Your Place or Pete's Room?

The fact that I can't set up Google Analytics is exactly why Google will never hire me.
There are other reasons, too.
I have nothing to mention. There's no point in pretending.
Sure, I could just stiff the lot of ya and write nothing.
But I might as well at least say whatever it is that I'm saying.

Don't tell an audience what hotel you're staying in and the hotel's room number.
Especially not if you give your co-worker's room number by mistake rather than your own.
I didn't get any unsolicited visitors (luckily, neither did Pete Zedlacher).
But I did have to politely turn down some woman in Sydney.
Who was...presented to me by her friends.
"We've brought you so-and-so. Do you approve?"
That's basically what happened.
I didn't approve.
Luckily I had to leave at 7 a.m. the next morning.
So, I really clung to that long enough to get out of there.
Honesty is funny sometimes, sure.
But honesty can also be the worst policy.

This unplugged version of this song has been stuck in my head for about a week.
Certain hits just make you roll your eyes after enough time has passed by.
It's funny how fickle we can be.
Really, when you sit and listen, it just sounds lovely.
No matter how much time you've spent not paying attention to it.
 

It's the Name of the Town

Drunk in Membertou.
Member...
Two.
You guys keep your pants on until tomorrow.

Shore. Leave.

Bet all of your kids' college fund on black.
It's Friday.

I thought that I had written this post already. In my brain.
I haven't though.
That's happening now.
I have to go to Membertou tomorrow.
I don't know where it is, and I'm not entirely sure how to say it.
My roommate's mother is here right now and my roommate is not.
Though I suppose there's no real reason to feel this way, it makes me sad.
Maybe not sad.
Maybe something more irritated than sad.
Now Kyle has just returned home from an oral exam which means he hopes to get high.
He's probably more sad than I am.

I did some jokes in Bedford last night.
Once a fevered dream, this is something I do regularly these days.
After this, myself, Marc Sauve (rube) and Brian Aylward headed to Roe-Day-Ohs.
Only a few people milled about in the dank.
One table was full of drunk units.
Including some round-faced tart who immediately began speaking to me once we got there.
Fortunately, I couldn't understand what she was saying.
I'm assuming it was nothing interesting since she was wasted.
She told me that she was from the southern shore.
Since I'm in Nova Scotia, I assume that she meant the southern shore of this province.
In my home province, people from the southern shore sound really funny.
So, I'm not sure whether or not to chalk her up to coincidence.
Because she sounded retarded.
It may have been the booze, but she spoke as though she'd just been kicked in the head by a mule.
And the kick hit something important in the brain.
Of course, I may just be saying that because I don't like her.
You wouldn't either.
She sidled up to Marc and I at the bar.
After asking the bartender where to find some hot guys she turned to me and said:
"Cause you're not cutting it, buddy."
After a moment or two, I excused myself from Marc, saying:
"I don't want to be near this woman anymore."
Because I had no reply.
I'm so bad with bullies, sometimes.
I likely would have kept it inside my head even if something came to mind.
Her male friends looked stupid to the point of dangerous, and they were pretty pissy-eyed themselves.
Regardless, it's still depressing when I can't think of a retort to such an easy target.
"You're no prize yourself, slut!"
Even that would do in a pinch.
I understand why it is that women may find 'slut' to sound rather jarring.
Be that as it may, I find it to be an incredibly funny word.
Something about the sound of it tickles me.
Probably  because I've never been called one (to my face).
Aylward recently pointed out to me that comics are those who got tired of being bullied.
I like that idea.
It doesn't resonate well, though, since Brian was a jock in school who had sex with lots of women.
But we all have our checkered pasts.

Taking For Granted

I stole a get well card recently.
I really don't know what that says about me as a person.
I shoplift from time to time.
I have no idea why.
That's four sentences in a row that begin with 'I.'
I really like myself.
If you do something that you haven't the permission to do in Newfoundland, a Newfoundlander might say:
"You likes yaself!"
That's dialect for you. That's free.
Shoplifted items are also free.
That's not why I do it, though.
You might assume that to be the reason for my felonies, since I'm impoverished.
"A round of loaves of bread for me and my vagrant buddies!"
But that's not it.
Generally I take things of very little value, in an effort to avoid prosecution.
I also don't steal for any sort of thrill, like not sanitizing my hands after using a public washroom.
It's almost the opposite of that; I feel trememndously calm in the process.
Like asking out women, I only do it when I know I'll get away with it.
Knowing that I'm going to get away with it is likely the reason I do it.

