Out of the Panopticon, Into the Fire

This is that hand-written post I mentioned a couple of days ago.
Transcribed blah blah blah. Whenever I wrote it:

Stephen Hawking believes that if we find aliens, we shouldn't attempt to communicate with them.
Another classic display of a scientist's true inability to behave socially.
Finding aliens and then refusing to greet aliens would be equivalent to being lost in the Congo, encountering another guy lost in the Congo, and then acting as though he's not there.
"Oh Jesus! Thank God! Someone else is out here. I was separated from my guide and a guerrilla ate all of my provisions.
I brandished my pocket knife at him, but he took that too.
None of that matters though. So long as we stick together!
If we follow the river we should locate civilization downstream.
C'mon!"
And you just look at him blankly.
Nothing about this response says 'diplomacy.'
When it comes to space, Stephen Hawking's a genius.
But he should leave the socializing to someone else.
He's not dancing with any girls at the party, if you know what I mean.

If aliens drop in, I'm going to find a nearby roof.
And then I'm going to hold a sign for them to read as they land.
Like that chick in Independence Day.
Something like:
DO YOU THINK THESE PANTS ARE TOO SHORT?

The government is watching us, y'know.
Just like Enemy of the State.
They spent gillions of dollars, but now they can see us as soon as we step outside.
Perhaps you've heard of the project codename:
Google Maps.
It is Nineteen Eighty-Four.

The Slacker's Manifesto

Library.
I'm beginning to think that my writing benefits from being in front of a window.
Like dictating a novel while doing the dishes.
I can see the roof of the Arts building.
Sort of makes me feel like a bird.
Or a roofer.
I saw photos of my grandfather putting a roof on his new shed.
With my father.
And "is that Colin on the roof, too?!"
Mom: Yeah, Colin was their helper.
Me: But he's like, four!
Mom: Pop insisted he be up there with them.
And they wonder why I can't use anything that requires its own fuel.
I didn't volunteer to be useless, y'know.
For the record.
I used to frequently ask to help dad.
But I was always "too little."
Now the joke is on my parents and future wife.
Because this response eventually mutated into "too lazy."

Speaking of harbouring my shortcomings, I'm sort of at the library in order to avoid mowing Avril's lawn.
Her mom asked me to do this.
Avril suggested that I do a shitty job so that they won't ask me to do it again.
Which takes the pressure off of me to try and figure out how I'm supposed to do a good job.
So use your kids for labour, everyone!
Tell them that they don't get their supper untili they sweep the chimney.
Otherwise, you'll end up with me:
A 28 year-old hobo who's only good for washing the dishes.
And looking out the window.

Here We Grow A Grain

Transcribed from yesterday, 5:30ish.

Y'know what sets a first-world country apart from a second-world country?
Eating contests.
A second-world country can't really spare the grain for the hot dog buns.
Or pie crusts. Whatever.
How do they even turn grain into food?
Isn't grain the stuff that we feed to chickens?
Oh. We set a bunch of grains down in a field and then the chickens come.
And those who survive tell the other chickens where to find this grain.
Because chickens are stupid and don't know how to avoid danger.
Which is why they keep crossing the road.

I'm at a Canadian Tire (Tube) right now.
The van has a flat.
I'm supposed to meet mom and dad for their airport arrival in ten minutes.
Mom would be irritated that I'm not going to be there. If she knew.

Drawing A Bath

I had written a post onto paper for all of you.
I did it in the library again.
Something about 18-year-olds' asses that I just find soothing.
Call it therapeutic.
Like setting up a change room web cam at the Aquarena.
See, this was all written on the piece of paper as well.
Unfortunately, the piece of paper is in the missus' car.
Which is in St. John's currently.
We went on a road trip yesterday.
To Gandar.
A very short road trip.
But long enough, given the destination.
We got home by about 7:30, tired and argumentative (not really).
I immediately began to eat ham that had inexplicably arrived in my parents' fridge.
Now, it turns out that Avril brought it along for the trip.
But I didn't know this at the time.
Though she had told me that she had packed ham before we left, I had long since forgotten that.

My parents are still in Toronto.
They get home tomorrow.
They bring dreaded responsibility with them.
Turpin watered the plants while they were gone.
Even now that I'm capable of buying booze for them, I doubt I could have as many high school kids here as Colin would when mom and dad were away.

A new comedy open mic is launching tomorrow.
Esteves and I had been discussing originating our own.
And then a mysterious woman contacted all of us and informed us that she would be starting a room.
As you can imagine, I consider it a little too good to be true.
But I'm going to discuss screenplays with Esteves soon.
Just in case.

Speaking of making it, I'm going to ask the Yuk's people to put us on tour together.
I asked Bill if they would entertain such an idea.
"Sure they would, especially if you're willing to share a hotel room."
Which I am not.
But I am willing to have him sleep in a bathtub for a month and a half.

Though I'm short a Metallica album, I have learned that Hot Hot Heat is great.
They sold me on it in the CD store.
I used to do that at one time.
I once sold a couple of seniors a copy of A Perfect Circle's 'Thirteenth Step.'
And now?
A substitute teacher.
How the mighty have fallen.

When the Bow/Bough Breaks

Watching your girlfriend sleep is far more touching than watching bums do it.

This song is at the top of my charts currently.
I love a tune that tells a story.
It is one of the few appeals of the music of filthy Steve Hoskins.
Of course, all of his music tells stories about how much better I am than him.
With due cause.
He's from Paradise.
The one in Newfoundland.
Not the one with all of the dead people in it.
Anyway.
I'm paying it forward:


Speaking of false hope, I was at a funeral today.
Y'know, bringing a baby to a funeral is somewhat rude.
Nevermind the screaming it does while the father is trying to 'say a few words.'
Funerals are our way of saying, 'Well...he's dead.'
How could someone have the gall to bring a baby to this occasion?
What's more alive than a baby?
A pregnant baby!

eDit: by '...than watching bums do it,' I mean 'watching bums sleep.'
Not 'watching bums watch my girlfriend sleep.'
Which my girlfriend wisely asked me about afterward.
Though I now sort of wish that I had meant the latter.
There's a third option neither of us considered.
In which 'do it' means 'have sex.'

