When the Bow/Bough Breaks

Watching your girlfriend sleep is far more touching than watching bums do it.

This song is at the top of my charts currently.
I love a tune that tells a story.
It is one of the few appeals of the music of filthy Steve Hoskins.
Of course, all of his music tells stories about how much better I am than him.
With due cause.
He's from Paradise.
The one in Newfoundland.
Not the one with all of the dead people in it.
Anyway.
I'm paying it forward:


Speaking of false hope, I was at a funeral today.
Y'know, bringing a baby to a funeral is somewhat rude.
Nevermind the screaming it does while the father is trying to 'say a few words.'
Funerals are our way of saying, 'Well...he's dead.'
How could someone have the gall to bring a baby to this occasion?
What's more alive than a baby?
A pregnant baby!

eDit: by '...than watching bums do it,' I mean 'watching bums sleep.'
Not 'watching bums watch my girlfriend sleep.'
Which my girlfriend wisely asked me about afterward.
Though I now sort of wish that I had meant the latter.
There's a third option neither of us considered.
In which 'do it' means 'have sex.'

For the Birds

I'm upstairs in the QEII library.
I'm writing on the back of a sheet containing their hours.
Which I removed from some wall or another.
It's called recycling, guys.
I'm in a leather chair.
Someone recently ate pistachios while sitting here.
When I lived in Banff I used to buy pistachio bars that cost approximately six dollars.
I am superb at wasting money.

Speaking of which, I just saw a pet shop deal on budgie birds.
$16.99.
I very much considered buying one for the sole purpose of setting it free in the parking lot.
But that's sort of extreme; I could buy, like, three pistachio bars for that amount.
I probably would have emancipated one already if there was someone around to take pictures of it.
If only we loved like the love birds love.
They spend all of their time sitting within inches of one another.
They eat together.
Defecate together.
And they couldn't live without one another.
If on of them goes legs-up in the newspaper, the other follows suit.
None of this 'in-it-for-the-life-insurance' shit.

So, here's one for our side:
Chris Turpin now reads the blog.
This is better than convincing all of The Osmonds to read it.
Chris sails boats.
He keeps a portable barbecue on hand in his shed.
Did I tell you about the time he picked Turpin and I up from the Education Building?
And he had those three bushes in the car with him?
I probably did.
I didn't even ask him what they were for.
I just said, "There was a sale on, was there Chris?"
And then he went on to describe the deal he got on them.
Leaves all over the car everywhere.


QEII LIBRARY
EXTENDED HOURS
SPRING/SUMMER 2010

Saturday August7, 2010 8:00am - 4:45pm
Saturday August 14, 2010 8:00am - 4:45pm

** The QEII Library will reopen Monday August 16, 2010 at 8:00am.

Domo Arigato

Since Peter's showing me this video a couple of weeks ago, I watch it whenever I feel like I need cheering up.

And you all look pretty miserable, so...

A Oh-Canine

After raking up bits of rotted clapboard and ancient nails, Dad suggested we take a break.
While eying our cleanup job, he insisted that I smelled a rose in the garden.
Because it had "some smell on it."
It reminded me of why I love my father;
He reminds me of me.

It's hard to afford true happiness these days.
Some of you may ask, "Well, Paul, what is true happiness, exactly?"
Is it witnessing two women making out in a hot tub?
Potentially.
But I believe that it is also enjoying life at its most basic level.
I can think of only one truly concrete example of this:
Dogs sticking their head out of a car window.
Below is exhibit A.
Which I found among Valerie Kent's Facefuck photos.
I can't even recall the last time that I spoke to Valerie Kent.
But I know this!
I was likely charming when I did so.
Anyway.
Here's hoping we can all find satisfaction as these guys have.

New Turritory

For some time I have been intent on getting Avril's father some Turr.
It's a bird.
Apparently they're entirely black, once plucked.
And they taste like something that my grandfather would have enjoyed eating.
Bad.
They taste bad.
But of the land.
Anyway, Avril's father mentioned that he used to enjoy Turr at a younger time.
So I cataloged this in my brain.
Caused me to forget to pay my VISA bill for that month in the process, but whatever.
I filed this away because I knew that my father would be able to procure for me this bird.
Unlike Avril's dad, mine primarily associates with savages.
Dad has said for some time that he had a bead on some.
Some nights ago, Dr. Lear dropped by for a visit.
Despite being a doctor, and a real go-getter at that, Dr. Lear enjoys shooting things a great deal.
Woodsy.
He's woodsy.
"Here are your Turr!" Then he handed me this bag, which I laid in the freezer.
But on the way to the freezer, I thought to myself in my head:
"I'm not going to look in the bag right now...
...But these feel like two frozen bird carcasses.
That's what these feel like."
Y'know what I had pictured.
Some mysterious black meat in a somewhat opaque, tightly sealed mason jar.
That would have been fine.
You can give that to someone as a gift.
You can't give someone two frozen, deceased animals.
That's no good.
I mentioned all of this to dad today
(After he showed me how to use a whipper snipper!).
He chuckled and said, "Yeah, these birds were what you might call, 'gathered in the rough.'"
How apt.
I considered this, and then said, "Well, they're better to him like this than they were flying around..."
I'll keep you posted on this one.
I have a good feeling about it.

