Saving Some Scratch...

Don't ask me why I have the Baby Orajel.
I don't want to explain.
Just know that I have it. In my little laptop satchel.
I'm in Starbucks currently, and the woman sitting punching-distance behind me just said:
Well, I don't know what she said, exactly.
But it pertained to having a fussy baby.
And I felt an urge to reach into my bag, turn around and say:
"What your baby needs is Baby Orajel for babies.
Guaranteed to make your baby less irritating for at least an hour or two."
I have the wrong job.
Which is, well, no job, I guess.

"Spinning" is a generous term for spending an hour on a bike that doesn't go anywhere.
Have I said this before?
I feel as though I have...

The really attractive woman from American Pie is in a dandruff comercial.
She's the one that only I would have found attractive in American Pie.
The flute one.
Buffy.
She was on there, too.
And now she's doing that How I Met Your Mother.
A popular show.
It has Bob Saget.
It has Doogie Howser.
Some people who aren't really passionate about The Big Bang Theory still watch it.
So, why is she in the dandruff commercial?
Protocol is: Your career tanks, you do the Proactive informercial.
Shatner is selling cars.
Christ. Shatner isn't struggling.
Sure, the world needs resturant servers.
But the world will eventually need new actors and actresses as well.
Christopher Walken, against all logic, will die eventually.
Give some new up-and-comer the dandruff commercial.
What else do you do, Willow?
Go to the corner stores in your area every day and buy all of the scratch tickets that they have?
Share some with the rest of us.
As if you would ever have dandruff.
Like that's even possible.
Like you would ever actually use Head & Shoulders.
Your personal shampoo probably has rhinocerous extract in it.

Women. The Pitts.

Take the afternoon off on the secretary.
It's Friday.
It must be rough for Brad Pitt.
When you think about it.
Because he's fetching to all women, everywhere.
So, when Brad sits down and has a relaxing evening with his buddies (and he does do this.
Sometimes.
He has to)
Brad has to provide some astronomical number for sexual partners.
He can't count out three or four women.
"Well, there was Jennifer. And that one with the lips.
What's-her-name.
Looks like John Voight."
No good.
Brad Pitt isn't cool unless he's slept with at least thirty or forty women.
And those are generously low figures.
If he doesn't give the right answer, all of his buddies can and will mock him.
Causing Brad to storm out in a huff.
Get in the jet and fly away from the situation.
Hey, is Michael Pitt related to Brad?
He has the same delicious eyeball color...

I'm not really hot into debating.
Despite the number of women I date who are passionate about it.
But I do love debates that have no bearing on anything.
For example, Peter White and Bryant Thompson invited me into this one:
How many babies do you think you could kill if you were faced with hordes of babies...
...before getting tired?
That's a worthwhile discussion to me.
It really is.
Anyway, Family Feud may be my outlet for further questions.
The other day they posed this one:
Name something only an infant can fit into.
My answer was 'roasting pot.'
But, to challenge myself, I'm going to try and write a new answer every day.
Day two I came up with 'bread box.'
And today...
Shoebox.
I think you could get an infant into a shoebox if the baby was fresh enough.
It's a coincidence that both of these debates involve discomfort for babies.
I'm open to discuss any ludicrous situations you may want to delve into with me.

Speaking of ludicrous situations, Hallowe'en is approaching.
For all of my fellow drifters out there, I'll supply you at least one affordable costume idea:
Get a blanket.
Cup of cocao.
Don't shave for several days.
Wrap the blanket around yourself and carry the cocoa.
Tell people that you're a guy who got lost in the woods, and has just been rescued.
Not bad.
You could knock on a few doors with that one.
Get some Lays.
Some tiny, individually-wrapped orange gumballs.

The Last of Barrett's Privateers

I know.
I know.
I should have written before now.
You've been worried sick since I packed up all of my pairs of pants and moved to Halifax.
The coffee maker drips in your languid apartment.
And each 'plink' seems to say, "Paul...Paul...Paul..."
You need to get out more.
As I have.

I didn't want to write until I could communicate something truly Halifax to you.
I wanted to prove that I'm truly a Haligonian, properly embarassed by the stupid title.
'Haligonian' sounds like an extinct reptile of some sort.
It's not an appropriate name for a group of people who really enjoy used furniture.
Which doesn't coincide with the Halifax tidbit that I had fabricated to tell you people.
As I was getting my morning apple (Sobey's apples are shit) I thought:
I'll tell everyone that the people of Halifax all enjoy inflatable furniture.
And that is all there is to know about them.
But I just ruined that.
We're moving on.

Next paragraph!

So, I have a room in a house.
I have a bed.
I have a weed contact.
I do not have a job.
I do not have anyone to have sex with (yet).
I do not have an end table.
It has been great.
It has been okay.

This city is tiny and so I walk everywhere these days.
I take the bus sometimes, but only when it's raining a lot or I have actual, physical change.
Bus passes cost a pissload of money.
I'm considering an attempt to have someone forge me a university I.D..
Those get you past the bouncer for free.

I did comedy with Scott Faulkenbridge and Dom Paré when I first got here.
That was fun.
Dom made chicken pot pie and Stove Top for Thanksgiving dinner.
The three of us met some strange man who claimed to be a comic.
He struck me more as a T.V. vaccuum salesman.
He was suddenly there and then he wouldn't go away.
He was issuing me business cards and shaking my hand.
Next thing I knew he was peeing in the toilet I'd been peeing in the past number of days.
It was terrifying.

I've been meeting the comics here and studying the dimensions of their girlfriends.
Mike MacQueen (Night Train) has driven me home a few times.
Thompson (Four-Eyes) learned from me that he has birds roosting in the eve of his house.
Mark (Merv) almost went to a reptile show with me.
He also found out about birds in his eve from me.
They live in the same house.

Robert Shandera had a baby just before I left and -
Wait.
Scratch that.
His wife had the baby.
Now I'm Uncle Paul.
I've been buying an appropriate amount of pornographic magazines as a consequence.
Every family has 'that uncle.'

I have done an open mic since getting here.
I had a great time.
I explained that Halifax has more cultrure than Newfoundland.
Which I figured out after passing guys spelling out 'TITS' and 'CLITS' in the infield sand of the public baseball diamond.
I also let them know that I have this strange fascination with seeing women change in the top floors of Halifax houses.
I keep expecting to see a topless woman in some window if I just look up often enough.
What's silly is that this would be true of almost anywhere.
What makes it strange is that I really expect to see her in Halifax.
That's 100% true.
I can't explain it, though.
I suggested to the audience that perhaps we're all in the wrong place at the wrong time.
No one laughed at it, but I didn't give a shit.
It was my favourite thing that I said.
Open mic again tonight.
Who knows?
Maybe I'll tell you how it went.
Probably not well.
All I've written in the past week is an anecdote on how difficult it is to have a pet elephant.
Walking it.
Because once it poos, I have to carry around a garbage bag full of shit, not unlike Santa.
Which is really stupid.
I just like picturing it.
Standing off-balance with this large bag.
Speaking to someone at the bus stop.
And having them say, "Do I detect a slight odour?"

It should be legally permissable to kick pigeons when you're having a bad day.
I love all of you.
http://youtu.be/-Gu3gDhESRY