N'est-ce Pas?

Talk about going down with the ship.
Steve Coombs brought my attention to this tasty little tragedy.
Did the Segway survive the fall?
That's the question marketers should be asking right now.
'Reliable! Resilient! Survives the fatal plummets to the Earth that your body cannot!'
Perhaps this will convince shareholders that Jimi's suggestion to install rockets on the Segways may not have been such a bad idea...
Puts a spin on that classic mother-son argument, doesn't it:
"Mom, I want a Segway!"
"Who let you off of your shackle? No way, go back to the basement."
"But mo-om! Everybody else has one!"
"If everybody else drove their Segways off of cliffs, would you do it?!"
Okay, are we good? Is that enough making fun of this guy now?
Alright.
We'll move on.

I have been dropping by schools today.
Trying to convince them that I'm not as wayward as the townsfolk say I am.
At one place they confirmed that I couldn't speak French.
Immediately.
"And no French, right?"
"Right."
Then he proceeds to mark 'NO FRENCH' on my resume.
And underline it.
He could have dazzled the both of us and at least set fire to it in front of me.
There are other subjects.
I went to school.
We didn't do French for five periods and then go home.
Laughing, surrendering, our berets askew.
Special education and French will get you a teaching job anywhere on the island.
Every other subject area is like some sort of scarlet letter.
Perhaps photocopier instruction manuals are only printed in French.
And they need the teachers to read them in order to fix paper jams.

Baby, Shower!

Eating a meal with a baby is sort of like eating a meal with a homeless person.
It's fine to do so, but they tend to get messy and not say a great deal.
It also doesn't take a huge amount to fill them up.
Two weeks ago? Maybe?
Whenever it was.
I ate a meal with a baby at some new-aged parents' house while Turpin smothered demons beside me.
She dragged me there.
It was a good time. Don't get me wrong.
The co-owner of the sprout is also a co-owner of the house.
And the baby.
So, the meal was flagrantly vegetarian.
And I ate the whole thing!
There wasn't anything left on the plate and I didn't whine about it or anything.
Though the meal hit a brief snag when the baby tried to touch me while I was sipping my coffee.
All covered in melon and youth and God knows what else.
So I told the baby.
I said, "Don't touch me with your mangy (pronounced 'mang-ee') ol' hands-get away from me."
I think Peter Miles (the father) was insulted.
Which is ridiculous.
I wouldn't have believed that Peter Miles could be insulted.
Some years ago we celebrated his sister's 30th in their parents' home.
And he laughingly suggested I have sex with her while there.
Because it would have been hilarious.
For everyone but me.
Anyway.
The baby was alright other than that.
I'm cool with feeding him squash.
But I would like to think that he'll be offered a carnivorous option when he's done teething.

A-Brewin'

Get your duckie boots out of your childhood closets.
As my parents would say, "It's blowin' a gale."
Hurricane Igor is ambling through our province and threatening our barbecues.
I'm here to boost moral and give everyone up-to-the-minute reports on how I'm doing:
I'm okay.
Usually I enjoy a good storm.
No one really expects anything of you.
You can put on your pajamas in the morning and leave them on.
You have a decent excuse on reserve for anything that you may forget to do or not do later that week.
"Sorry I forgot to get my greyhound registered for the race-
that storm on Tuesday was something else.
Lost my rain gutter.
Can I still enter him now?
He has been eating raw eggs all week. He wants to get in there."
You can buy aging greyhounds, y'know.
They have all of their shots, they have all of their papers.
They're well-trained.
They're sleek.
In a storm like this they can be used as a weather vane.
And from what I understand they're rather inexpensive.
What a bargain. 
The only problem with these dogs is the obligation to name them all Santa's Little Helper.I'd ask for one that didn't win any races.
So that the dog and I would have something in common.
I don't need a pet with a blue ribbon mentality.
That's why I left that cocky Wilbur on the farm.

Colin has begun concocting his own beer.
I may aid him in the process in the near future.
Then I won't feel so bad about drinking all of his hard work at Christmas time.

Killing Time

I really can't put into words how I am dressed right now.
Just know that I'm wearing my mother's lime-green capri pants.
Turpin has a bottle of champagne that includes wine glasses and everything.
So we decided to turn it into a date.
While drinking the champagne at three in the afternoon.
We're having trouble keeping ourselves occupied here in Bay Roberts.
I can't wait to see what she's wearing.
I hope she's not in the same outfit.
That would be embarrassing.

If you said, "How's it hangin'?" to a puppeteer, it would be a perfectly genuine question.

Turpin and I rented a film last night.
But this time I picked it out.
First of all, let me tell you something:
This is the first shitty horror film I have picked out in the course of our relationship.
And it is by far the best one that we have watched yet.
It is entitled Bikini Bloodbath Car Wash.
It was written and directed by Who the Fuck Cares.
That's really what it says in the opening credits.
The film didn't have nearly as many exposed breasts as I thought it might.
But then, it has 'bikini' in the title.
And there were lots of those.
I enjoyed the cinematography.
I spelled 'cinematography' properly on the first try.
Anyway, you should all watch the movie.
It's a hell of a lot better than Mongrel.
I meant to tell you guys about Mongrel but never got around to it.
Some other time.



Alright, I believe I hear my fair maiden.
Wish me luck.

A Lump In the Throat

When the mourners huddle around my coffin, reeking of booze, I hope they can say:
"Well, at least he died the way that he lived.
In the jaws of a hippopotamus."

