I want to have a late-night talk show on local TV.
Technically, I guess I'd rather have it on Showcase or something, but I figure I should take baby steps here.
If that's how Howard Stern did it, I should do it that way too.
Of course, he was the shock guy. That is, until he became the vibrating sex saddle guy (which is still shocking, I guess).
I'm not looking for anything quite as intimate.
I want a desk, I want two chairs (I'm thinking of calling it "The Desk and Two Chairs with Paul Warford"), I want a band guy and I want a fish tank, maybe.
Not a fish tank.
Maybe a fish tank.
And I'd like a piñata every week that the closing guest can beat the shit out of.
I just thought of that this second.
It's where I'm supposed to be.
Writing. Comedy. Begging for change.
Among all the things I excel at, late night is where I'm supposed to be.
I didn't grow up watching Carson or Letterman or Arsenio, but I'm not sure that matters.
It's where I should be anyway.
A different suit each night and an expectation to flirt with women in a way that doesn't go anywhere?
Perfect. That's the perfect fit.
I think I could make it really fun if I could do what I wanted and I had someone take care of me while I tried to figure it out.
My buddy Peter White did the same thing in Halifax (Mark Little kinda did, too), but Peter made the mistake of not putting me on the show.
I'm linking his Comedy Now! because he hates it, by the way.
He's got great comedy and writing credits, he's very well-liked in 'the industry', and when he's drunk enough, he's funny.
However, the guy's got the personality of a wet sack, and if it were up to him, he'd only wear jogging pants with stuff written down one of the legs.
Showrunner. I wish he was around to do that with me.
However, he's slowly starving himself to average weight in London.
Anyway, I'm sure that this passion will last a week and won't come to fruition, but I want you to know that today I really think that this is something that I should be organizing and today I'm gonna do it!
We'll see where I'm at this time tomorrow...
And I could have a band each week and pretend I know their music.
And I could try to get Ryan Snodden on there, and despite our differences (that he doesn't know about), I have to admit that that would be awesome.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Dog Gone
Watch yourself if you're the weather girl.
If you're on The Weather Network and you accidentally stumbled across this post while looking for the definition of a cold front, start putting out resumes.
I come to this damn "coffee shop" or whatever it is most days.
The Weather Network is always airing on the unnecessary (yeah, I said it) TVs that are bolted to the walls, and I have never seen the same weather girl in front of a map consecutively.
It's a new woman each and every time.
Maybe this is a tactic of the network guys. They have meetings and say stuff like, "...but how do we keep it fresh? We need to draw new sponsors, and our climate doesn't change because we're in the same country each week."
"Well, viewers have been responding to our sexy weather women; they like their hips. So, how about a new weather woman for each broadcast?"
"Yes! Saturday Night Live does that and they've been on the air for decades! Disposable weather women! It should attract the disposable razor people--get someone from sales to contact them right away!"
Some, but not all oceans are full of oil.
So that's something.
The dog ran away.
"You don't mention me in the blog. You don't talk about how nice the dog is. You don't tell them about all of my pleasant qualities. Write about me in there!"
That's what Andie will say while brandishing the rolling pin, in her kerchief.
When she bakes bread it's terrifying.
That's a joke, she doesn't do any of that and we have a lovely time.
I checked on her while she was sleeping the other night (not necessary, but not a bad idea), and she sat bolt upright in bed going, "Are you festive!? Are you festive?!"
And I was all like, "What in the fuck are you talking about?"
"I had a dream that it was Christmastime and you told me that you weren't feeling festive."
Even in a dream, that would concern her. She's wonderful.
Anyway, the dog ran away.
Like most of us, when the weather is no longer retarded outside, Gabby is content to just sit and be outdoors while not being miserable.
I love this about the dog because, quite simply, she's up my ass all the time.
She's the most caring, gentle dog you could meet. I can plop her in front of a three-year old, and that kid'll be poking her in the eyeball and shouting in her ears and I don't have to worry at all because Gabby would never lash out.
She doesn't do that.
The reverse of that, however, is that she needs your affection, or my affection, or whoever's. Someone's affection. It doesn't matter who's petting her, so long as someone is doing that at all times.
The fish monger. Whoever. Anyone will do.
Luckily, I don't have a lot going on during the day, but it's nice to just have Gabby go be herself sometimes.
Not only is it a break for me (us), I think it's nice for the dog. Even dogs should want to be alone sometimes, no?
Anyway, I tied her up outside and I checked the knot.