No Stain, No Rain

I didn't take a single picture, you know.
The whole time I went on this pilgrimage of mine.
Not that I'm sure I'd have anything to photograph, really.
A slew of comics performing better than me.
The most photogenic moment I experienced was outside of the St. Catherine Starbucks.
I was waiting for Jane (Stanton. Redheaded. Boisterous) and Lars (Callieou. Brunette. Road rager) to buy whatever.
And I look up just in time to see this massive papier mache head roll by.
On a forklift.
I eventually managed to find the heads on Facefuck.
But they haven't responded to my friend request yet.
I spent a lot of time on that street.
Looking for women wearing white dresses, primarily.
Or, at the very least, a light yellow.
There were suckers dressed in full nylon outfits.
Handing out pamphlets for Zoo Fest (No animals. I checked).
Head to toe.
Imagine a nylon "onesie."
Garishly coloured and dotted with unflattering sweat stains.
Now attach a hood to that.
With no orifice holes whatsoever.
I got close to one of them and they had all sorts of spittle stains around their mouth.
It was nearly 30 degrees most of the time I was there.
What a job.
I'd rather pump gas.

Casting A Spell

I'd love to tell you about all of the shmoozing I have been doing, and how shitty I am at it.
But I no longer feel as though I need to speak to you.
Seriously, though.
I'm in a 'business center' that isn't air conditioned, and I'm miserable because of it.
Soon enough I'll go back to being a gangly person without a day job.
I'll have plenty of time on my hands to yammer at you then.
While we wait for that, please check out my podcast on the Todd Van Allen, or TVA show.
This happened last Thursday, I think.
It was on the second floor of a building.
I'm certain of that much.
You can find the podcast (his 200th!) here.

"How Much Time Am I Doing?"

How's it going?
It's great to be here!
I just flew in last night
All the snacks cost too much
Wrote jokes about the flight

My room's AC was on the fritz
My eggs fried on their own
They 'fixed it'--now it won't shut off
I haven't thought of home

I go out to help get warm
Come in to help cool down
I've paced the lobby twenty times
There's no one else around

I wake late morning, nap at four
Dinner's at one a.m.
The other comics have bigger rooms
At least I'm making friends

Did a podcast, played some rooms
Put beer on someone's tab
Flew out twice at the cock's crow
Paid too much for a cab

My iPod is my new best friend
My TV's my new dad
Super Sexe has my new gals
Perhaps I'll do their ads.

I don't know what I'm doing here
Or how I got this pass
All the others know so much
They must think I'm an ass

I just spit it when I'm on the mic
And pray there's some applause
Hope the dudes will clap their hands
As girlfriends throw their bras

All the pros are so damned smooth
Seven hundred's no big deal
Maybe one day I'll be them
How fucked would that feel?

I'll try to shmooze with Jimmy Carr
The boys from SNL
If I don't throw up in their drink
I'll say that 'it went well'

The scariest are 'the industry'
Who know the whys and whos
Make me the next gillionaire
In 'The Hangover 2'

I try to take it all in stride
And wear my stupid shirts
If they happen to not dig my ways
They'll get their just desserts

Go over new lines. Eat something light
Then get in the shower
I have another show to do
My car comes in an hour

It's All Over but the Riots

The World Cup is over.

I know.

I watched the whole thing bleed out and die personally.

In a restaurant in Montreal.

I watched the entire match with other comics who didn't have the sense to not watch it.

115 hours of tepid action, punctuated with one goal.

It was fabulously adequate.

Now there are people honking car horns and brandishing flags without the usual nationalistic caution.

It's sickening.

I wouldn't find the display so aggravating if it wasn't for the motorcade of units behind the whole thing.

Banging on their car doors.

Shouting things with their shirts off.

What a crock of shit.
You don't need a soccer game to take pride in your country and get piss-wasted hammered.

That's what the olympics are for.

A Wing and a Scare

Written on Westjet flight 400-and-something
July 7; 7:05 a.m..

I'm in a plane right now.
It's flying without my help.
It's hard to concentrate because I'm on the wing.
I'm always on the wing.
This gives me something to whine about because:
A) it's the loudest seat to sit in.
B) if the engine suddenly falls off, it's my responsibility to stand up and yell:
"The engine just fell off of the plane!"
Which makes me look like the bad guy.
I watched Toy Story 3. It was good.
But it was in 3D, so when it was over I had to go back to perceiving things the way I usually perceive them.
Bland.
I hate the guy sitting next to me.
And he didn't even do anything.
Except sit next to me.
I guess that's enough.
Sitting on a plane is like sitting on other vessels; you desperately don't want anyone sitting next to you.
Unless it's one of those Hawaiian Tropic girls.
Babes.
They prefer to be called babes.
There are so many people sleeping right now.
I should do my "the engine just fell off the plane!" line now.
For practice.

Two for the Show

I'm in Toronto.
But with the Humidex I'm in Toronto and contrary.
It's still early in the morning here.
But not as early as it was when Avril and I first got up to go to the airport.
She sang Leaving on a Jet Plane while I went through security.
I was mortified.
Anyway, I'm at Brian's and I want to nap.
So why am I even talking to you, really?

I do and will have more to tell you, though.
I wrote you all a post while I was on the plane.
Shorthand!
I performed shorthand for you vultures!
But I'll transcribe that later.

Oh!
There was a Just For Laughs guy at the airport waiting for me.
With a sign.
He introduced himself and then said, "Do you have your luggage?"
I responded, "No. Should I?"
He pointed behind me and said, "Should be through there."
The door I'd just walked through had red stickers all over it.
Telling us not to go in there.
"Are we going to be able to get in there?" This is me again.
"Oh yeah, that's fine."
Then he pried the door apart with his hands.
A Yuk Yuk's guy would've told me that I'd have to buy all new luggage.
Anyway, I had to tell him that I didn't know he'd be there.
And that I didn't need a ride.
He had to call Wayne and tell Wayne.
I believe he woke Wayne in the process.
So I'm already making friends.
Alright. That's it.
What do you want me to bring you back?
Little CN Towers?
A flesh wound?