Wash the road salt from your favourite négligée.
It's Friday.
My buddy Dom Pare (pah-ray) just left town.
Raised in the city and on the farm, Dom is one of those guys who's ready to go back to Toronto.
"Yeah, this place is pretty good, but in Toronto this spot wouldn't be as shitty."
Much like my jaunty movements, his demeanor is alright once you get used to it.
The America of Canada, everyone hates Toronto.
No one truly knows why.
People hate it the same way straight men hate a gay bar.
No, they haven't been there, but they know that they wouldn't like it.
It's not that bad, y'know.
Some people yell at you when you walk past them, but if you hand them change it seems to calm them down.
Dom and I performed in The Homegrown together.
We both lost equally.
Really, he did a better job of losing.
We once ran into a guy outside of the Halifax Yuk's who had been living on a submarine.
For 7 years.
I was glad that he mentioned it because as soon as he did I was able to think to myself:
"Oh, that's what it is."
He looked like a guy who had spent seven years in a submarine, now that he mentioned it.
Wild-eyed.
Anxious.
Frightened of lights and automobiles.
The dude looked thoroughly, thoroughly unbalanced.
I was trying my best not to be frightened, so I only caught snippets of what he was saying.
These referred to making women do things because there was no escaping him in a submarine.
Not like...sex things (though I couldn't say for sure - I wasn't down there).
Lifting heavy stuff and this sort of tripe.
I don't know what he said, but his face was really red when he spoke.
And his voice had this strange, strained quality, sort of like he'd just left his first anger management class and he was angry about it.
I'm not exaggerating at all.
Like, if he was at The Gap and someone said, "Do you need help with anything?" you could easily picture him wheeling about to strangle the person with their headset cord.
Eventually we managed to disengage him.
More than I could say for his co-workers.
Imagine what that must be like.
Many of you probably already have colleagues who infuriate your psyche.
Now imagine spending several months with those same people on a submarine.
It's like being trapped in an elevator, but there's a washroom and a cafeteria.
The novelty of being in the vessel probably wears off after about three days.
"Wanna use the periscope again?"
"Nah, fuck that. All I've seen so far is plankton. I guess we'll play crib again."
And again.
And again...
Withstanding elements you have no business finding yourself in, cocooned in a mobile trailer with a couple of propellers strapped to it.
Wandering an otherwise unpopulated universe ("Where the fuck are the whales at?! You said there'd be whales!"), searching for an enemy who was due about fifty years ago.
All the while hoping that you don't collide with a seahorse that will rupture your hull, ultimately crushing you to pulp before you have the chance to drown.
Sounds awful, doesn't it?
Now, imagine that environment while sharing it with a guy you wouldn't want to speak to for three minutes in a parking lot.
It's Ben Folds twice this week, but I have to include him in this post.
The song is kickass, sure, but I'm only putting it in here because he has a line that goes:
"When you're all workin' in a submariiiiiiiiine."
Friday, January 25, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Chairman of the Board
John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?
Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.
What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!
Everyone is laughing, tossing their heads back devil-may-care.
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.
Yeah, I know 'em.
In fact, that's my name too.
And whenever I go out, people always shout:
"There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt."
"Na na na na na na na," I say.
"You're thinking of the other guy."
Here's something that the song doesn't mention about ol' John:
Mean drunk.
What's yer game?
I'm not referring to the lies you choose to tell women so as to have sex with them.
I mean your board game.
Those Mormons who have had me over for dinner know that I enjoy Scattegories.
Though, if we're splitting irons and thimbles, Scattegories doesn't involve a board.
I used to play Mouse Trap. Remember that one?
I'd construct the whole mouse trap only to set it off and put the game away again.
Because I had no friends.
Speaking of which, I used to play board games by myself.
Monopoly. I'm not sure what else.
Chess, when I got older.
Our school went through a chess phase in junior high.
Everyone set up boards and played during recess.
This lasted until the adolescent hockey players realized this behaviour wouldn't get them handjobs any sooner, certainly.
Sort of fizzled out after that, leaving only the kids who looked like they should be playing chess playing chess.
Just reread that last sentence. Should make sense this time.
Summers spent on wheels resulted in a lot of board games.
Clue was always a favourite of mine (God knows I'm a sucker for role play ["Oh. What a drag. Miss Scarlett again."]).
Clue's fatal flaw, however, was that its whodunit format necessitated 3 players.
And, as I believe I have mentioned, I used to struggle to find a 2.
Hopelessly romantic and sentimental both, I always wanted to play a game with the whole family.
Just once.
Like the family on the box!
That could be us, right?
Wrong.
If we ever sat to play a board game together, the photo would look like this:
Mom would be rolling the dice with one hand while mashing potatoes with the other.
Dad would be checking his watch (though, in reality, this is something he would never do).
Colin would be complaining that he's bored.
Brian would be stealing fake money from the box.
And Paul?
Well, I'd look the part, actually.
Just like these freaks.
I'd look exactly like the wiener kid in the green polo shirt.
Hand poised, unmoving.
Back then I couldn't understand any of this.
Instead, I'd wonder, "Why can't we sit down together for a nice game of Life?"
It took me so many years to understand the inevitable truth:
No families look like that when they're playing board games together.
No families play board games together (again, Mormons. Mormons are the exception).
That isn't life.
Charlie horses from Brian.
That's life.
Never being able to nap on mom and dad's (motor home) bed because Colin was always asleep on it.
That's life.
Mom and Dad arguing about which exit to take.
That's life.
I couldn't understand that I was in the game already.
Mom and Dad were the blue and pink pegs in the front seat.
The three of us the burdensome blue pegs in the back seat.
It took me years to learn that the game box photo was taken by Santa Clause.
It took me even longer to learn that Life was fun, but life was better.
Friday, January 18, 2013
"The Best Imitation of Myself"
Get loaded, drop your pizza on the ground and then yell at your pizza.
It's Friday.
I've never been one for impersonations.
Much too self-absorbed, I never imitated classic cartoon characters when I was a kid.
I never attempted to hoarse myself like Krusty, or wallow like Milhouse.
Instead, even at a tender age, I had the sense to simply steal George Meyer's jokes.
Most comics have one impersonation under their belts, while others will array a dazzling plethora of them.
In my defense, however, and I've never spoken about this before, I actually do impressions flawlessly.
See, like most hidden talents, mine stems from a rare brain condition.
Following a snowshovelling mishap, a brain injury causes my ears to interpret everyone's voice as my own.
My mother. My former teachers. The mailman.
Dogs bark and it sounds like me barking.
Therefore, whenever I impersonate someone, I do not alter my tone or cadence whatsoever.
Resulting in perfect-pitch impressions every time.
Of course, no one else realizes how talented I am.
None of you had a snowshovelling incident.
Neither did I, really.
That never happened.
For one thing, to experience a snowshovelling mishap, I'd first have to shovel snow.
I just wanted to include this fabrication for Ben's sake.
It's Friday.
I've never been one for impersonations.
Much too self-absorbed, I never imitated classic cartoon characters when I was a kid.
I never attempted to hoarse myself like Krusty, or wallow like Milhouse.
Instead, even at a tender age, I had the sense to simply steal George Meyer's jokes.
Most comics have one impersonation under their belts, while others will array a dazzling plethora of them.
In my defense, however, and I've never spoken about this before, I actually do impressions flawlessly.
See, like most hidden talents, mine stems from a rare brain condition.
Following a snowshovelling mishap, a brain injury causes my ears to interpret everyone's voice as my own.
My mother. My former teachers. The mailman.
Dogs bark and it sounds like me barking.
Therefore, whenever I impersonate someone, I do not alter my tone or cadence whatsoever.
Resulting in perfect-pitch impressions every time.
Of course, no one else realizes how talented I am.
None of you had a snowshovelling incident.
Neither did I, really.
That never happened.
For one thing, to experience a snowshovelling mishap, I'd first have to shovel snow.
I just wanted to include this fabrication for Ben's sake.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Pauls I Know
I walked my lady's dog into a snow globe the other night.
