Generation Y(2K)

I had more dental work done this morning because I have the wherewithal (and insurance).
My teeth were restructured. So, too, is this post.
I lost the sheet I originally wrote it out on.

They call them 'Millenials'.
They're called Millenials because, at the time of their birth, adults had a real preoccupation with putting silly names on things.
The title was cooked up by the Movember people (spit), or so I heard.
Given our current Earth timeline, the Millenials should end up being the group who will ultimately inherit the planet when it actually reaches its doom.
It's between the Millenials and their (as yet unborn) teenage-pregnancy-children, of which there will likely be many.
They call them Generation Y.
More like Generation Y2K.
That was the hoopla-laced event that they were born into.
What a fitting precursor.
An entire listless, wayward group of juveniles.
Born into an era that was earmarked by the promise of two things:
Warranted uncertainty, and inevitable cataclysm.
And so far, the era has delivered.
"Is swine flu going to kill your grandmother?
Maybe."
"Do you have enough bullets and ammo to survive the next amber alert?
Probably not."
"Are the ice caps melting?
We don't think so, but the polar bears seem to have nothing to stand on these days."
"Is Al Gore the next Nostradamus?
...Nah."
Being unsure of ourselves personally, economically, vitally - that's daily for us.
"Does my Twitter account effectively define me as a person?"
The answer, of course, is "No, it doesn't.
But, for these fledgleing adults, it's the next best thing.
Their constructed personalities have more substance than their actual personas, simply because they spend more time grooming the former.
I shouldn't have to tell you that that's fucked.
It's one thing to take a child, raise him in a cool household with a lot of pretty knickknacks and no love, send him off to a first-rate college with a third-rate attitude, have him graduate, work in junk bonds, get hooked on cocaine and eventually misplace his soul.
It's another thing entirely to suggest to that same child that perhaps he shouldn't bother with one in the first place.
Today's youth are raised on doom.
Take a group of pre-teens, sneak them into the cinema and have them watch a flick about the end of the world.
Repeat that again and again.
The end of humanity is such a trend, and no one's into it more than humans.
Sure, in my day we had Armageddon and Deep Impact.
But those were about interstellar geology as much as anything else.
That, and who can play the most convincing president (Bill Pullman)*.

These days, on the other hand, everything is apocalypse this and that.
The Road
The Day After Tomorrow
I Am Legend
28 Days Later
Children of Man
Oblivion
After Earth
This Is The End
Not to mention the zombies.
Everyone began talking 'bout zombies, and now no one will stop.
The fad makes no sense to me.
Namely, why now?
No one seems to ask that, and I think the question is great.
"Zombies are cool, bro!"
Zombies were cool during Evil Dead.
During Thriller. 
Why are they so popular now?
We're not talking Avatar. 
It's not like we had to wait for the technology to catch up.
There is no technology.
Some makeup and a ripped pair of jeans.
Boom. Zombie.
We're not filming Transformers, here.
Yet, it's now that we find survival guides for something that doesn't exist.
The more I think about it, the more I think it's not the "zombie."
It's the "apocalypse."
And when I'm with a group of 20-somethings and they're talking about what they'd do in a zombie apocalypse, I feel like screaming:
"You're all adults! What in the fuck are you talking about!?"
But you can't say that. I can't say that.
So, instead I have to wait and nod along, riding out the conversation until it steers towards some TV show.
You're taking it too far.
It's like discussing, over wine, how G.I. Joe and Barbie's kids would do in school.
Perhaps it's a drill; a refresher.
Sure, everyone knows full well that no zombies are going to be busting soil any time soon.
But, it never hurts to talk about the best places from which to steal lumber to board up your home (lumber mills).
Or how to occupy a grocery store and effectively defend it.
If you're bred to understand that the worst is all there is, isn't it just as well to prepare for it?
I say that we ditch the term 'Generation Y' in favour of 'Generation Z'.
'Z' for 'Zombie', and because, if all goes according to plan, this one will be the last.

Post of the Sleek

I'm going to Chicargo, y'know.
I may have mentioned it (turns out I didn't), but I'm sort of reminding myself right now.
Chicargo is a city in America.
I'm going to Lollapalooza with my woman and some parents I know.

