Don't Cost A Thing

Written the yesterday before yesterday, Corner Brook Tim Horton's (da one by Dominion):

I'm writing this on a...I think it was an info tag for a life jacket.
Y'know the sort; they attach them to winter coats all the time.

DESIGNED WITH INLAID ZIPPERS AND GORETEX© SWEAT POCKET™ TECHNOLOGY

"That should impress the fellas. I'll take it!"
They always look at the price tag second.
"$280 goddamn dollars! That should impress the fellas. I'll take it!"
There are more life jackets in my day-to-day lately. Yet, I've been doing very little boating...
I'm in Corner Brook dropping dollars because the missus' birthday is fast approaching.
The circus tent is paid off (sold me quad), but I couldn't afford the 3D-printed balloon animal machine, and it looks as though the contortionist may not make it.
She says she has rickets, but I think she's found a better gig.
I find girlfriend birthday parties a little intimidating, to be honest.
Some women go in for the pearl necklace or spa facial (I chose sexual terms purposefully there. I don't know why), but my baby don't need the finery.
Lavish items don't really clang her bell.
Now, a lot of guys would say, "Awesome, bro! That's more money for brewskies!"
No guys I would associate with, mind you, but they're out there.
Fair, but my woman loves a nice outing. A good adventure. An event.
However, I've spent the last 5 years or so as a bit of a shut-in.
Consequently, my imagination gets a little gummy with a day out.
"Hmm...do people still roller skate? Not really?"
After which I just suggest a bunch of stuff that I want to do, and that's just it:
I spend too much time thinking of myself.
It's why this blog exists.
I run into trouble because I'm not valueing the things she loves; the things she will enjoy.
So, I will try my best to come up with a good day for Andie.
Each day she invigorates within me a slight desire to get out. To see something. To be myself among people, rather than being myself by myself.
It's the gift she gives me.
The least I can do is wake up first, make breakfast and greet the day with the fervor she does.

Lucky Duck

I don't know who I know in the places that I go. 

We docked in Montreal, and I was determined to feel its energy.
You know how Montreal is.
Alive. Bohemian, kinda. Aware of itself and proud of itself.
It's a city with a pulse.
I'd been on the ship for a while, and I wanted some civilization.
Specifically, I wanted to gawk at women and eat steak.
St. Catherine's is the rue to flock to, non?
I decided to walk there because I'm a floundering idiot and I thought it wouldn't take long.
An hour and a half later on just...the shittiest pair of shoes that you could wear on your feet.
I bought them at a place that sells surf stuff, but no actual surf boards. You get me?
I required quick, cheap shoes because I was en route to a gig and I refuse to do comedy in boots, which I had accidentally worn.
So, I found these canvas sleeves that were adhered to a length of what must have been parchment paper. 
Purchased them from some guy who seemed as though he wanted his store to stay open just a week longer.
He was speaking to two sexy blondes.
One of them tried on a bikini during their visit and I wanted to watch her do this.
Can't do that, though. Unless you get a webcam set up in the ceiling.
Which is the reason you open a surf place without the surf boards.
Anyway, piece of shit shoes. Walking and walking and thinking, "Why am I not getting a cab? This is a real city. There are cabs."
None drove by because I was leaving the ship.
What's shitty about leaving ships is that once you disembark, you're in some industrial area that normal people never go to unless they're collecting a pickup truck's worth of crushed stone.
It's isolated.
Lots of transport trucks.
Not many party buses.
I eventually ended up near actual restaurants and stores.
Ultimately, I landed at a place that french people would call a 'bistro'.
I only stopped there because the awning had beouff in the title.
The food was fancier to look at than it was flavourful to eat, but that wasn't important.
Becauese the waitress was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
She must've been.
She was french and petite and she was bringing me food and - wait a second.
Was she really so beautiful, or did it seem that way because I'd been on a boat full of dudes for a week or two?
That's what it was.
This was just an everyday, run-of-the-mill hottie.
They're not that hard to find. Especially in Montreal.
And it donned on me:
If a woman has poor self-esteem or a goiter, she should just hang out down by the docks.
A month later, when I was ready to leave the ship for good, I'd learned that some women are already doing this.