MaxiPad flakes teeter-tottered onto us while I waited for the dog to do dog things-
Well, mammal things.
There arose such a clatter, and I noticed across the street a man sifting through garbage, looking for empty aluminum nickles.
I watched them as he continued unaware of me.
Flakes of snow dusted his jacket. Shoulders. Home, presumably.
I saw this amidst the tranquility and thought to myself:
"Fuck, that's right. I have to get a job."
I had one and then I lost one.
Barring my usual misemployments, this layoff was legitimate in that I was seasonal and the season ended.
I assumed that my charm would carry my through after the fact, but that didn't happen.
I used to believe that my charm would take care of a lot of things for me.
Explains my current state, I guess.
(My state is fine [solid. carbon-based]).
I used to have a job, as I have mentioned.
One day while half-assing it, I wandered into ladies' wear.
Y'know, in the two months I was there, I barely entered ladies' wear.
Never one for the ladies, I only wandered there when necessary.
On a related note, it's really uncomfortable to transact underwear for old women.
Scrubs are in ladies' wear.
A lot of nurses.
A lot of people being vomited on while they're at their job.
As I'm hanging stuff up in the wrong places, I notice this guy emerge from the change room.
He's trying some scrubs on - pants and a top - and while wearing them he begins...lunging.
Sort of.
He does a slow, deliberate forward motion with his hands and torso.
Picture Tai Chi done incorrectly.
Very low to the carpet, he does this several times.
Foul as usual, I find this really annoying.
"Who's this asshole?" I ask myself.
I do this before asking a co-worker the same question.
"Hey Lydia (not her real name), what's with this guy?"
Turns out it's her roommate, Paul.
He's buying scrubs for work and he's testing whether or not the top is too small.
He's a masseuse.
After that, I realize that his pantomimes were kinda harmless and justified.
I also realize that the real asshole isn't Paul the Masseuse, but Paul the Sales Associate.
Everything rhymes with Paul.
From 'ball' to 'y'all', and a surprising number of grunts and sounds besides.
First a disciple. Then a Beetle. Finally a judgy blogger.
I've never referred to myself by that term before.
I'm only doing so now because I'm trying to attract advertisers.
I was searching some person or another on the Internet the other day (there are plenty of them).
Pretend it was Billy Joel.
So, I typed in the 'Billy' and then the 'J'.
Then, of course, Google predicted I was looking for the Pianoman, and brought his name to the top of the list.
And I thought about what a technological honour this would be.
Your popularity is so great that the first letter of your surname begets the rest of it.
Thought I'd give it a try.
I was floored to see that Paul Warford was the first to pop up.
I realized that it was because I was using my phone, and so that was the most popular Paul on my phone.
As if that matters.
On another computer, I did the trick and the first Paul W was this guy.
Some vampire movie asshole.
Some upstart.
However, there are few names in the running for this competition.
All I have to do is bide my time.
Wait until Paul Walker runs out of Fast Car Movies to do.
Hope this Wesley kid ODs sooner than later.
Then it's just a matter of people continuing to not know who Paul Williams is, and I'm in!
Until then, I'll be several letters, and one career, short.
MaxiPad flakes teeter-tottered onto us while I waited for the dog to do dog things-
Well, mammal things.
There arose such a clatter, and I noticed across the street a man sifting through garbage, looking for empty aluminum nickles.
I watched them as he continued unaware of me.
Flakes of snow dusted his jacket. Shoulders. Home, presumably.
I saw this amidst the tranquility and thought to myself:
"Fuck, that's right. I have to get a job."
I had one and then I lost one.
Barring my usual misemployments, this layoff was legitimate in that I was seasonal and the season ended.
I assumed that my charm would carry my through after the fact, but that didn't happen.
I used to believe that my charm would take care of a lot of things for me.
Explains my current state, I guess.
(My state is fine [solid. carbon-based]).
I used to have a job, as I have mentioned.
One day while half-assing it, I wandered into ladies' wear.
Y'know, in the two months I was there, I barely entered ladies' wear.
Never one for the ladies, I only wandered there when necessary.
On a related note, it's really uncomfortable to transact underwear for old women.
Scrubs are in ladies' wear.
A lot of nurses.
A lot of people being vomited on while they're at their job.
As I'm hanging stuff up in the wrong places, I notice this guy emerge from the change room.
He's trying some scrubs on - pants and a top - and while wearing them he begins...lunging.
Sort of.
He does a slow, deliberate forward motion with his hands and torso.
Picture Tai Chi done incorrectly.
Very low to the carpet, he does this several times.
Foul as usual, I find this really annoying.
"Who's this asshole?" I ask myself.
I do this before asking a co-worker the same question.
"Hey Lydia (not her real name), what's with this guy?"
Turns out it's her roommate, Paul.
He's buying scrubs for work and he's testing whether or not the top is too small.
He's a masseuse.
After that, I realize that his pantomimes were kinda harmless and justified.
I also realize that the real asshole isn't Paul the Masseuse, but Paul the Sales Associate.
Everything rhymes with Paul.
From 'ball' to 'y'all', and a surprising number of grunts and sounds besides.
First a disciple. Then a Beetle. Finally a judgy blogger.
I've never referred to myself by that term before.
I'm only doing so now because I'm trying to attract advertisers.
I was searching some person or another on the Internet the other day (there are plenty of them).
Pretend it was Billy Joel.
So, I typed in the 'Billy' and then the 'J'.
Then, of course, Google predicted I was looking for the Pianoman, and brought his name to the top of the list.
And I thought about what a technological honour this would be.
Your popularity is so great that the first letter of your surname begets the rest of it.
Thought I'd give it a try.
I was floored to see that Paul Warford was the first to pop up.
I realized that it was because I was using my phone, and so that was the most popular Paul on my phone.
As if that matters.
On another computer, I did the trick and the first Paul W was this guy.
Some vampire movie asshole.
Some upstart.
However, there are few names in the running for this competition.
All I have to do is bide my time.
Wait until Paul Walker runs out of Fast Car Movies to do.
Hope this Wesley kid ODs sooner than later.
Then it's just a matter of people continuing to not know who Paul Williams is, and I'm in!
Until then, I'll be several letters, and one career, short.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Rise Up
I'm cold and contrary right now.
I'm in the restaurant that INVENTED PIZZA, and some yokels are installing new lotto machines.
First, they had to disconnect the gamblers from the machines, then the machines from the wall.
They have left the door open for over half an hour, either to remove them easily, or to get on my fucking nerves.
Whichever it is, they've succeeded in both.
What's your elevator brand?
I'm an Otis man, myself.
I know that some of you diehards will say that ThyssenKrupp is the only way to go.
Misguided!
Isn't it weird that soon we'll have little to no need for grocery clerks, bank tellers, and librarians, but we still need the guy who fixes the escalator?
Ever walk on an escalator that wasn't operating?
Mitch Hedberg once famously said (paraphrased), "Escalators can never become broken; they can only become stairs."
However, broken escalators are more a sort of optical illusion than anything else.
Having grown up in the middle classes that we did, we expect them to move.
"Circulate, steps! I command this!"
That's what your brain is saying while you try to ascend the descend.
"You dare refuse me, glorified conveyor belt?!
Very well, then. I'll continue to walk on you as though you are moving, and come very near to falling."
A broken escalator is an Escher sketch.
A fellow childhood chum had a father who repaired the elevators.
As much a crisis negotiator as anything else, when you think about it.
That is, when you're the sardine in the tin when it decides to stop doing its up and down.
You're claustrophobic. Your ice cream is melting. Your water is about to break.
You have to get out of this death trap.
When you pick up the emergency phone, who is it that picks it up at the other end?
That's right, some switchboard person.
But! Who comes to jimmy you out of there?
Exactly.
When I dwell on the occupation, it makes me sad, somehow.
I suppose I envision a guy in a tool belt, sitting by the phone, waiting for people to plummet to their deaths.
However, this is a society of luxury suites and Super 8s.
