"Mom! I'm gonna do a dive, Mom! Mom!? You're Not Watching!"

Text your drug dealer and then your backup drug dealer and then your buddy's backup drug dealer.
It's Friday.

Have you ever wondered what dogs would do with themselves if they had hands?
I have.
A good guess would be that they would clasp those hands together in front of their chests.
Which wouldn't make any sense to us, unless they were also able to speak.
Then we'd realize that they were clasping their hands in front of their chests, saying:
"Please! Please give me some of your cheeseburger! I'm beggin' you!"
They'd also shake much more convincingly.

Written on June 30, 2012:
 

Sometimes I feel like one of the effigies in the salons. You know the sort.

There's a cat licking the couch cushions near me right now. I'm just going to say that and move on.

Like...I used to be somethin', y'know?

My tits were in the right place. My ass was proportionate to my body in  a flattering way. 

I applied my makeup with brushes rather than trowels. 

I used to BE somethin'. I really had it. 

I'd walk into the room, and man, heads would turn.

Now I read Us because They are the only ones who seem to have any sort of Life.

While I myself am a slightly appealing has-been.

I can't create, y'know. I mimic.

Like the octopus.

Maybe I should do this entire blog on four beers. I like this rhythm I have going on.

New announcement to make:

Tragic Hero from here on out is going to be The Four Beers Blog.

Four Beers to write it. Four Beers recommended to read it.

It's like this:

I need you people. And I don't even know who you are. 

I'm like a dog that way. 

It doesn't matter who's scratching me as long as SOMEONE is scratching me. 

If you have a dog who is lax enough, you can put that dog in the room with any sort of sexual deviant pedophile freak and the dog will be as happy and excited about it as they would a toddler.

I need you.

This hiatus didn't bring me any sort of joy.

I missed you at times. 

When I'd do something stupid in public and think to myself, "This is a new embarrassment for myself. Never experienced this one before. If only I could tell the guys about it."

But I don't know who the guys are.

I ran into Lorraine a couple of days ago. We were at the same barbecue. 

She mentioned how she couldn't read my blog because I wasn't updating it any more.

I am begging Lorraine's pardon.

I didn't know she READ the blog.

Tell me you read the blog.

Prince? Are you out there?

Prince, if you read this fucker, when you see me eye to eye, you TELL me.

Start leaving comments and signing them with your strange nautical symbol that you refer to yourself by.

Part of the reason I stopped - no wait. Let's start again.

You want to know why I stopped? Laziness. You want to know why else?

I would write each day. Then a day would pass and I wouldn't post anything. 

Then two days. 

Then four.

"Better get to that blog, fool. You could die soon and this is what they'll read as soon as you kick it."

Mom never reads it now (probably for the best). As soon as I'm dead she'll be on here every day. 

Weeping and moderating the comments about penis pills.

Seven days. 

Two weeks.

Now, I feel bad that two weeks have passed and I haven't written anything for you people.

But I don't know who you are. 

I don't know who I'm supposed to be apologizing to.

It's an exhausting feeling.

So I quit the thing. 

Remember that?

I re-wrote that closing post about twenty times by the way. For you! 

To have you think that I'm sincere (which is really for me, I guess) - and I think, "Five years and suddenly I'm leaving without notice. 

This'll get a reaction."

Nothin'.

Robert's sister Lori was the only one.

For a while I thought that she was the only person who read it at all.

One time I saw her step in dog poo while in her bare feet. It was gross.

I'm punishing her. That's punishment for being a fan.

I need a reaction.

Scratch that.

I need...acknowledgement. Not a lot. A little.

I just want to know that you read and that you care.

It doesn't matter who you are.

I write this because I want to affect somebody - anybody.

If I can't live in the adult world - and it's clear now that I can't - I'd like to at least be able to entertain the adult world, in some sort of fucked up, poverty-stricken transcendence.

I like the idea that you read me at work. That's naughty for me.

Fuck your job. You SHOULD be reading me at work.

Not because I'm clever. Not because I have anything enlightening to say.

Simply because fuck your job. That's reason enough.

You're bored and there's no point in watching YouTube without volume.

That's me.

That's what I'm here for.

Your cubicle is too small.

I want to broaden things for you.

I really do. I mean that when I write it. I really do. That connection is fun for me.

But there IS no connection.

I don't know that you read it. I don't know that I'm in your cubicle.

And that's alright.

I am the Robin Hood of the office.

