A Fine Wine

I thought that my procrastination approach to life would be something that I would grow out of, so to speak. A maturation. A cutting of teeth.
I thought that organization would be something that would dawn on me one day.
"Oh. This is how it works. You complete things on time by preparing for them. I guess I'll go buy a file cabinet, then."
You know. A celebratory one.
But it does not work that way.
Instead, procrastination is something that you develop.
Like an art. Or a cyst.
My paper will not be completed tonight.
My paper will be completed tomorrow morning. Over much coffee and exasperation.
Just the way I like it.

my parents are right about me...

Four inches. Max.
That's how close I was to walking into a telephone pole this evening, on my way to the library.
It was a parking lot. There were no cars. I didn't feel obligated to pay attention to my surroundings, necessarily.
I happened to look up cursorily.
Good thing.
The first thing my brain registered was the staples embedded in the pole. I then thought that it would be a strange pole to post postings on. Then I thought about how glad I was that I had not walked into it.
It was the last thing I expected to see.
I was picking a band to listen to.
I settled on Stars, and continued walking.
Head high.

Protege

My brother and I are vastly unalike.
He knows how to use a band saw.
He can judge whether or not an item is level by using his eyes.
I need a level.
I like to recycle.
How do we get along?
Besides the fact that the law states we have to, he says fun things like: "I'd rather have a roll of duct tape in the house than a smoke detector."
All of the pictures we hang are straight.

They seem nice. They suggest Sears.

M'eh. Not much going on.
I spent quality male time with Kirk Bussey last night.
This is always effortless fun.
I'll say more about it later. This is it for now.
I had a meeting with The Scope today. I write for these people. I'm in print again.
A morning meeting. On a Saturday. Not something I signed on for, but I want to seem proactive to these people, since I just began working 'with them'.
They'll find out what I'm actually like soon enough.
I am on time. I have not showered.
Roundtable discussions happen with a quite small group of people. Each section is brushed upon for story ideas.
I do not have ideas; I am too groggy.
I am also too embarassed to admit that I do not know what the sections are.
DIY?
I keep quiet and nod occaisonally.
In my head I resolve to buy my first-ever pair of slippers.
Today.
Then I consider how much slippers might cost.
Then I wonder where they might be purchased.
My ($10) check isn't there, but I do get a case of beer out of the deal.
Quidi Vidi.
Honey Brown.

Fire & Brimstone

I haven't the energy.
I went to a Michael's today.
I entered the store, and started laughing immediately.
Out loud.
I said, 'This place is fucked' out loud as well. At least two or three times before I left.
Then I went to Wal-Mart.
For Sarah Turpin.
I also went to a Hallmark, which was slightly more pleasant.
They asked if I'd seen the nicer items (don't wanna give away gift specifics) of the same sort over that way.
I told them I didn't care about the person that much. I was just trying to get into her pants.
They were less pleasant with me after that.
I also had to buy Mr. Clean, to be fair.
I almost drank it while waiting in line to pay for it.
The gifts are moot.
She should be happy with me for even going through the process of buying the gifts.
But if that doesn't get me into her pants, the gifts will.
If they don't work I'm back to hypnotism.

edit: I forgot to mention that Michael's had an aisle entitled Cupcake Essentials.

Dentists Would Rule

I'd like to live in a world where bake sales are as common as Bluetooth headsets.

Very necessary, those bluetooth headsets.
If you have your cell phone grafted to the side of your face, you're not paying enough attention to your children.
Call it a hunch.

Our Lady of the Weed Trimmer (don't bother reading; link's broken)

http://ca.yahoo.com/_ylh=X3oDMTFjdWUxZHJyBF9TAzE1NjI5MzQzBHBpZAMyMjA3MzYEdGVzdAMwBHRtcGwDY2FfaW5kZXhs/s/368775
Why are you all standing around! It's a garage door!
She's telling you to buy Meineke.
Fools!
Religious, redkneck zealot fools!
George Foreman was right all along!

For more, if you dare.

Sober

I'm so bored I'm considering commiting a misdemeanor in order to pass some time.
Anyone. Coffee? Anyone?
I hate it when Shandera leaves town.

"Are We On This Again?"

I have to write something.
It is only a paragraph, and yet I have to read a decent-sized article in order to concoct the article.
Poverty.
I park at Burton's Pond. True friends would already know this.
We all know how passionate I have been getting about birds lately.
Ducks are great. Here's a picture of an ostrich. *
Etc.
Well, last night was a pretty intense bird moment.
They may have been sparrows. Something small. Swallows? Do we have swallows here?
There's a wee little island/bank in the middle of Burton's Pond. There are trees. Shrubs.
It appears to be kinda...moving as I walk by.
Because the foilage on the island is consumed with birds. Of one species. And more are arriving.
They fly into the trees in groups of between 5 and 30. From different directions. They swoop.
I cannot swoop.
They move very quickly, and swerve below telephone wires and above cars. I worry one of them is going to fuck up and effectively mash his or her little bird brains.
They do not fuck up.
They're loud. They can be heard plainly within the area.
I watch approximately 200 or so add to the pile that is already tucked away in there.
I do not know the final numbers.
I think they were prepping to fly south.
It's a good meeting spot; centre of town. It's near the mall.
I stood and watched and wondered various things about animal life.
I received so many looks.
Is it that strange, really? It was very interessting.
They were a spectacle. You can watch spectacles.
People are so weird.

So am I:
After I finished, I passed the music building. Behind a window I saw a male cellist celloing.
I considered standing right outside of the window, where I would watch intently .
When he would eventually turn around, I'd start applauding enthusiastically.
But I had to buy toothpaste.

*these links (to other posts within the blog) were only added recently.

Trashed

I'm driving home between classes. Hydro is threatening to cut off our power. We have to prevent this from happening by seeing receptionists and talking to them.
I don't ask questions.
My name is on documentation, so I have to be there as well, with my brother. I feel unsettled when my name is on things.
No Paul Juniors in my future.
There is a very large truck in front of me, with a long flatbed. Those guys you see hauling around huge concrete sections of pipe? That sorta thing. It could be a swimming pool, but someone wished to move things with it instead. And it is too flat to hold water.
Anyway, there is a dumpster being moved on this truck. It is chained on.
I do not trust the integrity of said chain, and I speed around the truck as quickly as possible (beginning to sweat, driving faster than I should be on a turn).
Why?
Because.
Of the possible ways I might meet my fate, 'death-by-dumpster' is just a little too plausible for me to stay in the slow lane.

