The Most Important Meal

I've been pantsless for a good portion of the day.
I'm cleaning.
Because there's an Imogen coming to see me.
...
And she's staying this time.
But not with me. In the same place.
Because I'm not getting in my scratching and spitting quota that way.
Men find bad smells amusing.
Ever have someone come up to you and order you to "just check out how bad this smells,"?
Is it ever a woman?
Anyway.
Imogen is moving here. I'm appropriately terrified and lusty.
I likes she cause she's like me.
At the DMV:
DMV counter jockey (examing her picture): Why did you cut your hair?
Imogen: I was tired of being objectified.
DMV counter jockey: You looked prettier before.
I'm not sure if I asked her if using this was okay.
It'll be fine.
I can finally get breakfast with da b'ys, and not have to hear: "Umm, our bills are together, and theirs are, and theirs, and he's by himself."
That's me.

Generation Sap

Are you between the ages of 23 and 28?
Yes, you say?
Check out these links, then.
If, after looking at all of them, you aren't vomitting and weeping with nostalgia, then you have a soul of iron.
Turpin, I'm talking to you.

Warm up, first.
If this one doesn't do it...
Then this one will. 

eDit: The middle link originally brought readers to a youtube video of "Run With Us," from The Raccoons cartoon. It has since gone down. I'll try to find another.

Everything Important

See? I told you. Once classes begin, I'll have more to say.
So, I'm heading to my modern revolutions class.
My first.
Everyone else's second.
Because, as I always claim, that first class is mostly formality, really.
I enter the classroom. And I'm late, I'll admit. But by seconds.
Two minutes, tops.
I prepare to sit, but the professor, who is a (very) petite Indian woman whom I have never encountered, speaks to me before I get the chance.
"Young man...? Were you here for Tuesday's class?"
I am the centre of attention.
This is fine.
"No, no I wasn't."
"Come here."
I am wondering if the rest of the class is finding this as questionable as I am.
I go there.
She says, "You have missed the readings, you have missed the assignment sheet, you have missed everything that is important."
My first class with this person.
I have been in the room for about thiry seconds, and this is what she is saying to me.
It goes on. She asks if I know anyone in the class, and get their notes, and blah blah.
I just enjoy the way she worded that sentence.
Later, on bibliographies and internet citation:
"...and don't just give me a bunch of www dot whatever, or you'll get a www dot fail dot com."
I was barely paying attention by this point because about two minutes after my introduction to this person, I'd said to myself, "Well, I'm dropping this class."
After the dot com comment, I have decided to stay in it.

Led. Wait.

Why do I insist on talking to Turpin still?
Even after all of this time?
When it has become glaringly obvious that she is holding me back from all of my dreams?
Because, while I speak with her on the phone, she sometimes emits little gasps of surprise.
Which she will follow by saying:
"Oh, I forgot I had a goatee on."
Stop asking me what her job is.
I have no idea.

"Quick and to the Pointless"

I like cleaning lint traps in clothing driers.
Oh God, I'm so ashamed!
Most animals like me, which I'm thankful for.
Most spores do not like me.
Bacteria is also an adversary of mine.

LockDown

It is about a week and a bit ago.
It is that time of year.
It's a bi-annual occasion. Sort of like my academic breakdowns.
Smallwood comes to visit from whatever portion of Canada she is festering in.
And we have awkward coffee.
The awkwardest.
She's to pick me up so that we can go to one of the pretentious depositories downtown.
She arrives in a flash jacket and we get started.
Or we would.
But I can't lock the door. Because it's frozen.
The key enters it's little sheath about halfway, and then 'brings up,' as it were.
I'm immediately conscious of the fact that I have no idea how to fix this.
I act casual.
Fleetingly so.
I begin to heat the key with the flame of a weed lighter.
Not that I believe it will work, mind you.
But simply because the quicker I spring into some semblance of action, the more handy I seem.
The hot key succeeds in embarassing me. And little else.
The apartment is unclean, by the way.
Because I thought that we wouldn't be entering it.
So we leave.
I call Colin and tell him what's what.
"Go home!"
We turn around.
Colin administers other advice that I put into practice once we get back.
I make Smallwood tea. But not before offering her coffee, as I always do.
Because I'm forgetful.
I put the wee straw attachment on the WD40 can, and get to it.
The key immediately enters its little sheath again, and briefly, just briefly, I consider myself manly enough to deserve my chest hair.
The key still will not turn, of course.
So I move to contingency B. The hair dryer.
"Want to meet my neighbors?" I ask.
She says something I can't remember, and we're off!
Luckily Crystal's hair is more complicated than mine and Colin's.
When the key will finally turn in the lock properly, there isn't enough time to head downtown and sit sensibly before she is to leave for whatever social event that is to follow.
An event that will no doubt be more organized.
And will likely transpire in a dwelling with fewer fruit flies.
We therefore stay in, and Smallwood terrifies me with recounts of her experiences in law school.
I asked her long before this encounter if there were many lamps there.
I have always pictured law school to have a lot of lamps.
The desk lamps, with the green shades?
There aren't that many lamps.
But there are a lot of deliberations.
They grade on a curve.
Conversation exhausts, and she eventually (awkwardly) bids farewell.
I told her over coffee and tea that I would put this into the blog.
"I think I'm going to call it 'lock down'," I tell her.
And now I have.