I've been fantasizing about winning the lottery lately.
It's about as productive as anything else I've been doing.
I mostly blame Top Gear.
Have you watched it?
The entire population of India loves the programme.
Anyway, they review very lavish cars and make you want to own them.
Y'know the first thing I'd do if I won the lotttery?
Buy a suit.
I'd buy a suit that regular, hobo Paul would look at and say, "Even if I won the lottery, I wouldn't pay that much for a suit."
I'd immediately follow this by purchasing a $4,000 wristwatch.
I'd wear the suit out of the store, and I'd strut around town until I got mustard or whatever on it, and then I'd get out the pinking shears and turn the suit into rags to wipe down one of the several cars I would purchase if money wasn't an issue.
Money's always an issue, of course, and no one ever wins the lottery.
It's like a molecule getting picked to play shortstop. It never happens.
I don't know where that analogy came from.
When I was a kid I was jealous of Scrooge McDuck.
But it wasn't because of his vast fortune or his cool name.
It was because of his coin swimming pool that he had.
Remember that, people over twenty-six?
He'd go for a swim in his vault, and dive from his diving board into his pit of coins?
These days, Harper is doing the same thing with all of Canada's useless pennies. 

I thought this to be incredible when I was a kid.
I didn't envy the gold, or the vault, or the various fractures someone would get if they actually tried to dive into a pool of coins.
Being the youngest of three boys, I think I admired the privacy of it.
And the fact that his older duck brother didn't own it first.

I just want to take a brief moment to let everyone know that when I searched for that image, I typed 'Scrooge McDuck' into the subject line, and the first suggestion to come up was "Scrooge McDuck net worth."
Fictional cartoon ducks don't have net worths. Fictional cartoon ducks are worthless.
Just so we all know.

While waiting for my beautiful steak brought by the beautiful Montreal waitress, I saw someone practicing the tight rope.
She had a cable linked between two trees, a foot or so off the ground.
As I watched her, it all finally made sense.
"Of course! You start out at a low height!"

Steward's Log; May 16, 2014

By the grace of forces beyond my divination - be they God or merely the port authority - we struck land two days past. I awoke to see our vessel abreast the shore, one of Irving company's tentacle-like contraptions bloating our ship with oil or diesel or what have you. The day went by at an old hound's pace, yet I frequently found myself whistling as my work shift waddled on. The promise of land, of such simple comforts - commerce; soil; an evening stroll - heightened my spirits greatly. Upon my toil's conclusion I prepared to step the gangway and the expanse of St. John beyond. By coincidence, the aforementioned Russian fellow (of my log's previous entry) entreated he join me, so as to assuage the brunt of cab fare. Keen to accomplish this myself, I hastily agreed. Soon we were off.
Upon arrival at the city's known bazaar, I elected to part ways as I tend to enjoy solitude when entering a new or unfamiliar region. So isolated, I took my leave. All of the chincy shops seemed a little less gaudy as I passed one ostentatious awning after another. Few stores truly interested me, yet finding myself amidst this sudden surge of people was a thrill I would not have felt otherwise. Indeed, while dwelling on land, such a collection of wanton stragglers would likely upset my gullet, but now! A queer tranquility was to be found in the numbers. And women! Though I admit that I so heartily miss my lady true that it pains me at night, I believe that even she would understand my unbridled desire to be near strange women; to have them in plain sight. A man at sea is a man deprived, mark this! I would have no one tell me otherwise.
To the point, I found myself in a shop of unfamiliar name, in which stood an employee - a beautiful yellow-haired woman. As she assisted a pack of yabbering children with some footwear, I found myself positively entranced by her appearance, and transfixed by her tight-fitting attire. It took me a moment before realizing that I was staring at the poor girl, and what's more, I desired absolutely no merchandise in this tawdry shop. Further, their ambient music was truly abhorrent.

Steward's Log; May 12, 2014

Anchored still. It is beginning to seem as though our ship is in a purgatory of some kind from which we may only be released with the proper timing or proper bribe. Rumors suggest our non-operation is business-oriented in nature, though in truth I can scarcely feign to care as I have no head for figures or for beurocracy. I will simply dein to wait without worrying myself with the details.
Some European gentlemen comprise a percentage of our crew. One fellow is of Russian decent, while the other man's I have yet to determine, as we have had little acquaintance. He is possibly Bulgarian. The two have a lewd tendency to debate Western politics over supper, much to the bemusement of the ship's remaining staff. I say "lewd" not due to their topic of conversation, but rather the fervor by which they conduct it. Within minutes, voices are raised and breasts are beaten by seemingly nationalistic fists. These 'discussions' in time seem to verge on the countenance of 'argument', and their angered tones beget uncomfortable chuckles from the adjoining crew mates. When not engaged thus, however, the two seem as fine men. The Russian fellow in particular seems a chipper sort. He greets me at daybreak whilst arranging his morning tea, favoring a private tankard that he carries about at all times, claiming it has been thus employed for eleven years. Keeping such an item for even eleven months seems beyond me. His accent is thick and nearly archetypal in its sound, echoing the Russian-English accent as it seemingly should be heard, though I'm hardly an authority on such a matter. Regardless, this musical dialect carries with it a certain charm, so long as it is not shouting points regarding the Russian government's approach to property tax.