Getting out of the shower I realized that the dog wasn't doing stuff and we were like, "Oh yeah, we tied her up."
The rope was there and the dog wasn't.
As quickly as that, the day turns into, "Oh shit, the dog's gone. That's bad."
I was totally cool at first because she's the only Basset Hound in town, everyone knows Dad, people see me walking her, it'll figure itself out.
However, we left her out there for an hour before noticing that she'd Houdini'd out of there.
How much of that hour had she spent off the farm?
How far can a dog designed for tracking stuff over long distances go in an hour?
That part was kinda worrying.
Andie was more concerned that the dog was dead in a ditch somewhere (also a possibility).
To deal with that, she kinda ran around the yard while sobbing, yelling "Gabby!" over and over again.
Andie and the dog are special friends. It was a scary thing.
In retrospect, I'm a little surprised at how together I was about it.
I'd much rather have the dog up my ass versus never seeing her again.
Anyway, my parents spotted her, lumbering in the middle of the street, directly in front of the yard she had left.
Perhaps that's another reason I was calm; how far would Gabby really be willing to go without us?
Wait, shit. That's the wrong dog.
Oh! I almost forgot:
A cold front is defined as the leading edge of a cooler mass of air, replacing (at ground level) a warmer mass of air, which lies within a fairly sharp surface trough of low pressure.
If you're on The Weather Network and you accidentally stumbled across this post while looking for the definition of a cold front, start putting out resumes.
I come to this damn "coffee shop" or whatever it is most days.
The Weather Network is always airing on the unnecessary (yeah, I said it) TVs that are bolted to the walls, and I have never seen the same weather girl in front of a map consecutively.
It's a new woman each and every time.
Maybe this is a tactic of the network guys. They have meetings and say stuff like, "...but how do we keep it fresh? We need to draw new sponsors, and our climate doesn't change because we're in the same country each week."
"Well, viewers have been responding to our sexy weather women; they like their hips. So, how about a new weather woman for each broadcast?"
"Yes! Saturday Night Live does that and they've been on the air for decades! Disposable weather women! It should attract the disposable razor people--get someone from sales to contact them right away!"
Some, but not all oceans are full of oil.
So that's something.
The dog ran away.
"You don't mention me in the blog. You don't talk about how nice the dog is. You don't tell them about all of my pleasant qualities. Write about me in there!"
That's what Andie will say while brandishing the rolling pin, in her kerchief.
When she bakes bread it's terrifying.
That's a joke, she doesn't do any of that and we have a lovely time.
I checked on her while she was sleeping the other night (not necessary, but not a bad idea), and she sat bolt upright in bed going, "Are you festive!? Are you festive?!"
And I was all like, "What in the fuck are you talking about?"
"I had a dream that it was Christmastime and you told me that you weren't feeling festive."
Even in a dream, that would concern her. She's wonderful.
Anyway, the dog ran away.
Like most of us, when the weather is no longer retarded outside, Gabby is content to just sit and be outdoors while not being miserable.
I love this about the dog because, quite simply, she's up my ass all the time.
She's the most caring, gentle dog you could meet. I can plop her in front of a three-year old, and that kid'll be poking her in the eyeball and shouting in her ears and I don't have to worry at all because Gabby would never lash out.
She doesn't do that.
The reverse of that, however, is that she needs your affection, or my affection, or whoever's. Someone's affection. It doesn't matter who's petting her, so long as someone is doing that at all times.
The fish monger. Whoever. Anyone will do.
Luckily, I don't have a lot going on during the day, but it's nice to just have Gabby go be herself sometimes.
Not only is it a break for me (us), I think it's nice for the dog. Even dogs should want to be alone sometimes, no?
Anyway, I tied her up outside and I checked the knot.
Getting out of the shower I realized that the dog wasn't doing stuff and we were like, "Oh yeah, we tied her up."
The rope was there and the dog wasn't.
As quickly as that, the day turns into, "Oh shit, the dog's gone. That's bad."
I was totally cool at first because she's the only Basset Hound in town, everyone knows Dad, people see me walking her, it'll figure itself out.
However, we left her out there for an hour before noticing that she'd Houdini'd out of there.
How much of that hour had she spent off the farm?
How far can a dog designed for tracking stuff over long distances go in an hour?
That part was kinda worrying.
Andie was more concerned that the dog was dead in a ditch somewhere (also a possibility).
To deal with that, she kinda ran around the yard while sobbing, yelling "Gabby!" over and over again.