I know that they have at least two zoos there.
One of them is free, which is cool, but there are no bars or anything, so the animals can eat your popcorn or your infant if you let your guard down.
"The hawk just swooped down, and then they were gone!
It even took the stroller!"
Birds of prey fascinate me.
The key is comparing them to other birds.
That's when you realize that these organisms are as much weapon as they are animal.
Okay, I guess that's enough for now.
It's the sexy schism of blog writing:
One post every few days (weeks; TV seasons), or a bunch of inconsequential posts daily?
Comin' at ya, live! This is one of the latter.
Never going to be an inductee into my hall of fame.
Never going to be a favourite for anyone.
"My favourite post, if I had to pick a favourite, is the one where you spell Chicago wrong three times and finish the post with..."
This.
A song I can't get out of my head, and a video I'm slowly growing to like.
The video is a wee too surreal for me, but I do like the dancing segments a lot.

I found this song through the soundtrack of this game.
I think I'm learning to appreciate cars more.
I have always liked them the ways that boys like them.
Boys like the angles of them; how threatening a sports car tends to look. How exotic and unattainable. Boys love that sort of thing.
Kind of like Cyndi Lauper.
No wait.
Crawford.
These days, well, I guess I like them in the same way.
I'm just old enough to appreciate that they're even less attainable than I thought when I was young.
Speaking of being more weapon than animal...

They only made 20 of these.
One costs as much as Andy Dick's house.

Dressed. To Kill.

I used to be a music man as I toured about.
Like the silhouttes in the commercials, I enjoyed a little Aerosmith while waiting for my massage at the local parlor.

The gentleman's club.
The undersides of bridges.
I listened to music whenever I walked about.
Mostly because I really get off on buying headphones, I think.
These days, I listen to music much less whilst walking.
Choosing instead to punish myself with the echoings of my own boorish thoughts.
When I'm not undressing women with my eyes - actually, even when I am undressing women with my eyes, I can now eavesdrop on conversations.
Consequently, I have learned that people say stupid shit all the time (I guess I should've known).
I was on the metro, taking the #1 to the shoe horn store (I don't know why i just said that).
I heard a woman describing a recent first date to a friend.
And she said, "I dunno if I'll see him again.
The first date is just to make sure that he's not a serial killer anyway."
Wishing I had my music back, I pontificated that serial killers-good serial killers (which is all of them)-don't reveal themselves as serial killers in a 3-hour encounter.
If you want to be sure he's not a serial killer, I would recommend at least twelve dates and a trip or two to the cottage for good measure.
Survive that, and you'll know you've found your man.

Whenever I experienced writer's block (laziness), I assume it's an emotional blockage that's preventing me from progressing.
In actuality, though, it's usually just a ball of my hair.
Speaking of, it's time to get it cut.
I have to be attentive to my look with this new job.
I had a gentleman kindly suggest that I not wear three-piece suits to work because they could be perceived as intimidating.
I felt like saying, "You're the one wearing rimless glasses!"
I'm not sure everyone would want to buy a car from hair like mine.
In a similar vein, Andie suggested that I sometimes wear the bow-tie that she bought me.
I love the idea, but if you're a car salesman and you approach someone while wearing a bow-tie, they're going to think:
"Look at this lying piece of shit coming our way. Let's get out of here and buy a Kia."

Comedy and Tragedy

Written on Saturday, June 8 (probably):

I fantasized about meeting Hank Azaria while showering today.
I know that a lot of guys will tell you that when it comes to wayward thoughts in the bath stall, Halle Berry is the one to think of.
Ingrates.
Hank has delivered so many lines I have laughed at, all without looking upon his face.
Also, I adore his scene in Eulogy when he delivers a few lines from 'Death Of A Salesman'.
This is where I'd post a clip of that performance, but no one has ever heard of Eulogy, so it's not on YouTube.
Lastly, for anyone who has seen The Aristocrats (don't play with audio at work), Azaria's version is great without being vulgar.
Now, some might think that crassity is the whole point of the aristocrats joke.
However, I think the purpose of the joke is making it your own, which Hank does excellently.
This one is popular enough to be view-able, but not popular enough to be specific, so skip to 5:57 (again, not at work).



