he meant to say is, "I've got a really nice personality."

Watering Hole

Urinals are a strange thing, socially speaking. 

You have to look straight ahead at a urinal. 

You can't make any sounds at a urinal except for perhaps a cough. 

Sometimes old men fart next to me at the urinal. 

Most of the time I don't believe that they even notice. 

I've been tempted to turn to the guy next to me at the urinal. 

And say, "How's it goin'?"

Or yell something if there are urinal dividers between us. 

"Hey buddy, there's gum in mine!"

Also, I've thought about standing at the urinal like the 4-year-olds. 

Pull my pants and underwear down to my ankles. 

Because I think that it would be really funny. 

But the men's washroom is not the ideal place to expirement with new humour. 

Save that for the loan office.

Long Passed Due

I had a man show me a lot of guns at the inception of this weekend. 

It was really interessting at first. 

But as he got to the handguns I realized that I was slowly losing interest. 
Which I then had to hide. 

I don't believe that he noticed. 

I think he likes talking about them. 

And I got the impression that his family had heard it all. 

He let me hold the .44.

But he wouldn't let me spin it on my finger. 

So what's the point?

That man's daughter threw up in our car over the weekend. 

And raspberry vodka had nothing to do with it. 

Saturday morning and Charlotte looks miserable (as usual). 

"I just threw up," she tells us. 

Because, she suspects, she ate some of the expired meat in the fridge. 

"Which meat?" That's me. 

"The salami and stuff. I had a piece of that."

And I immediately got nervous. 

Because I had had a whole plate of that expired meat. 

I even had a piece of the chicken bologna. 

She continued to vomit though. 

And I eventually returned to my oblivious nature. 

Hopefully she's just pregnant. 

At one point dad was thumbing through The Telegram and Charlotte asked:

"Oh, what's my horoscope?"

"You're going throw up in a car today," I piped up. 

Even dad laughed at that one. 

Tip of the Icing

Three hugs, two drawings of myself, and a cake.

That was my sendoff.

Considering how apathetic an audience I had, I think I did alright.

And these people are so preoccupied with sex and throwing up, it's a wonder they found the time.

I will legitimately miss them.

But not yet.

Daphne (not her real name) made the cake.

The icing spelled out 'Peace out Mr. Warford.'

I wanted the whole thing to myself.

But I had to share it with them.

Dylan (not his real name) asked to go to the washroom and I told him he couldn't.

"Because you didn't want to give me a present like Daphne did."

"Yeah I did, but I don't know how to bake!"

I let him go after that.

So, now I have a month to myself.

I plan to spend it whittling.

Either a chili spoon or a boat.

Jim had a chili spoon. That he whittled.

He also had a long head.

And few other redeeming qualities.

Clutching at straws.

I'm actually thinking about using the month to write a paper.

Defending video games as an educational tool.

Because I'm really, truly, quite odd.

And I've little interest in sex.

Requires movement, you see.

Some selections (don't mutter about what a dick I am

Just listen to them):

Via Purifico (Final Fantasy X)

Dungeon Theme (Legend of Zelda)

A medley (The Secret of Monkey Island)

A soundtrack (Castlevania IV)