Andie and the dog are special friends. It was a scary thing.
In retrospect, I'm a little surprised at how together I was about it.
I'd much rather have the dog up my ass versus never seeing her again.
Anyway, my parents spotted her, lumbering in the middle of the street, directly in front of the yard she had left.
Perhaps that's another reason I was calm; how far would Gabby really be willing to go without us?
A cold front is defined as the leading edge of a cooler mass of air, replacing (at ground level) a warmer mass of air, which lies within a fairly sharp surface trough of low pressure.
Saturday, May 16, 2015
Swing Life Away
I have sampled many lubricants.
All flavoured lubricants taste like flavoured lubricant, which does not taste like strawberries or pomegranates. Not that I've ever eaten a pomegranate.
Have any of us eaten one, really? Or have we just tasted it in smoothies and shampoos?
Isn't that the one with the seeds?
If I was a woman I'd be flat-chested and I wouldn't know how to pluck my eyebrows properly, I assume.
I don't know how to tweeze them now, so I guess it would be the same deal if I had a vagina.
Luckily, I'm a dude. Straight penis, poor circulation. Things could be worse.
They're not though, not right now. My across-the-island tour that I haven't really bothered to mention is drawing to a close this evening.
Tours are great if you enjoy being a vehicle's passenger and you tend to eat meals that come from vending machines.
Or, if it pleases you to tell jokes in front of 50 people in Clarenville on a Monday night.
It doesn't please me, really, but it was worth a try.
We ran out of gas once, saw a moose once, saw two caribou once (we yelled at them to come to our show).
The Grand Falls performance had a baby in it. Like, in the crowd there was a baby. I'd never experienced that before.
I ultimately kinda...kicked the baby out. I didn't mean to, but the mother was out in the lobby when Burton and I ventured to the balcony.
Called the baby a 'deadbeat'. It was great.
There's a poor audio recording of the exchange, perhaps I'll upload it when I become a better man.
It's warm, but it's chilly. Which is to say, it's sunny yet chilly.
However, it's May 2-4 weekend and spring has taken its time getting here, so we're gonna go ahead and pretend it's warm.
I'd be cold anyway--I believe I mentioned the poor circulation.
There I go again, over-thinking things.
I went to a wake in order to sign the guest book and score some coffee.
Actually, it was a family friend of ours who passed away. Mom's ol' college buddy. I'd be sure that they had a slew of tawdry university stories, but Mom was never one for tawdry (or stories).
We were all very close, though. They were our 'travellin' buddies' during our motor home days when we were still kids and we were legally required to enjoy one another's company.
They would travel with us every year, and I would sidle next to Pamela, the daughter, who was near my age and way more interested in swimming pools than myself.
I was more an arcade kinda guy at the time (as well as at this time), and even on a summer's day, I managed to find a dingy barn that was converted into a place that housed game cabinets.
Those were the days.
If there was no arcade (or no change), I guess I took a dip sometimes. I recall having a special towel, though I can't remember what was on it.
Is this trip down memory lane boring anyone else?
We were on the local news, once, during the weather. That was in New Brunswick, maybe. Pamela and I were on swings and the guy filmed us for a minute and said we'd be aired that night.
I'm still living off the royalties from that one.
Pam was at the wake, of course, because her mother had died. It was sad and bizarre, but wonderful to see her at the same time.
Yet I learned that you can't have a conversation at a wake. Not a Newfoundland wake, anyway.
When we'd try to catch up, some old person would approach her and interrupt by saying, "You don't know me, but..." and then they'd fill in the blank.
"I worked at the bank your mudder used to go to when she was first teaching."
"Your mudder and I used to play cards down at Daly's farm when we were youngsters."
It's beautiful that these people made a point of stopping by, but who gives a shit, y'know?
They were all lovely anecdotes that didn't go anywhere, but Pam and I shared actual experiences and I hadn't seen her in a decade. She lives in some country I can't point out on a map. Could you interrupt some other conversation? There are lots of people here...
But that's how it goes, I guess. Newfoundlanders have to make that connection with other Newfoundlanders, and that's just how they are.
It's unsettling to think that one day I might be at Pamela's wake, saying to her now-three-year old, "I knew your mudder when we were young. We were on a news broadcast together."
I actually can't sign a wake's guestbook because I can't help but write something retarded in guestbooks, wherever they are.
I didn't want to seem insensitive by writing, "Try the pie!" next to my name, or something like that.