I don't need the riches or the praise. I'm happy to help.

But these lapses - two days, four days, twelve days - they happen because of a disconnect.

I'm writing for everybody and I'm writing for nobody.

Do you see what I mean?

But you're all I've got.

And that means everything.

So fuck it. 

Leave me to my racking insecurities and I'll turn those into posts. 

Don't leave any comments. Who needs a round table discussion?

I'll just have my four beers and then I'll knock it out of the park.

Run around the bases while there are no other players.

No one in the stands.

I went to a Jays game in Toronto, by the way.

The foot-long hot dogs looked delicious.

Eleven dollars. Eleven!
That's almost a dollar an inch.
It's not fucking kitchen tiles. This isn't a bolt of yarn.
Give me a break.

Beers? Tall cans? $10.75.

That's a...I don't know how much markup that is. Where's Bussey?

I wouldn't even care.

I didn't care; I got drunk anyway.

But I would happily pay that if the cashier apologized while asking for my money.

I really mean that.

"I'm sorry, but that's $10.75. I have no idea who set the price. No one does. $10.75 with my humblest apologies."

I'd never complain about the cost again.
Of course, I don't have to complain again because when will I be at another Jays game?

Exactly.

I've missed you. I have.

I love ya. The wife loves ya.

Just know that I'm doing this for you.

I'm getting nothing out of this.

When all I need is validation.

I realized while on the road that the best bit that I have came from the blog.

And there are countless other bits in here.

I intend to dig them up.

This is free form. This is flow. This is healthy.

This is where bits should come from.

Until I take them onstage, turn them into a script and then hate them with everything I have.

I'm changing the blog's title.

I'm not sick of the name, necessarilly.

Actually, I may not change the title.

Let's not say that I'm doing that yet.

Let's get me back in the pool and doing a few laps before I try picking up that loonie off of the floor of the deep end.

The gypsy hex is lifted.
The hiatus is over.

Oh! And...

...follow me on Twitter if you're not already.
If I see an ugly couple making out on the subway, I want to be sure you're in the loop. 

In So Many Words

I began this blog because I like myself immensely.
I am always curious to hear whatever it is that I have to say.
I like re-reading things I've written.
I enjoy looking at pictures of myself.
I enjoy beginning sentences with 'I'.
Especially if the I is me.
That's why I began this blog.
I perpetuated this blog for all of the above reasons.
And also because this became more than I expected it to be.
Six years later (is it six?) and I have as many readers as I have years served.
But the thing is, when I began this, I never expected much.
Now I'm 934 posts beyond the first.
And for a guy who can't seem to get it together, that's pretty good.
So, what am I getting at here?
What's all of this foreplay about?
Well, as you know, economic times have been at an all-time low, lately.
The Dow (which is, I believe, some massive bug-like creature who eats money) has been starving.
Times is tough all over
(That's a line from a high school play that I influenced).
I'm going to take a break.
Which isn't my way of letting you down gently, readers.
The blog will be back.
Likely within a day or two of arriving in Toronto ("They've got billboards here!").
Seriously though. It will take longer than that. 

Why am I doing this to you?
I don't know why I moved out of Bay Roberts in October.
That is to say, I didn't.
I didn't know.
Now I do.
I believed that it was for comedy.
Which is only kinda true.
I thought it was to complicate the relationship I was in at the time.
Which is only kinda true.
I thought it was to change something.
That's a little closer to being right.
It's not that I missed cityscapes.
Or being "out there."
Or even Peter White.
I simply missed socializing.
Sure, I did that in St. John's.
But the majority of my time was spent in the rec room.
You can't meet people in the rec room.
You can't flourish.
You can't be more than a shriveled husk of a man, no matter how much you love your parents.
I've figured that out.
I missed socializing.
I haven't written anything in the blog for however long it has been.
Even the post about the dog and Colin stayed in my book for over a week.
It's not that I didn't want to write these posts (I did).
I just wanted to be...out.
I didn't want to be near my laptop. I wanted days away from my laptop.
Now this is happening.
I still haven't finished packing my bags for Toronto tomorrow.
But I'm going. No matter how much I refuse to acknowledge that in my head.
I want to go out in Toronto.
I want to shake hands and make eye contact and experience something.
The blog wouldn't prevent that.
Truly, the blog has never prevented that.
But I'm struggling to write things down that you will all find interesting.
And it shouldn't be a struggle.
For a long time it wasn't a struggle.
This was never meant to be something that I forced.
It was always just supposed to be me.
And it is.
It will continue to be.
It's paulwarford.com, after all.
Unless I really manage to stir things up, this albatross is quite literally my life's work.
I just want to get back to life's play.
I used to be the guy in the room.
I plan to find him again.
Then I (we) will come back to you.
Until he's unearthed, I am announcing Tragic Hero's first official hiatus.
Mulling it over for a couple of weeks now, I decided that I wanted to go through with this when I pictured my Wikipedia page, years from now, saying: "...and then in 2012, Warford announced his first official hiatus from Tragic Hero."
And I thought that might be an interesting twist.
Besides, it makes the blog more famous now.
Fame has a great deal to do with being out of reach.

