Hard to Swallow

I almost vomited today while chewing prosciutto.
Like a pregnant woman.
Though I've eaten it before, and I think it's delicious, this morning it tasted like...meat goo.
Scrambling to the bathroom in disbelief, I felt sympathy for every vegetarian who has every lived.
We all make mistakes, I guess.

I puke all of the time.
It's not an eating disorder thing - if anything, I'm popular enough as it is.
No, I vomit all of the time because people with weak bodies have weak stomachs.
Also like a pregnant woman.
Or a newborn.
Help me figure this out:
The only thing a baby consumes, besides the wayward rattle bead, is milk.
Either the version that comes from mothers, or the version that comes from tins.
Whenever I see babies being fed, they tend to yak up whatever dairy they swallowed minutes before.
Which begs the question: Why must babies be so stupid?
I know that they digest most of it, but I do think it's weird that they have one staple and they have trouble keeping that down.
One day we'll evolve so that we all survive on pellets.
Babies. Old people.
The fortunate who are in between.
Everyone.
I know that purists will insist that it's going to be pills.
But some people are really awful at swallowing pills.
As a consequence, when we switch to the mighty all-in-one-meal capsule, these humans will die out. 
Which would be fine with me, but I think the better solution, from a sanitary standpoint (dead bodies require maintenance) are pellets.
Then, we too shall be as happy as the petting zoo goat.
Who will tell you that pellets beat eating a can any day.

In true me fashion, I went on a hiatus from this blog in order to write a book.
Only to write nothing.
Aside from the occasional swear on the occasional bathroom stall.
...
You'd think that the sort of guy who would write vile language on a bathroom stall would also be the sort of guy unlikely to have a pen on him.
Then again, these delinquents are probably more organized than I am.
"Light vandalism today. Think I'll take...the blue Sharpie.
I can draw some dicks on stuff with the blue for sure."
Right!
That's what I was getting at, sort of.
Unorganized by nature, I claimed I'd start a book and then I didn't.
Now that I'm back, I've also started the book.
Which I had not intended to mention today (or ever).
But, my blog only thrives on honesty.
And honesty, in this case, is admitting that I've started a project I'll likely never finish.
It's about me.
Solely because I haven't had enough experiences to write about anything besides myself.
I guess, should it ever exist, it'll be toted as a memoir.
Or whatever you call a memoir that is produced by someone who can't remember anything.
Unmemoir?
Non-Memoir?
Can't Rememoir?
Oh, I like that one.
Anyway, I'll never upload any portions of it to this blog because, if I play my cards right, I have already done so.

I like reading Klosterman.
Only Klosterman and Eggers make me feel as though I could write a book
(one that would likely smack of Klosterman and Eggers).
Neither, technically, write memoirs.
One writes pop culture essays.
The other writes Heartbreaking Work(s) of Staggering Genius. 

A celebrity cleans for spring.
They gather up all of their wardrobe that they're tired of.
Box it and tape it and label it (blue Sharpie):
FOR THE PEASANTS
Then they place these items on the side of the road just before you walk by.
Whose wardrobe would you like to discover and claim as your own?

Under Your Hat

I think I've figured out why the pope wears such massive chapeaus.
It's under these that he hides all of Christianity's lies.
Slaughtering and fucking a whole countryside of people for the sake of purifying them.
Tell us another one, fellas.

Sports Day

If you’re sitting there, amongst your rabble and filth, and you’re wondering:

Just how many babies are too many babies, philosophically?

The answer is however many babies are in this coffee shop with me right now.

You can dress them up, but…

I don’t care if the babies are Australian or some other adorable nationality.

Too many babies.

Speaking of too much of a good thing, The Olympics are happening right now.

As I type this, in fact.

My opinions and emotions that are reserved for this sham shift slightly with each new opening ceremony (not that I ever watch them. Get Metallica to open the show and I’ll check it out).

Being the counter-culture juggernaut that I am, the easy answer on what I think of The Olympics is as follows:

I hate them.

But I don’t hate them, I suppose.

They’re not for me, of course.
As far as participation goes, they’re not for me.

I’m not an Olympian, and perhaps that’s my problem with them.

It’s not my problem with them, though. 

It may be the fancy.

All of the goddamned advertising and hoopla makes me want to vomit into my toilet, certainly.

Everyone will argue that The Olympics are the only happening that truly brings the world together.

And, since (the original) Guns N’ Roses have stopped touring, this is relatively true.

Yet, I wouldn’t be in a rush to suggest that The Olympics brings the world together in a good way.

I don’t know how that ever came to be assumed.

I mean, it’s not like every country on the planet gets together at The Olympics in order to get drunk.

Even after the closing ceremonies are complete (Metallica again), there’s no dance.

Of course there are behind-the-scenes parties that only Michael Phelps gets invited to.