To the Tune of Warford

I just finished my first-ever guitar lesson with Shanderamo.
Quite right. Guitar.
Now, I am well aware that my dexterity is essentially non-existent, and my patience walked out with my dexterity.
But, I think it may compliment the accordian lessons.
I intend to transition from playing no instruments to progressing with two at about the same interval.
I'm far too lazy to do this, I know.
I know.
I accomplish nothing in a day.
Seriously.
I'm beginning to grow into the fibres of my pajamas.
I have to do something.
In case you're (baffled) curious:
The accordion.
My father plays the accordion. My brothers sort of play the accordion.
If there is any instrument in Warford blood, then this is that instrument.
Dwell for a moment on that.
Makes sense, doesn't it?
To boot, if I begin to learn properly, my father will give me an accordian that he was planning on selling.
It's very impressive and pretty looking*.
The guitar.
Well, I want to get laid like everyone else.
I was admiring a wall of guitars in a wee music shop as I waited for some buffoon to produce a mic stand for me from the back room.
And my dad turns to me, and he says, "You should learn to play guitar."
And I turn to him, and I say, "Yeah, maybe I should."
I could play Queens tunes with da b'ys at the kitchen table.
If I can get to that point...that'll do.
I've always wanted to learn, but haven't believed myself capable until now.
I used to have to carry covered plates, stacked six high, with each plate containing a $65 meal underneath.
Consequently, I'm less afraid to try things.
Except bungie jumping.
Fuck that.
*This is it:

DropDeadLine

I hate applying for shit.
I love deadline extensions.
I asked the faculty of Education desk lady if 'references need to be in on the fifteenth,' or if there was some breathing room there.
She told me that there was breathing room.
And I immediately exhaled.
I wanted to kiss her.
Out of relief. Not out of sexual attraction.
She wasn't my type.

In other pileup, I bought a Gogol Bordello album today.
I'm already satisfied with the purchase.
I don't know what this British show is (it is coincidently featured in a link of my Ben Fold's post). Do you know?
I'll warn you, it's an acquired taste.
The host sounds like he hits the helium pretty hard.
I'm into ether, myself.

Humbug

Christmas has really ruined me, dear readers.
I've gotten lazy.
Edit. I've always been lazy.
But I'm getting blog lazy, and this blog is the most effective way to inflate my ego.
I'm not inflating my ego anymore.
Not stroking it, as it were.
And that just won't stand.
I made a rule of 'a post a day' some time ago.
And now look at me.
A shadow! A candy coating of my former self.
I do intend to get back into my glory days regiment. Very soon.
I begin classes tomorrow.
Well...I began them monday.
But that first day is just a formality, isn't it?
Point is, when I'm wandering academic annals, I tend to write posts more frequently.
To kill time rather than further my grades.
So, it is but a short wait.
I do hate to disapoint my tens of fans.
Lori Shandera is getting ansty. And she's the most important one.
"The hell she is!" you may be spitting as you read this.
But it's true.
Because she is the most unlikely fan. And that's important.
She looks like Robert, but she's prettier.
How do you like being at the centre of the blog?
I didn't think you would. Last time, I promise.
Their mother makes me a pound cake every year at this time.

The Orange Death

I'm about to make my first-ever batch of Kraft Dinner.
And I'm terrified.
I used to hate Kraft Dinner as a kid.
Because I was picky and whiny.
And verbal about it.
Things have changed.
I have matured.
I've learned to love broccoli.
I've had intercourse with many anonymous partners.
And so, I believe it is time to put food fears aside.
It just has the texture of plastic, is all.
But I am very hungry and my cupboards are very bare.
And food writes all of the rules for me.
My father makes kitchen cupboards, you know.

The Man Behind the Brick

Ben Folds should be famous like Elton John is famous.
Or like Jerry Lee Lewis was famous before he married that kid he found.
Wasn't she his cousin or something?:



Ben Folds Five should've been famous like Soundgarden was famous.
Alright, maybe not Soundgarden. But somebody.
Bush X.
Dear Lord, even Spacehog got more airtime than these guys.
And because I'm sure my fanbase of three people has at least one Postal Service fan
This will put you on shpilkes (I've been practicing):