Disjoint

"'He's got it, he just doesn't know it.' That's what I told my friends after I saw you.'"
For the first time. This is what George said he said.
I get that he's an impersonator of Carlin, but he has still made his living doing this. 40 years.
I do not have the luxary of acting like I don't need advice.
I need advice.
And I'm getting it. And it will help.
So the show, then. How was the show? The set. The bit.
M'eh.
It was good. It went over as much as I expected it to, but I lost my place too many times.
We're talking make a joke, laughter, pause...where was i, make a joke, laughter, pause...
It was pretty gutwrenching.
Colin and I got home and I put on the dvd of myself from three weeks ago, since he had missed it.
He laughed.
I laughed too.
Felt alright.

In other ramblings my student loan has arrived, so if I have outstanding debts with you, now's the time to cut me some slack. Because although I have this money, my mother insists that I have no money.
She is likely correct. My mother is a very assured woman.
Shit. I have to meet a professor now.
Do any of you know where the Henrietta Harvey building is?

I wish I was married. I wish I was fat.

This routine will be the first to include anecdotes about ex-girlfriends (no one's being mentioned by name ladies, don't worry. All two of you out there).
I understand why comics refer to their wives/husbands so much.
We really shouldn't be together. We're too different.

Shut-In

Made it to one party and not the other.
Although I was anxious about going to Martin's birthday at first, that subsided.
I said day of that I would go if I received a personal message from her.
This would suggest she really wanted me there.
Then she totally did send me a personal message.
I later talk to her on the telephone (which I now have. It is green. It is mine. I call Newfoundland for free) machine, and I was the only person she sent a personal message to.
So I bought a hat.
A tiara. It lit up. A plastic one. Not a jewel-encrusted one.
I double-booked and fucked up getting to her.
Today, I really feel awful about it. I feel as though I've missed out. I rarely feel like this.
It's kinda weird.
I wish her phone had voicemail.

I have to be funny tonight.
Well, I don't have to be, but it would likely be best if i am.

I made a fuck shirt yesterday. My newest.
I take it for a test drive, as I do with all prototypes.
In da mall.
I run into family friends of mom and dad. And some random tanned people that they happen to be having coffee with.
I meet these people. They are wearing a lot of gold. They seem happy, but I think they were faking it.
"Did you tell your mother about this shirt?"
"No, but she'll be thrilled to hear that you saw me wearing it. And that I met some of your friends in the process (gesture to the fakers)."
My mother taught grades K to 3 for 30 years.
We don't see eye to eye on censorship issues.
I am the unpredictable son that has to be explained.
But I have the whackiest hair.

Drive-By

It's not that I look bad, necessarily.
If I committed a crime and detectives were questioning anyone who may have seen me flee the scene, I imagine they would use either 'weird', 'funny', 'goofy', or 'wacky' to describe me, followed by the word 'lookin''.
It's alright. I am not overweight. I had acne, but I beat it.
Either way, though, I am not 'checked out' frequently. Unless I am very imperceptive.
But yesterday I was checked out hard. I was driving, but I was still checked out. I even caught her doing the back-look. I do the back-look.
It was wicked.
Red-head.
It's rare, but I take solace in its not being imagined. I'm confident on this one. At the time I considered getting out of the car and doing something brave.
Instead I just turned up the Daft Punk.
And peeled out right hard.
Cause girls like that.

Will he do it 37 times?

Last month sometime.
While high and speaking with Turpin through the miracles of long distance, I scribbled down the following:
I think he's gonna do it.
37.

I have no idea what this means.

'Let's Just Be Friends'

I fall in love on campus approximately twice a day.
I keep it to myself.

If you got 'em...

There are no smoking signs in all of my classrooms.
Who has the balls to light up in the middle of class?
If someone is that into the habit, I say let them have their cigarette.
Just crack a window.

Fatigue

Are we still wearing camouflage socially?
Just checking.

Participation Points

I have a discussion class . It is Friday. It is sunny.
Thursday night. I desperately want to play video games and smoke drugs. But not until 'I read this article'. Trace Italliene. It's a style of fortification. The dutch perfected it. By copying the Spanish.
We're back. It's Friday. It is a discussion class. I am prepared. I have taken notes. I am proud of myself for being such an astute student.
The professor asks what the article is all about.
A student (an actual student) unloads a synopsis that sounds entirely unfamiliar.
Because I have read the wrong article.
Because sometimes, just sometimes, I am Paul Warford.
I am back in school.
The kicker is that I managed to make a comment before the class was over.
I am the Guerrilla terrorist of unprepared procrastinators.

Savory

My mom is not an excellent cook.
My mother hates cooking. She follows recipes exactly.
These are not elements condusive to good cooking.
But her dressing. I prefer it over any other dressing I've had to date.
And that counts for something.
Mainlanders call it stuffing.
We call them mainlanders.

"Are You Gonna Eat That?"

Write this one next to the salmon recipe.
I have no idea why, but I learned in high school that if you arbitrarily offer a girl food at random, she will always, always laugh at it.
Softly. Somewhat awkwardly. A little embarassed, even, but it always works.
I did it today. Twice.
The girl is waiting for our class to start (same one I asked to watch my stuff some days before). We are sitting on the floor in the hallway. I turn, hold out my blueberry muffin, which I just cracked, and say, "Muffin?"
I turn and do it to the girl on the opposite side of me. Same deal.
They find it strange, don't get me wrong, but charmingly so.

I decide to try it on a guy.
For kicks.
A few days back. Same class. Somewhat husky guy sitting next to me. Right next to me. And the seats are quite cramped.
I just hold the Nutrigrain bar towards him.
I have never experienced a look before that says, all at once, the following: "What the fuck man...? What's your deal?"
That's what he communicated. Without saying a word.
Articulate guy.
I mutter something about just checking to see if he wanted some.

The best part of this practice?
(and it has happened) When she accepts.

