The Sex and The Hound

I'm not late all of the time because I have poor time management, but instead I have poor space management.
I'm bad at occupying a given space (at a given time.)

Turns out I was good at spelling all along.

If our children have the technology to 'know' all things at all times, oh! When will they wonder?

My woman was restless, and I laid near as we waited for sleep to take (subdue) her. 
After a moment of silence, she cooed, "Ooo..."
"What is it, lover?"
"Oh, I'd just like us to have a little cafe together. I'd make apple cider donuts."
"Did you just think about this now?"
"No, I just had a nice dream about it."
She's exactly as wholesome while awake.

"You've never mentioned Gabby," she said the other day.
Which is true.
I've never mentioned Gabby, which, considering how many times I've watched her defecate, is surprising.
Gabby is a pet nose.
She is a showman's orphan.
Gabby is (probably) a Basset Hound that Andie adopted.
This came about after Gabby lost eight of her previous ten races on the circuit.
All Basset Hounds are midgets, did you know that?
It's true.
Basset Hounds are all, medically speaking, dwarfs.
In the human world, this shortcoming [intended] equates low cupboards and difficulty driving.
However, in the dog world, dwarfism begets one factor over all others:
Marketability.
Observe and agree:

Actually, perhaps both parties could make this claim.

Gabby hasn't landed any roles yet, but she certainly gains attention wherever she goes.
"Is that a Basset Hound!?"
"Awww! Look at his ears! He's so cute!"
The greater rush you're in, the more people notice her.
She really does look sad constantly.
Imagine giving a 3-year old an ice cream cone.
"There ya go, ruddiger."
And then imagine snatching it back, seconds later.
"Gimme that, ya scamp! Beat it!"
The face that would result from this is the one that she wears at all times.
You can sell anything with that.
I had this gag where I'd get Gabby to do impersonations.
"Gabby, let's go clean-cut tonight and give me your best Tom Hanks."
Pause.
"Flawless, as usual."
It's (barely) funny because her expression never alters.

THIS FARSIDE IS MISSING ITS CAPTION, BUT IT READS (PARAPHRASED):

THE MANY MOODS OF AN IRISH SETTER

 

I never pick up her feces.
Why should I?
She's never picked up mine.
One time I got high and left a by-the-slice pizza crust on the bedroom floor.
And to get away with eating it, she tried to swallow the entire thing whole, like a Boa Constrictor.
She didn't pull it off, though.
"What in the fuck is that noise?"
We took her camping in Wolfville.
This was the same trip, by the way, where Andie and I mistook a plastic bag for a porcupine.
It really looked like an animal. It was dark.
Andie got closer to it (I'm a sensible pussy and stayed behind her, thank you) and whispered, "I think it's a porcupine."
"Get back! Get over here, quick!" I exclaimed this because I could imagine us in Emerg., getting quills out of her snout and ass.
Camping trip over.
But it was a plastic bag.
Anyway, we suspect Gabby ate some bad s'mores because she became desperately sick a day after our return.
Taking no food. Taking no water. Vomiting.
Nothing good.
A day later I ultimately had no choice but to take her to the vet when she began, err, pooping blood.
I'm here to say that be it child or dog or whatever, if a loved one begins pooing blood, it's really scary.
So, she and I eyed the overpriced clinical food as we waited to get in to see the vet.
We entered the examination room with the young assistant, and Gabby immediately yakked on the floor.
A leaf came out of her.
And the assistant and I looked at the jaundiced pools and I wondered:
"Alright, what's the protocol here? Am I supposed to clean that?
Isn't that her job? Isn't she a nurse for dogs and cats?
Nurses handle the gross fluids, yes?"
It was uncomfortable.
I cleaned it up and we left a small amount for the doctor to check out.
Vet entered.
Flirtation flirtation description of symptoms.
Vet left.
The vet returned with an estimate of $300-$700 to make her normal.
Let me think about it.
Meanwhile, Gabby pooed more blood.
It's much more vivid indoors.
The vet returned, saw this, said, "This changes things somewhat," and left again.
Came back with an estimate amounting to twice as much as the first.
It was at this point that I decided, "The assistant can clean up this one."
They had to keep her overnight because too much stuff was coming out of her to keep her in a residence.
And so they could inject her with children's Aspirin, or whatever --
Oh! That reminds me.
Just because it says "Children's Tylenol" on the label, that doesn't mean children can take an indefinite number of them.
This should be obvious enough, I know, but I've recently learned that some parents just aren't reading the labels.
While you're at it, don't leave the Javex in an unmarked jar next to the milk.
Anyway, watching the vet lead Gabby away, I got choked up -- what of it!?
At the end of the day, no one wants their dog to die.
Their neighbor's dog, on the other hand...

Andie frequently asks me whether or not I love the dog.
This is an important and extremely relative question for her.
I'm not comfortable to say so one way or the other because the question seems just mildly bizarre (posed regularly, anyway.)
So, let me state here, before Blog and man alike:
I love the dog as far as I'm willing to love dogs.
Which is second base.
Goodnight, everybody!

Call Me 'Heff'

Written Friggin' Ages Ago: 

Really, I have so much to talk about.

Today's lesson is that when you're going to the fair and you're baffled by that, be thankful.

Andie and I brought nothing to a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by our most flamboyant friend.
There was nut loaf to eat and 'tofurkey' to avoid and people whose names I forget.
We all said what we were thankful for (I included "gangsta rap" in my list to seem less mushy.)
Then I worked on dessert while everyone talked about the Fall Fair.
And hark! How the dogs ran at the Fall Fair today!
You must go to the fair!
Which meant I must go to the fair, which we did the following day.
I kept thinking I'd be able to eat waffles there for some reason, and it would therefore be okay.
It was okay.
There weren't any waffles, but I ate a deep-fried Oreo that wasn't repulsive and I'm visualizing one in my hand right this minute and it's decadent.
There was indeed a dog show.
They caught frisbees and raced over hurdles.
The most entertaining dogs were those who were in it for the participation ribbons.
Those who were not really sure which way to go on the course, stepping over the occasional hurdle.
They were losing so terribly, but they weren't letting that ruin their day whatsoever.
I'd imagine that watching the Special Olympics would be similarly charming - well it would!

I was face to face with a cow's anus when the cow pooed and I think that will stay with me for a long time.
Like, the anus was right there and I looked at it right then, at that moment.
"Oh, it's another cow and his, oh, what's he doing?"
Like that.
Pretty mesmerizing.
The stables also housed the biggest horses and cows I'd ever seen.
The Clydesdale I could see in my memory, adorned giants at some other fair from some other time and age long since past.
Their height and strength were profound, and when they shuffled and reared in their stalls, I couldn't help but do the same out of mild fear.
Some of them were coloured obsidian and their manes were night as well.
Their tails were a tight bun like a samurai's knot, sprung from flanks that would make any man's bicep look ridiculous.
Even the smaller horses looked imposing and unstoppable, leaving me to think, "Yeah, I could see how 450 of you could equal a sports car."
But the heifers.
Get out and walk.*
I honestly, truly mean this at the age of 31 when I say I didn't think cows could be this big.
Like zambonis without the wheels. 
Blue ribbon bovines, every one of them.
The largest all seemed to be laying down.
So, perhaps reclining cows just look bigger than I realized.
More likely, however, is that they were so goddamn big they only use their legs when sleeping.
They just stay in one place and grass is fed to them.
Because they've earned it.
And the youngest farmhand has to root them around once a day with a canoe paddle so the cows don't develop sores.

No one taught these pricks at the table adjacent mine that public places aren't their home.

