I don't have time to do this, but this is a big day.
For today I am an uncle.
I am a man.
I am an uncle.
Here is Willow Violet, wondering whether or not her name is too branchy:
Unrelated topic, you and I have to have a talk soon.
I'm not saying that I'm mad at you, or that I have stopped having feelings for you.
But we may have to see other blogs for a while.
I'm afraid I'm serious.
If I was famous, this would count as a buzzworthy announcement.
There aren't any customers yet.
The night is still extremely early.
The doors aren't even open.
I brought the last of my gin from home.
Even brought my own tonic water.
Please, don't get on my case about the liquor inspector.
I'm not even sure the liquor inspector exists.
"Can't let you have that in here. If the liquor inspector comes in, we'll get shut down."
How good do you think the liquor inspector is at his job?
"Oh, it's just one"--
Door's kicked open.
SWAT team swarms in, commanding everyone to get down on the floor.
They're smashing light fixtures and the tables' flower vases.
And among the chaos, there he is.
The Liquor Inspector.
Fedora outlined in the doorway.
Immaculate trench coat cinched tight.
"I'm shutting this place down."
Give me a break.
Tell the underage girls to pull up a stool.
They're not flappers and this isn't a speakeasy.
The liquor inspector isn't coming.
Alright, alright.
Stay the slings and spare the arrows.
I haven't been writing not because I haven't been writing.
I just haven't been writing.
I have been writing.
I've just been distancing myself from my laptop.
It was nice outside.
I've also been renting cars and driving places.
But I'm back and saucy!
So pull up a cubicle and-
That woman is carrying a bicycle tire into the coffee shop.
Some people will do just about anything for attention.
Write a blog, for example.
Alright.
Okay.
Alright.
Written on...we'll say March 20th:
I went to PEI over the weekend.
Spent a lot of a paycheck that I haven't received yet (still haven't received it) to get there.
Despite the company of Andie, my PEI-born co-pilot, we managed to get lost twice.
My favourite part was when she suddenly asked, "Are we in New Brunswick?!"
I didn't know.
But I knew that the bilingual roadsigns weren't encouraging.
Choosing the most mysterious-looking garage we could find, we stopped for directions.
But all we found were several dogs and no humans.
Dogs don't talk, so I chose to call the hotel people.
Speaking of, if you ever find yourself in PEI--
"Whadya mean 'Rainbow Valley is closed!?'"--
stay at The Delta.
They treated me wicked nice.
The guy with the cute accent was very supportive when I lost the keys to the rental car.
Push-button start allows rubes like me to lose their keys immediately after parking.
Do you guys think I'm calm, generally speaking?
Yesterday, I tried to conclude this post by describing how the show in PEI went.
But I hated everything I wrote down when I tried that.
So we're moving on.
If you could choose any musical act to help you move out of your apartment, who would you choose?
This question seems like a more worthwhile exploitation of your (my?) time.
I've discovered that I really enjoy asking hypothetical questions.
I got into the practice with my roommate, Kyle.
Here's a photo of him looking grosser than he actually is:
However, since we're both six, most questions tend to be disgusting and/or involve sex with Natalie Portman.
A professional interviewer, Chuck Klosterman is great with hypotheticals.
He was aware enough of this talent to publish flash cards.
He asks the sort of things that I believe adults should be debating.
I'd discuss being Bruce Springsteen over politics any day.
Oh, and I'd have sex with Natalie Portman, by the way.
In almost any scenario you can think of.
You hear me, Natalie?!
I'm right here waiting.
...For you.
Oh, that's a fun song that exists even though I forgot about it.
Let's stick that in here.
Will you leave comments on which musicians would help you move?
Give me something to fill my day?
I said Slipknot because there are, like, nine guys in that band.
So, they could do most of the work.
While I made the lemonade.
"Maybe you'd have an easier time drinking this if you took off the masks, fellas."
edit: Reading an alphabetical list of Ice Cube's tracks is pretty fun.
My favourite season is the day that winter ends.
This year, that day was yesterday.
To celebrate, I put on a shirt with long sleeves and went for a walk.
Tried to discover where women sunbathe in this stink town.
You can cross the mall off of the list.
They're not there.
All advertising is false.
I have a note in my book that says:
"Talk about the babies, fuckhead."
So, I suppose I should do that.
This is how I communicate with myself, by the way.
I sometimes forget that newcomers may be reading these posts.
People who have never seen my friends, their vaginas, or the babies who've come out of them.
Victoria Mary Elizabeth Shandera was born the day I moved to Halifax.
She has Robert's mouth and Christa's gender.
She can sort of hold up her head on her own at this point.
She's keen to acheive, just like her daddy.
She will do well in school, and she'll probably never use hard drugs.
Rowan Adventure Turpin/Russell was born New Year's Eve last year.
From a legal drinking age standpoint (which will one day be important to Rowan, I'm sure) it's the worst birthday possible.