The card is for an old friend and crush, Shiela Last Name.
Someone fucked up her vacation in Mexico when they beat the shit out of her and left her in an eleveator.
The resort staff failed to list that in the "all-inclusive" part.
It's an enlightening thing to learn about.
I read about shitty things on a daily basis and I think, "That's a shame."
But I don't really mean that.
No one generally means it.
Sure, it's too bad, but what do you care?
You have your own life, your own challenges, your own vacations to plan and budget for.
Which is okay.
That preoccupation is no one's fault.
Then something like this happens.
Suddenly, the CBC is posting updates on a name you used to read off of a nametag.
Shiela and I haven't really spoken since I left Banff.
I'm having trouble saying whatever it is that I'm trying to say right now.
Every disaster is happening to someone you know, cosmically speaking.
You just can't steal cards for 'em all.

For what it's worth (absolutely nothing), this post is for her.
And all of the bones in her face.

Troubleshoot Yourself

It's not often that Sarah Turpin can make me feel anything besides overwhelming confidence.
It's the same reason that pretty girls always have a fat, gross friend.
The exception to this rule occured on the day she was over my shoulder while I was interneting (porno).
And she exclaimed, "You still type w-w-w?!"

I don't know how to fix your computer, alright?
I have no idea.
I only began using torrents (porno) last month.
When my iPod syncs, I have no idea what is truly happening to it or my computer.
I find it tricky using Twitter.
Look at the blog's layout, for Christ's sakes.
Does this look like the blog of a guy who chews code?
Obviously not.
"Paul will know what to do with your laptop.
We'll wait until Paul comes home."
"Is he good with computers?"
"'Is he good with computers?!'
Look at him!
Glasses. Small frame. Plays video games.
Paul knows computers, okay?
In fact, if he says that he doesn't know computers, I elect that we choose not to believe him."
Windows doesn't care if I look the part.
It takes more than that.
And before you ask, I'm not great at reciting algebra formulas either.

Most Unwelcome OR The Cheese Stands Alone

I lost a block of cheese last night.
Midnight snack, I swedge off some cheese.
I know it's not a word. That's not important.
I get up this morning, go to get some cheese.
Cheese isn't in the fridge.
Isn't in the freezer, oven, microwave...
Eventually, I find it next to the tin foil, in the tin foil drawer.
This is what my life is like. Every day is like this.

So, I wasn't going to mention it.
And I don't want everyone getting excited here.
Because it seems like a breaking point, I suppose.
And I haven't reached any sort of breaking point.
However, I do appreciate a good shortcut when I can use one.
Therefore, I made an account for Plenty of Fish.
Solely for the purpose of contacting women who interest me.
Of whom there are a whopping two.
Out of about a hundred or more.
Anyway, that's the motivation. 
Not so much for attracting the bass to my boat.
I wouldn't have brought this up because I want my exes to (continue to?) respect me.
But I had to bring it up.
Because I sent one message to one woman.
Minutes later, I get two messages back, both from the same user.
A man. 
"Yeah, I'll be around to chat, but not til later."
That's the first one (minus the spelling mistakes).
The second one goes on to explain that the guy meant to send the message to someone else.
But, since we're talking, would I care to masturbate with him.
I haven't responded yet.
I intend to decline.
It would be my fortune to receive the equivelant of a wrong number minutes after joining a dating service.
I never get to rebound, y'know?
Everyone else gets to rebound.
Everyone else wakes up in other people's beds.
In other people's pajamas.
Why can't I make some idiot choices, too?
A fellow comic met a Halifax woman on Plenty of Fish.
She ended up burning his cheek with a lit cigar.
Now it's my turn.

Among other mildly embarrassing news, my home has a mouse in it.
Or dozens of mice who all look the same (genetics).
I didn't particularly care at first.
He's not the only one who has had to squat somewhere during the winter months.
He has since lost the sense of fellowship I shared with him.
I've had to stay in other people's homes, sure.
But I never pooped near their garbage cans.
You just can't do that.
If I did do that, I'd understand if my hosts lured me onto a platofrm that released a strong metal bar that snapped my neck.
I want to catch him alive.
I do.
I fantasized about herding him into a shoebox in order to later release him in Shitty Dartmouth.
However, my landlord does not share my compassion.
Besides, I'm too much of a pansie to catch him alive, really.
And I'm not Wile E. enough.
I refer to the mouse as a 'he' because shes get pregnant.
Happens in high school all the time. 
I want he-mice.
Did you know that mice are the most adaptable mammal on the planet?
I figured it was Justin Timberlake (he can sing, he can dance, he can host SNL...)
I've been reading up on my new adversary.
Know your enemy, that sort of thing.
I consulted Sun Tzu on the topic.
But he just told me not to engage an elevated enemy.
The only other thing his scrolls offered were metaphors for starting a small business.

