Wash the road salt from your favourite négligée.
It's Friday.
My buddy Dom Pare (pah-ray) just left town.
Raised in the city and on the farm, Dom is one of those guys who's ready to go back to Toronto.
"Yeah, this place is pretty good, but in Toronto this spot wouldn't be as shitty."
Much like my jaunty movements, his demeanor is alright once you get used to it.
The America of Canada, everyone hates Toronto.
No one truly knows why.
People hate it the same way straight men hate a gay bar.
No, they haven't been there, but they know that they wouldn't like it.
It's not that bad, y'know.
Some people yell at you when you walk past them, but if you hand them change it seems to calm them down.
Dom and I performed in The Homegrown together.
We both lost equally.
Really, he did a better job of losing.
We once ran into a guy outside of the Halifax Yuk's who had been living on a submarine.
For 7 years.
I was glad that he mentioned it because as soon as he did I was able to think to myself:
"Oh, that's what it is."
He looked like a guy who had spent seven years in a submarine, now that he mentioned it.
Wild-eyed.
Anxious.
Frightened of lights and automobiles.
The dude looked thoroughly, thoroughly unbalanced.
I was trying my best not to be frightened, so I only caught snippets of what he was saying.
These referred to making women do things because there was no escaping him in a submarine.
Not like...sex things (though I couldn't say for sure - I wasn't down there).
Lifting heavy stuff and this sort of tripe.
I don't know what he said, but his face was really red when he spoke.
And his voice had this strange, strained quality, sort of like he'd just left his first anger management class and he was angry about it.
I'm not exaggerating at all.
Like, if he was at The Gap and someone said, "Do you need help with anything?" you could easily picture him wheeling about to strangle the person with their headset cord.
Eventually we managed to disengage him.
More than I could say for his co-workers.
Imagine what that must be like.
Many of you probably already have colleagues who infuriate your psyche.
Now imagine spending several months with those same people on a submarine.
It's like being trapped in an elevator, but there's a washroom and a cafeteria.
The novelty of being in the vessel probably wears off after about three days.
"Wanna use the periscope again?"
"Nah, fuck that. All I've seen so far is plankton. I guess we'll play crib again."
And again.
And again...
Withstanding elements you have no business finding yourself in, cocooned in a mobile trailer with a couple of propellers strapped to it.
Wandering an otherwise unpopulated universe ("Where the fuck are the whales at?! You said there'd be whales!"), searching for an enemy who was due about fifty years ago.
All the while hoping that you don't collide with a seahorse that will rupture your hull, ultimately crushing you to pulp before you have the chance to drown.
Sounds awful, doesn't it?
Now, imagine that environment while sharing it with a guy you wouldn't want to speak to for three minutes in a parking lot.
It's Ben Folds twice this week, but I have to include him in this post.
The song is kickass, sure, but I'm only putting it in here because he has a line that goes:
"When you're all workin' in a submariiiiiiiiine."
Friday, January 25, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Chairman of the Board
John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?
Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.
What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!
Everyone is laughing, tossing their heads back devil-may-care.
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.
Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.
What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.
Friday, January 18, 2013
"The Best Imitation of Myself"
Get loaded, drop your pizza on the ground and then yell at your pizza.
It's Friday.
I've never been one for impersonations.
Much too self-absorbed, I never imitated classic cartoon characters when I was a kid.
I never attempted to hoarse myself like Krusty, or wallow like Milhouse.
Instead, even at a tender age, I had the sense to simply steal George Meyer's jokes.
Most comics have one impersonation under their belts, while others will array a dazzling plethora of them.
In my defense, however, and I've never spoken about this before, I actually do impressions flawlessly.
See, like most hidden talents, mine stems from a rare brain condition.
Following a snowshovelling mishap, a brain injury causes my ears to interpret everyone's voice as my own.
My mother. My former teachers. The mailman.
Dogs bark and it sounds like me barking.
Therefore, whenever I impersonate someone, I do not alter my tone or cadence whatsoever.
Resulting in perfect-pitch impressions every time.