Elevator guys are likely kept busy and unionized.
It just seems like a forgotten job.
Even while fixing a lift in front of a group of people.
Even after lowering the rope into the well, where your twitching grasp awaits.
Despite this, I get the impression that it doesn't really occur to people that there are elevator repairmen.
And that's sad.
Ditto for the lotto machine guys.
Even when they joke loudly near your table in both English and French.
Even when they distract you from writing a post about something as mundane as elevator repairmen.
Even then. I don't really realize these guys do this every day.
I'm in the restaurant that INVENTED PIZZA, and some yokels are installing new lotto machines.
First, they had to disconnect the gamblers from the machines, then the machines from the wall.
They have left the door open for over half an hour, either to remove them easily, or to get on my fucking nerves.
Whichever it is, they've succeeded in both.
What's your elevator brand?
I'm an Otis man, myself.
I know that some of you diehards will say that ThyssenKrupp is the only way to go.
Misguided!
Isn't it weird that soon we'll have little to no need for grocery clerks, bank tellers, and librarians, but we still need the guy who fixes the escalator?
Ever walk on an escalator that wasn't operating?
Mitch Hedberg once famously said (paraphrased), "Escalators can never become broken; they can only become stairs."
However, broken escalators are more a sort of optical illusion than anything else.
Having grown up in the middle classes that we did, we expect them to move.
"Circulate, steps! I command this!"
That's what your brain is saying while you try to ascend the descend.
"You dare refuse me, glorified conveyor belt?!
Very well, then. I'll continue to walk on you as though you are moving, and come very near to falling."
A broken escalator is an Escher sketch.
A fellow childhood chum had a father who repaired the elevators.
As much a crisis negotiator as anything else, when you think about it.
That is, when you're the sardine in the tin when it decides to stop doing its up and down.
You're claustrophobic. Your ice cream is melting. Your water is about to break.
You have to get out of this death trap.
When you pick up the emergency phone, who is it that picks it up at the other end?
That's right, some switchboard person.
But! Who comes to jimmy you out of there?
Exactly.
When I dwell on the occupation, it makes me sad, somehow.
I suppose I envision a guy in a tool belt, sitting by the phone, waiting for people to plummet to their deaths.
However, this is a society of luxury suites and Super 8s.
Elevator guys are likely kept busy and unionized.
It just seems like a forgotten job.
Even while fixing a lift in front of a group of people.
Even after lowering the rope into the well, where your twitching grasp awaits.
Despite this, I get the impression that it doesn't really occur to people that there are elevator repairmen.
And that's sad.
Ditto for the lotto machine guys.
Even when they joke loudly near your table in both English and French.
Even when they distract you from writing a post about something as mundane as elevator repairmen.
Even then. I don't really realize these guys do this every day.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Starvation for the Senses: A Review
Well, the egg nog has curdled, the cat has digested and passed the tinsel, and your boss is still alive.
The holidays are legitimately over with.
Though most of us would prefer to get hooked on codeine and wait it out 'til Easter, we should resist that urge.
None of us want to be like Lil' Wayne.
For those of you who are literate, you've likely seen the awards.
End of the year, you want a spread's worth of additional advertising in your publication.
In order to buy more Macs and fax/printer/copiers that you'll never use.
So, you put out a Best Of edition for your paper.
Best Tire Rotation.
Best Homeless Male/Female.
All of that.
Below I have included a suggested article for one such 'best'.
A Halifax-based venue, I encourage The Coast or those Metro people to pick up this article and not pay me for it.
Ahem:
Best Worst Place in the Entire City To Go and Sit:
Winner: BUBBA RAY'S
Honourable Nod: (though I've never been there) THE TOOTHY MOOSE
Bubba Ray's: A Stumbling Hall of Mirrors
If you're sick of trying to seem pretentious in that place that sells cake, why not slum it, off the sidewalk, in Halifax's premiere testosterone trough, Bubba Ray's. Located in the Heart of Spring Garden's Area of Bums and People Who Yell At You, Bubba Ray's provides a chaotic, deafening atmosphere for anyone who wishes to be ostracised by a large group of men who possess one shared, common consciousness. Strain to hear dinner conversation over this dull-witted herd of erections as they dwell in their natural habitat, just inches from your table! Hear impassioned whoops and hollers from dozens and dozens of men, in unison, whenever your favourite team scores a touchdown or secures an end. Look on in unfettered bafflement as patrons high-five at their tables and bark (actually bark) at the panopticon of LCD displays that haunt your every turn and lurk in every corner. Mesmerize yourself on Bubba's sports display, which boasts some four-times-ten televisions. During the most grisly UFC rackets, resist in futility to watch them unfold in remarkable gore as you find yourself transfixed on the action, regardless of the direction you face. Receive excellent service (provided you have a square head and jaw) from terrified bar wenches, each boasting a fantastic ass, sported in mandatory yoga exercise pants. Flirt in vain with the self-entitled staff as they provide a façade of job satisfaction while unabashedly handing you 9-dollar onion rings. Pay cover to watch televised events that you legally cannot be charged for, so that you can enjoy Don Cherry's quality food at slightly more exorbitant prices. This cacophonic din of an eating experience is nestled (not unlike a tick) into the centre of Halifax, and it is no wonder that this establishment enjoys continued success from a niche market of individuals who are clinically obsolete so far as the human race is concerned. Bubba Ray's: as viable a waste of money as a tattoo of your mother's asshole on your forearm. Don't miss it!
Absolutely disgusting.
Bubba Ray's was actually a disgusting event in my life.
Toeing the line with Kyle, Peter White (of Peter White comedy), Bryant Thomson, and the rest, I spent an agonizing hour and some in this place last week.
Five dollars on the door. Some UFC bullshit.
The guy on the door, with his almond-shaped head, was trying to act like he belonged on the door.
Arms extended from his sides, chest in my face, Jim the Anvil Neidhart facial hair, I could actually see the fear in this guy's eyes.
Not of me.
He was just repeating, "I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's. I'm not tough enough. I'm not getting enough protein. I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's..." in his head so loudly that I could plainly hear it with my ears.
Some skipper behind me was finishing up his cigarette and tried to walk back in.
This is what almond seed does:
Hand out, he stops him, "Ah, you have to get behind this guy (me). That's how lines work."
I wanted to say, "This isn't how a line works.
Generally, lines don't have an asshole berating you at the end of it."
But I didn't say that. Not that I was fearful of his reaction; he was more gutless than myself.
I just never say what I want to. That's my own folly.
I wheel about to see if Kyle is nearby (for protection), and notice a small TV above the exit.
Thinking, "That's weird," I turn to see the rest of them.
There were over 30 screens in there. I refuse to believe there were less than that.
This is how they were laid out.
Giant screen flanked by four small screens.
So:
This layout was repeated around the bar's perimeter at least...five times? Seven?
Sports bars are supposed to have a lot of screens, but let's stay within reason.
We're watching a fucking football game, we're not managing the security of a casino.
God knows how this is possible, but the UFC has let itself go.
I watched some fuck bleed out his head for a full 15 minutes.
Like, open wounds on his skull, blood pouring from them.
Actually pouring.
The referees wouldn't stop the fight, and so I had to watch this shit for the entire match.
I tried to look away, but I couldn't because there were fucking screens everywhere.
It was repulsive. The fight was repulsive - and I've had to sit through UFC fights before.
Bear in mind that this is coming from someone who has been playing Mortal Kombat since its inception.
They showed interview footage of one of the UFC mules before his fight.
He was on so many screens all around me that I thought, "This is what it would be like if this guy created a doomsday device and took over the world."
I went to the bathroom.
I hated that, too.
Burger (Thomson) was inside when I got there...peeing.
And he commented later to the other guys on how "Warford just stood in the bathroom and didn't do anything."
This is because...well, I didn't want to stand next to the guy at the urinal.
Only once have I not used a urinal before. Following Nine Inch Nails at the Saddledome.
This was different.
I think I just wasn't in a rush.