Training Day

I've wanted to mention this for a few days now.
Last week. Driving range is done.
I'm appropriately satisfied and sweat-glisteny (even from the driving range, yes).
Peter (edit: Colin) and I walk into Tim Horton's.
I order, and this 15-year old guy starts getting my coffee for me.
As he should be.
His nametag says that he is 'in training.'
I briefly consider asking him how the new job is, but then discard the idea.
Then a second kid, same age, walks by. He's also in training.
So now I have to ask.
"So, how's the new job fellas?"
You had to be there, but the first one, he goes immediately stone-faced, looks me in the eye, and says with a slight shake of his head, "It fuckin' sucks, man."
It's the combination of his age, and the situation. I can tell it's his first job and I can see that it fuckin' sucks.
And the sheer earnesty. The frankness of it.
It was beautiful.
I still laugh every time I think of it.

I Was First

Sarah Turpin is 25 today.
I still have to mail her a gift.
She's far away. But when I'm on the phone with her she sounds close by.
Her mom doesn't like me, apparently.
Who knew?

On Porpoise

Would we still differentiate between dolphins and porpi if the porpi would do our little tricks in water parks?
It's the only aspect that seperates the two animals, really.
Human subordination.
Of course, the dolphins are doing it for the mackerel. Not the trainers.
Apparently they have different arrangements of teeth as well.
The porpi. Not the trainers.
Well, the trainers as well.
Did I leave the stove on...?

edit: 'Porpi' is not plural for porpoise. And they probably do perform our tricks in parks. Because who doesn't enjoy swallowing a mackerel or two from time to time?

Silent as the Grave

Seriously.
http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/reuters/070917/odds/odd_autopsy_dc

I hope the wife hadn't eaten. Because if not, after she picked up her alive husband, they could celebrate his being alive with a light dinner.
Or heavy dinner.
I hear cheating death works up quite the voracious appetite.
Ditto for mourning.

Or Boozapalooza

I'm in the bathroom (the springboard for all of my most engaging stories).
I decide that someday I'd like to approach a urinal, unzip, unsheath (sorry) and then exclaim in that hushed, whispery sort of shout, "What in the fuck is that?!"
I need to wait for the right moment, though.
Maybe the next time I'm in a stadium.
Notice how most stadiums are 'centres' now?

It's The Not That Counts

I'm sitting here.
I've been doing a fair amount of facefucking from the library these days due to staggering amounts of time between classes that I refuse to pass with actual school work.
Because I'm daft.
Yesterday. I have the option to hand in a paragraph (yes. Paragraph. That's about six sentences) for my Canadian class. But I cannot remember the parameters for what the paragraph should entail because I can't find my sylabus for the course.
In fact, I'm just missing one page. The page with the information. It's a two-page document, I'm sans necessary piece.
Of course I am.
I have an uncanny knack for having every piece of parchment that I've encountered in a two-month period stuffed into my clipboard, except for the single sheet that I need more than oxygen.
I wrote a group member's e-mail adress amongst my notes on the day I learned about Caesar crossing the Rubicon? Page 4? That's the only page I will be unable to find when it comes time to e-mail my group member to ask him when our assignment is due, and should we maybe get together.
So, it happens yesterday. Can't find this sheet.
Today, I come into the library, sit at the (very public) computer, and, after a few minutes, notice that the sylabus sheet is a few inches from me. On the (very public) desk.
Where I left it.
I don't do well with Ruebens, either.

This Is Not For You

It's for me. This is not some skewed version of bragging rights.
I just forget which bands I have seen and not seen. I will eventually lose ticket stubs. They can only perpetuate in my wallet for so long.
I spill liquids on myself.
The internet, though. That is forever.
I saw these people play their instruments:

• Metric
• Hey Rosetta!
• Queens of the Stone Age
• Nine Inch Nails
• Alexisonfire
• Cancer Bats
• Deftones
• Thursday
• Atreyu
• Hawksley Workman
• Drive-By Punch
• The Fullblast
• About 20 seconds (no joke) of K-os
• Big Sugar (this is a story)
• Great Big Sea
• Thrice
• No Use For A Name
• My Chemical Romance
• MxPx
• Reliant K
• Silverstein
• Grand Theft Bus
• Wintersleep
• Jimmy Swift Band
• Lungie
• The White Stripes
• The Novaks
• Snoop Doggy Dogg
• Rufio
• The Tea Party
• The Moffats
• Tom Cochrane
• Stars

This will be added to when I find the energy to add to it.
Not a bragging thing. That would be lame.
Which I will never be.
Not with a cool band list like this.

Should I link all of these? That seems like a lot of work...

Powder

My brother wants the 80's back.
The decade you experience puberty in. That's your favourite decade.
It's science, people.
Science I just postulated (intending to use this word more often. I am back in school).
The 90's has the best music. Everyone wore plaid. No one gave a fuck.
A great time in history.



Metric was deadly. Tracey Brown took fantastic pictures.
Emily Haines once said that she wished she was a sound. She has obviously not paid close enough attention to herself while wearing a backless dress.
Gwen Stefani would have agreed with the sound theorem at one point, but that would be back in my favourite decade. Before she started classifying herself as a sheep.
Development of pubic hair is a right of passage for guys, by the way.
They brag about it. To their hairless friends.

Wet Blanket

Tonight I see Metric. I'm lucky I didn't forget about the show.
I thought it was 'next week sometime' as of this morning (afternoon).
I really have no one to go with besides outside groups I have to invite myself into.
Da b'ys are right for once. I need a girlfriend.
Besides, I need someone to work out all of my whack-fuck kinks, which are becoming far more pronounced, despite my brother's skepticism.

Plus A Few

The Rest

Alamo

It is to be our last day together.

It is to involve more walking than I am accustomed to.

I go to her door.

I want to live downtown some day. I have a surprising passion for walking. This has developed after years of not having access to a car. In Banff I had access to Antoine, who I treated as a car. A car wearing pants. So jolly.

He never gets impatient. Except with me.

Alright, I'm back.

I ask Marie if she has ever been hollered at by men from a moving vehicle. Turpin has this happen almost daily. I wonder what they holler. If I was driving past Turpin and felt so overwhelmed as to shout a comment at her I would likely utter, "You're lookin' pretty average. Want to give me directions?" Then I would continue driving. Until I reached Millfox. Then I would turn around.

