Yes I Candy

I have to write something because, frankly, I'm running out of serial killers to learn about.
I did Gacy. Dahmer - old news.
Ramirez. He was terrible. The sort of guy that would make other convicted killers say, "Jesus. What a psycho."
And now, as I watch Ted Bundy calmly explain why violent detective novels and pornographic books do not mix, I realize I must write.
Otherwise, at this rate, it'll be me in a jumper applying for stays before long.

So, it's Halloween and bikinis are on sale.
I'm going to fetch chocolate after work.
Andie really wants to get some "big" bars, too, to act as surprises for the first few trick-or-treaters.
Which is cool with me.
Dr. Powell used to give out cans of drink (that's soda) - whole cans!
In life, Dr. Powell learned that hard work may be rewarded with material gain.
A lesson you learned on his doorstep after climbing his steep, unending driveway.
Anyway, she and I carved PERVS into a pumpkin last night.
The 'R' got away from us, but otherwise it's alright.
It was her idea.
This will be a far cry from my first Halloween in Halifax, when I wrote:
SORRY! OUT OF CANDY! on a piece of loose leaf with a Sharpie before sticking it to my door.
(There had never been candy to begin with.)
But now!
We'll thrill all of the ghosts and goblins with full-sized, gas station-regulated Kit Kats.
And, if we actually put our pumpkin out, perhaps we'll give the odd overbearing parent a scare, too.
Y'know, a few weeks ago Andie made fake tombstones.
She placed them on the lawn (a generous term), and the landlord stuck them on the side of the house...with the garbage.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'd probably rather a marker more charming over my grave when Ted Bundy comes for me (so to speak), but I still don't think there was any need.
At least say something to us. She took the time to paint them.
Just a sidelong mentioning:
"Oh, and I put your tombstones over on the side of the house because they looked shitty.
The wife thought they were shitty, anyway."
Something.

I've never handed out candy before.
I've taken it from some babies, sure.
But I've never been the guy with the stainless steel bowl.
With older siblings, you do fewer and fewer remotely adult things.
Buying beer. Babysitting. Et cetera.
I remember Colin took the job one year.
He had a 13" black & white in the laundry room and he was fine.
This was back when sole control over a small black & white TV meant something to a 14-year old.
He ran out of candy and began handing out canned goods.
Like a miniature UNICEF.
I think mom was pissed.
At nightfall we'd trade bars. One of those moments when Brian and I behaved normally.
Diplomatically.
He could take all of my Crunchie. All of the Big Turks (and I do mean all of them. Every one ever made).
I could take whatever bars he didn't like, which I can no longer remember.
November would come around and the candy, now forgotten, wouldn't even matter anymore.
I'd find stray packs of Rockets in a Ninja Turtle vehicle - "Huh?" And then promptly eat them.
Some would say that Halloween promotes gluttony.
Derelicts who ration how much candy children are allowed to have.
How awful.
"Two pieces tonight and another three pieces tomorrow in your recess.
We'll take this exciting, extravagant kids' activity and turn it into something controlled and regimented.
Something adult.
But it will still be fun because I say it is."
Children don't measure candy by individual pieces - nor should they.
Children measure candy like crushed stone; by gross tonnage.
I wouldn't say gluttony.
Hedonism, maybe.
I'm looking forward to doling out the goodies.
It's important to participate. It's important to get involved.
Something I once knew and am now learning again.
So, from me and mine to you and yours, happy Movember Eve.

And remember: Bobbing for apples must include breaks for oxygen.

A Thief In The Night

My friend was stabbed in the back and now my friend is paralyzed.
All of the newspapers say so, but it's still impossible to process.
The assailant is as every other who has stabbed someone in the back; a coward.
Though, when someone you know faces something like this, you quickly begin to question your own resolve.
Among other things...

Though you may not know my friend, Pay It Forward has taught us that it's still okay to help him.
Visit a Scotiabank if you wish to do so.