Of course, no one else realizes how talented I am.
None of you had a snowshovelling incident.
Neither did I, really.
That never happened.
For one thing, to experience a snowshovelling mishap, I'd first have to shovel snow.
I just wanted to include this fabrication for Ben's sake.
It's Friday.
I've never been one for impersonations.
Much too self-absorbed, I never imitated classic cartoon characters when I was a kid.
I never attempted to hoarse myself like Krusty, or wallow like Milhouse.
Instead, even at a tender age, I had the sense to simply steal George Meyer's jokes.
Most comics have one impersonation under their belts, while others will array a dazzling plethora of them.
In my defense, however, and I've never spoken about this before, I actually do impressions flawlessly.
See, like most hidden talents, mine stems from a rare brain condition.
Following a snowshovelling mishap, a brain injury causes my ears to interpret everyone's voice as my own.
My mother. My former teachers. The mailman.
Dogs bark and it sounds like me barking.
Therefore, whenever I impersonate someone, I do not alter my tone or cadence whatsoever.
Resulting in perfect-pitch impressions every time.
Of course, no one else realizes how talented I am.
None of you had a snowshovelling incident.
Neither did I, really.
That never happened.
For one thing, to experience a snowshovelling mishap, I'd first have to shovel snow.
I just wanted to include this fabrication for Ben's sake.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Pauls I Know
I walked my lady's dog into a snow globe the other night.
MaxiPad flakes teeter-tottered onto us while I waited for the dog to do dog things-
Well, mammal things.
There arose such a clatter, and I noticed across the street a man sifting through garbage, looking for empty aluminum nickles.
I watched them as he continued unaware of me.
Flakes of snow dusted his jacket. Shoulders. Home, presumably.
I saw this amidst the tranquility and thought to myself:
"Fuck, that's right. I have to get a job."
I had one and then I lost one.
Barring my usual misemployments, this layoff was legitimate in that I was seasonal and the season ended.
I assumed that my charm would carry my through after the fact, but that didn't happen.
I used to believe that my charm would take care of a lot of things for me.
Explains my current state, I guess.
(My state is fine [solid. carbon-based]).
I used to have a job, as I have mentioned.
One day while half-assing it, I wandered into ladies' wear.
Y'know, in the two months I was there, I barely entered ladies' wear.
Never one for the ladies, I only wandered there when necessary.
On a related note, it's really uncomfortable to transact underwear for old women.
Scrubs are in ladies' wear.
A lot of nurses.
A lot of people being vomited on while they're at their job.
As I'm hanging stuff up in the wrong places, I notice this guy emerge from the change room.
He's trying some scrubs on - pants and a top - and while wearing them he begins...lunging.
Sort of.
He does a slow, deliberate forward motion with his hands and torso.
Picture Tai Chi done incorrectly.
Very low to the carpet, he does this several times.
Foul as usual, I find this really annoying.
"Who's this asshole?" I ask myself.
I do this before asking a co-worker the same question.
"Hey Lydia (not her real name), what's with this guy?"
Turns out it's her roommate, Paul.
He's buying scrubs for work and he's testing whether or not the top is too small.
He's a masseuse.
After that, I realize that his pantomimes were kinda harmless and justified.
I also realize that the real asshole isn't Paul the Masseuse, but Paul the Sales Associate.
Everything rhymes with Paul.
From 'ball' to 'y'all', and a surprising number of grunts and sounds besides.
First a disciple. Then a Beetle. Finally a judgy blogger.
I've never referred to myself by that term before.
I'm only doing so now because I'm trying to attract advertisers.
I was searching some person or another on the Internet the other day (there are plenty of them).
Pretend it was Billy Joel.
So, I typed in the 'Billy' and then the 'J'.
Then, of course, Google predicted I was looking for the Pianoman, and brought his name to the top of the list.
And I thought about what a technological honour this would be.
Your popularity is so great that the first letter of your surname begets the rest of it.
Thought I'd give it a try.
I was floored to see that Paul Warford was the first to pop up.