She is fairly certain she has experienced drive-by harassment.

I tell her that I wouldn't mind if a woman adled me in said fashion.

Because women don't holler. And I have self-esteem issues. I think it would put a spring to my step.

You're hot. Walking by yourself. Perhaps you're running errands. Carrying something without handles. It's a tedious day. And then:

"I'd like to get me some of that ass!" Or, "Turn around, let me see the front!" Accompanied by honking.

I'd appreciate their letting me know. That they want some of that.

Ass.

Marie tells me she will holler some day. I look forward to it.

We go to Fred's. I told her at the beginning of the week that I had never been there before. As soon as we enter I tell her that I had been mistaken, forgetting a first of my life once again.

I'll remember bits and pieces of my first-born's birth. He or she will likely be born somewhere fucked up. In front of a lotto booth in a mall somewhere.

In Dakota. I don't know why Dakota.

It will be hard to forget that. But I bet my wife will have to continually remind me that she was there, too.

Temptation to splurge grows strong and we quickly leave.

We go to Hempire. It is not as I expect it to be. It's more mature, somehow.

Continuing our flask hunt, we go to an antique shop (forgotten the name, sorry).
Marie asks some preliminaries and gets little in the way of results, sadly. We browse. I feel obliged to do so out of politeness. I feel very strongly that neither of us should be in there.

I am attentive to every step.
"We'd better go," Marie suggests.

She practically tiptoes to the door. I focus on nothing but her satchel, and its potential collision with the various teacup knicknacks that choke the place.

She exits stage right to find a bathroom. I stand on Duckworth.

You know the sounds associated with (stereotypical) Indians before political corectness became trendy? "Woo woo woo?" Hand over the mouth?

I hear that. I turn, and I see Jennah Turpin. She has the same headphones as me.

I am confused.

She asks what I am doing. I tell her I am waiting outside of the restaurant in case a pretty girl comes out of it. I am trying to be cute, you see.

The three of us have conversation that is only a tiny bit forced. Until Jenny Gear shows up.

She brags about getting knocked up and then moves on.

Behold my mighty womb!

Anyway, Jennah leaves, with feeble mentions of Christmas.

Marie tells me that she is very attentive to hands. How they look. How they are shaped.

She mentions that she thinks mine are nice and I immediately stumble on a sidewalk crack. I clumsily recover. Physically, that is.

Because sometimes, just sometimes, I am Jack Tripper.

She is bringing a salad to a potluck. Spinach.

I know how to make a pretty deadly spinach salad these days. Side note.

I drive us to Sobey's (liquor store attached). We explore the endless options for buying feta.

We compare almond prices.

I dwell on how bored I will be once she leaves.

I say nothing.

Her salad ingrediants cost more than she expects. She buys a ticket for something while at the til.

She confuses which part she is to give to the cashier. But only briefly.
"I guess you would want the part with my name and address on it..."

They would, yes.

We forget that she wants wine as well.

I drop her off.

I can't remember the interim.

We meet up again at the potluck. I try to be as charming as I can, but it is difficult because I have to be at work in a matter of hours. Midnight.
She is going to watch Mark Bragg. I want to go as well. I want to quit my job. I want to no-show.

I meet someone named Hans. He looks more threatening than he sounds.

Marie brushes her teeth. I pay attention.

I drive she and I to The Ship.

The people around us are the sort I wish to be around more often.

I get her beer.

I run into a fellow performer from The Victory. He compliments. I file.

A person starts to sing. I cannot remember her name (terribly sorry, whoever you are).

We shout things back and forth. My brain can feel the heat of convection ovens.

It is time to go.

We part. It looks like this:

I'm still waiting for Christmas.

But then, I'm always waiting for Christmas.
It is when I get to see Jennah Turpin.

I walk away and try not to feel sad.

I open my car door and think to myself that I miss her already.

I put on deoderant.

I go to work.

Comic Relief

It's a general rule of mine. I have very few. I abide by this one.
If one person watches you do standup, they will not laugh. Well, I shouldn't say that. But they will laugh less.
Crying is private. Laughter is social. Other people need to be around. When did you last laugh out loud by yourself?
People are admitted for less.
I am to have a satisfying night at The Victory in a few days, but Marie will not be there. She will be on a bus, or a plane, or she will be in a bathroom. She will not be at The Victory.
I've never done this before. I doubt I ever will again.
But she's been paying for everything during the past week, so...
We drive to Bowering Park. She tells me a story about losing an ear bud foam thingy. I tell her a story involving an ex-girlfriend and the swans in front of us.
There are ruffians on the tennis court. It is too dark to play tennis.
Aside: Playing tennis when it is too dark to play tennis is unwise. Ditto for frisbee.
We find a nook. Gnoll.
I concentrate and organize myself. It looks as sexual as one would assume:

Notice the coffee stain on the crotch, if you can pick it out.
"That's a big one," I say immediately after saturating the area of my pants that (shamefully) hides my genitalia.
She laughs. But not as much as she would have in a crowd.
Thirteen hours we spend together. I can barely stand myself for thirteen hours. After being awake for eight or so I start avoiding mirrors. And still lakes.

New Post

If you start a post on this site, save it, and leave it, it will post on the date started, no matter when it is that you eventually finish it.
I do not like this aspect of the site.
Also, inserting pictures fucks up spacing sometimes. You have to hit 'delete' a lot.
It's not very long or interessting, but it does have pictures. It's not far from the top, but I dont' want it falling by the wayside.
That's always a sob story.

Then I Learned About The Montreal Peace Treaty of 1701

I thought the following things while waiting for class to start today:

• Do lesbians appreciate cleavage, too? How does that work? Are they distracted by it like men are? Because they have breasts already. Maybe it's more of a vagina thing for lesbians. Would lesbians have difficulties removing bras? Does the physics dynamic make removal more difficult?
• Maybe everyone still remembers Napoleon because of the hat.
• People should have more sex in the morning. Boners are more prevalent in the morning.
• Track pants are pajamas with a racing stripe.
• I'd hate to choke to death in a restaurant. Not only am I dead because of a broccoli stem, but I've ruined a potentially lovely dinner for many people. Especially if it is a weekend. And if it's a summer month, quite possibly an anniversary or two.