The Turning Seasons

Let me give you some insight into my mother's subtle dimentia:
She has this tole painting - in fact, she has dozens of them, but this one is special.
It has all four seasons depicted in a circular mosaic.
Each picture's section has the corresponding season written above it.
With me so far?
She rotates the painting 90 degrees each solstice.
So that the current season is at the top.
Turpin pointed it out to me.
Mom had my father fasten a hanging bracket thingy on all four sides of this thing.
That was a task that he had to do at some point.
Likely wondering all the while where he went wrong. 
She's a lovely woman and a fantastic mother.
But she possesses a set of standards that baffle and confuse me.

Blue Belles

The first dance I ever went to, I requested my date wear a specific dress.
Then I forgot to bring the blue suedes, and consequently had to wear my boots.
I was in grade two.
Leanne Badcock had a sparkly blue dress I really appreciated.
No one has a sexuality or figure in grade two, so I'm not sure why it mattered to me.
Though kids do have a favourite colour in grade two.
Mine was blue.
Leanne also wore the dress to a birthday party of mine.
(At the Jambowl. You bowled there).
During which I cut the cake, made a crumb, named her my girlfriend, and watched her run out of the building.
While crying.
I tried to play it cool.
"She'll be back.
She has to return the shoes."
If you're wondering why I chose Leanne, it's because Natalie was with Trevor.
That joke will make sense to about 16 people.
None of whom read this blog.
Knowing Leanne as an adult, I'm not sure it would have worked out anyway.
I asked Turpin for a reason for why we wouldn't work out (without specifying why I was asking).
She said, "Her voice."
Not a bad answer.

I only mention all of this as a way of explanation for all of my former lovers.
Who are reading this saying, "So that's why he made me wear that."

There's a lingerie store in Halifax that featured living models during Christmas.
Upon seeing this, my first instinct was to set up a lawn chair in front of them.
On the sidewalk, in front of the window.
Cover myself with a blanket, and stare at them with binoculars.
That's not true.
There were living models.
But everything else I only made up today.
It came to me after walking past the lingerie shop.
Thinking, "I wish those living models were still in there."

City Slacker

Kyle and I are in the coffee shop.
Red ink. Purple ink.
Just a couple of eligible bachelors.
I did comedy at a new venue last night.
Which is a great way to meet new people and decimate your confidence.
Felt good.

If I was a woman, I'd be flat-chested.
I've never had any doubt about this.
High school as a woman would have been as exactly as sexually worrying as it was in this body.
Coupled with menstruation.
I don't get fake breasts.
Or, I don't get dudes who dig fake breasts.
Prefer, even.
I've heard men say things like:
"And she had these awesome, big fake tits."
If you ever see a truck with a bunch of useless shit attached to it, and you wonder:
"Who would drive that?"
The answer is this guy.
The bigger the tit, the better the tit.
No matter the cost.
These are the same guys who determine the quality of a film by the number of explosions in it.
I'm boring myself.

I really like "No Scrubs," but I wish the lyrics didn't apply to me so vividly.
So, I'm gonna go to Toronto for a bit.
For real this time.
Though I was likely too embarrassed to tell you, I booked dates to go before.
Then I didn't go.
Because I didn't want to end up a big success.
"Paul's back with a new suit and a cocaine problem.
He still doesn't own a car, but he looks as though he could rent one now."
I'm not as worried about that these days.
I think I can avoid success, even in Canada's busiest city.
I'm not sure what I'll be worried about this time around.
But I'm bound to cook up something while I'm on the plane.
Offending a black person, maybe.
Though I have absolutely no racial material whatsoever (for this very reason).
Getting lost, perhaps.
I could see that happening.
If I got lost in Toronto after dark, I'd begin crying.
And I wouldn't stop until a policeman helped me.
Stand in the middle of the subway terminal.
Arms hanging by my sides.
Just bawling.
"Are you lost, son?"
(Sniffling) "Uh huh."
Hey, it's what they get paid for.
What else?
Blending in. 
That's the scariest one of all.
However, with my polite nature and bumpkin wardrobe, I doubt this will happen.
Here are the places I am going to, and why:

Vaughn: Reminds me of Vince Vaughn. Whom I love.
Whenever I get my haircut, I say, "Give me the Vince Vaughn."
Kitchener: No one else is willing to go to Kitchener.
Ajax: I want to see where the members of Sum 41 grew up.
Downtown Toronto: It's close to Toronto.
Calgary: Memories.
Edmonton: Crack and Oxycontin.