I realized that it was because I was using my phone, and so that was the most popular Paul on my phone.
As if that matters.
On another computer, I did the trick and the first Paul W was this guy.
Some vampire movie asshole.
Some upstart.
However, there are few names in the running for this competition.
All I have to do is bide my time.
Wait until Paul Walker runs out of Fast Car Movies to do.
Hope this Wesley kid ODs sooner than later.
Then it's just a matter of people continuing to not know who Paul Williams is, and I'm in!
Until then, I'll be several letters, and one career, short.
MaxiPad flakes teeter-tottered onto us while I waited for the dog to do dog things-
Well, mammal things.
There arose such a clatter, and I noticed across the street a man sifting through garbage, looking for empty aluminum nickles.
I watched them as he continued unaware of me.
Flakes of snow dusted his jacket. Shoulders. Home, presumably.
I saw this amidst the tranquility and thought to myself:
"Fuck, that's right. I have to get a job."
I had one and then I lost one.
Barring my usual misemployments, this layoff was legitimate in that I was seasonal and the season ended.
I assumed that my charm would carry my through after the fact, but that didn't happen.
I used to believe that my charm would take care of a lot of things for me.
Explains my current state, I guess.
(My state is fine [solid. carbon-based]).
I used to have a job, as I have mentioned.
One day while half-assing it, I wandered into ladies' wear.
Y'know, in the two months I was there, I barely entered ladies' wear.
Never one for the ladies, I only wandered there when necessary.
On a related note, it's really uncomfortable to transact underwear for old women.
Scrubs are in ladies' wear.
A lot of nurses.
A lot of people being vomited on while they're at their job.
As I'm hanging stuff up in the wrong places, I notice this guy emerge from the change room.
He's trying some scrubs on - pants and a top - and while wearing them he begins...lunging.
Sort of.
He does a slow, deliberate forward motion with his hands and torso.
Picture Tai Chi done incorrectly.
Very low to the carpet, he does this several times.
Foul as usual, I find this really annoying.
"Who's this asshole?" I ask myself.
I do this before asking a co-worker the same question.
"Hey Lydia (not her real name), what's with this guy?"
Turns out it's her roommate, Paul.
He's buying scrubs for work and he's testing whether or not the top is too small.
He's a masseuse.
After that, I realize that his pantomimes were kinda harmless and justified.
I also realize that the real asshole isn't Paul the Masseuse, but Paul the Sales Associate.
Everything rhymes with Paul.
From 'ball' to 'y'all', and a surprising number of grunts and sounds besides.
First a disciple. Then a Beetle. Finally a judgy blogger.
I've never referred to myself by that term before.
I'm only doing so now because I'm trying to attract advertisers.
I was searching some person or another on the Internet the other day (there are plenty of them).
Pretend it was Billy Joel.
So, I typed in the 'Billy' and then the 'J'.
Then, of course, Google predicted I was looking for the Pianoman, and brought his name to the top of the list.
And I thought about what a technological honour this would be.
Your popularity is so great that the first letter of your surname begets the rest of it.
Thought I'd give it a try.
I was floored to see that Paul Warford was the first to pop up.
I realized that it was because I was using my phone, and so that was the most popular Paul on my phone.
As if that matters.
On another computer, I did the trick and the first Paul W was this guy.
Some vampire movie asshole.
Some upstart.
However, there are few names in the running for this competition.
All I have to do is bide my time.
Wait until Paul Walker runs out of Fast Car Movies to do.
Hope this Wesley kid ODs sooner than later.
Then it's just a matter of people continuing to not know who Paul Williams is, and I'm in!
Until then, I'll be several letters, and one career, short.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Rise Up
I'm cold and contrary right now.
I'm in the restaurant that INVENTED PIZZA, and some yokels are installing new lotto machines.
First, they had to disconnect the gamblers from the machines, then the machines from the wall.
They have left the door open for over half an hour, either to remove them easily, or to get on my fucking nerves.
Whichever it is, they've succeeded in both.
What's your elevator brand?
I'm an Otis man, myself.