The petting zoo went without saying.
What a funny little pen to watch.
Animals wandering every which way, not really sure what to do with themselves, accompanied by toddlers in the exact same boat.
They had two donkeys, and I kept thinking:
"Too cramped. One of these burros is going to kick a kid in the face and it's not going to be as funny as I assume."
A little less AFV, a little more CSI.
Fortunately, no humans were harmed in the writing of this post.
Some of them definitely tried their best, though; tugging on this animal part and that animal part.
Rolling around in the sawdust.
I've never been one to fear germs, but one chip of wood from that floor contained more animal urine than every hamster cage in Nova Scotia combined.
Get your kid up off the floor.
It's great that they're enjoying themselves, but let's display a tiny bit of discipline here.
Andie was having a great time herself.
She'd bought a cup of grain and she was desperately trying to befriend a llama with it.
Desperately.
But, his other llama buddy ate it all instead.
The pigs careened around, ornery and confident, and I thought some kid was going to be upended at any second.
Then, the cowpoke made to attend the petting zoo entered with an ear of corn, saying, "Here. Here's your corn."
Though he didn't say it, I know he thought "fuckin' corn" in his head.
Andie hit this guy up for another cup of grain.
She fed some to a cow as I stroked its nose and it ate and ignored me.
Suddenly, she exclaimed, "He ate it all. He ate the paper! The whole cup is gone! What do we do?!"
To which I said, "Don't worry, he probably eats four or five of those per hour."
Four stomachs.
Still, we figured it was time to mozy.
On the way out, we patted the pony, which was the only fenced-off animal in the pen.
As we did so, the pony coughed, and this cough sounded like it could come from any adult male human.
It was really something.
It sounded so much like a person, you could almost hear the pony go, "Hrum! 'Scuse me" afterward.
Andie mentioned to the dude on the way out, "Um, we heard the pony coughing."
Arms crossed, leaned back, he responds, "I keep tellin' people not to feed him."
Yeah right, buddy. You didn't tell us that.
The paper cup was probably the highlight.
By now I've learned that if Andie reacts to something, it's best to just start taking pictures.

*"Get out and walk" is an expression that my brother Colin uses sometimes.
It's tough to translate, but it sort of means, "Put that in your pipe and smoke it," or "Whadya think of that?" Or...something.

It Is What It Ain't

Que Sera, Sera.

In bed, comparing proportions:
Me: Your hands aren't that impressive. My fingers are bigger than yours.
She: Yeah, you've got piano hands.
Me: Then why was I so shitty at piano as a kid?
She: You probably don't have piano wrists.
True.
And I didn't practice.

It is what it is, these days.
In the vain of "Whadya gonna do?" And, "M'eh, fuck it," this new expression has caught on as an all-encompassing dismissal for mailmen and crab fishermen alike.
As with most trends, I'm for and ag'in it.
Philosophically, is truly is what it is.
It couldn't be otherwise.
If a bridge collapses on you while driving to work, well, what else can your funeral buddies say about it?
It's a phrase borne of apathy and rationality alike.
Things must play out as they do, and history will repeat itself.
Politicians are corrupt, sadly. But politicians will be as they have been.
Purse snatchings will happen.
Concerts will sell out just as you reach the ticket wicket.
Countries with the strongest economies will win more golds at The Olympics.
Ultimately, it is better to accept things as they have come to be, and move on.
It's a softening of what is hard, these facts of life.
Let's just roll with it.
Truly, I think it's one of the more sensible doctrines that society has chewed upon for a while.
Although, it does hang in the air somewhat.
Only shitty things, as it turns out, are.
No one would claim something positive to be what it is.
It's not like you go on a flight, and while touching down the guy beside you celebrates the safe landing by unbuckling his seatbelt, standing hunched beneath his overhead compartment, bellowing, "It is what it is, guys!
Flight!"
No.
It only 'is' when coping.
When resolving to endure.
Simply, when things are bad.
And things shouldn't just be when  they're bad.
The expression, then, deviates from this beautiful concept of accepting the nature of things to something more bleak.
"It is what it is. Deal with it."
It's an acceptance of things being shitty before entertaining other possibilities.
It's the easy way out.
The philosophical tone of this uttering, which I've always liked most about it, ultimately proves to be a veneer.
People aren't really considering the fate of things when they say it.
On the contrary; they're dismissing the fate of things.
Philosophical thought wouldn't abide, "You can't fight what's shitty."
Instead, it would challenge this with the question:
Need it be shitty in the first place?
I'd like to think that the answer is 'no'.
Someone steals your car stereo cause that's how things are.
Your girlfriend's late.
This asshole just cut you off and you can hear your own cursing easily because you no longer have a stereo to drown yourself out with.
I wouldn't say, "It is what it is."
Things aren't too bad just because they're too bad.
Things are too bad because people refuse to be considerate of one another.
Racism. Sexism. Every 'ism' could be wiped clean with the right frame of mind.
So, instead, I would propose that, "It is as it is."
People are this way because they are this way.
But I would never concede that they are this way because they have to be.
Of course, no one will be using the expression in a year's time, so...
Whatever will be will be, I guess.

Can I Change My Answer?

Wax everything that grows hair.
It's Friday.

This happened.
So, the other day I'm heading to Ace for a Po'Boy because that's what a cool guy does.
I'm waiting for the light to change, standing beside a 40-something...whatever.
Man.
Meanwhile, another guy is approaching us as he crosses the street.
He's pushing a shopping cart.
Now, this isn't because he's down on his luck (like countless dudes seem to be in this city).
He's too young for that.
What instead seems more likely is that this person recently stole a shopping cart from an actual homeless person.
He's making eye contact with me and I already dislike him.
Not because of the eye contact -
"How dare you look upon me!" -
But because I can tell that this guy was a pain in the ass in high school.
He points at me while pushing/walking, and says, "Are you Jewish?"
So, I say, "Not today, buddy."
Then he points to the dude beside me and asks, "Are you Jewish?"
Suddenly, the light changes.
And as he begins crossing the street, he goes, "What the fuck kind of question is that?"
While I start walking myself, I think, "Aw man. That's what I should've said."

Yes I Candy

I have to write something because, frankly, I'm running out of serial killers to learn about.
I did Gacy. Dahmer - old news.
Ramirez. He was terrible. The sort of guy that would make other convicted killers say, "Jesus. What a psycho."
And now, as I watch Ted Bundy calmly explain why violent detective novels and pornographic books do not mix, I realize I must write.
Otherwise, at this rate, it'll be me in a jumper applying for stays before long.

So, it's Halloween and bikinis are on sale.
I'm going to fetch chocolate after work.
Andie really wants to get some "big" bars, too, to act as surprises for the first few trick-or-treaters.
Which is cool with me.
Dr. Powell used to give out cans of drink (that's soda) - whole cans!
In life, Dr. Powell learned that hard work may be rewarded with material gain.
A lesson you learned on his doorstep after climbing his steep, unending driveway.
Anyway, she and I carved PERVS into a pumpkin last night.
The 'R' got away from us, but otherwise it's alright.
It was her idea.
This will be a far cry from my first Halloween in Halifax, when I wrote:
SORRY! OUT OF CANDY! on a piece of loose leaf with a Sharpie before sticking it to my door.
(There had never been candy to begin with.)
But now!
We'll thrill all of the ghosts and goblins with full-sized, gas station-regulated Kit Kats.
And, if we actually put our pumpkin out, perhaps we'll give the odd overbearing parent a scare, too.
Y'know, a few weeks ago Andie made fake tombstones.
She placed them on the lawn (a generous term), and the landlord stuck them on the side of the house...with the garbage.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'd probably rather a marker more charming over my grave when Ted Bundy comes for me (so to speak), but I still don't think there was any need.
At least say something to us. She took the time to paint them.
Just a sidelong mentioning:
"Oh, and I put your tombstones over on the side of the house because they looked shitty.
The wife thought they were shitty, anyway."
Something.