Besides, while I was in there - this is true - Almond busted into the pisser, slapped open the stall door, saw no one was being stabbed or raped, and left again.
Some guy was in the stall at the time.
He turned (while urinating) with a muted, "What the fuck?"
Almond did this very purposefully, as though he had been doing it every half hour or so that night.
I just felt compelled to have as much privacy as possible while I was in there.
I'll never set foot in this place again (the bar itself, not just the bathroom).
If I was being inducted by ZZ Top into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame at Bubba Ray's, I'd tell them to mail the prize.
Guess I should have known better; the place has 'Bubba' in the title.
For follow-up on the Miller/Lauzon match.
Up for Fight of the Year (what do I know?).
The holidays are legitimately over with.
Though most of us would prefer to get hooked on codeine and wait it out 'til Easter, we should resist that urge.
None of us want to be like Lil' Wayne.
For those of you who are literate, you've likely seen the awards.
End of the year, you want a spread's worth of additional advertising in your publication.
In order to buy more Macs and fax/printer/copiers that you'll never use.
So, you put out a Best Of edition for your paper.
Best Tire Rotation.
Best Homeless Male/Female.
All of that.
Below I have included a suggested article for one such 'best'.
A Halifax-based venue, I encourage The Coast or those Metro people to pick up this article and not pay me for it.
Ahem:
Best Worst Place in the Entire City To Go and Sit:
Winner: BUBBA RAY'S
Honourable Nod: (though I've never been there) THE TOOTHY MOOSE
Bubba Ray's: A Stumbling Hall of Mirrors
If you're sick of trying to seem pretentious in that place that sells cake, why not slum it, off the sidewalk, in Halifax's premiere testosterone trough, Bubba Ray's. Located in the Heart of Spring Garden's Area of Bums and People Who Yell At You, Bubba Ray's provides a chaotic, deafening atmosphere for anyone who wishes to be ostracised by a large group of men who possess one shared, common consciousness. Strain to hear dinner conversation over this dull-witted herd of erections as they dwell in their natural habitat, just inches from your table! Hear impassioned whoops and hollers from dozens and dozens of men, in unison, whenever your favourite team scores a touchdown or secures an end. Look on in unfettered bafflement as patrons high-five at their tables and bark (actually bark) at the panopticon of LCD displays that haunt your every turn and lurk in every corner. Mesmerize yourself on Bubba's sports display, which boasts some four-times-ten televisions. During the most grisly UFC rackets, resist in futility to watch them unfold in remarkable gore as you find yourself transfixed on the action, regardless of the direction you face. Receive excellent service (provided you have a square head and jaw) from terrified bar wenches, each boasting a fantastic ass, sported in mandatory yoga exercise pants. Flirt in vain with the self-entitled staff as they provide a façade of job satisfaction while unabashedly handing you 9-dollar onion rings. Pay cover to watch televised events that you legally cannot be charged for, so that you can enjoy Don Cherry's quality food at slightly more exorbitant prices. This cacophonic din of an eating experience is nestled (not unlike a tick) into the centre of Halifax, and it is no wonder that this establishment enjoys continued success from a niche market of individuals who are clinically obsolete so far as the human race is concerned. Bubba Ray's: as viable a waste of money as a tattoo of your mother's asshole on your forearm. Don't miss it!
Absolutely disgusting.
Bubba Ray's was actually a disgusting event in my life.
Toeing the line with Kyle, Peter White (of Peter White comedy), Bryant Thomson, and the rest, I spent an agonizing hour and some in this place last week.
Five dollars on the door. Some UFC bullshit.
The guy on the door, with his almond-shaped head, was trying to act like he belonged on the door.
Arms extended from his sides, chest in my face, Jim the Anvil Neidhart facial hair, I could actually see the fear in this guy's eyes.
Not of me.
He was just repeating, "I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's. I'm not tough enough. I'm not getting enough protein. I'm not cool enough to work at Bubba Ray's..." in his head so loudly that I could plainly hear it with my ears.
Some skipper behind me was finishing up his cigarette and tried to walk back in.
This is what almond seed does:
Hand out, he stops him, "Ah, you have to get behind this guy (me). That's how lines work."
I wanted to say, "This isn't how a line works.
Generally, lines don't have an asshole berating you at the end of it."
But I didn't say that. Not that I was fearful of his reaction; he was more gutless than myself.
I just never say what I want to. That's my own folly.
I wheel about to see if Kyle is nearby (for protection), and notice a small TV above the exit.
Thinking, "That's weird," I turn to see the rest of them.
There were over 30 screens in there. I refuse to believe there were less than that.
This is how they were laid out.
Giant screen flanked by four small screens.
So:
screen screen
GIANT SCREEN
screen screen
This layout was repeated around the bar's perimeter at least...five times? Seven?
Sports bars are supposed to have a lot of screens, but let's stay within reason.
We're watching a fucking football game, we're not managing the security of a casino.
God knows how this is possible, but the UFC has let itself go.
I watched some fuck bleed out his head for a full 15 minutes.
Like, open wounds on his skull, blood pouring from them.
Actually pouring.
The referees wouldn't stop the fight, and so I had to watch this shit for the entire match.
I tried to look away, but I couldn't because there were fucking screens everywhere.
It was repulsive. The fight was repulsive - and I've had to sit through UFC fights before.
Bear in mind that this is coming from someone who has been playing Mortal Kombat since its inception.
They showed interview footage of one of the UFC mules before his fight.
He was on so many screens all around me that I thought, "This is what it would be like if this guy created a doomsday device and took over the world."
I went to the bathroom.
I hated that, too.
Burger (Thomson) was inside when I got there...peeing.
And he commented later to the other guys on how "Warford just stood in the bathroom and didn't do anything."
This is because...well, I didn't want to stand next to the guy at the urinal.
Only once have I not used a urinal before. Following Nine Inch Nails at the Saddledome.
This was different.
I think I just wasn't in a rush.
Besides, while I was in there - this is true - Almond busted into the pisser, slapped open the stall door, saw no one was being stabbed or raped, and left again.
Some guy was in the stall at the time.
He turned (while urinating) with a muted, "What the fuck?"
Almond did this very purposefully, as though he had been doing it every half hour or so that night.
I just felt compelled to have as much privacy as possible while I was in there.
I'll never set foot in this place again (the bar itself, not just the bathroom).
If I was being inducted by ZZ Top into the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame at Bubba Ray's, I'd tell them to mail the prize.
Guess I should have known better; the place has 'Bubba' in the title.
For follow-up on the Miller/Lauzon match.
Up for Fight of the Year (what do I know?).
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
What You Give Is What You Net
Written in a stuffed Tim Horton's on December 21, 2012ish
Max out your MasterCard to pay off your VISA.
It's the Friday before Christmas.
For most people, resumes are stacks of potential you can file.
For me they tend to be future scraps of paper.
And so, here we are.
Some guy on Gottingen Street asked me specifically to help him get back on his feet.
He just got out of jail today.
I felt like saying, "Just in time for Christmas!"
But he seemed to have other things in mind.
Now, he said that one of those things was not drugs.
He didn't need my money for anything like that.
But I still think he wanted drugs.
And why not?
It's the holidays. Nothing wrong with a little crystal in your nog.
Nothin' wrong with it!
Having spent the past while on the till, I wrestle with the question of whether or not Christmas brings out he best or worst in people.
I suppose I still don't have a concrete answer.
However, a good guideline would be:
Others, their impetous.
You can only take both with a sighed, "'Tis the season."
As a tapestry, Christmas seems to be bringing out the people in people.
And I guess that's alright.
Christmas has mutated, really.
The concept of giving what we are able to give has been reindeer'd into giving all we've got (plus interest).
I myself have been worrying that my lover's gifts aren't 'good enough.'
Which is retarded.
There's no joy in giving if you look at it that way.
And of course they'll be good enough.
Who wouldn't want the Lego X-Wing and Tie Fighter?
Though, at it's core, the holidays as we celebrate them foster an idea of giving to make others happy, I still think that there's a unified concern they'll be happy enough.