Much like Victoria, Rowan looks like a little baby.
I tell her about my girl problems sometimes, after her mom leaves the room
("And don't even get me started on your mother...").
I think about discussing with 15-year old Rowan what a pain in the ass baby Rowan was.
Though strange, it's an oddly exciting prospect.
It is also...humbling?
Not humbling.
It's a concept with so many potentials.
Who will I be by then?
More importantly, who will she be?
How many ex-wives will I have?
To dwell on their future is to dwell on my own.
They are a new perspective for me.
A new avenue for clarity and self-discovery.
These are the first since-birth friends I've ever had.
Before them, the closest candidates were their parents.
They are important.
...
See?
It is different when they're yours.
And let's not forget about the biological niece on the way.
I forget all of the time.
Sure, this is the sort of thing that should resonate with me.
But I tend to forget things that aren't right in front of me-
"My eye appointment was supposed to be two months ago!"-
A new generation of Warford, I can't help but wonder how her nose will turn out.
I'm just waiting for the day I can sneak her booze during some family wedding
(My fourth, for example).
Promising her I won't tell her father, I'll mention and laugh about it with Brian immediately.
Yes, there are a lot of new lies on the horizon.
Brian has an uncanny knack for turning something general into something that is him.
So he should find this easy enough.
Alright, well, I'm gonna go again.
No, really though.
Tonight's not the night.
But I know I missed a couple of days this past week.
On the bright side, it's sort of because I've been around other humans.
Including an entire cafe full of people while I was too stoned to be in a new breakfast place.
That was Saturday.
With the baby divocree.
I'll explain her later.
Friday, I did comedy for a bunch of people who save birds and foxes.
Then I rushed across town to the marina to do a show for some Navy boys.
They claimed they were Navy boys, anyway.
Sort of looked like engineers to me.
And some of them even looked like girls.
I interrupted myself during a bit to tell a woman that she was sexy.
Then I made fun of some grad student university guy in one of my favourite ad-libs ever
(For those keeping track).
Luckily for my narcissism, I taped it.
If Peter can escape that baby of his for a bit, I might get him to help me upload the clip.
I'd just put her in the tub.
You want to make sure the baby doesn't fall over the stairs, you put her in the tub.
She won't be able to get out of there.
I've never actually tried this, but it works for Tarantulas.
Oh!
I was published in The Coast on Thursday.
That's something new for you to read, and it takes less effort from me.
I'm sick of people assuming that I'm Jewish.
We're finally talking about it.
I understand how people reach the conclusion.
Funny.
Big nose.
Seems as though I'm accustomed to persecution.
Curly hairs all over my body.
I get it.
Reliable diamond dealer.
I understand that the parallels are many.
All coincidences.
I'm not Jewish.
Not even a little bit.
I don't know what a tallit is.
I still have my foreskin.
Don't be so quick to assume, as people have been in the past few years.
It's the assumption that bothers me.
How in-your-face people get about it.
"Are you Jewish?"
"Shalom would say 'yes', shalom would say 'no'."
Though I'm not a part of their faith, I'm accountable for their stereotypes.
And that's fucked.
Now that I'm about to rocketship to Toronto, I'm more conscious of these allegations than ever.
Because it's a place where everything is "none of your business," except for your "background."
"What's your background?"
Whatever the fuck that means.
Such a rude question.
Some dick you just met at a party asking you what colour your parents' semen and eggs are.
In case there are any matches.
Because then we can talk about foods we both like to eat, I guess.
"Fish and Brewis!"
When people ask my background, I'm going to give trick answers.
The only one I have in mind so far is to give my dancing background instead of my historical one.
Which I'm stealing from a favourite Simpson's scene that I can't show you.
I'll transcribe it at the bottom, but it's not going to be the same as seeing it.
Really, I'm worried that rat comics in the rat race will think I cultivated this look on purpose.
That I might be exploiting Judaism in order to land a Comedy Now!
And that bothers me the most.
Because why would anyone purposefully want to look like this?
Potential imaginary benefits aside.
My hair just grows this way.
I'd be happy to sport a crew cut just for a little variety to my head.
But that's just not possible.
I know I look like Billy Crystal when I wear a baseball cap.
It's not my choice.
I want to look normal.
Not to say you look abnormal, Jewish people.
Kent Brockman: Things aren't as happy as they used to be down here at the unemployment office. Joblessness is no longer just for philosophy majors; useful people are starting to feel the pinch.
Barney Gumble: I haven't been able to find a job in six years.
Kent: Uh huh. And what training do you have?
Barney: Five years of modern dance, six years of tap.
The fact that I can't set up Google Analytics is exactly why Google will never hire me.
There are other reasons, too.
I have nothing to mention. There's no point in pretending.
Sure, I could just stiff the lot of ya and write nothing.
But I might as well at least say whatever it is that I'm saying.
Don't tell an audience what hotel you're staying in and the hotel's room number.