All flavoured lubricants taste like flavoured lubricant, which does not taste like strawberries or pomegranates. Not that I've ever eaten a pomegranate.
Have any of us eaten one, really? Or have we just tasted it in smoothies and shampoos?
Isn't that the one with the seeds?
If I was a woman I'd be flat-chested and I wouldn't know how to pluck my eyebrows properly, I assume.
I don't know how to tweeze them now, so I guess it would be the same deal if I had a vagina.
Luckily, I'm a dude. Straight penis, poor circulation. Things could be worse.
They're not though, not right now. My across-the-island tour that I haven't really bothered to mention is drawing to a close this evening.
Tours are great if you enjoy being a vehicle's passenger and you tend to eat meals that come from vending machines.
Or, if it pleases you to tell jokes in front of 50 people in Clarenville on a Monday night.
It doesn't please me, really, but it was worth a try.
We ran out of gas once, saw a moose once, saw two caribou once (we yelled at them to come to our show).
The Grand Falls performance had a baby in it. Like, in the crowd there was a baby. I'd never experienced that before.
I ultimately kinda...kicked the baby out. I didn't mean to, but the mother was out in the lobby when Burton and I ventured to the balcony.
Called the baby a 'deadbeat'. It was great.
There's a poor audio recording of the exchange, perhaps I'll upload it when I become a better man.
It's warm, but it's chilly. Which is to say, it's sunny yet chilly.
However, it's May 2-4 weekend and spring has taken its time getting here, so we're gonna go ahead and pretend it's warm.
I'd be cold anyway--I believe I mentioned the poor circulation.
There I go again, over-thinking things.
I went to a wake in order to sign the guest book and score some coffee.
Actually, it was a family friend of ours who passed away. Mom's ol' college buddy. I'd be sure that they had a slew of tawdry university stories, but Mom was never one for tawdry (or stories).
We were all very close, though. They were our 'travellin' buddies' during our motor home days when we were still kids and we were legally required to enjoy one another's company.
They would travel with us every year, and I would sidle next to Pamela, the daughter, who was near my age and way more interested in swimming pools than myself.
I was more an arcade kinda guy at the time (as well as at this time), and even on a summer's day, I managed to find a dingy barn that was converted into a place that housed game cabinets.
Those were the days.
If there was no arcade (or no change), I guess I took a dip sometimes. I recall having a special towel, though I can't remember what was on it.
Is this trip down memory lane boring anyone else?
We were on the local news, once, during the weather. That was in New Brunswick, maybe. Pamela and I were on swings and the guy filmed us for a minute and said we'd be aired that night.
I'm still living off the royalties from that one.
Pam was at the wake, of course, because her mother had died. It was sad and bizarre, but wonderful to see her at the same time.
Yet I learned that you can't have a conversation at a wake. Not a Newfoundland wake, anyway.
When we'd try to catch up, some old person would approach her and interrupt by saying, "You don't know me, but..." and then they'd fill in the blank.
"I worked at the bank your mudder used to go to when she was first teaching."
"Your mudder and I used to play cards down at Daly's farm when we were youngsters."
It's beautiful that these people made a point of stopping by, but who gives a shit, y'know?
They were all lovely anecdotes that didn't go anywhere, but Pam and I shared actual experiences and I hadn't seen her in a decade. She lives in some country I can't point out on a map. Could you interrupt some other conversation? There are lots of people here...
But that's how it goes, I guess. Newfoundlanders have to make that connection with other Newfoundlanders, and that's just how they are.
It's unsettling to think that one day I might be at Pamela's wake, saying to her now-three-year old, "I knew your mudder when we were young. We were on a news broadcast together."
I actually can't sign a wake's guestbook because I can't help but write something retarded in guestbooks, wherever they are.
I didn't want to seem insensitive by writing, "Try the pie!" next to my name, or something like that.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
A Shot In The Arm
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Great to get a picture of your tattoo as soon as possible so it looks like a gross, bloody sunburn to everybody.
First of many, probably.
Oh! There's a horse going down the road!
There's a police officer riding him--it's not some animal that got over the fence or anything.
Anyway, what are we talking about?
Sarah's dead! Yes. Right you are.
I'm going to add other notes of hers that I have found, over time.
Her written word entices me more than everything else, and I'm always scanning her home, looking for stray greeting cards or grocery lists (they all just say 'avacado').
I was originally going to get an image of her face on me somewhere, like a dead dog, but they were gonna charge more to do her nose, so I changed my mind.