But none of these after-the-fact celebrations intertwine cultures, I’m sure.

The Olympics are like the subway is like your university’s business faculty.

Birds of a feather flock together.

The Chinese birds peck about with the other Chinese birds, and so on.

The Olympics brings all nationalities together so that they can be just as separate as they always are.

Then they rank this disparity based (generally) on wealth and population, stress its importance, and televise it on a global scale.

Tell me when all of this is supposed to be good for humanity.

This striving to best one another is what we’ve been doing all along, and it has never been to our benefit.

The parents are in The Olympics this time 'round.

The moms are throwing the javelins.

The dads are synchronized with the synchronized swimmers.

The (white) parents in the stands are getting as much attention as the athletes themselves.

Despite their support (which I don’t doubt is considerable), the parents have little to do with it.

“It’s their event, too.”

Give me a break.

If it was 'their event too', the child/parent teams would all fail because the parents are in their fifties.

What a preposterous fabrication. 

Put them on camera if they happen to be in the crowd.

Sure. Why not?

They’ve contributed enough to deserve that.

“So and so’s parents looking on as she prepares for her dive.

The mother looks to be as physically attractive as the daughter, and that’s something the Canadian team should be proud of.”

Fine.

But interviewing them, or putting them in leotards and sticking them in VISA commercials is fucking lunacy, if you ask me.

Did anyone ask me?

No?

Well, you should be asking me.

As someone without a real job, I can spare a great deal of time to think about this stuff.

Funny Meeting You Here

Watching an advert that has Joe Pesci or Ice-T in it is very confusing.
We've got a certain media psyche that we share these days.
The parameters have been established since our infancy (this excludes old people [luckily for them]).
Though we're not immediately aware of them, our subconscious understands and teeters on these very rules.
Joe Pesci's presence in a Snickers commercial bends those rules to the threat of breaking.
Seeing Ice-T in a Coors commercial is like seeing your Gym teacher buying groceries.
You feel like addressing them directly, saying:
"What are you doing here?
This is beyond the universe that I'm willing to accept you in.
You don't belong in this place at this time."
Unless it's the super bowl and you are Shatner, stick to the places you're supposed to find yourselves in, celebrities.

I Would Have to Add Something

I said 'No' when she proposed the idea at first.
I won't let her do it again, probably.
Maybe she can write a post when we eventually break up.
"Paul is sexually incompetent for the following reasons.
Paul was stealing change from me the entire time."
I won't detract from her introduction by rambling on with another.
I'll just say that we anticipate one another in an uncanny, unsettling sort of way.
It's a strange feeling to experience so early on.
Sort of like wearing an incredibly comfortable outfit that is just slightly damp.
The feeling is welcoming and pleasant, but you can't help but squirm a little.
I've never had an easier time being correct when asking, "Are you doing this because of this?"
Her track record is equally astute.
It feels good.
Feels like true companionship.
What could be better?
That same companionship in a threesome with one of her friends.
Obviously.

I Christen Thee...

The tall ships are in Halifax, currently.
In fact, they may have weighed anchor today. I'm not sure.
They may be back on the water now. 
Drunk and nostalgic, I wandered near their bobbing hulls on Saturday night, joined by old friends and lovers.
I eyed their decks (recently swabbed) and leaned back to take in their tallness.
Realizing that thirty is just a rejuvenation, as twenty was.
More so, it is a better one.
You're old enough to realize it's happening. 
Craving a Caesar, I wondered how many people lived and died on boats such as these.
Real lives rather than replicas.
Tall ships that weren't in glass bottles.

I did a show on Friday in Middleton.
Heart of the Valley Festival.
It was a great time.
I was on the show with my concubine, Brian Aylward.
As well as the Cash Cab guy (he has a name; it's Adam Growe).
Makes you think: If someone offered me a TV show, would it really be best to take it?
The answer, of course, is 'yes'.
The money in television is too stupid to turn down.
Ask Jim Belushi and he'll tell you the same.
But who wants to be referred to as the Cash Cab Guy?
"Paul Warford."
"Never heard of him."
"You'd know him if you saw him. He's the Instant Cash guy."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. He's the voice of the ATM machine. He has made it."
"Wait, if he does the voice, I still wouldn't recognize him if I saw him, would I?"
"Oh. No, I guess not."
"Fuck that guy. The show is stupid anyway."
"Yeah. That show is definitely welfare."
It's so hard to know what counts as success and what doesn't...

Be Cool.

Two people trip over a crack in the sidewalk.
The cool person is the one who doesn't look around to see who noticed as they pick themselves up.