I know that some of you diehards will say that ThyssenKrupp is the only way to go.
Misguided!
Isn't it weird that soon we'll have little to no need for grocery clerks, bank tellers, and librarians, but we still need the guy who fixes the escalator?
Ever walk on an escalator that wasn't operating?
Mitch Hedberg once famously said (paraphrased), "Escalators can never become broken; they can only become stairs."
However, broken escalators are more a sort of optical illusion than anything else.
Having grown up in the middle classes that we did, we expect them to move.
"Circulate, steps! I command this!"
That's what your brain is saying while you try to ascend the descend.
"You dare refuse me, glorified conveyor belt?!
Very well, then. I'll continue to walk on you as though you are moving, and come very near to falling."
A broken escalator is an Escher sketch.
A fellow childhood chum had a father who repaired the elevators.
As much a crisis negotiator as anything else, when you think about it.
That is, when you're the sardine in the tin when it decides to stop doing its up and down.
You're claustrophobic. Your ice cream is melting. Your water is about to break.
You have to get out of this death trap.
When you pick up the emergency phone, who is it that picks it up at the other end?
That's right, some switchboard person.
But! Who comes to jimmy you out of there?
Exactly.
When I dwell on the occupation, it makes me sad, somehow.
I suppose I envision a guy in a tool belt, sitting by the phone, waiting for people to plummet to their deaths.
However, this is a society of luxury suites and Super 8s.
Elevator guys are likely kept busy and unionized.
It just seems like a forgotten job.
Even while fixing a lift in front of a group of people.
Even after lowering the rope into the well, where your twitching grasp awaits.
Despite this, I get the impression that it doesn't really occur to people that there are elevator repairmen.
And that's sad.
Ditto for the lotto machine guys.
Even when they joke loudly near your table in both English and French.
Even when they distract you from writing a post about something as mundane as elevator repairmen.
Even then. I don't really realize these guys do this every day.
I'm in the restaurant that INVENTED PIZZA, and some yokels are installing new lotto machines.
First, they had to disconnect the gamblers from the machines, then the machines from the wall.
They have left the door open for over half an hour, either to remove them easily, or to get on my fucking nerves.
Whichever it is, they've succeeded in both.
What's your elevator brand?
I'm an Otis man, myself.
I know that some of you diehards will say that ThyssenKrupp is the only way to go.
Misguided!
Isn't it weird that soon we'll have little to no need for grocery clerks, bank tellers, and librarians, but we still need the guy who fixes the escalator?
Ever walk on an escalator that wasn't operating?
Mitch Hedberg once famously said (paraphrased), "Escalators can never become broken; they can only become stairs."
However, broken escalators are more a sort of optical illusion than anything else.
Having grown up in the middle classes that we did, we expect them to move.
"Circulate, steps! I command this!"
That's what your brain is saying while you try to ascend the descend.
"You dare refuse me, glorified conveyor belt?!
Very well, then. I'll continue to walk on you as though you are moving, and come very near to falling."
A broken escalator is an Escher sketch.
A fellow childhood chum had a father who repaired the elevators.
As much a crisis negotiator as anything else, when you think about it.
That is, when you're the sardine in the tin when it decides to stop doing its up and down.
You're claustrophobic. Your ice cream is melting. Your water is about to break.
You have to get out of this death trap.
When you pick up the emergency phone, who is it that picks it up at the other end?
That's right, some switchboard person.
But! Who comes to jimmy you out of there?
Exactly.
When I dwell on the occupation, it makes me sad, somehow.
I suppose I envision a guy in a tool belt, sitting by the phone, waiting for people to plummet to their deaths.
However, this is a society of luxury suites and Super 8s.
Elevator guys are likely kept busy and unionized.
It just seems like a forgotten job.
Even while fixing a lift in front of a group of people.
Even after lowering the rope into the well, where your twitching grasp awaits.
Despite this, I get the impression that it doesn't really occur to people that there are elevator repairmen.
And that's sad.
Ditto for the lotto machine guys.
Even when they joke loudly near your table in both English and French.