Perhaps it has always been this way.
Perhaps it has been this way since the Cabbage Patch Dolls.
And though free of the moniker, maybe those 20-years ago Fridays were just as Black.
Yet, if each year is a benchmark - a memory to be outdone - then we'll never really have the Christmas Spirit.
Imagine what it must have been like in the days when you were happy to receive a fucking apple and a fine-toothed comb.
Were those folks jollier?
Probably.
Regardless, I think that they all received the bonus gift of perspective.
Don't ask me what my point is.
Well, if I were to give a holiday message...
You know me. Keep it simple.
Get drunk on the tree water and fuck.
And keep your receipts.
You never know what might be going back.
Max out your MasterCard to pay off your VISA.
It's the Friday before Christmas.
For most people, resumes are stacks of potential you can file.
For me they tend to be future scraps of paper.
And so, here we are.
Some guy on Gottingen Street asked me specifically to help him get back on his feet.
He just got out of jail today.
I felt like saying, "Just in time for Christmas!"
But he seemed to have other things in mind.
Now, he said that one of those things was not drugs.
He didn't need my money for anything like that.
But I still think he wanted drugs.
And why not?
It's the holidays. Nothing wrong with a little crystal in your nog.
Nothin' wrong with it!
Having spent the past while on the till, I wrestle with the question of whether or not Christmas brings out he best or worst in people.
I suppose I still don't have a concrete answer.
However, a good guideline would be:
- Navigating a parking lot: Worst
- Finding a sweater in the desired size: Best
Others, their impetous.
You can only take both with a sighed, "'Tis the season."
As a tapestry, Christmas seems to be bringing out the people in people.
And I guess that's alright.
Christmas has mutated, really.
The concept of giving what we are able to give has been reindeer'd into giving all we've got (plus interest).
I myself have been worrying that my lover's gifts aren't 'good enough.'
Which is retarded.
There's no joy in giving if you look at it that way.
And of course they'll be good enough.
Who wouldn't want the Lego X-Wing and Tie Fighter?
Though, at it's core, the holidays as we celebrate them foster an idea of giving to make others happy, I still think that there's a unified concern they'll be happy enough.
Perhaps it has always been this way.
Perhaps it has been this way since the Cabbage Patch Dolls.
And though free of the moniker, maybe those 20-years ago Fridays were just as Black.
Yet, if each year is a benchmark - a memory to be outdone - then we'll never really have the Christmas Spirit.
Imagine what it must have been like in the days when you were happy to receive a fucking apple and a fine-toothed comb.
Were those folks jollier?
Probably.
Regardless, I think that they all received the bonus gift of perspective.
Don't ask me what my point is.
Well, if I were to give a holiday message...
You know me. Keep it simple.
Get drunk on the tree water and fuck.
And keep your receipts.
You never know what might be going back.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Quaintity, Not Quantity
I'm sitting in church now, and I'm early.
Better than being in a church late, I suppose.
Strapped for loved ones, my Aunt Barb picked me up today and brought me to her home.
It's off the beaten GPS, but it's around here:
View Larger Map
There are herons sometimes. It's a lovely place to visit.
Sipping beer and espying faraway seals with the telescope, I can pretend to be rich.
Pretending to be rich is great.
All of us have been there before (except the welfare crowd).
Be it a weekend of house sitting for the neighbor who owns Wendy's, or staying in a dying uncle's haunted mansion, we've all wandered into hot tubs that are not ours.
It's great. The ease and comfort, though temporary, can elucidate us to the benefits of hard work or a (suspiciously) timely inheritance.
Being Christmas Eve, I'm supposed to talk about Jesus and the donkeys and the angel swarms.
Overdone.
I'm not making the same jokes about frankincense and mermaids for the sake of a calendar date.
Really, I can't wax Christmastime because it feels very little like the holiday.
Perhaps because I've already given my gifts.
Maybe it's because I was too busy during the days leading up and I didn't have a paper chain.
I probably just miss my mom.
I may have said this already, but if I ever had to go to jail, I'd make a paper chain that would count down to my release date.
All mothers in a church smell the same.
I went to PEI for a few days in order to try and charm a family.
Not sure it worked.
Nevertheless! I spent some quality time with some toddler-esque girls, listened to some Dora, enjoyed a meal with 30 strangers in 90-degree heat, and learned some more about the woman I love.
Mostly, where she gets her cheekbones and explosively violent temper.
It's a nice enough province, but that frigging red clay gets over everything.
You feel a little Ochre by the time you're ready to leave.
The girl in the pew behind me has to go poop.
Andie's nieces were really charming, even when they were making lots of noise at what must have been 6 a.m.
One of them was clothed in front of me, and then she was suddenly nude.
The freedom.
This church is too cold.
I'm not sure The Book of Common Prayer is relevant, but it makes a fine table.
The little piece of paper with reader responses ("And also with you") is also useful, at least as scrap paper.
The sheet is almost out of room, but I'll say this:
I think PEI is too quaint.
No place should be so wholesome.
It's charming and beautiful - to a point.
But every shop front is old timey.
Every turned corner reveals more flawless rolling hills.
The province's facade is a Stepford Wife.
It's very tough to trust.
You feel like you must be getting duped somehow.
Time will tell on that one.
Either way, put out the carrots and Starbucks gift cards.
Santa's coming.
And to you and yours, have a great Christmas, free of malice and vomiting.
My pick for 2012's Hymn of the Year:
Good King Wenceslas.
Very well-written.
I know that Away in a Manger was a contender - maybe even your pick.
But, really, that hymn is only popular because it's adorable when a group of five-year olds sing it.
Better than being in a church late, I suppose.
Strapped for loved ones, my Aunt Barb picked me up today and brought me to her home.
It's off the beaten GPS, but it's around here:
View Larger Map
There are herons sometimes. It's a lovely place to visit.
Sipping beer and espying faraway seals with the telescope, I can pretend to be rich.
Pretending to be rich is great.
All of us have been there before (except the welfare crowd).
Be it a weekend of house sitting for the neighbor who owns Wendy's, or staying in a dying uncle's haunted mansion, we've all wandered into hot tubs that are not ours.
It's great. The ease and comfort, though temporary, can elucidate us to the benefits of hard work or a (suspiciously) timely inheritance.
Being Christmas Eve, I'm supposed to talk about Jesus and the donkeys and the angel swarms.
Overdone.
I'm not making the same jokes about frankincense and mermaids for the sake of a calendar date.
Really, I can't wax Christmastime because it feels very little like the holiday.
Perhaps because I've already given my gifts.
Maybe it's because I was too busy during the days leading up and I didn't have a paper chain.
I probably just miss my mom.
I may have said this already, but if I ever had to go to jail, I'd make a paper chain that would count down to my release date.
All mothers in a church smell the same.
I went to PEI for a few days in order to try and charm a family.
Not sure it worked.
Nevertheless! I spent some quality time with some toddler-esque girls, listened to some Dora, enjoyed a meal with 30 strangers in 90-degree heat, and learned some more about the woman I love.
Mostly, where she gets her cheekbones and explosively violent temper.
It's a nice enough province, but that frigging red clay gets over everything.
You feel a little Ochre by the time you're ready to leave.
The girl in the pew behind me has to go poop.
Andie's nieces were really charming, even when they were making lots of noise at what must have been 6 a.m.
One of them was clothed in front of me, and then she was suddenly nude.
The freedom.
This church is too cold.
I'm not sure The Book of Common Prayer is relevant, but it makes a fine table.
The little piece of paper with reader responses ("And also with you") is also useful, at least as scrap paper.
The sheet is almost out of room, but I'll say this:
I think PEI is too quaint.
No place should be so wholesome.
It's charming and beautiful - to a point.
But every shop front is old timey.
Every turned corner reveals more flawless rolling hills.
The province's facade is a Stepford Wife.
It's very tough to trust.
You feel like you must be getting duped somehow.
Time will tell on that one.
Either way, put out the carrots and Starbucks gift cards.