The other reason is that it is time to write something else.
I spend my days trying to convince myself that I'm a comic.
Really, that will never be true. Not in the sense that I'm striving for.
But I am a writer.
It's time I do some writing.
I spent my 20s speculating on things I may or may not be able to accomplish.
In my 30s I may as well try accomplishing them.
I want to write a book.
What eats at me is that I've had the idea for some time, but still have no title.
It's nothing without the title.
It's nothing regardless right now, and I guess that's my point.
The portion of me that's an adult has come to realize that writing a book isn't about saying you want to write a book before eventually becoming a school teacher.
It's writing a book.
I can write a book.
There are loads of books out there that are shit.
Mathematically speaking, that has to be true.
And someone published those.
I can write a book.
Now that I have this calming realization in me, I might as well accompany it with some actualization.
Something that my life desperately craves.
I'm also going to try my hand at some scripts.
I have absolutely no ideas or concepts whatsoever for scripts right now.
But I should learn the format.
I've been practicing.
Wanna see?

Paul exits

Looks over shoulder 

Bye guys. 

Keep having sex with each other.

My Word

I wrote this ages ago.
I have no idea when this was written.
I know that it was on a very warm day.
I know I was on a bench.
I prepared to transcribe it into the blog one night, and then I realized that my family is annoying, maybe.
Realizing that your families are all annoying, too, here it is:

Written on The Day in Question:

Kevin Pollack didn't re-tweet me.
I guess I shouldn't be surprised.
It's not like he plays with the Toronto Raptors.
He was in Casino, for crying out biscuits.
I don't know why I wrote that.
Instead of biscuit, my brother will say, "Bisq-wee."
The Warfords have lots of stupid mispronunciations.
Comes from having an illiterate father.
I kid. He reads.
I thought about listing some of our stupid expressions...
But I've likely already done so in here...somewhere.
And it was no less a waste of time then.
If it's too warm in a car, we'll say, "Ease back on the chaff."
Doesn't really mean anything, but one of us will turn down the heat after hearing it.

I have to stop writing this for a minute so that I can go pet that dog.
I'll try to get a picture.
Fuck, I need business cards again.

He or she was rescued, thank goodness.
Rescued like an orphan.
Or a used hot tub.

Sometimes I think I'm a proficient host in a struggling comic's body.

I'd try writing a script if I had a studio apartment.

No one was ever actually supposed to settle in Canada.
We're supposed to be in sunshine.
We should have settled in balmier climates and just went to Canada whenever we needed lumber.
The Warfords say that, too. Balmy.
If the weather is awful, Colin will say, "It's good and balmy out."
Which is sarcasm.
Today is actually balmy.
Which is good.

Monkey's Uncle

I don't have time to do this, but this is a big day.
For today I am an uncle.
I am a man.
I am an uncle.
Here is Willow Violet, wondering whether or not her name is too branchy:

Unrelated topic, you and I have to have a talk soon.
I'm not saying that I'm mad at you, or that I have stopped having feelings for you.
But we may have to see other blogs for a while.
I'm afraid I'm serious. 
If I was famous, this would count as a buzzworthy announcement.

Doubt It

I thrive on doubt.
Do you have any idea how uncomfortable that is?

"You've Had Enough"

There aren't any customers yet.
The night is still extremely early.
The doors aren't even open.
I brought the last of my gin from home.
Even brought my own tonic water.
Please, don't get on my case about the liquor inspector.
I'm not even sure the liquor inspector exists.
"Can't let you have that in here. If the liquor inspector comes in, we'll get shut down."
How good do you think the liquor inspector is at his job?
"Oh, it's just one"--
Door's kicked open.
SWAT team swarms in, commanding everyone to get down on the floor.
They're smashing light fixtures and the tables' flower vases.
And among the chaos, there he is.
The Liquor Inspector.
Fedora outlined in the doorway.
Immaculate trench coat cinched tight.
"I'm shutting this place down."
Give me a break.
Tell the underage girls to pull up a stool.
They're not flappers and this isn't a speakeasy.
The liquor inspector isn't coming.