No Sex, More Fowl

I'm going to keep birdseed in my car.
This is going to iritate my brother immensely. We will argue.
I want to feed the Burton's Pond ducks regularly. I like them more than most of the students, I've decided.
Here they are out for a stroll:



Bread crumbs makes them bloated and farty, apparently.
"The weird guy who's always feeding the ducks" is a title I could get used to.
They are a remarkably relaxing animal.
So much more laid back than cranes.

Well, Almost All of It

I got drunk last weekend.

Here are some pictures:

Here I am making a mockery of cleanliness (and balance):

Someone bought pizza.
I end up at Shandera's (I'm trying to initiate a threesome between his fiance and I. And him. This is not a secret).
I wake up.
This has never happened before.
I forget that I had a flask of whiskey the night prior.
My first thought of the day (I swear) is this: "Jesus, why do I feel so shitty?!"
Then it all comes back.
I almost vomit that morning. I tell the cat (the black one) to "Get da fuck, cat," while I wait, spitting into the toilet occaisonally.
Dodged bullet. But let's be clear; I do not feel well.
I pull on my shirt, and say while doing so, "This shirt smells terrible."
"Do you have any idea how much booze you spilled on that shirt?" Shandera asks, surprised.
I had, in fact, forgotten that as well.
I was rather sloshy with my drinks. Over-gesturing.
Over-swirling.

Midsex Snack

I had a sexual dream about a former co-worker a few nights ago. I only worked with her for about a week or so. I didn't even think I was attracted to her.
Maybe I'm even lowering my standards while unconcious...
Anyway, we are undressing. We are about to 'get down', as they call it.
Suddenly, I'm in a corner store, buying a pizza sub.
I panic, leave, and rush back to the sex house.
She asks, "Where were you?" She no longer wants to have sex with me.
Me: "I don't know what it means, but it must mean something."
Hoskins: "It means you need to stop eating pizza subs and get back on vagina."
If I'm visiting and he's ready to go to sleep he'll say, "I'm going to bed now. Get out."
I'll say: "Your flesh is flithy and people shouldn't touch you."
He: "Your penis is flacid. You will die alone."
Me: "Fuck you."
He: "Fuck you. Goodbye forever."
Then I drive home.
This is our entire relationship. It's strangely refreshing. Despite knowing him for over a year now, I still cannot pinpoint why.
Have you ever had a close friend that you have to put absolutely no effort into being friendly towards?

Musique

I bob around a lot when I'm listening to music in public (which is always).

...I'm okay with that.

Last Man. Last Continue.

She shows me some of her greeting cards. I find them pleasantly intimidating.

I ask for one 'some day.'

We talk about nicknames and title variations. She enjoys emparting them on others. I've been guilty of the same from time to time (Ern, if you're out there...).

"I've been Bouge, Anne, Annie..."

"Anyone ever call you Marie?"

"...I don't think so."

Marie puts on the socks.

What are 'the socks' you ask?

Okay?
I have seen countless pictures of these entities before ever meeting my Kippens missus.
They're thicker in person than I expect.

She decides she wants a videogame lesson.
I ask several times if she is sure about this. I do the same thing the first time I have sex with a person. Consent is very important in this workaday world.
I am a remarkable nerd, I warn her.
Any guy would say this.
She assumes that I am embarassed and am therefore cushioning before we start.
I sense this.
I am not embarassed. My nerdiness is tantamount. Most guys buy Halo and Grand Theft Auto. I know the current stock particulars for Capcom (five-year high). I know where development studios are located. I know who Hideo Kojima is. Video game money paid for those nice frames he's wearing.
To be fair, I did want to write on this stuff for a living.
Which isn't a defense so much as it is further evidence...
She does not want to see this. She merely does not realize it. But I do.
This is her holding the 360 controller:
She wonders if I want to play video games with her. Perhaps I don't, she muses.
Yeah right.
I tell her that I am not about to pass up an oppurunity to sit around with a female and play video games.
They don't line up at your door on Saturdays, know what I mean?
I play the demo for EA's skate. This game is going to be remarkable.
High.
I get into detail about the intricacies of the game and what it is that makes it brilliant.
I soon say, "I'm not sure videogames are such a good idea."
She immediately agrees.
We (I) stop playing.
We do not mention the event again.

Boot or Hip?

She wants a flask.
Toronto will be cold. She intends to take it with her everywhere.
I want to be a part of the selection process. I conjecture that we should flask browse.
I have never seen a carpenter outside of people's basements. Sorry. Interupting myself. There's one beside me on a stalk of grass*. I know mainlanders call carpenters something else, but I can't remember the stupid term they use. I'd link it, but...again...don't know the rest-of-the-world word for them.
We end up at Things Engraved in the Avalon Mall.
We peruse. She decides to engrave it (if it's not too costly). She allows me to choose the inscription. I take this seriously immediately.
I suggest "Dick's". I wonder aloud if they will charge for the apostrophe.
Marie says that such a word on her flask may raise too many questions.
I'm still trying to think of something; to this day. I've given some suggestions. That's it.
We see nothing special, but Marie decides to inquire the engraving cost.
There is a woman in front of us. She has a two-toned silver stein. She wants three. There is only one.
The counter/victim is trying skus. None are working properly. None are listed in the inventory. Besides the one on the counter, of course.
We wait.
Counter checks printed inventory lists. I cannot remember counter's name. Wendy, maybe?
Wendy (?) volunteers to call The Village.
"Please."
We wait. I don't know why we wait for so long to get this answer.
Dials. Pause.
Wendy (?) sounds so miserably bored and defeated.
Wendy (?): "...Barb? This is Wendy over to The Mall."
It is injected with so much Newfoundland that it strikes us as funny. We comment on it as soon as we leave.
You had to be there, I know. But I had to write it anyway.
Deal.
$0.60 per letter.