Your Fly Is Down

"Were you neurotic as a child, Paul, or did that onset only happen when you learned about sex?"
Excellent question, introductory sentence.
I'll answer this question with a question:
Have you ever been on Space Mountain?
Not me.
Instead, I watched the line giddily shuffle past me as I remained steadfast at my mother's side.
Good times be damned.
I visited many amusement parks in my youth.
Though they were usually ammusing, I've never been great with rides.
And even as a tyke, my overactive imagination would visualize cars careening off of tracks and rails.
I never got into dirtbikes for much the same reason.
I was into the tapioca rides instead.
"What is that, a tiny novelty train?
Well, all aboard!
Tiny caterpuillar roller coaster for the toddlers?
That sounds okay."
I mean, I would go on some rides.
Scrambler.
Tilt-A-Whirl.
I enjoyed flumes. All flumes.
No safety concerns there.
Straight plummet into a giant pool is fine.
Everyone gets wet. The pictures are real candid.
Great rides, the flumes.
But others would hit a nerve and I'd say, "Nope. Not that one."
The Zipper was an excellent example.
Dennis loved The Zipper (he also owned a dirt bike.)
But he could've goaded me until he passed out onto the fairgrounds.
I wasn't going on The Zipper.
And I never did.
Fast-forward about twenty years.
Andie wants to do a Fall activity.
Autmn makes her insane.
Walking down the promenade she'll suddenly inhale passionately, saying something about the air.
"Smell that fall air!"
I play along, but it smells like oxygen to me.
Fall is whack because I need to dig out jackets and there are deadlines for everything, inexplicably.
But what can I do? She loves it.
I'm due to make scarecrows, for example.
Jam some leaves into my jeans and elastic-off the pant legs, sure.
If this is what has to be done.
About two weeks ago, the fair assumbled itself in Shitty Dartmouth.
As it always does...in the Fall.
So, we walk over to go on at least one ride.
Crossing the bride on foot was ride enough for me, by the way.
Tickets. Junior high kids brandishing too much makeup.
The fair.
5 bucks to whip 3 balls at your last night's empties?
Fuck that.
The fair.
Andie stands at the base of The Zipper and tells me she wants to go on.
So, I explain my (non)history with this ride.

This is not an image of The Zipper we were faced with.
The one in Shitty Dartmouth looked far more neglected.
There's not much else to choose, though, besides The Kamikaze, which looks fucked all together.
Now, I'll mention that it was her idea to go on the wooden rollercoaster in Cavendish.
Then, after getting buckled in, she immediately began repeating that she didn't want to do it anymore.
Too late then.
So, too for The Zipper.
I don't know why they have to make these carnies look so terrifying.
He opens the gate and you think, "How can you possibly fit a stereotype so exactly?
Please, before I put my life in your hands without signing a waiver, please just promise me that you're not drunk right now, this minute."
Everyone shits on carnies for looking like rabble (like I just did.)
Realistically, though, how educated do you have to be to flick a switch?
Most look perfectly qualified.
To be honest, if it was a clean-cut guy in a suit operating the ride, I think I'd find it more unsettling.
Anyway, we're in the cage.
If you're unfamiliar with the interior, it looks like a cage designed to die in.
No straps. Nothin'.
Just semi-standing in this thing.
He closes the gate.
Did you lock that? Alright, if you say so, strange man.
We're both blatantly nervous.
Then he turns it on.
This is just to convey us upwards to load in the next suckers.
Already, Andie is saying she wants off.
I also want off, but it's too late for that.
Regardless, she's asking buddy, 10 feet below us.
"Can you let us out? Sir?"
I tell her that 'sir' probably isn't a term he often responds to.
Might not realize he's the one she's pleading with.
Time holds its breath until he fires this thing up.
Fuck this ride.
Neither of us are enjoying ourselves at all.
Have you been on this thing?
The Zipper is a miscarriage.
It is a car accident that happens to you for 5 minutes.
My phone came out of my pocket.
That was terrifying, but less terrifying that The Zipper, so I only sort of noticed.
Trying to recover it was mesmerizing, as the phone was now experiencing The Zipper, too.
So, it was being shoved in various directions.
I felt like an astronaut trying to get it back in my pocket. 
After 2.5 minutes, it stops.
Pause.
Then it starts up again as I say, "Oh Jesus, it's going the other way."
Which it did for another 2.5 minutes.
The direction change miraculously made it worse.
And still she's asking to get off.
That's my favourite part.
After much violence and churning, it ends.
We're baby deer getting off of the ride.
Disoriented. Confused.
Recovering was strange.
The world took its time getting back to me.
And in the meantime, nothing registered with me.
Like, someone could have walked up to me, removed my wallet from my ass pocket, and two to seven minutes later I'd notice and say, "What the? My wallet's gone."
Anyway, we're never going on it again.
If another Autumn finds her wanting to ride it, I'll make a scarecrow and he can take my turn.