I Like The Way You Move

Alright, alright.
Stay the slings and spare the arrows.
I haven't been writing not because I haven't been writing.
I just haven't been writing.
I have been writing.
I've just been distancing myself from my laptop.
It was nice outside.
I've also been renting cars and driving places.
But I'm back and saucy!
So pull up a cubicle and-
That woman is carrying a bicycle tire into the coffee shop.
Some people will do just about anything for attention.
Write a blog, for example.

Alright.
Okay.
Alright.

Written on...we'll say March 20th:

I went to PEI over the weekend.
Spent a lot of a paycheck that I haven't received yet (still haven't received it) to get there.
Despite the company of Andie, my PEI-born co-pilot, we managed to get lost twice.
My favourite part was when she suddenly asked, "Are we in New Brunswick?!"
I didn't know.
But I knew that the bilingual roadsigns weren't encouraging.
Choosing the most mysterious-looking garage we could find, we stopped for directions.
But all we found were several dogs and no humans.
Dogs don't talk, so I chose to call the hotel people.
Speaking of, if you ever find yourself in PEI--
"Whadya mean 'Rainbow Valley is closed!?'"--
stay at The Delta.
They treated me wicked nice.
The guy with the cute accent was very supportive when I lost the keys to the rental car.
Push-button start allows rubes like me to lose their keys immediately after parking.
Do you guys think I'm calm, generally speaking?

Yesterday, I tried to conclude this post by describing how the show in PEI went.
But I hated everything I wrote down when I tried that.
So we're moving on.
If you could choose any musical act to help you move out of your apartment, who would you choose?
This question seems like a more worthwhile exploitation of your (my?) time.
I've discovered that I really enjoy asking hypothetical questions.
I got into the practice with my roommate, Kyle.
Here's a photo of him looking grosser than he actually is:

However, since we're both six, most questions tend to be disgusting and/or involve sex with Natalie Portman.
A professional interviewer, Chuck Klosterman is great with hypotheticals.
He was aware enough of this talent to publish flash cards.
He asks the sort of things that I believe adults should be debating.
I'd discuss being Bruce Springsteen over politics any day. 
Oh, and I'd have sex with Natalie Portman, by the way.
In almost any scenario you can think of.
You hear me, Natalie?!
I'm right here waiting.
...For you.
Oh, that's a fun song that exists even though I forgot about it.
Let's stick that in here.


Will you leave comments on which musicians would help you move?
Give me something to fill my day?
I said Slipknot because there are, like, nine guys in that band.
So, they could do most of the work.
While I made the lemonade.
"Maybe you'd have an easier time drinking this if you took off the masks, fellas."

edit: Reading an alphabetical list of Ice Cube's tracks is pretty fun.

Babies Babies Everywhere, So Let's All Have A Drink

My favourite season is the day that winter ends.
This year, that day was yesterday.
To celebrate, I put on a shirt with long sleeves and went for a walk.
Tried to discover where women sunbathe in this stink town.
You can cross the mall off of the list.
They're not there.

All advertising is false.

I have a note in my book that says:
"Talk about the babies, fuckhead."
So, I suppose I should do that.
This is how I communicate with myself, by the way.
I sometimes forget that newcomers may be reading these posts.
People who have never seen my friends, their vaginas, or the babies who've come out of them.
Victoria Mary Elizabeth Shandera was born the day I moved to Halifax.
She has Robert's mouth and Christa's gender.
She can sort of hold up her head on her own at this point.
She's keen to acheive, just like her daddy.
She will do well in school, and she'll probably never use hard drugs.

Rowan Adventure Turpin/Russell was born New Year's Eve last year.
From a legal drinking age standpoint (which will one day be important to Rowan, I'm sure) it's the worst birthday possible.
Much like Victoria, Rowan looks like a little baby.
I tell her about my girl problems sometimes, after her mom leaves the room
("And don't even get me started on your mother...").
I think about discussing with 15-year old Rowan what a pain in the ass baby Rowan was.
Though strange, it's an oddly exciting prospect.
It is also...humbling?
Not humbling.
It's a concept with so many potentials.
Who will I be by then?
More importantly, who will she be?
How many ex-wives will I have?
To dwell on their future is to dwell on my own.
They are a new perspective for me.
A new avenue for clarity and self-discovery.
These are the first since-birth friends I've ever had.
Before them, the closest candidates were their parents.
They are important.
...
See?
It is different when they're yours.