Even when they distract you from writing a post about something as mundane as elevator repairmen.
Even then. I don't really realize these guys do this every day.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Starvation for the Senses: A Review
Well, the egg nog has curdled, the cat has digested and passed the tinsel, and your boss is still alive.
The holidays are legitimately over with.
Though most of us would prefer to get hooked on codeine and wait it out 'til Easter, we should resist that urge.
None of us want to be like Lil' Wayne.
For those of you who are literate, you've likely seen the awards.
End of the year, you want a spread's worth of additional advertising in your publication.
In order to buy more Macs and fax/printer/copiers that you'll never use.
So, you put out a Best Of edition for your paper.
Best Tire Rotation.
Best Homeless Male/Female.
All of that.
Below I have included a suggested article for one such 'best'.
A Halifax-based venue, I encourage The Coast or those Metro people to pick up this article and not pay me for it.
Ahem:
Best Worst Place in the Entire City To Go and Sit:
Winner: BUBBA RAY'S
Honourable Nod: (though I've never been there) THE TOOTHY MOOSE
Bubba Ray's: A Stumbling Hall of Mirrors
If you're sick of trying to seem pretentious in that place that sells cake, why not slum it, off the sidewalk, in Halifax's premiere testosterone trough, Bubba Ray's. Located in the Heart of Spring Garden's Area of Bums and People Who Yell At You, Bubba Ray's provides a chaotic, deafening atmosphere for anyone who wishes to be ostracised by a large group of men who possess one shared, common consciousness. Strain to hear dinner conversation over this dull-witted herd of erections as they dwell in their natural habitat, just inches from your table! Hear impassioned whoops and hollers from dozens and dozens of men, in unison, whenever your favourite team scores a touchdown or secures an end. Look on in unfettered bafflement as patrons high-five at their tables and bark (actually bark) at the panopticon of LCD displays that haunt your every turn and lurk in every corner. Mesmerize yourself on Bubba's sports display, which boasts some four-times-ten televisions. During the most grisly UFC rackets, resist in futility to watch them unfold in remarkable gore as you find yourself transfixed on the action, regardless of the direction you face. Receive excellent service (provided you have a square head and jaw) from terrified bar wenches, each boasting a fantastic ass, sported in mandatory yoga exercise pants. Flirt in vain with the self-entitled staff as they provide a façade of job satisfaction while unabashedly handing you 9-dollar onion rings. Pay cover to watch televised events that you legally cannot be charged for, so that you can enjoy Don Cherry's quality food at slightly more exorbitant prices. This cacophonic din of an eating experience is nestled (not unlike a tick) into the centre of Halifax, and it is no wonder that this establishment enjoys continued success from a niche market of individuals who are clinically obsolete so far as the human race is concerned. Bubba Ray's: as viable a waste of money as a tattoo of your mother's asshole on your forearm. Don't miss it!
Absolutely disgusting.
Bubba Ray's was actually a disgusting event in my life.
Toeing the line with Kyle, Peter White (of Peter White comedy), Bryant Thomson, and the rest, I spent an agonizing hour and some in this place last week.
Five dollars on the door. Some UFC bullshit.
The guy on the door, with his almond-shaped head, was trying to act like he belonged on the door.
Arms extended from his sides, chest in my face, Jim the Anvil Neidhart facial hair, I could actually see the fear in this guy's eyes.
Not of me.
He was just repeating, "I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's. I'm not tough enough. I'm not getting enough protein. I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's..." in his head so loudly that I could plainly hear it with my ears.
Some skipper behind me was finishing up his cigarette and tried to walk back in.
This is what almond seed does:
Hand out, he stops him, "Ah, you have to get behind this guy (me). That's how lines work."
I wanted to say, "This isn't how a line works.
Generally, lines don't have an asshole berating you at the end of it."
But I didn't say that. Not that I was fearful of his reaction; he was more gutless than myself.
I just never say what I want to. That's my own folly.
I wheel about to see if Kyle is nearby (for protection), and notice a small TV above the exit.