*please keep in mind that I wrote this post by a pond. outside. if you're curious but not curious enough to look it up yourself: http://acadiascreech.blogspot.com/2007/09/tall-grass.html

A Children's Song Was Written About It*

She uses my toothbrush and it is no big thing.
Germaphobia is a waste of time.
This occasion she uses her own. She just has to find it first. She retrieves it after much rummaging in her satchel. She presents it. A little triumphantly, if I'm remembering right. We all know how often that happens.
Her teeth are mesmerizingly white.
The toothbrush is loose at the bottom of the satchel.
I catch her just in time to pick the fuzzies from the bristles before she puts on the paste.
I am more charmed by this than anything else during her visit.
We brush together.
We push and shove and fuck around. She has toothpaste on her shirt before we finish. She wets it and says, "Toothpaste comes out as long as you get water on it right away."
She rinses.
She has wet spots polka-dotting her shirt.
I repress.

*can anyone tell me who wrote the song? it's killing me. 'I brush my teeth/che-che-che-che' (these are the brushing noises. you make them while doing the tooth brushing motions). they say you're supposed to brush in circles. otherwise you're wasting your time.

Silversun Pickups and I can't remember the other

It's already paid for. So is the printer. She just needs to pick it up.
It is Marie's very first laptop. A nice man named Gerald sold it to her.
We arrive at Future Shop.
We are told that her laptop is "Just coming off the bench". We eventually get a glimpse of the bench through a doorway, but we cannot take a picture of it because we have no batteries.
It doesn't occur to us to buy some...in Future Shop.
The fellow helping us (not Gerald) soon ignores us for a customer who still contains a potential for comission.
We browse.
I rub a copy of Bioshock on my face.
We examine CDs. 3 for $25. Good deal. We initially decide to split them. We end up getting three each. Every rack we randomly encounter contains a new batty of CDs to choose from. Under the same promotion.
Marie curses each time we hit new selections. Because she has to start over. Or, she says "goodness!" She says "goodness" often. And "heavens!"
I enjoy it when she exclaims things.
We each have Regina Spektor's Begin to Hope. We are similar individuals.
Tool's Lateralus and The Mars Volta's Amputechture.
I carry the printer. I concentrate on not dropping it.

Start Buying Handguns

Because they've found a cure for death:
http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/capress/070910/national/vitamin_d_live_longer*
This is the tagline:
Hidden inside this remarkable 'sunshine nutrient' is the secret to beating death, experts say.
I'd like to meet these guys. These experts.
How could I not read that?
Of course, I couldn't read much of it.
I guess goldfish sales will go down, now.
Why bother buying one for your child so that they can learn what dying is all about?
There's a way to beat it now.
Through whole eggs and fortified margarine.

*link's fucked

Idling

I am in a library. A large one.
I was late this morning. When a procrastinator shares a car, it is a considerable deterrent from even bothering to try.
I snooze. My cell phone has a five minute snooze. This is an insufficient amount of time.
Ideally, you want your snooze to be between 8 and 12 minutes. Less than that and you feel unfilfilled. More than that and you are too asleep. Dreams start to surface and take shape, and you'll just start to get into the plot. Of the dream.
I prepare myself. I forget that I have to collect the car from the CONA parking lot. To reach this parking lot it takes ten minutes.
I do not have my backpack. I assume it is in the car which is in the parking lot (and the bog down in the valley-oh).
I begin walking. About three minutes.
I go back to get coffee change and nutrigrain bars.
I begin walking again.
CONA requires a much larger parking lot.
My backpack is not in the car.
So much for handing in that loan info today.
I have one pen. That's it.
I park where I'm not supposed to.
I remove from a bulletin board a posting some math tutor put up.
I write notes on the back of it.
I leave.
I remove the parking ticket from my windshield.
I park more discreetly.
I have awkward conversation with an ex-girlfriend friend.
I talk to Tracey and Aaron (he invented bluekaffee. He is smart).
I talk to Martin. I tell her that I need deoderant. She agrees that it is probably a good idea. Because I have no classroom friends yet.
I'm not really looking for them.
Hippies don't wear deoderant.
I buy coffee number two. I spill coffee over my hand.
Coffee is hot.
All men dress the same.
My sock choices make sense, really.

This Will Be a Pick-Me Up For Weeks

...and Smell the Coffee

Because my mother will kill me. If I do not take care of this today.
I need a loan. My first ever.
I am lucky compared to most, I have come to realize.
Deadlines are my kryptonite. My mother knows this.
I was born two weeks late.
I need this loan.
I hate filling out applications.
Marie and I discuss our shared distate for them (we enter incorrect information, we invariably always need a second form after the first is ruined. We spill coffee on them.) as we are en route.
I need only drop off a signed form.
Marie is effectively my blind seeing-eye dog on this excursion.
She is very unbothered by the fact that part of our day together involves a visit to a loan office.
We enter the building.
Many, many people are sitting.
There is a "please take a number" device.
I do not like these devices. I do not like taking a number unless I am buying a loaf of sour dough, or beef in waxed paper.
Behold my mighty jaws!
Anyway, everyone is waiting with their numbers.
There is a 'drop box'. I do not trust drop boxes.
My laughable, non-existent luck demands I not trust drop boxes.
I place my form in there and the building will end up burning down overnight.
Or, someone steals the drop box because they desperately need SIN numbers for some scam they're running.
A week from now I get picked up in Mt. Pearl for extortion.
Fuck that.
Marie has run into someone she knows. She is engaged in chitchat.
I sympathize, but lose interest.
I observe everyone.
"It's like a doctor's office, but no one is sick," I say audibly.
In stuffy places like this people have no sense of humour.
I am introduced to Anne-Marie's friend.
Clearly, I forget his name. Sorry buddy.
I offer a greeting and immediately ask him if I'd be safe dropping my form in the drop box.
He seems optimistic. But then, he's just met me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see. I can tell.
The whole room is eavesdropping.
I turn to everyone: "What do you guys think? Can this form go in the drop box?
Should I give it to someone at the counter?"
I used to love doing public interactions like this.
Somewhere along the cart path I stopped.
Sarah Turpin reminded me that I used to love doing it.
A fellow answering loan questions takes the form for me.
I like the man because of this.
We leave.
"Why is your trunk open?" Marie asks.
I have no idea why. I do not know how long it has been open.
I close the trunk. We leave.