I've never handed out candy before.
I've taken it from some babies, sure.
But I've never been the guy with the stainless steel bowl.
With older siblings, you do fewer and fewer remotely adult things.
Buying beer. Babysitting. Et cetera.
I remember Colin took the job one year.
He had a 13" black & white in the laundry room and he was fine.
This was back when sole control over a small black & white TV meant something to a 14-year old.
He ran out of candy and began handing out canned goods.
Like a miniature UNICEF.
I think mom was pissed.
At nightfall we'd trade bars. One of those moments when Brian and I behaved normally.
Diplomatically.
He could take all of my Crunchie. All of the Big Turks (and I do mean all of them. Every one ever made).
I could take whatever bars he didn't like, which I can no longer remember.
November would come around and the candy, now forgotten, wouldn't even matter anymore.
I'd find stray packs of Rockets in a Ninja Turtle vehicle - "Huh?" And then promptly eat them.
Some would say that Halloween promotes gluttony.
Derelicts who ration how much candy children are allowed to have.
How awful.
"Two pieces tonight and another three pieces tomorrow in your recess.
We'll take this exciting, extravagant kids' activity and turn it into something controlled and regimented.
Something adult.
But it will still be fun because I say it is."
Children don't measure candy by individual pieces - nor should they.
Children measure candy like crushed stone; by gross tonnage.
I wouldn't say gluttony.
Hedonism, maybe.
I'm looking forward to doling out the goodies.
It's important to participate. It's important to get involved.
Something I once knew and am now learning again.
So, from me and mine to you and yours, happy Movember Eve.

And remember: Bobbing for apples must include breaks for oxygen.

A Thief In The Night

My friend was stabbed in the back and now my friend is paralyzed.
All of the newspapers say so, but it's still impossible to process.
The assailant is as every other who has stabbed someone in the back; a coward.
Though, when someone you know faces something like this, you quickly begin to question your own resolve.
Among other things...

Though you may not know my friend, Pay It Forward has taught us that it's still okay to help him.
Visit a Scotiabank if you wish to do so.

Your Fly Is Down

"Were you neurotic as a child, Paul, or did that onset only happen when you learned about sex?"
Excellent question, introductory sentence.
I'll answer this question with a question:
Have you ever been on Space Mountain?
Not me.
Instead, I watched the line giddily shuffle past me as I remained steadfast at my mother's side.
Good times be damned.
I visited many amusement parks in my youth.
Though they were usually ammusing, I've never been great with rides.
And even as a tyke, my overactive imagination would visualize cars careening off of tracks and rails.
I never got into dirtbikes for much the same reason.
I was into the tapioca rides instead.
"What is that, a tiny novelty train?
Well, all aboard!
Tiny caterpuillar roller coaster for the toddlers?
That sounds okay."
I mean, I would go on some rides.
Scrambler.
Tilt-A-Whirl.
I enjoyed flumes. All flumes.
No safety concerns there.
Straight plummet into a giant pool is fine.
Everyone gets wet. The pictures are real candid.
Great rides, the flumes.
But others would hit a nerve and I'd say, "Nope. Not that one."
The Zipper was an excellent example.
Dennis loved The Zipper (he also owned a dirt bike.)
But he could've goaded me until he passed out onto the fairgrounds.
I wasn't going on The Zipper.
And I never did.
Fast-forward about twenty years.
Andie wants to do a Fall activity.
Autmn makes her insane.
Walking down the promenade she'll suddenly inhale passionately, saying something about the air.
"Smell that fall air!"
I play along, but it smells like oxygen to me.
Fall is whack because I need to dig out jackets and there are deadlines for everything, inexplicably.
But what can I do? She loves it.
I'm due to make scarecrows, for example.
Jam some leaves into my jeans and elastic-off the pant legs, sure.
If this is what has to be done.
About two weeks ago, the fair assumbled itself in Shitty Dartmouth.
As it always does...in the Fall.
So, we walk over to go on at least one ride.
Crossing the bride on foot was ride enough for me, by the way.
Tickets. Junior high kids brandishing too much makeup.
The fair.
5 bucks to whip 3 balls at your last night's empties?
Fuck that.
The fair.
Andie stands at the base of The Zipper and tells me she wants to go on.
So, I explain my (non)history with this ride.

This is not an image of The Zipper we were faced with.
The one in Shitty Dartmouth looked far more neglected.
There's not much else to choose, though, besides The Kamikaze, which looks fucked all together.
Now, I'll mention that it was her idea to go on the wooden rollercoaster in Cavendish.
Then, after getting buckled in, she immediately began repeating that she didn't want to do it anymore.
Too late then.
So, too for The Zipper.
I don't know why they have to make these carnies look so terrifying.
He opens the gate and you think, "How can you possibly fit a stereotype so exactly?
Please, before I put my life in your hands without signing a waiver, please just promise me that you're not drunk right now, this minute."
Everyone shits on carnies for looking like rabble (like I just did.)
Realistically, though, how educated do you have to be to flick a switch?
Most look perfectly qualified.
To be honest, if it was a clean-cut guy in a suit operating the ride, I think I'd find it more unsettling.
Anyway, we're in the cage.
If you're unfamiliar with the interior, it looks like a cage designed to die in.
No straps. Nothin'.
Just semi-standing in this thing.
He closes the gate.
Did you lock that? Alright, if you say so, strange man.
We're both blatantly nervous.
Then he turns it on.
This is just to convey us upwards to load in the next suckers.
Already, Andie is saying she wants off.
I also want off, but it's too late for that.
Regardless, she's asking buddy, 10 feet below us.
"Can you let us out? Sir?"
I tell her that 'sir' probably isn't a term he often responds to.
Might not realize he's the one she's pleading with.
Time holds its breath until he fires this thing up.
Fuck this ride.
Neither of us are enjoying ourselves at all.
Have you been on this thing?
The Zipper is a miscarriage.
It is a car accident that happens to you for 5 minutes.
My phone came out of my pocket.
That was terrifying, but less terrifying that The Zipper, so I only sort of noticed.
Trying to recover it was mesmerizing, as the phone was now experiencing The Zipper, too.
So, it was being shoved in various directions.
I felt like an astronaut trying to get it back in my pocket. 
After 2.5 minutes, it stops.
Pause.
Then it starts up again as I say, "Oh Jesus, it's going the other way."
Which it did for another 2.5 minutes.
The direction change miraculously made it worse.
And still she's asking to get off.
That's my favourite part.
After much violence and churning, it ends.
We're baby deer getting off of the ride.
Disoriented. Confused.
Recovering was strange.
The world took its time getting back to me.
And in the meantime, nothing registered with me.
Like, someone could have walked up to me, removed my wallet from my ass pocket, and two to seven minutes later I'd notice and say, "What the? My wallet's gone."
Anyway, we're never going on it again.
If another Autumn finds her wanting to ride it, I'll make a scarecrow and he can take my turn.

"We'll Let You Know"

Written October Somethingth (about a week ago):

I had an audition today -
Broke the cherry!
Preparing for an audition involves memorizing your lines (all 4 of 'em).
The next step is to repeat those so many times that they no longer bear meaning as sentences.
Which I did.
Then, I entered the abandoned train yard and found the room with the other hopefuls.
Louts.
When you enter the audition ante-chamber, this is what happens:
A roomful of people with a similar ethnicity and age demographic to your own look up.
Kinda.
They do a half look up before resetting their heads to the exact position they were in before you got there.
I guess no one wants to get psyched out by the competition.
Maybe they just want to ensure that Rowan Atkinson didn't just walk in.
If he did, I'm sure that at least one guy would slam his script photocopy down exclaiming, "Aw, fuck this," before storming out of the room.
Anyway, I've been all coughs and sputters this week, so I wanted water.
Needed it.
Cooler was there. Hot water. Cold.
The dispensary buttons weren't working, which felt like a bad omen.
So, I'd try for some water -
They had Showcase mugs for us to use.
That was the only aspect that threw me off, really.
I wasn't nervous because I assumed I wouldn't get it anyway (my secret weapon).
So, I felt okay.
But those Showcase mugs were disconcerting.
"Showcase is a TV network on TV.
This is for TV.
...
Wish I had some water."
So, I'd periodically try the cooler again, like an idiot.
Like it wasn't working because I didn't want it enough, or I hadn't pressed the button enough times.
Waiting in the room with these set pieces was like the chemistry final.
Everyone's cramming with their notes.
Quietly clearing throats.
Disregarding everyone else while also trying to determine if they're all nervous, too.
Not a healthy vibe.
I decide to get water from the bathroom with a Showcase (TV) mug.
I grab one and start to leave when the casting assistant asks, "Paul?"
I hadn't been received in any way at this point, so it was unexpected.
What do I do with the mug now?
Is it going to have to do the scene with me?
I didn't practice with a mug.
No, just put it down, Paul.
In retrospect, I've no idea where I laid it.
On one of the guys' heads, for all I know.
Room. Camera. Black tape on the floor.
Casting director.
Casting director's hopelessly attractive assistant.
The director laughed on my first line, which was an uneventful sentence. So, a good start.
Beyond that, I have no idea how it went.
I'd do the lines and then she'd give me direction.
And sure, I maintained eye contact and nodded my head, but I'm not certain I absorbed any of her instruction.
On the fourth one she said, "Great, you got it."
Which, I realized there and then, meant one of two things:
Either I got it, or I'll never get it.
As for the part, I'm not sure if I got it.
Or if I'll ever get it.
Over a week has passed.
She did seem legitimately pleased with me, but I was one of the first on the slab.
She did ask me to rock back and forth less, citing me as 'fidgety'.
Mike Wilmot once told me that he didn't think I could play a corpse.
"The twitchy fucker. Paul whoever. Get him our of here."
So, what did we learn from this experience?
Bring your own water, good.
What else?
It's not a job interview if you don't have to discuss past jobs you weren't suited for.
Anything else anyone wants to add?
Don't describe an audition in your blog until the role has been cast.
Perfect. That's what I was looking for.
I could do the role, y'know.
I learned that, too.
While reading I thought, "This isn't hard [I'm sure it gets hard]. I could do this."
I could.