Santa's coming.
And to you and yours, have a great Christmas, free of malice and vomiting.
My pick for 2012's Hymn of the Year:
Good King Wenceslas.
Very well-written.
I know that Away in a Manger was a contender - maybe even your pick.
But, really, that hymn is only popular because it's adorable when a group of five-year olds sing it.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Unmixed
Like many other forms of drunken performance, the stars can all align in comedy.
Nothing you say falls flat.
Everyone laughs louder than normal.
All of the women in the front rows have ample breasts in low-cut tops.
It all works out while taking no work at all.
Equivelant to a lightning strike, such truly flawless nights are anamolies to be coveted.
Like an emerald, or nude photos of a buddy's ex-girlfriend.
They're truly beautiful. They're unique. You never forget them.
To use a buzz word, you "kill."
"You didn't kill, bud. You did very well.
Killing is when they're banging the tables and standing when you get off of the stage."
That's Bill MacIntosh and the smokey words he'd plume at me while standing outside after a show.
Bill was great at keeping you grounded (if not deflated).
I never utter the words "I killed."
But when all of those constellations queue up for you, well...if it's going to happen, it'll happen on a night like that.
Conversely, the constellations sometimes get hammered and belligerent (much like your audience), and leave you to your doom.
Saturday's show was like that.
Offering my bones and thoughts, I tried to wow some concrete alchemists during their Christmas party.
By 'concrete alchemists,' I mean, y'know...dudes who mix concrete.
"Needs more salt!"
Enticed and teasted by the open bar, Andie and I milled about with Caesars as we waited for me to get things done.
This was when we still thought the show would be pleasant.
And it was pleasant, initially.
The patrons seemed content enough.
There was prime rib. Chicken Tetrazini.
What could go wrong?
At corporate shows - any show, really - I obsess over and spot the drunkest people in the room.
I guess I do this in order to psyche myself out.
Works sometimes.
When you're among a large gathering of co-workers who are all outside of work's perimeter, you feel otherwordly.
You're there, but you're not present, and eyes linger on you as employess wonder what your 'deal' is.
Anyway, it seemed like it was going to be a normal show.
Some boozebags. A slideshow. Some awards.
A lot of old people, maybe, but relatively standard stuff.
The vibe slowly began to queer, though.
She and I watched some geezer hobble our way.
Picture the slowest-moving old person with a cane that your imagination is capable of.
...
Got it?
Skipper was slower than that.
I'm not kidding, I've never seen an old person more full of molasses.
If he says, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," in the kitchen, he has piss running down his leg in the living room half an hour later.
That slow.
I'm mesmerized by this, and a few feet off, I can tell Andie is too.
Then he approaches me.
"Are you Luke?"
"No, I'm not."
"What's your name?"
"Paul Warford."
"What?"
"Paul Warford."
...
"I don't work for this company."
He nods, places his hand on my arm, and then procedes to walk around me.
I don't know if he ever got to where he was going.
The program said:
Dinner
Bullshit Awards
Slidshow
Entertainment
Band of Portly, Middle-Aged Fellows (musical act)
Now, I was the "entertainment."
Unfortunately, what sort of entertainment I was never was mentioned.
Which isn't a great precursor to a show.
The element of pre-emptive surprise is not our friend.
Springing a comedian on a group works when the comedian is Chris Rock.
They showed a series of awful safety videos just before bringing me on.
"Don't plummet to your death while working."
That kind of thing.
They starred the employees themselves - atrocious actors, the lot of them.
Therefore, the videos were morose and laughable at the same time.
Giving a final word on the importance of using handrails, I was introduced.
"And now for his views on the world, Paul Warford."
I got up there and looked at a sea of people who were mildly confused at best.
I start talking. I try to engage. No one wants to tell me anything.
As I'm doing this, I think to myself, "Do they think I'm a motivational speaker?"
Never experienced that before.
Nor have I experienced the slow, gradual metamorphises on everyone's faces from confusion to sheer bafflement.
Who is this man? Why is he talking to us? Are we paying him?
This is what their countenances call to me as I wade, waist deep, through utter feces.
Awful.
Jokes don't work. Banter doesn't work.
Swearing doesn't work.
I keep trying to engage with the drunkest guy in the room (rookie mistake).
He's so hammered he can't even form sentences, electing to instead interrupt me with sounds out of his mouth.
"Huh! Whuh nuh scabbah! Ha!"
And I'm returning that with, "What was that, sir? Say it again."
I had four people listening to me in the very front.
At one point I asked if anyone had committed a dine and dash in their lifetimes.
I had an experience (you'll hear about it eventually) that I was going to delve into.
A woman at the front, quite haphazardly, I might add, raises her hand.
And she's like, 60.
"You've dined and dashed," I ask.
A sort of preoccupied nod to this.
Immediately I've forgotten how bad the show is going and now want details.
Turns out she once ate at a place called 'Dine and Dash.'
Not the same thing.
Someone asked me if I was a homosexual.
My relationship with the room was just never meant to flourish.
Eventually, I got quieter and began actually describing to the promoter why the show wasn't working as the show wasn't working.
People trickled to the bathrooms and bar.
Others initiated their own conversations at their tables.
People were waiting for me to be done.
And boy, was I.
I was done.
Slated to do 30 minutes, I performed about 12 in what has proved to be one of my worst bombs in history.
Since people have begun paying me, this was the first instance of me not doing my time.
No matter what, just do your time and dust off.
Drink up.
But dust off.
Apologetic and legitimately embarrassed, I went over the aftermath with the guy who hired me.
Not unlike recounting a plane crash while the bird's tail is still sticking out out of the side of the barn.
Though he certainly shouldn't have, he paid me.
I offered him a free show (which I will certainly perform) should he ever want one.
Then it was time to mingle.
It's hard to fight your own cynicism while chatting after a private show.
The experience is typically nice enough, but a little strained.
A lot of smiles and nods.
A lot of response to compliments (which is nice 'n all, but still weird).
After the show, there is a new feeling of familiarity that the audience has.
However, this feeling is mostly a combination of the show's conclusion and alcohol.
There is no familiarity, really.
Yet you shmooze.
It's a part of the job.
That is, of course, unless you piss your clothes onstage and want to get the fuck out of there.
Despite the open bar (which we were more than welcome to), I had a rental to drive home.
Given the atmosphere, I figured that requesting a hotel room at that point would have been pushing it.
Andie finds me in the hallway outside the ballroom, saying, "We've gotta go.
I called some woman a bitch in the washroom. We have to go now."
Meanwhile, I'm flabergasted because this is a woman who typically apologizes to furniture.
"What? You did what?"
"In the bathroom, that woman who called you a homosexual asked me, 'You actually let him fuck you?'"
Isn't that awful?
"And I said, 'I don't let him, I beg him for it.
I think you're a homophobic bitch.'"
Astounding.
So, now Andie is afraid of being punched in the face.
It is time to scaddadle.
We were desperate to steal some beers to drink at home.
Sheer principle, I guess.
They are opening the bottles as they hand them over because this is a hotel and they have rules.
So, we come up with the brilliant idea of getting some saran wrap to cover the beer bottles with.
We ask the A/V guy to get that for us.
Andie explains why we want it as she's tearing off sheets of the plastic wrap.
As discretely as a pair of flaming kangaroos, we try to seal these beers while inside the ballroom.
I have my backpack positioned near them as we're hiding them under a small table's cloth.
Andie also stashed some cookies under there, I believe.
As I leave to grab our coats, one of the wait staff walked near to Andie and took the little table, revealing our welfare setup in the process.
Uttering, "This is ridiculous," she walked away.
It never would have worked anyway.
I explained to her that at that point we were very much a stink in the room.
Eyes were on us everywhere.
Some of the wives looked particularly disgusted.
We went outside for a joint with Craig, who saw me in another town on another show that was actually good.
A fan.
We left following that.
We sat in the parking lot for a while first while my mind siphoned out some alcohol.
The rental's headlights pryed the night open as we made our way home.