They're not singing this song.
Makes you wonder if they ever sang it.

Race Unrelated

Pray the tests come back 'negative.'
It's Friday.

I just had a scary conversation with a woman at the bank.
Though, ultimately, it's a happy ending.
She said that if I ever decide to quit comedy and become an actual person, I can still get a car.

Square Dance

Get a spouse

Get a 52"

Get a Camry

Get a Pug

Make a kid

Be successful

Anyway, I have a few posts to upload.
I've been writing them, but not teleprompting them.
The first one was written on...we'll say Monday, February whatever. 

It may have been Tuesday:

I just want to sit, y'know what I mean?

Sip my coffee, write a passably passable blog post. 

Go home. 

Lift a lot of heavy weights for a few hours. 

Take a steam. 

Go to bed. 

There you go. That's a day. 

That's not too complicated. 

But I can't do that because I'm in public. 

And women are in public sometimes. 

So, instead of having a nice day 

(3 sets at 10 reps)

I have to sit and think about how I'd like to have sex with a black woman some day. 

Fine. 

But not terribly productive, or even relevant.

I wouldn't even know where to go to meet a black woman. 

I can't suggest any places because they'll all seem racist

("Watermelon factory!")

Everything is racist now. 

I do a joke on how generic ultrasound baby photos are. 

The parents are excited about the first photo of their baby. 

I used to say, "This is your baby?

...Are you sure?

Maybe the nurses fucked up the envelopes in receiving and this is actually some Indian couples' baby."

Couldn't continue saying it. 

When I said, "Indian," the room would always tense up. 

I'd ask, "Are you quiet because I'm saying 'Indian' and you think that that's racist?"

No response (which is a 'yes'). 

It's not racist to mention a race. 

Goddamn I hate TV. 

Have you ever seen that Hoarders show?

Jesus Christ, what a mess (pun intended). 

It really must be something. 

Tracking down a 70-year old woman who keeps jars of possum fetuses. 

That's no reason to televise her, though.
It just seems like it is. 

Sure, she threw away her dignity long ago. 

But perhaps you'll find it somewhere underneath all of the wigs and belt sanders.
Hire some people to help her dig around for it. 

Showcasing how disgusting she is won't help anyone. 

Watching families collect in hotel rooms, trying to corner the family crackhead. 

This is passing the time?

This is an evening spent?

I'd sooner take the Urban Peasant any day of the week. 

Snooki needs to be beaten with a broomstick handle until she begins thinking of someone besides herself.

She doesn't need air time. 

Kids watch this stuff. 

I can't see a woman's breast on any channel at any time.

But I can watch this bitch get piss-herself-drunk at 2 p.m.

Suspended in Time

Written yesterday, somehow:

I drank way too much wine last night.
I still feel gross when I think about it.
I was at that casino again.
You're stuck in an elevator with a person of whatever gender you like to have sex with.
After a meal of the snacks and cat food you were returning home with, you get to talking.
An organic, easy conversation that lasts the entire twelve hours.
Discussing and laughing until the repairman finally shows up
("Jesus, I though it said St. John, not St. John's. Terribly sorry.").
He explains that he'll just need another half hour, and then he can let you out.
After the repairman calls down this information, your liftmate locks eyes with you and says, "I love you."
Do you believe it's possible you'd ever say it back?
Bear in mind, by now you've urinated in front of this person.
Hard part's over. 
Rewind.
He doesn't say "I love you," but he was out for cooking sherry before this whole ordeal.
You begin drinking it half an hour before the repairman's requisite half hour.
The liftmate says nothing this time, but takes off their shirt. And pants/skirt/leotard.
Do you think it's more likely you'd say "I love you, too."
Or bone this person in the elevator?
I know my answer.
I know yours, too.
We're all monkeys out there.
Monkeys looking for a friend.

While you're screwing, the elevator man is on the phone.
That's why he needed the half hour.
The story is too funny to wait.
He has to call his elevator buddies and tell them about it.
St. John.
St. John's.

It's an easy mistake to make.