Things Kids Never Say

"When I grow up I want to work in pest control services. With Orkin, maybe."
"When I grow up I want to sell musical instruments for a while before opening a failed heavy equipment rental facility."
"When I grow up I want to work in landscaping."
"When I grow up I want to be an accountant's secretary."
"When I grow up I want to be a gynaecologist."
"When I grow up I want to sell carpet at an outlet store."
"When I grow up I want to be a sales rep. for a snowshoe manufacturer."
"When I grow up I want to be what grown ups do."
"When I grow up I want to be a grownup."

Steward's Log; May 11, 2014

On anchored chain we bob. For what has felt like a lazy fortnight, we have been moored from the coast of St. John in New Brunswick. Though our actual period of inoperation has spanned but four days, these have passed under trying circumstances, as the crew has access to no internet or social relief such as is afforded ashore. Each day presents a fresh delay, poorly communicated or otherwise unspecified whatsoever, a new promised time frame merely thrust upon us as we stew along the coast. I take no solace in the knowledge that several ships and fellow seamen share in our frustration. Each direction I face while anchored allows me to espy distant vessels, stoic and pristine along the horizon, not unlike a collection of burly gentlemen impatiently que'd for the one lavatory stall.

The encroaching land chides us from its near, though inaccessible, distance. Nightfall seems to share in this jest, as the city's twinkling lights whisper and tease us of entertainment and drink. These pleasures shall remain idle dwellings for the time being as we await our port to call.
While still burdened with slumber's tenacious shackles, I received a startling fright in the early day. As I began my morning duties, I exited the galley, passing my pantry's threshold, only to halt in unnecessary fright as I discovered that a small bird had invaded my work space. Of course, it posed no manner of threat to my person, and yet I found myself unsure of, or perhaps unwilling to proceed in its ejection from our wheelhouse. It is the nature of finding wildlife, however docile, within human confines that unsettles me. Such a creature surely does not belong, and my subconscious foolishly echoes this as though the very principle should prevent the chickadee's entry in the first place. My ever-vigilant co-man, the deafened Irving, shooed the poor jay, though it remained alight on our ship's deck for the day's remainder, and may very well be roosting with us presently. Some hawks were reported to have been on board (so to speak) as well, preying upon animals such as my hereto mentioned intruder. Deckhands anointed me with stories of ghastly discovery, as small birds' heads were appearing on deck, as the ravenous predators appear to not care for the skulls of their victims, as it were. I inwardly stifled a mild disappointment in not witnessing the larger specimens firsthand, as I find carnivorous birds to be most fascinating. Perhaps I will encounter one before my voyage concludes, though I admit that I would certainly not wish to see such a magnificent creature in my pantry.

Steward's Log; May ??, 2014

I really started to get exhausted after waking up at 6 am for so long. 

Weariness grows upon me like ivy, its tendrils climbing my body's length so as to ensnare itself to my brain, constricting my thought's core. Each day's passing has begun to wear on my spirit and mind. Mine enthusiasm for stewarding is all but spent, and my greatest challenge to face each day is planting my feet upon the floor so as to rise from my inviting bunk. Fatigue proves my greatest adversary - one that seems to have mitigated my resolve and determined my weaknesses with a cunning eye. As a consequence, sleep provides little relief, no matter the amount of time I spend aslumber. Truly, sailing may be my folly.
However, perhaps my recourse is due in its own time, much as our ship is due for port. Perhaps if I can steel my jangled wits for some time more, I will arise from my own stupor; a phoenix illuminating its own ashes in triumph. I must remain stout in my vigil. I must prevail. Even now, so much of my fated journey is behind me, transpired in a manner befitting my character and station as a steward and as a galley hand. To shore I shall go a whole man; my head held aloft and my bosom inflated, to walk into my true love's embrace, and may the seas and jeering gulls be damned!
It is when a man's trials near an end that they begin to seem truly endless. This hallucination is itself a test and nothing more. My fatigue is but a moment's lag; my slackened wits, a figment. I am as strong a chap this day as I was on any other. I will commit my time and serve it shining. Then, with upheld palm I shall secure the weight of my earned doubloons and make for land, never to take her level keel for granted henceforth. 