Holding her hand as I drove and she slept, I realized I was beaming ear to ear.
It had been a great show.
It was truly beautiful. It was unique. I'll never forget it.
Though polarized zeniths, bombing and killing have a few things in common.
Nothing you say falls flat.
Everyone laughs louder than normal.
All of the women in the front rows have ample breasts in low-cut tops.
It all works out while taking no work at all.
Equivelant to a lightning strike, such truly flawless nights are anamolies to be coveted.
Like an emerald, or nude photos of a buddy's ex-girlfriend.
They're truly beautiful. They're unique. You never forget them.
To use a buzz word, you "kill."
"You didn't kill, bud. You did very well.
Killing is when they're banging the tables and standing when you get off of the stage."
That's Bill MacIntosh and the smokey words he'd plume at me while standing outside after a show.
Bill was great at keeping you grounded (if not deflated).
I never utter the words "I killed."
But when all of those constellations queue up for you, well...if it's going to happen, it'll happen on a night like that.
Conversely, the constellations sometimes get hammered and belligerent (much like your audience), and leave you to your doom.
Saturday's show was like that.
Offering my bones and thoughts, I tried to wow some concrete alchemists during their Christmas party.
By 'concrete alchemists,' I mean, y'know...dudes who mix concrete.
"Needs more salt!"
Enticed and teasted by the open bar, Andie and I milled about with Caesars as we waited for me to get things done.
This was when we still thought the show would be pleasant.
And it was pleasant, initially.
The patrons seemed content enough.
There was prime rib. Chicken Tetrazini.
What could go wrong?
At corporate shows - any show, really - I obsess over and spot the drunkest people in the room.
I guess I do this in order to psyche myself out.
Works sometimes.
When you're among a large gathering of co-workers who are all outside of work's perimeter, you feel otherwordly.
You're there, but you're not present, and eyes linger on you as employess wonder what your 'deal' is.
Anyway, it seemed like it was going to be a normal show.
Some boozebags. A slideshow. Some awards.
A lot of old people, maybe, but relatively standard stuff.
The vibe slowly began to queer, though.
She and I watched some geezer hobble our way.
Picture the slowest-moving old person with a cane that your imagination is capable of.
...
Got it?
Skipper was slower than that.
I'm not kidding, I've never seen an old person more full of molasses.
If he says, "I'm gonna go to the bathroom," in the kitchen, he has piss running down his leg in the living room half an hour later.
That slow.
I'm mesmerized by this, and a few feet off, I can tell Andie is too.
Then he approaches me.
"Are you Luke?"
"No, I'm not."
"What's your name?"
"Paul Warford."
"What?"
"Paul Warford."
...
"I don't work for this company."
He nods, places his hand on my arm, and then procedes to walk around me.
I don't know if he ever got to where he was going.
The program said:
Dinner
Bullshit Awards
Slidshow
Entertainment
Band of Portly, Middle-Aged Fellows (musical act)
Now, I was the "entertainment."
Unfortunately, what sort of entertainment I was never was mentioned.
Which isn't a great precursor to a show.
The element of pre-emptive surprise is not our friend.
Springing a comedian on a group works when the comedian is Chris Rock.
They showed a series of awful safety videos just before bringing me on.
"Don't plummet to your death while working."
That kind of thing.
They starred the employees themselves - atrocious actors, the lot of them.
Therefore, the videos were morose and laughable at the same time.
Giving a final word on the importance of using handrails, I was introduced.
"And now for his views on the world, Paul Warford."
I got up there and looked at a sea of people who were mildly confused at best.
I start talking. I try to engage. No one wants to tell me anything.
As I'm doing this, I think to myself, "Do they think I'm a motivational speaker?"
Never experienced that before.
Nor have I experienced the slow, gradual metamorphises on everyone's faces from confusion to sheer bafflement.
Who is this man? Why is he talking to us? Are we paying him?
This is what their countenances call to me as I wade, waist deep, through utter feces.
Awful.
Jokes don't work. Banter doesn't work.
Swearing doesn't work.
I keep trying to engage with the drunkest guy in the room (rookie mistake).
He's so hammered he can't even form sentences, electing to instead interrupt me with sounds out of his mouth.
"Huh! Whuh nuh scabbah! Ha!"
And I'm returning that with, "What was that, sir? Say it again."
I had four people listening to me in the very front.
At one point I asked if anyone had committed a dine and dash in their lifetimes.
I had an experience (you'll hear about it eventually) that I was going to delve into.
A woman at the front, quite haphazardly, I might add, raises her hand.
And she's like, 60.
"You've dined and dashed," I ask.
A sort of preoccupied nod to this.
Immediately I've forgotten how bad the show is going and now want details.
Turns out she once ate at a place called 'Dine and Dash.'
Not the same thing.
Someone asked me if I was a homosexual.
My relationship with the room was just never meant to flourish.
Eventually, I got quieter and began actually describing to the promoter why the show wasn't working as the show wasn't working.
People trickled to the bathrooms and bar.
Others initiated their own conversations at their tables.
People were waiting for me to be done.
And boy, was I.
I was done.
Slated to do 30 minutes, I performed about 12 in what has proved to be one of my worst bombs in history.
Since people have begun paying me, this was the first instance of me not doing my time.
No matter what, just do your time and dust off.
Drink up.
But dust off.
Apologetic and legitimately embarrassed, I went over the aftermath with the guy who hired me.
Not unlike recounting a plane crash while the bird's tail is still sticking out out of the side of the barn.
Though he certainly shouldn't have, he paid me.
I offered him a free show (which I will certainly perform) should he ever want one.
Then it was time to mingle.
It's hard to fight your own cynicism while chatting after a private show.
The experience is typically nice enough, but a little strained.
A lot of smiles and nods.
A lot of response to compliments (which is nice 'n all, but still weird).
After the show, there is a new feeling of familiarity that the audience has.
However, this feeling is mostly a combination of the show's conclusion and alcohol.
There is no familiarity, really.
Yet you shmooze.
It's a part of the job.
That is, of course, unless you piss your clothes onstage and want to get the fuck out of there.
Despite the open bar (which we were more than welcome to), I had a rental to drive home.
Given the atmosphere, I figured that requesting a hotel room at that point would have been pushing it.
Andie finds me in the hallway outside the ballroom, saying, "We've gotta go.
I called some woman a bitch in the washroom. We have to go now."
Meanwhile, I'm flabergasted because this is a woman who typically apologizes to furniture.
"What? You did what?"
"In the bathroom, that woman who called you a homosexual asked me, 'You actually let him fuck you?'"
Isn't that awful?
"And I said, 'I don't let him, I beg him for it.
I think you're a homophobic bitch.'"
Astounding.
So, now Andie is afraid of being punched in the face.
It is time to scaddadle.
We were desperate to steal some beers to drink at home.
Sheer principle, I guess.
They are opening the bottles as they hand them over because this is a hotel and they have rules.
So, we come up with the brilliant idea of getting some saran wrap to cover the beer bottles with.
We ask the A/V guy to get that for us.
Andie explains why we want it as she's tearing off sheets of the plastic wrap.
As discretely as a pair of flaming kangaroos, we try to seal these beers while inside the ballroom.
I have my backpack positioned near them as we're hiding them under a small table's cloth.
Andie also stashed some cookies under there, I believe.
As I leave to grab our coats, one of the wait staff walked near to Andie and took the little table, revealing our welfare setup in the process.
Uttering, "This is ridiculous," she walked away.
It never would have worked anyway.
I explained to her that at that point we were very much a stink in the room.
Eyes were on us everywhere.
Some of the wives looked particularly disgusted.
We went outside for a joint with Craig, who saw me in another town on another show that was actually good.
A fan.
We left following that.
We sat in the parking lot for a while first while my mind siphoned out some alcohol.
The rental's headlights pryed the night open as we made our way home.
Holding her hand as I drove and she slept, I realized I was beaming ear to ear.
It had been a great show.
It was truly beautiful. It was unique. I'll never forget it.