First In Line

Written September 11, 2013 

Sometimes the stars unalign.
I was burn under one of these.

"The GTA midnight opening is today!"
This was the exclamation of your plucky young hero on Monday.
"See, when a big game comes out, stores will do a midnight opening. That way, you can get the game as early as possible."
I could be heard telling anyone within earshot this information on Monday as I counted the seconds down.
I have trouble getting excited these days.
I can only assume that this is due to my involvement with reality lately.
In my chirlish youth, I detached myself from reality as often as possible.
My one remaining avenue for imposed boyhood is - you guessed it - video games.
Consequently, an excited Paul blabbered to everyone he encountered.
I really was behaving like I found the last Wonka ticket.
I was telling friends, family, co-workers, my drug dealer - even customers.
And as I jaunted about town on Monday, nothing could bring me down.
GTA was coming. Further, I had the day off on Tuesday.
Overly understanding Andie was going to give me the okay to completely disregard her Tuesday afternoon.
We're all set.
Midnight opening, guys!
Everything's going to be okay!
I stick Andie in bed at 10:30 and make my way to the store.
Got my tunes. Got my dope. Got my imitation milkshake.
Not going to find myself getting roped into a conversation.
I'm ready.
No one there upon my arrival.
I immediately denounce the north end of Halifax and question their dedication.
"Pussies," I utter as I search for a nearby pad with wi-fi.
Burger King is closed early due to renovations.
There's a BK lackey in the parking lot dismantling a bench with a grinder.
Unless your father was a mechanic, this is a sound that you generally hear on TV.
A low and persistent 'ereeeeeee' as the disc bites and shears the metal.
This echoes in the twilight as I walk to shitty Tim Horton's.
I don't even want the sandwich, but I'll need fuel.
Donuts are dried out and shitty, y'say? That's okay.
It's the GTA midnight opening.
Don't need a coffee, thanks. I have a fake milkshake right here.
I sit and watch launch trailers.

Eventually, I wander back over.
Parking lot's dark. No one's there.
It's well past eleven.
Now, 90% of men would leave at this point.
"Fuck this, I've got things to do."
Nope. I'm calling numbers. I'm checking websites.
This is Monday, right?
Yes. It's Monday.
Now, as it turns out, it's the wrong Monday, but I won't discover that for another few minutes.
It doesn't release until next week.
This dawns on me at a slowed rate due to denial.
Yet, it's perfectly clear as I stand alone in the dark, the din of the disc grinder peeling laughter right at me.

Culture or Bust

Written about a month ago.

This keyboard is terrible.
I think that I wish I was popular.
I'm wearing my rain slicker today.
It's raining everywhere somewhere today and we all need to be prepared.
Never before now have I prayed for rain.
But my new rain slicker is so cool that I love a splish-splosher when it happens.
Yes, the blazing orange colour. The double-welded seams. The replacement patch of rubber.
This jacket virtually transforms me into a regular Christopher Robin.
What a jerk kid. Like "Pooh" is any kind of name for a bear.

I post this video hesitantly because I'm concerned people will watch it and then watch every other goddamn heritage moment there is.
The peach baskets. "I cannot read a word."
They're all very entertaining now that we're too old for them to be educational anymore.
Here's a picture of the jacket while my drug mule girlfriend wears it:

Once the weather turns sour I like to send her out to fetch things. She never worries about getting busted.
I worry about getting busted all of the time.
It's a big reason why I never had an exciting childhood, and is, in fact, a likely reason for why I'm wishing to be popular at the age of 31.
I can steal the rupees right out of your grandmother's credenza without batting an eye, but I worry about getting busted.
The difference being, by my definition, that getting busted means that one's cover is blown.
Stealing is just stealing.
Getting caught is just getting caught stealing.
Unless it's stealing from Lablaw's. Then it's not just getting caught stealing. Then it's 100% prosecution.
We wanted to go to the Chicargo aquarium. I've always wanted to go to a municipal aquarium.
Anyway, the lineup was out the door and it cost, like, 50 bucks.
So, we decided to hit the museum right alongside.
Now, that was also a little pricey and we were on our last day of the trip.
So, the Benjamins were getting a little scant.
We stood at the front and tried to figure out whether or not we wanted to (could afford to) check the museum out.
Then, without telling me anything, Andie asked for some maps of the museum.
Counter handed them to her, and she just started walking in. And there were security guards right there!
So, I'm hurriedly catching up to her, murmuring, "We're gonna get caught. They're going to kick us out."
Unflinching. She was unflinching.
We checked out as much of the museum as we could physically tolerate (we got really hungry).
This from the same woman who gets all squirrelly if I don't pay for a lime.
And why would you pay for a lime, really? They grow on trees.

Pea Shooter

I've tried to begin a post three times now and I keep halting myself.
This can mean only one thing:
I want to do something else.
I have no idea what that might be.
If I were to know myself (which has admittedly been an uphill battle), I'd guess I'd prefer to nap.
Who could say?
Anyway, I've resolved to write something today.
So, I guess we're looking at it.
...
If the fattest twins in the world can keep their balance on a motorcycle, then surely I can too.

I tried riding a pocket bike one time.
I figured that I'd be able to pull it off because it's not man-sized and neither am I.
No dice, though.
I just sort of hit the throttle and immediately fell over.
I think I scraped a knee.
I have a scar on my chin and I have no idea where it came from or when I got it.
I remember no chin injuries.
I asked my mother about its origin, and she didn't have an answer for me either.
That means that I will never know where this scar came from.
Isn't that a little bizarre, when you think about it?
No, it's not.
However, I'll tell you what is:
You know that guy who started the company that's willing to fly anyone to space?
As long as that anyone is the sort of anyone who has millions upon millions of dollars?
That guy is looking to develop a new transit system.
You know what he wants to design? I love this.
Futurama Tubes.
That's true.
Pneumatic tubes that zip you around without needing to bother with engines, oil, or crash test dummies.
All the system would really need would be...y'know...air vents.
Presumably, this people-propelled ejection system wouldn't harbor traffic jams - at first.
However, they'd ultimately end up in Toronto, and as soon as that happens, everyone will have to sit in their tubes for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening.
Having to listen to Twister Sister twice in one day while waiting to get home is bad enough.
Suffocating along with three dozen other people is far worse.
Especially if that happens while listening to Twister Sister.
It's time.
It's time for pneumatic tubes.
Just don't tell my boss that I said that.
Tubes, of course, would put us honest-working car salesmen out of business.