Man, these jokes were way more fun to make when she was around to read them.
Now there are just folks who will read them and think, "I don't know about that...you shouldn't laugh at a dead person's nose."
You should, though. As well as their feet and gait and whatever other physical faults they had.
Because we're still here, and we have the luxury of doing things like laughing and eating yogurt.
Why not enjoy both today?
*I have in fact added many notes to my bicep, just as I said I would.
There's a certain satisfaction to the process; the indelibility of it, maybe. Amidst the chaos and change that Sarah's death has brought about, I can have these million little punctures set aside where I please, and know that no matter what else happens, they'll be there. I sport them like a badge of honor and shave my upper arm every now and then, for the sake of presentation (I feel ridiculous when I do it).
The only tricky aspect of it is that people inevitably ask what they all mean, and I can only respond by telling them that my friend went and died, so now I'm one of those guys who gets tattoos about it. Then they inevitably feel compelled to gush on about how sorry they are and that sort of thing. It's all understandable, but there's no need to apologize. None of you invented cancer. Bill Gates caused it, didn't he? Didn't he develop it in a lab somewhere? I heard that once. Whether it's true or not, if I ever meet him I'm giving that guy a piece of my mind.
This feels like I'm shoehorning content a little bit, but I'm gonna mention Belling again. Near the beginning of her paper, she mentions this: "The medium that carries and communicates the burdens and lessons of past suffering is narrative. Suffering must be constituted within a story told be a narrator who can inhabit and convey the experience of the sufferer." I don't know why, but I feel as though this is the place where I should bring this up. I mean, these notes were all first-hand markings that we shared at one time--specifically, during our Education degree, when we were supposed to be paying attention in class. Again, it seems like I'm just reaching to bridge my blogging (my ink; my tats) with my assignment, but who knows? Maybe I stick them all to plain-sight-parts of the body on purpose. Maybe I'm trying to structure the tiniest hint of narrative onto myself. Maybe I want people to ask about the tattoos. Maybe I want to get right into people's faces about it. Maybe I feel as though I'm responsible for getting her name out there, and for getting her name in people's heads.
I've been trying to come up with a stock response for anyone who says, "I'm so sorry" after asking about the tattoos--stock responses were a sort of interest for Sarah and I. I'd like to come up with one that is genuine and funny that Sarah would have appreciated. Maybe something like, "Oh, your friend passed away? I'm so sorry!"
And then I can say, "Not as sorry as her insurance salesman!" or something like that.
The tricky thing is that even though I'm maybe more suited to be her narrator than anyone else, I can't "convey the experience of the sufferer." So far as I know, I don't have cancer.
Monday, May 4, 2015
The Princess Is In Another Dimension
The stupid royal baby was born.
Royal witchdoctors claim there are no mutations of any kind, so they've decided to name her.
They're going with Princess Glenda.
I always caution parents: Name your daughter Glenda and she might end up marrying a Barry.
Duke Barry of the Gas Station, maybe.
Lord Barry of the Moors.
Anyway, you all know my thoughts on the royal family.
If I might discuss we peons for a moment, I did a thing the other night.
Turpin's school held their first annual Talent For Turpin talent show.
This is designed to make children feel sad while bilking parents out of donation money.
It's a good thing.
They asked me to be - not a judge, exactly - but like, a talent-advice-coach-guy.
It was pretty neat for the most part.
A lot of kids from the play were involved, so that was cool.
The entire time I wrote stuff for Turpin in the margins of my program. The sort of notes (insults, mostly) we'd write to one another if we were watching something like this and she was alive.
It made the boring performances a little more fun.
Royal witchdoctors claim there are no mutations of any kind, so they've decided to name her.
They're going with Princess Glenda.
I always caution parents: Name your daughter Glenda and she might end up marrying a Barry.
Duke Barry of the Gas Station, maybe.
Lord Barry of the Moors.
Anyway, you all know my thoughts on the royal family.
If I might discuss we peons for a moment, I did a thing the other night.
Turpin's school held their first annual Talent For Turpin talent show.
This is designed to make children feel sad while bilking parents out of donation money.
It's a good thing.
They asked me to be - not a judge, exactly - but like, a talent-advice-coach-guy.
It was pretty neat for the most part.
A lot of kids from the play were involved, so that was cool.
The entire time I wrote stuff for Turpin in the margins of my program. The sort of notes (insults, mostly) we'd write to one another if we were watching something like this and she was alive.
It made the boring performances a little more fun.
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