And let's not forget about the biological niece on the way.
I forget all of the time.
Sure, this is the sort of thing that should resonate with me.
But I tend to forget things that aren't right in front of me-
"My eye appointment was supposed to be two months ago!"-
A new generation of Warford, I can't help but wonder how her nose will turn out.
I'm just waiting for the day I can sneak her booze during some family wedding
(My fourth, for example).
Promising her I won't tell her father, I'll mention and laugh about it with Brian immediately.
Yes, there are a lot of new lies on the horizon.
Brian has an uncanny knack for turning something general into something that is him.
So he should find this easy enough. 

The Baby and the Bath Water

Hi hi.

Alright, well, I'm gonna go again.
No, really though.
Tonight's not the night.
But I know I missed a couple of days this past week.
On the bright side, it's sort of because I've been around other humans.
Including an entire cafe full of people while I was too stoned to be in a new breakfast place.
That was Saturday. 
With the baby divocree.
I'll explain her later.
Friday, I did comedy for a bunch of people who save birds and foxes.
Then I rushed across town to the marina to do a show for some Navy boys.
They claimed they were Navy boys, anyway.
Sort of looked like engineers to me.
And some of them even looked like girls.
I interrupted myself during a bit to tell a woman that she was sexy.
Then I made fun of some grad student university guy in one of my favourite ad-libs ever
(For those keeping track).
Luckily for my narcissism, I taped it.
If Peter can escape that baby of his for a bit, I might get him to help me upload the clip.

I'd just put her in the tub.
You want to make sure the baby doesn't fall over the stairs, you put her in the tub.
She won't be able to get out of there.
I've never actually tried this, but it works for Tarantulas.

Oh!
I was published in The Coast on Thursday.
That's something new for you to read, and it takes less effort from me.

Be Gentile

I'm sick of people assuming that I'm Jewish.
We're finally talking about it.
I understand how people reach the conclusion.
Funny.
Big nose.
Seems as though I'm accustomed to persecution.
Curly hairs all over my body.
I get it.
Reliable diamond dealer.
I understand that the parallels are many.
All coincidences.
I'm not Jewish.
Not even a little bit.
I don't know what a tallit is.
I still have my foreskin.
Don't be so quick to assume, as people have been in the past few years.
It's the assumption that bothers me.
How in-your-face people get about it.
"Are you Jewish?"
"Shalom would say 'yes', shalom would say 'no'."
Though I'm not a part of their faith, I'm accountable for their stereotypes.
And that's fucked.
Now that I'm about to rocketship to Toronto, I'm more conscious of these allegations than ever.
Because it's a place where everything is "none of your business," except for your "background."
"What's your background?"
Whatever the fuck that means.
Such a rude question.
Some dick you just met at a party asking you what colour your parents' semen and eggs are.
In case there are any matches.
Because then we can talk about foods we both like to eat, I guess.
"Fish and Brewis!"
When people ask my background, I'm going to give trick answers.
The only one I have in mind so far is to give my dancing background instead of my historical one.
Which I'm stealing from a favourite Simpson's scene that I can't show you.
I'll transcribe it at the bottom, but it's not going to be the same as seeing it.
Really, I'm worried that rat comics in the rat race will think I cultivated this look on purpose.
That I might be exploiting Judaism in order to land a Comedy Now!
And that bothers me the most.
Because why would anyone purposefully want to look like this?
Potential imaginary benefits aside.
My hair just grows this way.
I'd be happy to sport a crew cut just for a little variety to my head.
But that's just not possible.
I know I look like Billy Crystal when I wear a baseball cap.
It's not my choice.
I want to look normal.

Not to say you look abnormal, Jewish people.

Kent Brockman: Things aren't as happy as they used to be down here at the unemployment office. Joblessness is no longer just for philosophy majors; useful people are starting to feel the pinch. 

Barney Gumble:  I haven't been able to find a job in six years. 

Kent: Uh huh. And what training do you have?

Barney: Five years of modern dance, six years of tap.