Alma Mater Matters

I'm not hungover, exactly, but I do wish I was still in bed.
I dropped by my buddy Scott's last night.
Scott is quickly turning into that long-standing friend who you want to keep around in case you ever need to borrow money.
We had beers with an old Acadia buddy and then we had hamburger dogs with a slightly older buddy (ol' Joshey).
As busy as Dave Chappelle, Scott has a huge case that he's working on, and his free time totals nil.
I pondered this last night as he rambled on about how busy he was while I tried not to stare at his veneers
(I still haven't gotten used to them).
If I have free time, which I often do, I spend it alone in my room, or down at the sushi house.
Scott spends it with old college buddies.
There's something important to that.
As we traversed a hamster's maze of overhead walkways en route to meet Brendan-
"What's he been up to? Is he living in America [Brendan's from Maine]?"
"I dunno, man. I haven't talked to him in years."
"So, what's he doing now? Does he have a wife or a baby?"
"I dunno, man. I really have no idea what he's been up to."
"Well, that's good, that puts you and I on the same page, then.
Does he know I'm coming?"
"Nope."
"Well, that'll be a nice surprise for him."
-Scott had a couple of people greet him as we passed.
Meanwhile, the bums don't ask me for change
You have to make time for people.
You also have to lock your windows at night, kids.
The northern face of Halifax has seen a rash of break-ins lately.
Thieves are primarily making off with the family jewels and the Xbox controllers.
While we sat outside that night, a copper shone his light into our yard and asked if we'd heard any bushels rustle.
The neighbor's alarm had gone off.
It's only when something like this happens right on your doorstep that you realize:
Cops have exceptionally bright flashlights.
Anyway, don't look at me.
I'll stick to robbing grocery stores, thank you.

Brendan didn't have a wife, but he did bring along a woman.
He was in town for a wedding.
While making conversation with her, I asked how long they had been together.
She replied with, "Three months."
This is the exact time frame in which you start going to weddings together.
And the first wedding you go to together is the point where you look at the other person and either say, "Yeah, alright."
Or, you say to yourself, "Jesus, does he always eat this many shrimp at a buffet?
In public?
I've gotta get out of this."
It's a very deciding time to be at a wedding.
Luckily, I was too distracted to mention this because I was trying not to look at her breasts through her semi-see-through dress.

SWORDFISH UNCENSORED

Get drunk and wing the bridesmaid speech.
It's Friday.

Myself and the hired statisticians were looking at some recent Tragic Hero figures.
Upon doing so, we uncovered a startling discovery:
Among the most prominent keyword searches on Google that led readers to my blog, five of the top ten were for media of Halle Berry nude.
"Halle berry nude pics" "Halle Berry Nuda" and so on.
I had no idea that she has been acting as such an influence on this blog's continued, baffling success.
So, I decided to write Halle a letter to thank her personally, the body of which follows:

Miss Berry,
It would seem as though we're strange bedfellows. Through the course of describing your supple body and all of its intricacies, I have garnered for myself, unintentionally, a new stable of readers for my humble blog (www.paulwarford.com. A great read if you're bored on set. Does your trailer have wi-fi?). Evidently, miscreants who are perusing the annals of The Internet to view nude clips and images of yourself are finding themselves at my doorstep, so to speak, and, as a result, traffic for my little Internet nook are at an all-time high.
Now, far be it for me to poach your own fan base - ample though it may be - and I can assure you that a diminishing of your popularity was, and is, far from my mind. As such, I have informed my readers of you body's influence on my success, and have assured them that I will be thanking you for your continued, albeit ignorant, support. Consequently, I have enclosed with this posting a Tragic Hero button (the first and only of its kind), as well as a gift certificate for Best Buy. Furthermore, I have included a small sampling of my skin cells and eyelashes, should you need them.
I bid you kind regards and true wishes of success in your continuing career, and I will be sure to grant you more accolades regarding a body most decadent in the years to come, until your age ultimately catches up with you.
With profound sincerity,
Paul Warford

P.S. Your breasts really are terrific. Your sex scene in Monster's Ball with Billy Bob Thornton gave me a massive hard-on, despite Billy Bob Thornton.

Hot Cross'd Bus (Drivers)

Talk about your martyrs...
Some bus drivers in Paraguay are protesting their recent layoffs by having themselves crucified.
This is a pretty far cry from our metro protests, which involve a few of the b'ys lighting a fire in a barrel, and then standing around it.

Maybe making a sign or two:

"HONK YOUR HORN IF YOU DRIVE A CAR AND DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT BUSES ANYWAY!"

I believe in integrity and standing up for your work ethic. 

However, there has to be a point where you say, "Fuck this, I'm going to apply for a job at the post office."

If I've Told You Once, I've Told You A Thousand Times

Alright, enough's enough.
Let's simplify this:
When I say, "Hey guys, this is post #1000," you all raise your hands over your heads slightly, and mutter, "Yay."
Ready? Okay.
Hey muchachos, it's post #1000.
...
Alright, great. Let's get back to talking about chicks in bikinis.
Poolside!
Y'know, it's not even the thousandth post, technically speaking.
The post where I said, "Stay tuned, next post is a multiple of 1000," that was the 1000th post.
And, to get technical on our technical speaking, which we should, that wasn't it either.
See, while trying to decide on what to write about for my 1000th post, I considered a "through-the-years" sort of reflection.
However, my lack of thoroughidity put the calipers to the discs on that one pretty quickly.
You go back through your blog that is supposed to be your life and you realize that your life's a mess.
Or, it's in need of tidying, anyway.
This is where this whole "1000th post" wreath begins to lose its petals.
Because, if I read something from October of 2009 that consists of:
"Hey guys! No time today, so check out this link while I go get a haircut," and I check the link to find it broken, I'm not sure that that counts as a post.
It doesn't, is why.
Besides the haircut, nothing is being communicated there.
So, God knows what number this post actually is.
Frankly, I think it's best if we all just move past it and get on with our blogs.
Am I right, comrades!?
Y'know, 1000(ish) posts have gone by, and I'm not sure I've used the word 'Nazi' once.
So much content, and still things get left out.
Alright, let's see the stupid cake:

Ta-da.
Whatever number we're on, I've had a good time.
I thank all of you who check this blog regularly, no matter how misguided you may be.
"Another post and he still hasn't written shit all about hunting quail!"
All I've ever needed is someone to pay attention to me, so thanks for that.
...
...
Rob Lowe actually startled me with how beautiful he is a couple of weeks ago.
I swear to God(s) this is true.
It was dark and I was tidying my play area, and Rob Lowe was on the cover of a magazine that I had already seen.
And I glimpsed it and physically started.
Thinking something along the lines of, "Jesus! Oh, it's just beautiful Rob Lowe."

Alright, well, let's cut the shit and make way for post 10,000.
Meanwhile, here are some things to expect in the future:
-more stock market quotes
-more injuries
-more steamy love scenes
-more discussion on just how hot Anna Paquin is, really
-more material I`ve unintentionally lifted from The Simpsons
Along the way, I`ll continue to see you as I have always seen you:
Potential Ad Revenue.

There's A Monster At The End Of This Book

The post after this snippet will be #1000.
Just decided I'm going to buy a cake for it.
And when I say that I "just decided" that, I mean literally, this second, I just decided it.
Alright, well, I'm going to call Sobey's and order that.
While I wait for buddy to frost it wrong, I'll figure out which profound, retrospective topic I'll discuss for this momentous fraction of information huddled among the other dozens of billions of fractions of information on the Internet.
Probably going to be something about how hot chicks only show up in the summer.