The Tall Grass

I am by a pond. I am writing outside today.
I feel that my "oneness with nature" experimentation should continue before winter happens and I go back to embracing my general distaste and distrust for nature.
Perhaps I just feel like writing on my clipboard.
I only have one piece of loose leaf, and I somehow managed to get apple pie filling on it.
I have a cavity. I feel like divorcing my teeth more and more lately.
It's a facefuck story, I know. I won't do it again, I hope.
Bussey sends me the message. I think I am the only recipient. He's advertising a party Miranda is throwing because she is going to live in some place I wouldn't live in.
I say this:

can i have some of this exotic cheese? land line might take a while to get. you know i'm in. tell miranda to invite single friends, though. i'm dying. the girlfriends need friends. i'll likely give you a call while on campus tomorrow. warford

I send this to several people (single friends included) who are going to the party. Inadvertantly. I have no idea I have done so.

Peter says this:
Thanks for sending that to everyone.... That's why there is a "I don't like paul warford and never did group". jerk.

Butler says this:
Warford b'y, you're a tit.

Shandera says this:
Warford you're a dumbass!

I now assume Bussey sent the message to 'da b'ys', and I simply had not noticed. I still do not bother to check the recipient list.
I think to myself, "Jesus, the guys are really giving me a hard time for this slip-up."
It is days before Shandera fills me in.
I'm dying.
And I'd told Marie I hadn't done "anything stupid lately."

I think it's going to rain. I hope it rains.
I smell no smog.
I do not want to leave here again.
Damned lower-scale economy.

Cajun Cream

I tell Anne-Marie that she is a guinea pig.
She does not mind.
See, I firmly believe that cooking is a new avenue through which I can get laid.
So, I cook her salmon and ask her if it is impressive.
Marie says that the she in question should be impressed.
She thinks it rugged that I skin the filet first.
She considers it 'neat' that I thaw things.
I always thought that it was normal to thaw things.
She compliments the strawberry clock on my wall.
I explain that it was there when I moved in.
She suggests I take it to hang wherever I live from now on.
It's stuck on 6:28.
We had discussed when it is that kitsch starts to become charming on the ferry crossing home (Pepsi machine).
I'd say at about age 22.
She washes the dishes.
The clock is in my new apartment.
I hope future girlfriends find kitsch charming.
I hope there are future girlfriends...

It's easy as hell.

Paul's Flirtation Salmon:

Thaw salmon filet.
Skin salmon filet (in front of her).
Heat a decent amount of oil (but not too much) in a pan to a medium temperature.
Roll filet in cajun seasoning and place in hot oil.
Wait.
When seasoning is black, flip & kill the heat (oil should be hot enough to blacken the other side. This way you won't fuck up and burn her food).
In a seperate pan, heat whipping cream while adding a spoonful or two of cajun seasoning.
Reduce.
Plate on lettuce, if you have it. Add cream sauce.
Serve.
Undress.

Some Gulls Came, Too

Why is she held in such high acclaim?

The croissant does not even phase her. It is rock hard. I have no idea how long it has been there.

In my defense, I'm never on the passenger side of my car.
She finds it funny when I ask her to please not "throw out that can" on the floor mat because it is "special". But she does not find it strange.

The can is still in the car.

For some time I have wanted to feed the ducks residing on and around Burton's Pond.

Here is Marie with the bird seed:

We also buy Reese's Pieces. I explain that we have to eat them outside of the apartment, so as to avoid homicide.
These are still in my car as well.

Birds like bird seed a lot.
We are a hit.
She offers me her sweater.
No, it doesn't bother me that it is pink. But I figure that I do not need it.
After going back to the car to get the sweater, we get down to business.
Within minutes there are birds everywhere.
Ducks are not as friendly towards one another as DuckTales would have you believe.

Marie controls pigeons. I do as well. Actually, maybe pigeons are pushovers.
She tells me about convincing welders to do wrist exercises, and what happens when a car is towed.
Boyfriends get impatient. That's what happens.

Hodi!

It is Thursday.
Anne-Marie are going to get together and tolerate one another. 
This time I'm supposed to cook up the afternoon's activities.
I have been adding wayward ideas to kitchen prep lists since Tuesday.
Here are some things we did not do:

• buy/make a kite and fly it.
• get lost on purpose (particularly risky for us. I could see the Coast Guard somehow being involved in this one).
• advertise something in the Buy & Sell.
• Tourists for a day. Straw hats and fanny packs. Brochures stuffed in our pockets.
• A dog-petting lesson for Marie (I'm not clarifying).

Marie did, however, almost kill my roommate.
And we went to a loan office.
Because I know how to show a girl a good time.

"Dance at the Post Office, B'ys!"

You know how some people snort when they laugh uproariously? The sudden intake of air, that's what does it. Well, Marie makes this suction noice with her cheek.
She admits it to me (whilst laughing) that her face sometimes emits this obnoxious noise. I vow to get it out of her. I soon do.

After paying for my food, Marie and I decide to leave Dick's and breathe in some Bell Island.

It is dark. Lighting is shockingly sparse.

Roads are narrow, and all look the same.

We meander.

We encounter a very large building and turn around in its parking lot. It is the same colour as the post office in my hometown, so I speculate that it is the Bell Isle post office.

I have a habit of sometimes asserting things I know nothing about. It is a trait I have inherited from my father.

My father is rarely wrong.

I am rarely wrong.

I am wrong.

Marie points out that the Bell Island post office would probably not be two stories, and that it is more likely a school.

Marie's such a know-it-all.

We wander more. It's not getting any lighter outside.

We pass the actual post office. It is the approximate size of a shanty, or lean-to.

We encounter an establishment that looks open.

It is a curling club.

We decide to get a drink and rub elbows with the locals.

I desperately want batteries for the camera. We still have none. We see no electronic kiosks to buy more from. I hope to get batteries from a TV remote inside, or perhaps a clock of some sort.

The bar contains three men. Please keep in mind how strange we must look to the patrons.

"What did missus have in her hair?"

It is a small-town bar. Ever been to a small town? Go in a bar? You've been here, then. The Mariner? Same thing.

There are indescernible sports jersies and past Bell Isle victories lightly dusted behind glass.

We sit at the bar.

We order Black Horse.

They take an imediate, friendly interest in us.

We tell them where we are from.