Steward's Log; May 4, 2014

No form of transportation eludes me! In a Ford Windstar I make haste towards Newfoundland's Gander Airport. Due to particulars unforeseen and largely unexplained, I am to be transplanted to another vessel which currently rests in old Quebec City. I shall take to the skies in little more than an hour hence. As it stands, I am not to sojourn alone; my co-worker and cooking superior has been summoned as well, and we are to accompany one another en route. Irving, so he is called, is a curious fellow and quite deaf. Despite a pair of rather conspicuous listening devices, each affixed an ear, he seems unable to discern a single utterance of mine, necessitating my repetition of all things - despite my effort to speak at him with a volume well beyond my casual frequency. Regardless, the two of us get by, acting as a somewhat efficient 'team' in the galley. For my part, I accomplish this through patient repetition of all that I say, and I garnish my shoutings with pantomime wherever possible. By a stroke of coincidence we hail from the same hometown, though we have discovered no mutual acquaintances. He is getting on in age, and his memory seems to be at the vanguard of time's punishment. It is rumoured that his betrothed is quite ill, poor fellow. He continues to travail so as to afford the medications that provide her comfort. A noble cause, and it is perhaps because of this labour's love that he works with such vigor, as I myself have trouble keeping his pace, though I am nearly half his age. This fervor is matched in equal part by his dedication to tobacco cigarettes, of which he appears to be in infinite supply. He has informed me that in thirty years of seamanship, he has never found this supply depleted while on the water.
From Quebec we are to sail to an occasional port, slowly making our way back to Lewisporte once more. It pains me to write that among these destinations, Halifax is not listed. I hold out hope that we may frequent there, so as to see my lady love once more, if only for an evening. I miss her terribly and yearn for her touch.
Ah! The airport is before us. Now to unload my provisions, of which I packed too many.

Steward's Log; April 28, 2014

Surely madness is reeling thus. Having delivered our stores of crude to St. John's, we press towards Lewisporte, some 17 hours away. Upon overtaking the hugging, bosomed crags of St. John's secretive harbour, the vessel began to heave mightily, and in fact has scarcely ceased to do so since. Never before have I experienced such a thrashing, as my very notions of gravity and the physical world have been redefined this day upon the sea. My view out of the wheelhouse's main entryway was of blue sky followed sternly by the crashing waves, and to and fro again as the booming swells made a mockery of our massive, steel hull. Despite our rig's impressive size, it is at the mercy of the sea, as its now-empty bilges allow it to be careened lightly and effortlessly by the impending waves.
The crew has remained largely unfazed, and they laughingly warn of a sleepless night ahead for all hands - as though such a course is one to take joy in. This lolling is of second nature to them, seasoned privateers as they are. I, however, am showing my green colours in relation to my sailing experience, yet not in terms of my pallor or complexion! Fortunately, my meals as yet have remained within me, and seasickness has not affected its discomforts upon me. I must admit that I find myself both surprised and elated at this discovery, and I maintain hope that my fortitude in this matter will hold its stead. Although my physical limitations are comfortable enough, my mental stature was tried tenfold throughout the day, as this constant listing proved an extreme frustration to my stewarding duties. The rolling vessel transforms the simplest of tasks into harrowing feats, as standing braced becomes a chore, each step feels uphill, and the mere exercise of sitting in a chair may become a sudden danger.
Pots and pans clattered about and a boiler of rice very nearly fell to the galley deck. It was at this time that I suggested to the chief cook that we shut off the main fat fryers, as they suddenly seemed a tremendous hazard. A glass bowl upended itself and shattered in my pantry, and all manner of loose items had to be hurriedly secured and lashed by the crew. These complications seemed to recreate themselves at the roughest of patches, as fresh threats presented themselves. The crew assures me that should we enter ice, our voyage will become more tolerable as the hulking floes will disrupt, and therefore weaken, incoming swells. However, I see many pans of ice beyond my cabin window at this very moment, and yet I feel no merits of their supposed effectiveness. They are beautiful however, and truly serene in this desolate locale.
Despite a staggering number of curses uttered today on my behalf, I remain entranced by the sea, and respect more than ever both its unfettered tranquility and savage tumultuousness. Suffice it to say, I keenly await landfall on the morrow.