Cool Cats

Man was born (of woman) about 3000 years ago.
Wait...that's when Jesus was on the go.
Reset.
Man was born (of cro-magnum woman) about...anybody?
3 million?
When did dinosaurs start eating us?
Hang on.
200,000 years, maybe.
Apparently the jury is still out on that because humans like to debate stuff.
Carbon date and itemize and whatnot.
Now, the first few centuries were kinda slow.
We eventually got fire down, but there was a big gap between that and the Hot Stuff.
And when the cro-mags all sat around their first fire, warming their sloped brows in the moonlight, they watched the waltzing flames and thought about their future.
Of course, they didn't have long to think about it because they were too busy dying of infections and rabies and so on until medical practice came along.
Who would have ever guessed?
The cro-magnum anthropologists, vacationing down south at their stone summer cabins, pontificating over their cigars that they could suddenly light, could never know.
Could never know that one day, the sum of humanity's knowledge would be available at the fingertips of even the most dim-witted of fatheads.
What's more, they could never have guessed that upon reaching this milestone, the resounding, unifying factor of the totality of his evolved kin would be...
...
Cats.
Cats rolling around on the floor.
Cats playing with bits of string.
Cats scaring away dogs.
This is all people truly need to see.
That, and videos of fat people falling down.
These are the most effective ways to distract ourselves from the fact that we're alive.
Which begs the question:
What really defined the current society we find ourselves in?
The telegraph?
The printing press?
Or America's Funniest Home Videos?
Imagine, explaining this ghost story to all of the neanderthals around the campfire.
If they even had the ability to fathom, they would never be able to fathom it.
However, I will admit that even they'd probably forget the issue entirely if they watched this.

You can't argue with progress, now can you?

You'll think I'm dicking around, but I really mean for this to be a serious question:
If you went out to the Savannah, and you found a pride of lions sweltering and lazing about, and you placed among them an empty refrigerator box, would one of them get in it?
I honestly want you to think about that.

Generation Y(2K)

I had more dental work done this morning because I have the wherewithal (and insurance).
My teeth were restructured. So, too, is this post.
I lost the sheet I originally wrote it out on.

They call them 'Millenials'.
They're called Millenials because, at the time of their birth, adults had a real preoccupation with putting silly names on things.
The title was cooked up by the Movember people (spit), or so I heard.
Given our current Earth timeline, the Millenials should end up being the group who will ultimately inherit the planet when it actually reaches its doom.
It's between the Millenials and their (as yet unborn) teenage-pregnancy-children, of which there will likely be many.
They call them Generation Y.
More like Generation Y2K.
That was the hoopla-laced event that they were born into.
What a fitting precursor.
An entire listless, wayward group of juveniles.
Born into an era that was earmarked by the promise of two things:
Warranted uncertainty, and inevitable cataclysm.
And so far, the era has delivered.
"Is swine flu going to kill your grandmother?
Maybe."
"Do you have enough bullets and ammo to survive the next amber alert?
Probably not."
"Are the ice caps melting?
We don't think so, but the polar bears seem to have nothing to stand on these days."
"Is Al Gore the next Nostradamus?
...Nah."
Being unsure of ourselves personally, economically, vitally - that's daily for us.
"Does my Twitter account effectively define me as a person?"
The answer, of course, is "No, it doesn't.
But, for these fledgleing adults, it's the next best thing.
Their constructed personalities have more substance than their actual personas, simply because they spend more time grooming the former.
I shouldn't have to tell you that that's fucked.
It's one thing to take a child, raise him in a cool household with a lot of pretty knickknacks and no love, send him off to a first-rate college with a third-rate attitude, have him graduate, work in junk bonds, get hooked on cocaine and eventually misplace his soul.
It's another thing entirely to suggest to that same child that perhaps he shouldn't bother with one in the first place.
Today's youth are raised on doom.
Take a group of pre-teens, sneak them into the cinema and have them watch a flick about the end of the world.
Repeat that again and again.
The end of humanity is such a trend, and no one's into it more than humans.
Sure, in my day we had Armageddon and Deep Impact.
But those were about interstellar geology as much as anything else.
That, and who can play the most convincing president (Bill Pullman)*.

These days, on the other hand, everything is apocalypse this and that.
The Road
The Day After Tomorrow
I Am Legend
28 Days Later
Children of Man
Oblivion
After Earth
This Is The End
Not to mention the zombies.
Everyone began talking 'bout zombies, and now no one will stop.
The fad makes no sense to me.
Namely, why now?
No one seems to ask that, and I think the question is great.
"Zombies are cool, bro!"
Zombies were cool during Evil Dead.
During Thriller. 
Why are they so popular now?
We're not talking Avatar. 
It's not like we had to wait for the technology to catch up.
There is no technology.
Some makeup and a ripped pair of jeans.
Boom. Zombie.
We're not filming Transformers, here.
Yet, it's now that we find survival guides for something that doesn't exist.
The more I think about it, the more I think it's not the "zombie."
It's the "apocalypse."
And when I'm with a group of 20-somethings and they're talking about what they'd do in a zombie apocalypse, I feel like screaming:
"You're all adults! What in the fuck are you talking about!?"
But you can't say that. I can't say that.
So, instead I have to wait and nod along, riding out the conversation until it steers towards some TV show.
You're taking it too far.
It's like discussing, over wine, how G.I. Joe and Barbie's kids would do in school.
Perhaps it's a drill; a refresher.
Sure, everyone knows full well that no zombies are going to be busting soil any time soon.
But, it never hurts to talk about the best places from which to steal lumber to board up your home (lumber mills).
Or how to occupy a grocery store and effectively defend it.
If you're bred to understand that the worst is all there is, isn't it just as well to prepare for it?
I say that we ditch the term 'Generation Y' in favour of 'Generation Z'.
'Z' for 'Zombie', and because, if all goes according to plan, this one will be the last.

Post of the Sleek

I'm going to Chicargo, y'know.
I may have mentioned it (turns out I didn't), but I'm sort of reminding myself right now.
Chicargo is a city in America.
I'm going to Lollapalooza with my woman and some parents I know.

I know that they have at least two zoos there.
One of them is free, which is cool, but there are no bars or anything, so the animals can eat your popcorn or your infant if you let your guard down.
"The hawk just swooped down, and then they were gone!
It even took the stroller!"
Birds of prey fascinate me.
The key is comparing them to other birds.
That's when you realize that these organisms are as much weapon as they are animal.
Okay, I guess that's enough for now.
It's the sexy schism of blog writing:
One post every few days (weeks; TV seasons), or a bunch of inconsequential posts daily?
Comin' at ya, live! This is one of the latter.
Never going to be an inductee into my hall of fame.
Never going to be a favourite for anyone.
"My favourite post, if I had to pick a favourite, is the one where you spell Chicago wrong three times and finish the post with..."
This.
A song I can't get out of my head, and a video I'm slowly growing to like.
The video is a wee too surreal for me, but I do like the dancing segments a lot.

I found this song through the soundtrack of this game.
I think I'm learning to appreciate cars more.
I have always liked them the ways that boys like them.
Boys like the angles of them; how threatening a sports car tends to look. How exotic and unattainable. Boys love that sort of thing.
Kind of like Cyndi Lauper.
No wait.
Crawford.
These days, well, I guess I like them in the same way.
I'm just old enough to appreciate that they're even less attainable than I thought when I was young.
Speaking of being more weapon than animal...

They only made 20 of these.
One costs as much as Andy Dick's house.

Dressed. To Kill.

I used to be a music man as I toured about.
Like the silhouttes in the commercials, I enjoyed a little Aerosmith while waiting for my massage at the local parlor.

The gentleman's club.
The undersides of bridges.
I listened to music whenever I walked about.
Mostly because I really get off on buying headphones, I think.
These days, I listen to music much less whilst walking.
Choosing instead to punish myself with the echoings of my own boorish thoughts.
When I'm not undressing women with my eyes - actually, even when I am undressing women with my eyes, I can now eavesdrop on conversations.
Consequently, I have learned that people say stupid shit all the time (I guess I should've known).
I was on the metro, taking the #1 to the shoe horn store (I don't know why i just said that).
I heard a woman describing a recent first date to a friend.
And she said, "I dunno if I'll see him again.
The first date is just to make sure that he's not a serial killer anyway."
Wishing I had my music back, I pontificated that serial killers-good serial killers (which is all of them)-don't reveal themselves as serial killers in a 3-hour encounter.
If you want to be sure he's not a serial killer, I would recommend at least twelve dates and a trip or two to the cottage for good measure.
Survive that, and you'll know you've found your man.

