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.