Out of the Panopticon, Into the Fire

This is that hand-written post I mentioned a couple of days ago.
Transcribed blah blah blah. Whenever I wrote it:

Stephen Hawking believes that if we find aliens, we shouldn't attempt to communicate with them.
Another classic display of a scientist's true inability to behave socially.
Finding aliens and then refusing to greet aliens would be equivalent to being lost in the Congo, encountering another guy lost in the Congo, and then acting as though he's not there.
"Oh Jesus! Thank God! Someone else is out here. I was separated from my guide and a guerrilla ate all of my provisions.
I brandished my pocket knife at him, but he took that too.
None of that matters though. So long as we stick together!
If we follow the river we should locate civilization downstream.
C'mon!"
And you just look at him blankly.
Nothing about this response says 'diplomacy.'
When it comes to space, Stephen Hawking's a genius.
But he should leave the socializing to someone else.
He's not dancing with any girls at the party, if you know what I mean.

If aliens drop in, I'm going to find a nearby roof.
And then I'm going to hold a sign for them to read as they land.
Like that chick in Independence Day.
Something like:
DO YOU THINK THESE PANTS ARE TOO SHORT?

The government is watching us, y'know.
Just like Enemy of the State.
They spent gillions of dollars, but now they can see us as soon as we step outside.
Perhaps you've heard of the project codename:
Google Maps.
It is Nineteen Eighty-Four.

The Slacker's Manifesto

Library.
I'm beginning to think that my writing benefits from being in front of a window.
Like dictating a novel while doing the dishes.
I can see the roof of the Arts building.
Sort of makes me feel like a bird.
Or a roofer.
I saw photos of my grandfather putting a roof on his new shed.
With my father.
And "is that Colin on the roof, too?!"
Mom: Yeah, Colin was their helper.
Me: But he's like, four!
Mom: Pop insisted he be up there with them.
And they wonder why I can't use anything that requires its own fuel.
I didn't volunteer to be useless, y'know.
For the record.
I used to frequently ask to help dad.
But I was always "too little."
Now the joke is on my parents and future wife.
Because this response eventually mutated into "too lazy."

Speaking of harbouring my shortcomings, I'm sort of at the library in order to avoid mowing Avril's lawn.
Her mom asked me to do this.
Avril suggested that I do a shitty job so that they won't ask me to do it again.
Which takes the pressure off of me to try and figure out how I'm supposed to do a good job.
So use your kids for labour, everyone!
Tell them that they don't get their supper untili they sweep the chimney.
Otherwise, you'll end up with me:
A 28 year-old hobo who's only good for washing the dishes.
And looking out the window.

Here We Grow A Grain

Transcribed from yesterday, 5:30ish.

Y'know what sets a first-world country apart from a second-world country?
Eating contests.
A second-world country can't really spare the grain for the hot dog buns.
Or pie crusts. Whatever.
How do they even turn grain into food?
Isn't grain the stuff that we feed to chickens?
Oh. We set a bunch of grains down in a field and then the chickens come.
And those who survive tell the other chickens where to find this grain.
Because chickens are stupid and don't know how to avoid danger.
Which is why they keep crossing the road.

I'm at a Canadian Tire (Tube) right now.
The van has a flat.
I'm supposed to meet mom and dad for their airport arrival in ten minutes.
Mom would be irritated that I'm not going to be there. If she knew.

Drawing A Bath

I had written a post onto paper for all of you.
I did it in the library again.
Something about 18-year-olds' asses that I just find soothing.
Call it therapeutic.
Like setting up a change room web cam at the Aquarena.
See, this was all written on the piece of paper as well.
Unfortunately, the piece of paper is in the missus' car.
Which is in St. John's currently.
We went on a road trip yesterday.
To Gandar.
A very short road trip.
But long enough, given the destination.
We got home by about 7:30, tired and argumentative (not really).
I immediately began to eat ham that had inexplicably arrived in my parents' fridge.
Now, it turns out that Avril brought it along for the trip.
But I didn't know this at the time.
Though she had told me that she had packed ham before we left, I had long since forgotten that.

My parents are still in Toronto.
They get home tomorrow.
They bring dreaded responsibility with them.
Turpin watered the plants while they were gone.
Even now that I'm capable of buying booze for them, I doubt I could have as many high school kids here as Colin would when mom and dad were away.

A new comedy open mic is launching tomorrow.
Esteves and I had been discussing originating our own.
And then a mysterious woman contacted all of us and informed us that she would be starting a room.
As you can imagine, I consider it a little too good to be true.
But I'm going to discuss screenplays with Esteves soon.
Just in case.

Speaking of making it, I'm going to ask the Yuk's people to put us on tour together.
I asked Bill if they would entertain such an idea.
"Sure they would, especially if you're willing to share a hotel room."
Which I am not.
But I am willing to have him sleep in a bathtub for a month and a half.

Though I'm short a Metallica album, I have learned that Hot Hot Heat is great.
They sold me on it in the CD store.
I used to do that at one time.
I once sold a couple of seniors a copy of A Perfect Circle's 'Thirteenth Step.'
And now?
A substitute teacher.
How the mighty have fallen.

When the Bow/Bough Breaks

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

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


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

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

For the Birds

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

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

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


QEII LIBRARY
EXTENDED HOURS
SPRING/SUMMER 2010

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

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