Whenever I experienced writer's block (laziness), I assume it's an emotional blockage that's preventing me from progressing.
In actuality, though, it's usually just a ball of my hair.
Speaking of, it's time to get it cut.
I have to be attentive to my look with this new job.
I had a gentleman kindly suggest that I not wear three-piece suits to work because they could be perceived as intimidating.
I felt like saying, "You're the one wearing rimless glasses!"
I'm not sure everyone would want to buy a car from hair like mine.
In a similar vein, Andie suggested that I sometimes wear the bow-tie that she bought me.
I love the idea, but if you're a car salesman and you approach someone while wearing a bow-tie, they're going to think:
"Look at this lying piece of shit coming our way. Let's get out of here and buy a Kia."

Comedy and Tragedy

Written on Saturday, June 8 (probably):

I fantasized about meeting Hank Azaria while showering today.
I know that a lot of guys will tell you that when it comes to wayward thoughts in the bath stall, Halle Berry is the one to think of.
Ingrates.
Hank has delivered so many lines I have laughed at, all without looking upon his face.
Also, I adore his scene in Eulogy when he delivers a few lines from 'Death Of A Salesman'.
This is where I'd post a clip of that performance, but no one has ever heard of Eulogy, so it's not on YouTube.
Lastly, for anyone who has seen The Aristocrats (don't play with audio at work), Azaria's version is great without being vulgar.
Now, some might think that crassity is the whole point of the aristocrats joke.
However, I think the purpose of the joke is making it your own, which Hank does excellently.
This one is popular enough to be view-able, but not popular enough to be specific, so skip to 5:57 (again, not at work).



Despite how much I talk to your mother and girlfriend, at the end of the day, I'm just not that personable.
I musn't be.
If I were, I'd know the coffee wenches' names.
(I'd also probably stop calling them wenches).
I frequent Java Blend these days.
Supplying coffee throughout Nova Scotia, they have the gumption to roast their own beans.
Pretty legit.
The area has Blend, as well as a crematorium, which also does its own roasting (corpses).
On hot days, I don't know which smells like which, but Java Blend sells smalls for $1.20, and you can't beat that.
Yet, though I've filled nearly two stamp cards, I don't know anyone's name there.
No one knows mine.
I was in line this morning, and one of the counters referred to the guy behind me by name.
"Hey Cliff, et cetera et cetera."
I was then a little jealous of Cliff.
What am I doing wrong?
Did you know that many Newfoundlanders refer to cliff - not 'Cliff', the guy in line, but 'cliff' the sheer drop as 'clift'?
Just a little culture for you.
We have some clifts in Bay Roberts.
Mad Rock is famous for being not-the-stadium in Bay Roberts.
I never knew its crags and juts until I brought Andie to them.
Knowing we were off the suggested foot path, which the signs advised against, she and I splished along the shoreline's borders.
Though it was out of my comfort zone, I followed her.
That's what love is all about, maybe.

A boy fell over similar Bay Roberts cliffs recently.
The visiting cousin of a local boy, in town from Ontario.
...
Mom was quiet that day.
At the kitchen table, I asked her what was on her mind.
She explained that she was thinking of the boy who had died that day.
What his mother must be going through.
I reminded her that many ten-year old boys died that day throughout the world, many of them tragically.
But I knew that that wouldn't matter.
Mothers share an empathy I wouldn't understand.

I'm sick of Mariah Carey.
Do you know that she's sold more albums than The Rolling Stones?
I don't particularly like The Stones, either, but I still find this upsetting.
I know she has an incredible vocal range (rack), but she doesn't even sound like a person on the high notes.

Incarcerate-A-Pia

We have some really big plants here at the dealership
("Warford's talking about plants today. I think he's lost his edge.").
I just assumed that they were fake because they look sort of fake.
They also look tropical.
Turns out you can grow plants inside.
I say we should get an orange tree in here and throw away the service department's fruit basket.
Some woman comes in and tends to the plants.
You can tell that she's a plant woman because she carries misting bottles and she doesn't seem to want to speak to anyone.
I suggested that she get some ivy in here to give the place a real academic look, and she muttered something about our already having ivy in here.
That's another bridge burned.
But enough about spinsters.

Pia's in hot water again, apparently.
For those of you just out of cryogenic freezing tubes, Pia is some broad who starred in some shitty movies.
She's significant to yours truly, however, because she ended up on a shirt that ended up on my body some ten years ago.
A Warford wardrobe staple for eons, perhaps my most distinctive, Pia is still around and occasionally worn to this day.
The shirt, I can depend on.
The actual woman, however, seems a little less reliable.
Today she is in the news because parenting is hard.
But not as hard as being washed up.
Case and point:
Imagine having your mugshot taken.
You're tired and you're in police custody.
You have to sit around for hours, like a doctor's waiting room.
The difference being that detainment doesn't have magazines.
However, instead of waiting to get a new prescription for your percocet, you're waiting to be de-loused.
But first thing's first.
The mug shot.
This is the only image that will turn out looking shittier than your passport photo.
The reason being, you're photographed at your zenith of shame.
Unless you're one of those 'in-it-for-the-glory' bank robbers.
Your hair is probably all frazzled.
You're holding that little ticker sign which displays your measurements right on there (like a piece of meat!).
And as the bulb flashes, you know that your mom fucked up somewhere along the way.
It's all in the photo.
Doesn't sound pleasant, does it?
Now imagine going through that process, all the while thinking to yourself:
"Those fuckers at TMZ are going to be all over this."

"And That's The Tooth!"

I went to the dentist the other day.

Like the average Korean, dentists love to kill themselves.
That is, so the story goes.
I'm not sure whether or not North America collectively read this statistic somewhere and filed it away.
Or if we all just heard it on The Whole Nine Yards and assumed it to be true.
It probably is true.
I think that everyone has a natural urge to believe whatever Matthew Perry says.
It's a disposition of his, isn't it?
Matt LeBlanc did softcore TV before Friends. 
It's true.
I personally watched an episode of Red Shoe Diaries that had him playing a sexy man in a vest.
I swear.
Anyway, I don't know what dentists have to be so suicidal about.
Decent pay, sexy assistants and wonderful teeth, for starters.
Those are perks. Those are job perks.
Since it's a profession-based suicide number, people assume that dentists are killing themselves because they hate being dentists.
I'm not willing to buy it.
There are far worse jobs.
Why don't we constantly hear about janitors blowing their brains out mid-mopping?
The stigma with dentists, of course, is that they're miserable because people hate to visit them.
Everyone fears them.
They never have good news.
This doesn't do it for me either.
All medical practitioners have to deliver bad news from time to time.
All of them are feared by some people.
Telling a man he has pancreatic cancer seems like more of a downer than telling the same man he has a pair of cavities.

I chose the dentist I chose because I sold his assistant a car.
Made sense at the time. Dental assistant. I need a dentist. I'm new in town.
Prone to not thinking things through, I didn't really think it through.
It's sort of uncomfortable.
I didn't expect her to be right in there with me.
Wrong about that.
She affixed my bib  and worked the suction.
She put plastic thingies in my mouth for my X-rays.
I had to bite down on them and, prudish as I am, they were hitting my gag reflexer.
So, I was gagging and urging as she was doing this, and she was asking me to please bite down.
I was being sexy because gagging is sexy now.
And I didn't want to be sexy in front of some woman I sold a car to.
So I learned, anyway.
For those of you who are still reading solely for my results, I have cavities.
Not sure how many.
Enough.
Enough to have a vague idea of the actual number, which suggests that I have enough.
Also, one of my teeth is fucked, which I knew before going.
I just wasn't sure how fucked.
The answer, as it turns out, is "all the way."
Might have to yank it.
But, even if it must be so.
Even if I fidget in my chair and track a tear or two down my cheek, I still don't think that's reason for my dentist to go home and 
stick his head in his oven.

Do We Have A Deal?