Thinking, "That's weird," I turn to see the rest of them.
There were over 30 screens in there. I refuse to believe there were less than that.
This is how they were laid out.
Giant screen flanked by four small screens.
So:
This layout was repeated around the bar's perimeter at least...five times? Seven?
Sports bars are supposed to have a lot of screens, but let's stay within reason.
We're watching a fucking football game, we're not managing the security of a casino.
God knows how this is possible, but the UFC has let itself go.
I watched some fuck bleed out his head for a full 15 minutes.
Like, open wounds on his skull, blood pouring from them.
Actually pouring.
The referees wouldn't stop the fight, and so I had to watch this shit for the entire match.
I tried to look away, but I couldn't because there were fucking screens everywhere.
It was repulsive. The fight was repulsive - and I've had to sit through UFC fights before.
Bear in mind that this is coming from someone who has been playing Mortal Kombat since its inception.
They showed interview footage of one of the UFC mules before his fight.
He was on so many screens all around me that I thought, "This is what it would be like if this guy created a doomsday device and took over the world."
I went to the bathroom.
I hated that, too.
Burger (Thomson) was inside when I got there...peeing.
And he commented later to the other guys on how "Warford just stood in the bathroom and didn't do anything."
This is because...well, I didn't want to stand next to the guy at the urinal.
Only once have I not used a urinal before. Following Nine Inch Nails at the Saddledome.
This was different.
I think I just wasn't in a rush.
Besides, while I was in there - this is true - Almond busted into the pisser, slapped open the stall door, saw no one was being stabbed or raped, and left again.
Some guy was in the stall at the time.
He turned (while urinating) with a muted, "What the fuck?"
Almond did this very purposefully, as though he had been doing it every half hour or so that night.
I just felt compelled to have as much privacy as possible while I was in there.
I'll never set foot in this place again (the bar itself, not just the bathroom).
If I was being inducted by ZZ Top into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame at Bubba Ray's, I'd tell them to mail the prize.
Guess I should have known better; the place has 'Bubba' in the title.
For follow-up on the Miller/Lauzon match.
Up for Fight of the Year (what do I know?).
The holidays are legitimately over with.
Though most of us would prefer to get hooked on codeine and wait it out 'til Easter, we should resist that urge.
None of us want to be like Lil' Wayne.
For those of you who are literate, you've likely seen the awards.
End of the year, you want a spread's worth of additional advertising in your publication.
In order to buy more Macs and fax/printer/copiers that you'll never use.
So, you put out a Best Of edition for your paper.
Best Tire Rotation.
Best Homeless Male/Female.
All of that.
Below I have included a suggested article for one such 'best'.
A Halifax-based venue, I encourage The Coast or those Metro people to pick up this article and not pay me for it.
Ahem:
Best Worst Place in the Entire City To Go and Sit:
Winner: BUBBA RAY'S
Honourable Nod: (though I've never been there) THE TOOTHY MOOSE
Bubba Ray's: A Stumbling Hall of Mirrors
If you're sick of trying to seem pretentious in that place that sells cake, why not slum it, off the sidewalk, in Halifax's premiere testosterone trough, Bubba Ray's. Located in the Heart of Spring Garden's Area of Bums and People Who Yell At You, Bubba Ray's provides a chaotic, deafening atmosphere for anyone who wishes to be ostracised by a large group of men who possess one shared, common consciousness. Strain to hear dinner conversation over this dull-witted herd of erections as they dwell in their natural habitat, just inches from your table! Hear impassioned whoops and hollers from dozens and dozens of men, in unison, whenever your favourite team scores a touchdown or secures an end. Look on in unfettered bafflement as patrons high-five at their tables and bark (actually bark) at the panopticon of LCD displays that haunt your every turn and lurk in every corner. Mesmerize yourself on Bubba's sports display, which boasts some four-times-ten televisions. During the most grisly UFC rackets, resist in futility to watch them unfold in remarkable gore as you find yourself transfixed on the action, regardless of the direction you face. Receive excellent service (provided you have a square head and jaw) from terrified bar wenches, each boasting a fantastic ass, sported in mandatory yoga exercise pants. Flirt in vain with the self-entitled staff as they provide a façade of job satisfaction while unabashedly handing you 9-dollar onion rings. Pay cover to watch televised events that you legally cannot be charged for, so that you can enjoy Don Cherry's quality food at slightly more exorbitant prices. This cacophonic din of an eating experience is nestled (not unlike a tick) into the centre of Halifax, and it is no wonder that this establishment enjoys continued success from a niche market of individuals who are clinically obsolete so far as the human race is concerned. Bubba Ray's: as viable a waste of money as a tattoo of your mother's asshole on your forearm. Don't miss it!