For the Birds

I'm upstairs in the QEII library.
I'm writing on the back of a sheet containing their hours.
Which I removed from some wall or another.
It's called recycling, guys.
I'm in a leather chair.
Someone recently ate pistachios while sitting here.
When I lived in Banff I used to buy pistachio bars that cost approximately six dollars.
I am superb at wasting money.

Speaking of which, I just saw a pet shop deal on budgie birds.
$16.99.
I very much considered buying one for the sole purpose of setting it free in the parking lot.
But that's sort of extreme; I could buy, like, three pistachio bars for that amount.
I probably would have emancipated one already if there was someone around to take pictures of it.
If only we loved like the love birds love.
They spend all of their time sitting within inches of one another.
They eat together.
Defecate together.
And they couldn't live without one another.
If on of them goes legs-up in the newspaper, the other follows suit.
None of this 'in-it-for-the-life-insurance' shit.

So, here's one for our side:
Chris Turpin now reads the blog.
This is better than convincing all of The Osmonds to read it.
Chris sails boats.
He keeps a portable barbecue on hand in his shed.
Did I tell you about the time he picked Turpin and I up from the Education Building?
And he had those three bushes in the car with him?
I probably did.
I didn't even ask him what they were for.
I just said, "There was a sale on, was there Chris?"
And then he went on to describe the deal he got on them.
Leaves all over the car everywhere.


QEII LIBRARY
EXTENDED HOURS
SPRING/SUMMER 2010

Saturday August7, 2010 8:00am - 4:45pm
Saturday August 14, 2010 8:00am - 4:45pm

** The QEII Library will reopen Monday August 16, 2010 at 8:00am.

Domo Arigato

Since Peter's showing me this video a couple of weeks ago, I watch it whenever I feel like I need cheering up.

And you all look pretty miserable, so...

A Oh-Canine

After raking up bits of rotted clapboard and ancient nails, Dad suggested we take a break.
While eying our cleanup job, he insisted that I smelled a rose in the garden.
Because it had "some smell on it."
It reminded me of why I love my father;
He reminds me of me.

It's hard to afford true happiness these days.
Some of you may ask, "Well, Paul, what is true happiness, exactly?"
Is it witnessing two women making out in a hot tub?
Potentially.
But I believe that it is also enjoying life at its most basic level.
I can think of only one truly concrete example of this:
Dogs sticking their head out of a car window.
Below is exhibit A.
Which I found among Valerie Kent's Facefuck photos.
I can't even recall the last time that I spoke to Valerie Kent.
But I know this!
I was likely charming when I did so.
Anyway.
Here's hoping we can all find satisfaction as these guys have.

New Turritory

For some time I have been intent on getting Avril's father some Turr.
It's a bird.
Apparently they're entirely black, once plucked.
And they taste like something that my grandfather would have enjoyed eating.
Bad.
They taste bad.
But of the land.
Anyway, Avril's father mentioned that he used to enjoy Turr at a younger time.
So I cataloged this in my brain.
Caused me to forget to pay my VISA bill for that month in the process, but whatever.
I filed this away because I knew that my father would be able to procure for me this bird.
Unlike Avril's dad, mine primarily associates with savages.
Dad has said for some time that he had a bead on some.
Some nights ago, Dr. Lear dropped by for a visit.
Despite being a doctor, and a real go-getter at that, Dr. Lear enjoys shooting things a great deal.
Woodsy.
He's woodsy.
"Here are your Turr!" Then he handed me this bag, which I laid in the freezer.
But on the way to the freezer, I thought to myself in my head:
"I'm not going to look in the bag right now...
...But these feel like two frozen bird carcasses.
That's what these feel like."
Y'know what I had pictured.
Some mysterious black meat in a somewhat opaque, tightly sealed mason jar.
That would have been fine.
You can give that to someone as a gift.
You can't give someone two frozen, deceased animals.
That's no good.
I mentioned all of this to dad today
(After he showed me how to use a whipper snipper!).
He chuckled and said, "Yeah, these birds were what you might call, 'gathered in the rough.'"
How apt.
I considered this, and then said, "Well, they're better to him like this than they were flying around..."
I'll keep you posted on this one.
I have a good feeling about it.

No Stain, No Rain

I didn't take a single picture, you know.
The whole time I went on this pilgrimage of mine.
Not that I'm sure I'd have anything to photograph, really.
A slew of comics performing better than me.
The most photogenic moment I experienced was outside of the St. Catherine Starbucks.
I was waiting for Jane (Stanton. Redheaded. Boisterous) and Lars (Callieou. Brunette. Road rager) to buy whatever.
And I look up just in time to see this massive papier mache head roll by.
On a forklift.
I eventually managed to find the heads on Facefuck.
But they haven't responded to my friend request yet.
I spent a lot of time on that street.
Looking for women wearing white dresses, primarily.
Or, at the very least, a light yellow.
There were suckers dressed in full nylon outfits.
Handing out pamphlets for Zoo Fest (No animals. I checked).
Head to toe.
Imagine a nylon "onesie."
Garishly coloured and dotted with unflattering sweat stains.
Now attach a hood to that.
With no orifice holes whatsoever.
I got close to one of them and they had all sorts of spittle stains around their mouth.
It was nearly 30 degrees most of the time I was there.
What a job.
I'd rather pump gas.