Authoritative

I haven't given up on this book idea.
Primarily because harbouring this book notion might increase my potential for sex.
Literary sorts are real prostitutes in the bedroom.
(Everyone knows that).
Anyway, I haven't given up on the idea.
I've just given up on the idea I originally had.
Therefore, I'll tell you about it.
So that some other person can take my (quasi-)idea, and write their own book.
They call that 'paying it forward'.
Haley Joel Osmond invented it.
Besides, if I tell you about this non-book, it's as though I did something with it.
I probably mentioned it before. Did I mention it before?
It's probably been done several times.
I wanted to write a book about the experience of retail through interviews with retail employees.
The intention was to elucidate what it is truly like to work in retail.
Benifiting those within retail because they get to tell their story.
And those outside of retail because they would (ideally) learn that they're all assholes.
The customer has never been right.
I wanted to break down barriers.
I wrote some notes on the process of writing the book.
They're not entirely embarrassing, so I may put them up here eventually.

I have a better topic for a book idea now:
Me.

Two Out of Three Ain't Bad

Two of the following three things have recently happened to me:

Thing the First:

While eating breakfast, a UPS truck pulled up in front of my house.
As the guy walked towards my door, I said, "Whatever this package is, it's my destiny."
For some reason, in-line skates immediately came to mind.
Like I'm supposed to put on roller blades and then do something with them.
As he approached my step, he double-checked my address, cursed, turned, and got back in his truck.
Then he drove away.
I wouldn't mind, but he does that every morning...

Thing the Second:

The tail end of the continental, I'm in the Best Western (Liverpool) of a Sunday morning.
And this kid is giving me the eye.
Sometimes children just stare at me.
Urchins stare. That's normal.
However, sometimes it seems a little too deliberate to me.
This small person was giving me the look-over, but as she's doing so, I'm telepathing to her:
"You and I both know that you're old enough to know that staring is inappropriate.
Unless your father, who looks stupid, by the way, hasn't taught you that yet."
But she knew what was up. I could tell.
Self-conscious, I go to get juice from the dispenser.
Apple, nothin'. Orange, nothin'. Cranberry (surprisingly), nothin'.
Then, Little Miss Ocular sidles up beside me and reaches for a tumbler.
"I'm not sure we're getting juice today," I warn.
But I wasn't pressing the dispenser button properly.
There was lots of juice.
She didn't address me in any way.

Thing the Third:

I invited, drove, and intoxicated a fellow comic on this Liverpool trip.
Eventually, I had a conversation with this man that involved ordering him not to have sex with a 48-year old woman in my hotel bed.
Which was also his hotel bed (his angle for the argument).
Really, he could have gotten away with it.
I would have simply slept in the bathtub.
Strictly for the sake of hygiene, you understand.
Luckily, it didn't end up happening.
Ultimately, her daughter got in the way of the whole operation.
And I never got to thank her.

There you have it, readership.
So, which of these stories are based in fact, and which are utter bullshit?
This is like the jelly beans.
How many jelly beans are in the jar?
You act like you really know the answer while you write your blind guess on a scrap of paper.
But you don't really know because any guess seems plausible.
With good reason; they all happened to me.

Only Begotten Sun

Text your drug dealer (then your backup drug dealer, then your buddy's backup drug dealer).
It's Friday.

Why aren't we worshipping the sun?
I understand that it has its flaws as a deity.
It doesn't look wise in paintings.
It doesn't have a mouth (a god shouldn't need one, by the way).
It's definable through science.
Golden calves are explainable by science, too.
That doesn't mean we shouldn't be worshipping them.
The sun should be our messiah.
Now, I know that the sun has been just that for some cultures in the past.
I know that this is not a new concept.
So, I'm explaining why it is that I think these people were/are right.
The sun makes for a great god due to a bunch of reasons:

1. It provides nourishment, comfort and continuity for every living being on the planet (except Cave Fish). 

2. It is, and always shall be, beyond our reach. 

3. Though it can be looked upon, overdoing it will fuck up your retinas.

4. It can kill, or smite, individuals (skin cancer). 

5. It could, on a whim, feasibly eradicate the existence of humanity.

What more could you want?

Now, I'll be the first to admit that it's not an especially marketable god.

Looks sort of silly on a gold necklace.

And it would be hard to convince people that the sun wrote a book. 

However, with the right group of business interns, I think that you could get some coins in the coffers. 

Sunglasses are the obvious way to go. 

Look upon The One True Orb with Divinity Shades. 

Make manifest The Sun's bounty with 100% UV protection. 

You could also market those mirror things that women use to sunbathe in Clueless. 

Maybe not Clueless. 

You know the thing I'm talking about. 

It looks like a tinfoil version of the boards you'd post your science fair notes on. 

It has folds, and you hold it on your torso and it reflects the rays into your face. 

Those things. 

You could market those as something The Sun would want you to buy. 

The idea is not as daft as it sounds. 

It makes much more sense to me than any other worship options that we have right now.

And the best part?

Church would be a day at the beach. 

"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.