Though polarized zeniths, bombing and killing have a few things in common.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Stop Being A Baby
I'm allergic to destiny.
Alright, so here are the things that have been keeping me from speaking to you:
Mom used to dress me in them and I'd cry and cry.
I guess that even during my pre-school days I had a strong sense of wardrobe.
An instinct that had little or nothing to do with bib overalls.
I can't concentrate here.
I'm at some dive that plays a lot of old-timey music.
Which is fine and all, but I can't write while I listen to that in one ear-
"Oh girl, I want to be with you all of the time.
All day and all of the night."
While I try to listen to my new Cinderella band in my other ear.
Which sounds nothing like this antiquated stuff.
It sounds much more, well, awful, I suppose.
But what can I say?
I love the sound of awful sometimes.
I have listened to this album end-to-end more than most.
While jammed up in that van ride to Sydney, I listened to it and nothing else for the entire trip.
The album's only 33 minutes long.
They're called Future of the Left and they really jangle my chimes.
I was feeding Rowan.
There are pictures that my mother and her friends would find adorable that I might upload...someday.
I fed her some kiwi with a spoon, and I just sort of flung banana corners at her (think Trivial Pursuit pie pieces).
While I was feeding her, I figured "Well, if she's eating them..." and began helping myself to some.
"Like stealing banana from a baby!"
Tasted alright.
I always liked banana-flavoured things.
I just never ate bananas.
I guess I do now.
All because of her.
Babies are miraculously powerful entities.
No wonder people spend so much money on them.
It's so strange to me, showering gifts on babies.
It's sort of like...I don't know what it's like.
It seems like the parents and aunts and uncles and stuff are trying to appease the baby.
They're bringing the frankincense. They're bringing the myrrh.
Meanwhile, the child would just as soon gnaw on the end of a stapler.
"Do you think the baby liked it?" they say on the way to their cars.
"Does this please you, baby?"
I don't even really understand clothing them.
But that's probably because I'm not much of a caregiver.
Anyway.
I believe in giving to children.
Personally, I'd just wait until they have the mental capacity to appreciate it.
The mental capacity to not poop themselves.
Yet, they do have this ability to transfix one's attention.
They can elicit change without saying anything (intelligible).
I see these babies that have to do with me, and it's only then that I can say:
"Oh, I was as they are. I get it now.
They weren't just photographs.
They were me. Once."
Alright, so here are the things that have been keeping me from speaking to you:
- I began working at Mark's Work Wear House (I'm the model for the bib overalls)
- I began a comedy room with my protege/mentor Dave Burke
- I took da missus home to meet everybody (and help her understand what terms like 'da missus' mean.
- I began eating bananas for the first time since I was about four years old.
Mom used to dress me in them and I'd cry and cry.
I guess that even during my pre-school days I had a strong sense of wardrobe.
An instinct that had little or nothing to do with bib overalls.
I can't concentrate here.
I'm at some dive that plays a lot of old-timey music.
Which is fine and all, but I can't write while I listen to that in one ear-
"Oh girl, I want to be with you all of the time.
All day and all of the night."
While I try to listen to my new Cinderella band in my other ear.
Which sounds nothing like this antiquated stuff.
It sounds much more, well, awful, I suppose.
But what can I say?
I love the sound of awful sometimes.
I have listened to this album end-to-end more than most.
While jammed up in that van ride to Sydney, I listened to it and nothing else for the entire trip.
The album's only 33 minutes long.
They're called Future of the Left and they really jangle my chimes.
I was feeding Rowan.
There are pictures that my mother and her friends would find adorable that I might upload...someday.
I fed her some kiwi with a spoon, and I just sort of flung banana corners at her (think Trivial Pursuit pie pieces).
While I was feeding her, I figured "Well, if she's eating them..." and began helping myself to some.
"Like stealing banana from a baby!"
Tasted alright.
I always liked banana-flavoured things.
I just never ate bananas.
I guess I do now.
All because of her.
Babies are miraculously powerful entities.
No wonder people spend so much money on them.
It's so strange to me, showering gifts on babies.
It's sort of like...I don't know what it's like.
It seems like the parents and aunts and uncles and stuff are trying to appease the baby.
They're bringing the frankincense. They're bringing the myrrh.
Meanwhile, the child would just as soon gnaw on the end of a stapler.
"Do you think the baby liked it?" they say on the way to their cars.
"Does this please you, baby?"
I don't even really understand clothing them.
But that's probably because I'm not much of a caregiver.
Anyway.
I believe in giving to children.
Personally, I'd just wait until they have the mental capacity to appreciate it.
The mental capacity to not poop themselves.
Yet, they do have this ability to transfix one's attention.
They can elicit change without saying anything (intelligible).
I see these babies that have to do with me, and it's only then that I can say:
"Oh, I was as they are. I get it now.
They weren't just photographs.
They were me. Once."
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Bit of a Stretch
Written on the road thru Cape Breton, Saturday, November 24:
We just pulled over the shuttle (minivan) for all of us to have a bit of a stretch.
Like all of you with your body issues, I've considered yoga, sure.
Though I've no preoccupation with being muscular (duh), I'm keen on being lithe.
But who has the time these days?
Not me.
I don't know what I've been doing, but I've been busy.
A dog has approximately ten times the amount of smell receptors that a human has.
Despite this, they're still prone to mishaps like eating a portion of a scented candle.
"Well, it smelled like food."
A good reason to keep them away from the heavy duty cleaners (lemon-scented).
One day the missus was so excited to hug me, she threw an unpeeled banana into a nearby garbage can.
These and other fruits to come!
Accidentally insulted a Vietnamese woman last night.
You can't refer to a race as 'they' any more.
Any race. Any they.
Like, "They invented the rocket," or "They eat hamster."
In this society I bide my time and wait to see what other perfectly legitimate language is eventually "Not cool, man."
I'd rather be a nobody than some internet sensation.
One day you're a slob, the next 14 million people are talking about you, the next you're hanging yourself in your bathroom.
My dad says shit, too, y'know. All our dads say shit.
Whose phrases will you parrot when he passes on?
I know, I know.
I'm just jealous cause people are reading his blog.
I'm going to make one that's called, "The Vocabulary of Mike."
It'll involve all of the words that dad has made up over the years and subsequently eased into his vernacular.
Like 'squez' (squeeze) and 'matt-rass' (mattress).
These days, most of us aren't as interesting as our parents.
I don't know how to end this post positively.
I'll write something more affable after I manage to shower.
We just pulled over the shuttle (minivan) for all of us to have a bit of a stretch.
Like all of you with your body issues, I've considered yoga, sure.
Though I've no preoccupation with being muscular (duh), I'm keen on being lithe.
But who has the time these days?
Not me.
I don't know what I've been doing, but I've been busy.
A dog has approximately ten times the amount of smell receptors that a human has.
Despite this, they're still prone to mishaps like eating a portion of a scented candle.
"Well, it smelled like food."
A good reason to keep them away from the heavy duty cleaners (lemon-scented).
One day the missus was so excited to hug me, she threw an unpeeled banana into a nearby garbage can.
These and other fruits to come!
Accidentally insulted a Vietnamese woman last night.
You can't refer to a race as 'they' any more.
Any race. Any they.
Like, "They invented the rocket," or "They eat hamster."
In this society I bide my time and wait to see what other perfectly legitimate language is eventually "Not cool, man."
I'd rather be a nobody than some internet sensation.
One day you're a slob, the next 14 million people are talking about you, the next you're hanging yourself in your bathroom.
My dad says shit, too, y'know. All our dads say shit.
Whose phrases will you parrot when he passes on?
I know, I know.
I'm just jealous cause people are reading his blog.
I'm going to make one that's called, "The Vocabulary of Mike."
It'll involve all of the words that dad has made up over the years and subsequently eased into his vernacular.
Like 'squez' (squeeze) and 'matt-rass' (mattress).
These days, most of us aren't as interesting as our parents.
I don't know how to end this post positively.
I'll write something more affable after I manage to shower.
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