Despite how much I talk to your mother and girlfriend, at the end of the day, I'm just not that personable.
I musn't be.
If I were, I'd know the coffee wenches' names.
(I'd also probably stop calling them wenches).
I frequent Java Blend these days.
Supplying coffee throughout Nova Scotia, they have the gumption to roast their own beans.
Pretty legit.
The area has Blend, as well as a crematorium, which also does its own roasting (corpses).
On hot days, I don't know which smells like which, but Java Blend sells smalls for $1.20, and you can't beat that.
Yet, though I've filled nearly two stamp cards, I don't know anyone's name there.
No one knows mine.
I was in line this morning, and one of the counters referred to the guy behind me by name.
"Hey Cliff, et cetera et cetera."
I was then a little jealous of Cliff.
What am I doing wrong?
Did you know that many Newfoundlanders refer to cliff - not 'Cliff', the guy in line, but 'cliff' the sheer drop as 'clift'?
Just a little culture for you.
We have some clifts in Bay Roberts.
Mad Rock is famous for being not-the-stadium in Bay Roberts.
I never knew its crags and juts until I brought Andie to them.
Knowing we were off the suggested foot path, which the signs advised against, she and I splished along the shoreline's borders.
Though it was out of my comfort zone, I followed her.
That's what love is all about, maybe.

A boy fell over similar Bay Roberts cliffs recently.
The visiting cousin of a local boy, in town from Ontario.
...
Mom was quiet that day.
At the kitchen table, I asked her what was on her mind.
She explained that she was thinking of the boy who had died that day.
What his mother must be going through.
I reminded her that many ten-year old boys died that day throughout the world, many of them tragically.
But I knew that that wouldn't matter.
Mothers share an empathy I wouldn't understand.

I'm sick of Mariah Carey.
Do you know that she's sold more albums than The Rolling Stones?
I don't particularly like The Stones, either, but I still find this upsetting.
I know she has an incredible vocal range (rack), but she doesn't even sound like a person on the high notes.

Incarcerate-A-Pia

We have some really big plants here at the dealership
("Warford's talking about plants today. I think he's lost his edge.").
I just assumed that they were fake because they look sort of fake.
They also look tropical.
Turns out you can grow plants inside.
I say we should get an orange tree in here and throw away the service department's fruit basket.
Some woman comes in and tends to the plants.
You can tell that she's a plant woman because she carries misting bottles and she doesn't seem to want to speak to anyone.
I suggested that she get some ivy in here to give the place a real academic look, and she muttered something about our already having ivy in here.
That's another bridge burned.
But enough about spinsters.

Pia's in hot water again, apparently.
For those of you just out of cryogenic freezing tubes, Pia is some broad who starred in some shitty movies.
She's significant to yours truly, however, because she ended up on a shirt that ended up on my body some ten years ago.
A Warford wardrobe staple for eons, perhaps my most distinctive, Pia is still around and occasionally worn to this day.
The shirt, I can depend on.
The actual woman, however, seems a little less reliable.
Today she is in the news because parenting is hard.
But not as hard as being washed up.
Case and point:
Imagine having your mugshot taken.
You're tired and you're in police custody.
You have to sit around for hours, like a doctor's waiting room.
The difference being that detainment doesn't have magazines.
However, instead of waiting to get a new prescription for your percocet, you're waiting to be de-loused.
But first thing's first.
The mug shot.
This is the only image that will turn out looking shittier than your passport photo.
The reason being, you're photographed at your zenith of shame.
Unless you're one of those 'in-it-for-the-glory' bank robbers.
Your hair is probably all frazzled.
You're holding that little ticker sign which displays your measurements right on there (like a piece of meat!).
And as the bulb flashes, you know that your mom fucked up somewhere along the way.
It's all in the photo.
Doesn't sound pleasant, does it?
Now imagine going through that process, all the while thinking to yourself:
"Those fuckers at TMZ are going to be all over this."