There's just something about a new suit, y'know?
Like a recently purchased handgun, or a new affair, there's just something about a suit that puts a spring in your step.
I took a picture of myself wearing it, reflected in the chrome of an old-timey car.
See, we have this display piece car down at the used lot.
It's more like a stagecoach without the horses. One of those cars.
Model T, probably.
Thought I'd capture myself in my new suit in the headlight.
Try to look stylish.
Being stylish has a lot to do with being photographed near old shit.
You don't show any respect for the old shit, mind you.
You just get your picture taken near it.
Like a band doing their photo shoot in a cemetery.
Anyway, the pic turned out blurry, so I'm not going to bother uploading it.
That takes steps.
Tweeting it, however, was relatively painless, so you can look at it over there if you're desperate enough for new photos of me.
Oh! I can embed the tweet right in here.
I'll be doing that far more often now.

$=suits from Sears outlet store=confidence=sexy. twitter.com/paulwarford/st…
— Paul Warford (@paulwarford) May 15, 2013

Look, I can ask about throwing in the winter tires, but I don't know what answer my manager will give me.
Selling cars from the salesman's perspective is exactly like TV and nothing like TV.
When I mentioned in my interview that I had no sales experience, I really meant it.
Now, I suppose I do.
That being said, I would still hesitate to call myself a salesman.
I'm more like...
...I feel kinda like a tour guide sometimes.
Or, if I do the job well, I'm like a tour guide.
You know when you take a trip to Punta Cana, and there's that one resort employee who stands out?
"Punta Cana was fuckin' awesome, bud!
There was this dude, what was his name?"
"Enrique!"
"Enrique!Yeah! Enrique was fuckin' awesome, man.
Every time my drink was empty, Enrique was right there on the edge of the pool to fill it.
We told him that we were looking to go zip-lining without all of the safety harness bullshit, and he was like, 'Okay sir, we do that for you.'"
Everyone remembers him fondly, even though the girlfriends did find him 'a little touchy-feely'.
Nevertheless, Enrique will come up every time the trip is mentioned.
Because Enrique was accommodating.
If I'm doing my job properly, I have come to discover, I'm Enrique.
I have no real clout at the resort.
I don't know where the shrimp comes from, or whether or not it'll give you food poisoning, but I can get some delivered to your room.
All I am is a guy who works here. I just happen to be your guy.
More like concierge than a tour guide, really.
Oh right. TV.
I really do have to go see my manager.
You want the mats and stupid tonneau cover thingy included?
Can I do that?
I dunno. My manager will tell me.
90% of the time, when a car salesman tells you they have to ask their manager, they really mean that.
Just like TV.
However, unlike TV, we're not...I don't know what.
We're not shysters.
We're not - I'm not, anyway - out to fuck yourself and your wife from here to the gas station.
People are always trying to catch me on this hidden fee or that hidden fee.
That 'hidden fee' shit is in the past.
This isn't the 80s.
The cars are online. The prices are online.
The sticker price is the sticker price.
It's not like you pick out a sweater at Eddie Bauer, and while in line at the checkout you whisper to your wife, "I wonder what kind of a mark-up wool tax they stick on this fucker."
Do you? Maybe you do.
There's no hidden anything.
Sure, the price can be manipulated, but the margins for this are not as great as you'd think, and the parameters for them are pretty standard across the board.
Financing a Kia at a dealership in St. John's and a dealership in Ontario will be within dollars of each other.
No one's out to get you.
Except if we're talking used cars.
That's a different story.
I'll fuck a family out of their mortgage on a used car, if I can.

This post brought to you by Punta Cana Tourism.
And remember: If you have to get hepatitis, contract it in Punta Cana.

Bull Rush

How many bulls does a country need to have before someone says:
"Hey, let's let 'em all go, and then run from 'em!"
While we're on it, how do you round up dozens of bulls after they've had time to explore a city and some of its China shops?
Tranquilizers.
Thick-roped nets.
A huge Jesus sombrero.

I'm tired and wordless, but since I'm down to one post a full moon, I figured I should stop by and say something.
So, I'm saying that I'm tired and wordless.

Lighter Stuff

Did you know there's a helium shortage right now?
Besides having to anchor all our zeppelins, stoned kids who want to speak in funny voices are left suckin' air.
I've never done that, y'know.
The helium-funny-voice thing.
I couldn't definitively say why that is.
However, I spend a lot of time thinking about myself, so I do have some theories.
Or, just variations on the one theory, I guess:
Balloons have always made me uncomfortable.
Not when they're wafting about in the tent at the retirement party, mind you.
Inflating them. Tying them. Popping them.
Balloon maintenance. Balloon stuff.
Puts me on edge.
I've only successfully blown up a balloon (from flaccid) perhaps 5 to 7 times.
Generally, I just puff my cheeks out until someone takes pity on me and blows it up themselves.
Shameful.
I also heard an urban legend about a woman who was startled while inflating a balloon and she accidentally sucked it into her mouth and suffocated.
That always stuck with me and I think it made me afraid to put balloons near my mouth.
This isn't a joke; I'm not making this up.
However, adulthood has taught me to face my urban legends.
So, I intend to do the funny voice.
Unfortunately, there's a helium shortage right now.
Inhaling it to sound like a clown's assistant seems rather brash in these hard times.
Aerial views at football games are in jeopardy.

Almost spelled football with a 'p' just now.
Phootball.
Phutball.

If no one's going to listen to scientists, why do we have scientists?
"This could puncture a hole in the ozone, resulting in melanoma and gross moles that require removal."
"Whatever, scientist. How do you suggest I use Raid without aerosol cans?
I'll take my chances, genius."
Sure, scientists develop formulas to make better hair conditioners, but their legitimacy seems wasted.
"Helium shortage? Whatever, scientist.
Wait! Let me degrade you with my funny helium voice."

"There's No Place Like Home"

I could never be from Toronto; my disdain isn't stylish enough.
Comedy has afforded me several free meals and a slew of new acquaintances.
L.A. being too expensive a flight with too attractive a populace, a lot of comics bed down in Toronto.
I've had run-ins with the natives before.
Living in Banff, I roomed with Francis for a while.
He was all expensive trousers and constant, vocal judgement.
Don't get me wrong - I love Francis. I did then.
Today, he still stands as the only man whose back I have shaved (and I wouldn't do it for just anyone).
But everywhere we went. Everything we did.
"Oh, in Toronto etc. etc."
"In Toronto there'd be extra bathroom stalls in here."
"In Toronto you could buy coriander at any time of the day."
"In Toronto there are more homeless people."
I used to make fun of him for it all the time.
I lived in Toronto for a while. I get it now.
It's a teeming place with a real pulse.
What Francis said time and again was, I'm sure, usually true.
You can get an Asian woman to massage you and then jerk you off at 2 in the morning.
You can find somewhere to purchase a shower curtain immediately after your massage.
There is a restaurant representing every ethnicity - some shitty, some wonderful.
I get it.
There's more available. There's more to do.
I guess my problem, then, is the occasional Torontonian's inability to adjust.
You live in the biggest city in the country.
Other places will seem slight by comparison.
Those who are truly 'from' Toronto in the sense I'm talking about, they want it to be shittier everywhere else.
They look for fault.
I was eating poutine in one of the late night pizza corner places (see! We have late-night pizza) with a Toronto guy.
He's eating his chicken whatever it is. Wrap.
"I think the chicken's dry. Not sure if this is very good."
This is a bite or two in.
"Yup. Chicken's dry, guys."
Might as well add, "I knew it."
City Slickness isn't as charming as Billy Crystal portrayed it.
It's one thing to miss the comforts of the home you're used to.
It's another entirely to assume all other homes aren't built like yours.
It's not like I'd fly into Papau New Guinea and hope to find everything I'm used to here, and then complain when I didn't.
"I knew it. There's no 24-hour plumbing company here.
...
Nope. I checked Papau New Guinea411, AND the phone book.
I'll bet there isn't even a Rona on this whole goddamned continent."

Billy Crystal isn't looking good, by the way.
I don't know where his confidence level is, but he's disgusting.
I saw him on Letterman not long ago and I found it legitimately disturbing.
All of these surgeries.
You can dress up dying however you want, Billy...
However, the experience helped me realize one true fact:
If I, at 80 years, have a choice between a head that looks like a raisin, and a head that looks like a child's elbow, I know what my choice will be.