"We'll Let You Know"

Written October Somethingth (about a week ago):

I had an audition today -
Broke the cherry!
Preparing for an audition involves memorizing your lines (all 4 of 'em).
The next step is to repeat those so many times that they no longer bear meaning as sentences.
Which I did.
Then, I entered the abandoned train yard and found the room with the other hopefuls.
Louts.
When you enter the audition ante-chamber, this is what happens:
A roomful of people with a similar ethnicity and age demographic to your own look up.
Kinda.
They do a half look up before resetting their heads to the exact position they were in before you got there.
I guess no one wants to get psyched out by the competition.
Maybe they just want to ensure that Rowan Atkinson didn't just walk in.
If he did, I'm sure that at least one guy would slam his script photocopy down exclaiming, "Aw, fuck this," before storming out of the room.
Anyway, I've been all coughs and sputters this week, so I wanted water.
Needed it.
Cooler was there. Hot water. Cold.
The dispensary buttons weren't working, which felt like a bad omen.
So, I'd try for some water -
They had Showcase mugs for us to use.
That was the only aspect that threw me off, really.
I wasn't nervous because I assumed I wouldn't get it anyway (my secret weapon).
So, I felt okay.
But those Showcase mugs were disconcerting.
"Showcase is a TV network on TV.
This is for TV.
...
Wish I had some water."
So, I'd periodically try the cooler again, like an idiot.
Like it wasn't working because I didn't want it enough, or I hadn't pressed the button enough times.
Waiting in the room with these set pieces was like the chemistry final.
Everyone's cramming with their notes.
Quietly clearing throats.
Disregarding everyone else while also trying to determine if they're all nervous, too.
Not a healthy vibe.
I decide to get water from the bathroom with a Showcase (TV) mug.
I grab one and start to leave when the casting assistant asks, "Paul?"
I hadn't been received in any way at this point, so it was unexpected.
What do I do with the mug now?
Is it going to have to do the scene with me?
I didn't practice with a mug.
No, just put it down, Paul.
In retrospect, I've no idea where I laid it.
On one of the guys' heads, for all I know.
Room. Camera. Black tape on the floor.
Casting director.
Casting director's hopelessly attractive assistant.
The director laughed on my first line, which was an uneventful sentence. So, a good start.
Beyond that, I have no idea how it went.
I'd do the lines and then she'd give me direction.
And sure, I maintained eye contact and nodded my head, but I'm not certain I absorbed any of her instruction.
On the fourth one she said, "Great, you got it."
Which, I realized there and then, meant one of two things:
Either I got it, or I'll never get it.
As for the part, I'm not sure if I got it.
Or if I'll ever get it.
Over a week has passed.
She did seem legitimately pleased with me, but I was one of the first on the slab.
She did ask me to rock back and forth less, citing me as 'fidgety'.
Mike Wilmot once told me that he didn't think I could play a corpse.
"The twitchy fucker. Paul whoever. Get him our of here."
So, what did we learn from this experience?
Bring your own water, good.
What else?
It's not a job interview if you don't have to discuss past jobs you weren't suited for.
Anything else anyone wants to add?
Don't describe an audition in your blog until the role has been cast.
Perfect. That's what I was looking for.
I could do the role, y'know.
I learned that, too.
While reading I thought, "This isn't hard [I'm sure it gets hard]. I could do this."
I could.

First In Line

Written September 11, 2013 

Sometimes the stars unalign.
I was burn under one of these.