Black Horse isn't even that bad.
They ask why we are on the island.

I lie instantly and tell them we are in the midst of our two-year anniversary, and we've always wanted to see the island.

No one reacts. They likely do not buy the story.

I'm in my first year of university. I'm on the phone with my mother. The lovely Nadine Wood

walks into the room. I tell my mom that my girlfriend just walked in. Nad laughs and leaves. I say to my mother, "She's not really my girlfriend."
"I know," she replies.
Mothers know best.

I ask the bartender if he has AA batteries that I could quickly borrow.
He looks very thoroughly through cupboards and on countertops. He opens a drawer and says, "I have tea bags."
Of course he does. He eventually quits his (legitimate) search. I feel bad for lying.
We finish our bold, Newfoundland ales with its crisp finish, and leave.
We find a lighthouse. Out on Lighthouse Road.
We walk the cliffs.
I act like I am not terrified.
Death is the worst, but heights are up there (unintentional pun).
I am terrified.
She tells me of her first driving 'incident'. It was her fault.
She tells me about her dad.
The view is vast and comforting.
We look at it.

Many people were late for work the day we visit.
500 people leave the island by ferry every day to work in St. John's.
In Bell Isle's 2006 census there was an approximate 2800 inhabitants. It was once 16,000. Its mine once employed 2300 men.
People would ferry over from St. John's to shop.
"We had three theatres. St. John's only had two."
The bartender was once a teacher.
33 years.
He said his experiences could fill three books.
One of the patrons (Gary, or Rod) was a former student of his.
...and I'll get summers off.

Our drive home is quiet. We are tired.

Back in Business

The first class I am not late for. Military History. I even have time to get coffee.
I have a crush on this professor, for anyone keeping tabs.
I am outside of the classroom door. People are seated inside.
Me: "Are you afraid to go into rooms with groups of people in them, too?"
Random girl in my class: "Actually, I'm just waiting for someone."
Me: "Well, I guess that comment wasn't necessary, was it?"


It is my second day of class. I have eaten two nutrigrain bars and have had as many 12 oz. (too small) cups of coffee.
I have a three and a half hour break before my next class, and a sober desire to not waste gasoline, and so I hit the library to do some on-paper post writing (yes, i try to produce for you, the audience, even while oot and aboot).
I'm sitting across from a first or second year fellow. His sense of style is strong. He looks relatively lax. Actually, now that I think about it, he looks as though he is having as good a day as I am having.
This petite blonde young'en approaches him. I have my headphones on. I am listening to Metric, for those curious. I can tell by her mannerisms that she is in love with this guy.
She leaves.
I get up. I ask the younger fellow if he sees anyone stealing my stuff, if he could please...stop them. I ask people this frequently when in school. I asked a girl in my Canadian History class the same thing the previous morning.
He's on it.
I begin to walk off, but I turn and say, "Oh. And I think she likes you."
I feel immediately good for saying so.
She was totally into him.

I'd been to Fred's before

I've been listening to a lot of Regina Spektor and Daft Punk over the past few days.
Although Tracey introduced me to the fair Russian damsel, I have been listening to her a great deal because of a Kippens damsel.
This one:

I will finally, finally have more on her visit tomorrow. I am becoming sleepy, and she deserves the zenith of my wit.
My cunning.
She described handing in university papers to me and the similarities were absolutely unnerving.
It's my first day of school in the morning. I am about to remove the apron from my backpack, and put my clipboard in there.

For Par

I'm not even joking.
I know that it would likely seem, after my saying "I'm a natural golfer", that I would be joking.
I got par on a hole. Aparantly that doesn't happen the first time that you hit the links.
Why do they call them links? I can't understand that.
Topless picture to the first person to tell me.
I was outrightly disturbed and unsettled at how much fun I had.

Which is why I went again a few days later.
It is 11 in the morning. I am awake, despite being awake until 5 in the morning some hours prior.
Due to Bioshock. Going to get game of the year. Mark my words. And the words of thousands of other shmucks.
My parents are to come into St. John's because my brother and I have to move from our upstairs apartment to the downstairs apartment in the same house.
My brother is very passionate about seclusion.
I move my entire room by myself rather than waiting for them to get here.
Because our tee time is 2:57. And I do not want my mother to attempt to stop me from golfing.
So, I move an entire bedroom in the span of two hours on my own.
There is a dresser. And a shelf. All that is left at the end is my bed.
That sticky tac shit that I use to paste photos to my wall? I'm scraping it off with a butter knife.
I just want to play golf that desperately.
My parents show as I finish moving our frozen goods. They start as Peter shows up.
I make us late.

Winds are 30km/h, gusting to 50.
There are few people on the links on this particular day.

My thoughts on golf, if you're waiting for them:
It makes me sweaty enough, and stiff enough to be considered a sport.
However, we choose to walk, and my first round is on a very hot day.
If you golf with a cart, and it's overcast outside, the game qualifies as a passtime, at best.
Alcohol is allowed on the course.
Come on.
As a general rule, sports will restrict the consumption of alcohol to spectators rather than participants.

Shandera calls it "whack-fuck" because that's what he says when he plays. My brother laughs every time I use the term.

It's the only instance I have encountered in which a light (or 'lite') beer is the better avenue. Because a heavier beer would make you bloaty during your drives, and you don't want to get too tipsy before the last few holes.
The eighth is a doozy, and the ninth is a real bastard.
Peter usually throws a club on the ninth.

I once finished a round of sex with a girl, and immediately said "That was a doozy" afterwards.
I may and will say random things after intercourse. I feel obliged to be immediately entertaining because the girl in question has to put up with my feeble lovemaking attempts.
And she didn't know what 'doozy' meant. So, naked, hovering over her, somewhat sweaty, I explain the expression to her.

If you have someone shooting in front of you, you're supposed to lean on your club and look impatient as you wait.
Because that is what all of our predecessors do. ...Our golf predecessors.

I have meant to exercise a little. And I have been trying to at least run into nature in passing, from time to time.
I am lining up a putt, with my cheek to the green, and I have my three idiot childhood friends cursing and mocking in a circle around me.
I am laying on the ground. It's manicured, but it's very real.
And I decide that golf isn't so bad.

Don't worry. I washed the butter knife.