Steward's Log; April 18, 2014

I am born anew on this day as we have weighed anchor and I am now, in principle, a sailor. Even as I scribe this composition, our vessel splits the seas a-twain and steams steady onward, due for port in New Brunswick some three days' hence. With our journey begun, I already find myself mesmerized by the ship's movement and effects upon the water surrounding us. Several times I have had to remind myself that stock-still standing, my mouth partly agape at a porthole, will not present myself as a worthwhile labourer, and might even suggest to my crewmates that I am a potential dullard. Yet, it is truly a sight to behold, as the malleable water, mighty beyond compare in its seeming infinity, will patiently allow us to cut passage through it, with little more than a gentle bob of our ship.
Some shuddering vibration does occur as our bow meets and destroys any turgid ice blocking its path. This obstacle of nature provides little delay, however, as the spring season has no doubt withered away its otherwise stolid integrity.
The water itself folds around us, the outermost eddies of which resemble a gentle crease, not unlike one which may disturb an aging length of parchment. Closer to our hull the water gnashes about more coarsely, producing a foam as one might find upon a savage dog's muzzle.
The sea for its part remains blissfully, mercifully placid as we gain way. With great civility, I plead silent that the waters may remain this peaceful for I fear that heavier waves may weaken my susceptible gut, much like the cresting sun has hampered the rigid ice.

Steward's Log; April 15, 2014

Missing essentials dawn upon me each day anew as I while away in my desolate cabin. I use the term 'desolate' with a meagre affection, as it is now my one true sanctuary aboard this vessel. In truth, it is not without its merits. To wit, I have running water, a single stand-up shower capable of fitting three grown men simultaneously (upon renewed inspection, I might decrease this number to two). I have a lavatory and the chemical agents needed to maintain it. Further, I have a small, wall-mounted monitor (likely inoperational), a desk of ample width and height, a single cot (with reading lamp), a standing dresser, a fainting plank and a series of chested drawers. The walls, currently bare, resemble the inconsequential colouring of a kitchen's countertop, and my desire to mask this unwelcome decorum has far from lessened as the days pass.
On a related note, I have verified that I must adorn my hovel with a calendar. This I believe will benifit my surroundings two-fold: Primarily, it will allow me to mark off each day, likely in a traditional, large red 'X' fashion, thus advertising, if only for myself, my progression through this period and its foregone conclusion, at which time I will be reunited with my lady true, whom I miss dearly. Despite my sound devotion, I have settled upon the purchase of a nude, or "nudey" calendar, if such a thing may be procured from the town merchant. An item of this description will alleviate my Julianic need, while also acting as pornographic fodder, for which I am in short supply, as noted in a previous entry.
The crew continues to be outwardly wary of my newbord prescence on board, but some well-timed wit and lofty banter will hopefully correct this in time. While it is true that they and I seemingly have little to share by way of conversation topics (they speak, for example, at length regarding various all-terrain vehicles of which I have no knowledge nor interest) I remain vigilant in striking common chords among them all.
Perhaps they share my love for paintball...

Steward's Log; April 12, 2014

I have not brought sufficient pornography on board and this has grown rapidly apparent. I hear jocular discussions of shared external hard drives that are laden with smut, and though I believe these perversions might be shared should confidence among the crew be gained, I suspect that our tastes vastly differ.
I have deduced with equal quickness that I must populate my cabin with a plant, a fish, or both. Indeed, I would be happy to share my cabin with a cat, but it is my understanding that felines despise water. Perhaps I do as well. This, for the time being, remains undertermined as we remain moored here in the berg of Lewisporte, Newfoundland, Canada. As such, creature comforts are abound following a short walk to shore, and domestic plants may very well be available from a few named, local horticulturalists. The fish, I am told, may be less easily procured.
I am familiarizing myself with the crew, who seem a fine bunch. As of yet, none of them are aware of my lavish clothing, and I can only hope that I am not acutely dismissed as a 'fag' upon their revelation.
Alcohol is not allowed on board, yet it is readily available.
I peer out at the ice floes choking the harbour and to the expansive sea beyond, and I ponder when it is we shall meet.