Especially not if you give your co-worker's room number by mistake rather than your own.
I didn't get any unsolicited visitors (luckily, neither did Pete Zedlacher).
But I did have to politely turn down some woman in Sydney.
Who was...presented to me by her friends.
"We've brought you so-and-so. Do you approve?"
That's basically what happened.
I didn't approve.
Luckily I had to leave at 7 a.m. the next morning.
So, I really clung to that long enough to get out of there.
Honesty is funny sometimes, sure.
But honesty can also be the worst policy.
This unplugged version of this song has been stuck in my head for about a week.
Certain hits just make you roll your eyes after enough time has passed by.
It's funny how fickle we can be.
Really, when you sit and listen, it just sounds lovely.
No matter how much time you've spent not paying attention to it.
Bet all of your kids' college fund on black.
It's Friday.
I thought that I had written this post already. In my brain.
I haven't though.
That's happening now.
I have to go to Membertou tomorrow.
I don't know where it is, and I'm not entirely sure how to say it.
My roommate's mother is here right now and my roommate is not.
Though I suppose there's no real reason to feel this way, it makes me sad.
Maybe not sad.
Maybe something more irritated than sad.
Now Kyle has just returned home from an oral exam which means he hopes to get high.
He's probably more sad than I am.
I did some jokes in Bedford last night.
Once a fevered dream, this is something I do regularly these days.
After this, myself, Marc Sauve (rube) and Brian Aylward headed to Roe-Day-Ohs.
Only a few people milled about in the dank.
One table was full of drunk units.
Including some round-faced tart who immediately began speaking to me once we got there.
Fortunately, I couldn't understand what she was saying.
I'm assuming it was nothing interesting since she was wasted.
She told me that she was from the southern shore.
Since I'm in Nova Scotia, I assume that she meant the southern shore of this province.
In my home province, people from the southern shore sound really funny.
So, I'm not sure whether or not to chalk her up to coincidence.
Because she sounded retarded.
It may have been the booze, but she spoke as though she'd just been kicked in the head by a mule.
And the kick hit something important in the brain.
Of course, I may just be saying that because I don't like her.
You wouldn't either.
She sidled up to Marc and I at the bar.
After asking the bartender where to find some hot guys she turned to me and said:
"Cause you're not cutting it, buddy."
After a moment or two, I excused myself from Marc, saying:
"I don't want to be near this woman anymore."
Because I had no reply.
I'm so bad with bullies, sometimes.
I likely would have kept it inside my head even if something came to mind.
Her male friends looked stupid to the point of dangerous, and they were pretty pissy-eyed themselves.
Regardless, it's still depressing when I can't think of a retort to such an easy target.
"You're no prize yourself, slut!"
Even that would do in a pinch.
I understand why it is that women may find 'slut' to sound rather jarring.
Be that as it may, I find it to be an incredibly funny word.
Something about the sound of it tickles me.
Probably because I've never been called one (to my face).
Aylward recently pointed out to me that comics are those who got tired of being bullied.
I like that idea.
It doesn't resonate well, though, since Brian was a jock in school who had sex with lots of women.
But we all have our checkered pasts.
I stole a get well card recently.
I really don't know what that says about me as a person.
I shoplift from time to time.
I have no idea why.
That's four sentences in a row that begin with 'I.'
I really like myself.
If you do something that you haven't the permission to do in Newfoundland, a Newfoundlander might say:
"You likes yaself!"
That's dialect for you. That's free.
Shoplifted items are also free.
That's not why I do it, though.
You might assume that to be the reason for my felonies, since I'm impoverished.
"A round of loaves of bread for me and my vagrant buddies!"
But that's not it.
Generally I take things of very little value, in an effort to avoid prosecution.
I also don't steal for any sort of thrill, like not sanitizing my hands after using a public washroom.
It's almost the opposite of that; I feel trememndously calm in the process.
Like asking out women, I only do it when I know I'll get away with it.
Knowing that I'm going to get away with it is likely the reason I do it.
The card is for an old friend and crush, Shiela Last Name.
Someone fucked up her vacation in Mexico when they beat the shit out of her and left her in an eleveator.
The resort staff failed to list that in the "all-inclusive" part.
It's an enlightening thing to learn about.
I read about shitty things on a daily basis and I think, "That's a shame."
But I don't really mean that.
No one generally means it.
Sure, it's too bad, but what do you care?
You have your own life, your own challenges, your own vacations to plan and budget for.
Which is okay.
That preoccupation is no one's fault.
Then something like this happens.
Suddenly, the CBC is posting updates on a name you used to read off of a nametag.
Shiela and I haven't really spoken since I left Banff.
I'm having trouble saying whatever it is that I'm trying to say right now.
Every disaster is happening to someone you know, cosmically speaking.
You just can't steal cards for 'em all.
For what it's worth (absolutely nothing), this post is for her.
And all of the bones in her face.