Absolutely disgusting.
Bubba Ray's was actually a disgusting event in my life.
Toeing the line with Kyle, Peter White (of Peter White comedy), Bryant Thomson, and the rest, I spent an agonizing hour and some in this place last week.
Five dollars on the door. Some UFC bullshit.
The guy on the door, with his almond-shaped head, was trying to act like he belonged on the door.
Arms extended from his sides, chest in my face, Jim the Anvil Neidhart facial hair, I could actually see the fear in this guy's eyes.
Not of me.
He was just repeating, "I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's. I'm not tough enough. I'm not getting enough protein. I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's..." in his head so loudly that I could plainly hear it with my ears.
Some skipper behind me was finishing up his cigarette and tried to walk back in.
This is what almond seed does:
Hand out, he stops him, "Ah, you have to get behind this guy (me). That's how lines work."
I wanted to say, "This isn't how a line works.
Generally, lines don't have an asshole berating you at the end of it."
But I didn't say that. Not that I was fearful of his reaction; he was more gutless than myself.
I just never say what I want to. That's my own folly.
I wheel about to see if Kyle is nearby (for protection), and notice a small TV above the exit.
Thinking, "That's weird," I turn to see the rest of them.
There were over 30 screens in there. I refuse to believe there were less than that.
This is how they were laid out.
Giant screen flanked by four small screens.
So:
screen screen
GIANT SCREEN
screen screen
This layout was repeated around the bar's perimeter at least...five times? Seven?
Sports bars are supposed to have a lot of screens, but let's stay within reason.
We're watching a fucking football game, we're not managing the security of a casino.
God knows how this is possible, but the UFC has let itself go.
I watched some fuck bleed out his head for a full 15 minutes.
Like, open wounds on his skull, blood pouring from them.
Actually pouring.
The referees wouldn't stop the fight, and so I had to watch this shit for the entire match.
I tried to look away, but I couldn't because there were fucking screens everywhere.
It was repulsive. The fight was repulsive - and I've had to sit through UFC fights before.
Bear in mind that this is coming from someone who has been playing Mortal Kombat since its inception.
They showed interview footage of one of the UFC mules before his fight.
He was on so many screens all around me that I thought, "This is what it would be like if this guy created a doomsday device and took over the world."
I went to the bathroom.
I hated that, too.
Burger (Thomson) was inside when I got there...peeing.
And he commented later to the other guys on how "Warford just stood in the bathroom and didn't do anything."
This is because...well, I didn't want to stand next to the guy at the urinal.
Only once have I not used a urinal before. Following Nine Inch Nails at the Saddledome.
This was different.
I think I just wasn't in a rush.
Besides, while I was in there - this is true - Almond busted into the pisser, slapped open the stall door, saw no one was being stabbed or raped, and left again.
Some guy was in the stall at the time.
He turned (while urinating) with a muted, "What the fuck?"
Almond did this very purposefully, as though he had been doing it every half hour or so that night.
I just felt compelled to have as much privacy as possible while I was in there.
I'll never set foot in this place again (the bar itself, not just the bathroom).
If I was being inducted by ZZ Top into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame at Bubba Ray's, I'd tell them to mail the prize.
Guess I should have known better; the place has 'Bubba' in the title.
For follow-up on the Miller/Lauzon match.
Up for Fight of the Year (what do I know?).
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