"The GTA midnight opening is today!"
This was the exclamation of your plucky young hero on Monday.
"See, when a big game comes out, stores will do a midnight opening. That way, you can get the game as early as possible."
I could be heard telling anyone within earshot this information on Monday as I counted the seconds down.
I have trouble getting excited these days.
I can only assume that this is due to my involvement with reality lately.
In my chirlish youth, I detached myself from reality as often as possible.
My one remaining avenue for imposed boyhood is - you guessed it - video games.
Consequently, an excited Paul blabbered to everyone he encountered.
I really was behaving like I found the last Wonka ticket.
I was telling friends, family, co-workers, my drug dealer - even customers.
And as I jaunted about town on Monday, nothing could bring me down.
GTA was coming. Further, I had the day off on Tuesday.
Overly understanding Andie was going to give me the okay to completely disregard her Tuesday afternoon.
We're all set.
Midnight opening, guys!
Everything's going to be okay!
I stick Andie in bed at 10:30 and make my way to the store.
Got my tunes. Got my dope. Got my imitation milkshake.
Not going to find myself getting roped into a conversation.
I'm ready.
No one there upon my arrival.
I immediately denounce the north end of Halifax and question their dedication.
"Pussies," I utter as I search for a nearby pad with wi-fi.
Burger King is closed early due to renovations.
There's a BK lackey in the parking lot dismantling a bench with a grinder.
Unless your father was a mechanic, this is a sound that you generally hear on TV.
A low and persistent 'ereeeeeee' as the disc bites and shears the metal.
This echoes in the twilight as I walk to shitty Tim Horton's.
I don't even want the sandwich, but I'll need fuel.
Donuts are dried out and shitty, y'say? That's okay.
It's the GTA midnight opening.
Don't need a coffee, thanks. I have a fake milkshake right here.
I sit and watch launch trailers.

Eventually, I wander back over.
Parking lot's dark. No one's there.
It's well past eleven.
Now, 90% of men would leave at this point.
"Fuck this, I've got things to do."
Nope. I'm calling numbers. I'm checking websites.
This is Monday, right?
Yes. It's Monday.
Now, as it turns out, it's the wrong Monday, but I won't discover that for another few minutes.
It doesn't release until next week.
This dawns on me at a slowed rate due to denial.
Yet, it's perfectly clear as I stand alone in the dark, the din of the disc grinder peeling laughter right at me.

Culture or Bust

Written about a month ago.

This keyboard is terrible.
I think that I wish I was popular.
I'm wearing my rain slicker today.
It's raining everywhere somewhere today and we all need to be prepared.
Never before now have I prayed for rain.
But my new rain slicker is so cool that I love a splish-splosher when it happens.
Yes, the blazing orange colour. The double-welded seams. The replacement patch of rubber.
This jacket virtually transforms me into a regular Christopher Robin.
What a jerk kid. Like "Pooh" is any kind of name for a bear.

I post this video hesitantly because I'm concerned people will watch it and then watch every other goddamn heritage moment there is.
The peach baskets. "I cannot read a word."
They're all very entertaining now that we're too old for them to be educational anymore.
Here's a picture of the jacket while my drug mule girlfriend wears it:

Once the weather turns sour I like to send her out to fetch things. She never worries about getting busted.
I worry about getting busted all of the time.
It's a big reason why I never had an exciting childhood, and is, in fact, a likely reason for why I'm wishing to be popular at the age of 31.
I can steal the rupees right out of your grandmother's credenza without batting an eye, but I worry about getting busted.
The difference being, by my definition, that getting busted means that one's cover is blown.
Stealing is just stealing.
Getting caught is just getting caught stealing.
Unless it's stealing from Lablaw's. Then it's not just getting caught stealing. Then it's 100% prosecution.
We wanted to go to the Chicargo aquarium. I've always wanted to go to a municipal aquarium.
Anyway, the lineup was out the door and it cost, like, 50 bucks.
So, we decided to hit the museum right alongside.
Now, that was also a little pricey and we were on our last day of the trip.
So, the Benjamins were getting a little scant.
We stood at the front and tried to figure out whether or not we wanted to (could afford to) check the museum out.
Then, without telling me anything, Andie asked for some maps of the museum.
Counter handed them to her, and she just started walking in. And there were security guards right there!
So, I'm hurriedly catching up to her, murmuring, "We're gonna get caught. They're going to kick us out."
Unflinching. She was unflinching.
We checked out as much of the museum as we could physically tolerate (we got really hungry).
This from the same woman who gets all squirrelly if I don't pay for a lime.
And why would you pay for a lime, really? They grow on trees.