Cool Cats

Man was born (of woman) about 3000 years ago.
Wait...that's when Jesus was on the go.
Reset.
Man was born (of cro-magnum woman) about...anybody?
3 million?
When did dinosaurs start eating us?
Hang on.
200,000 years, maybe.
Apparently the jury is still out on that because humans like to debate stuff.
Carbon date and itemize and whatnot.
Now, the first few centuries were kinda slow.
We eventually got fire down, but there was a big gap between that and the Hot Stuff.
And when the cro-mags all sat around their first fire, warming their sloped brows in the moonlight, they watched the waltzing flames and thought about their future.
Of course, they didn't have long to think about it because they were too busy dying of infections and rabies and so on until medical practice came along.
Who would have ever guessed?
The cro-magnum anthropologists, vacationing down south at their stone summer cabins, pontificating over their cigars that they could suddenly light, could never know.
Could never know that one day, the sum of humanity's knowledge would be available at the fingertips of even the most dim-witted of fatheads.
What's more, they could never have guessed that upon reaching this milestone, the resounding, unifying factor of the totality of his evolved kin would be...
...
Cats.
Cats rolling around on the floor.
Cats playing with bits of string.
Cats scaring away dogs.
This is all people truly need to see.
That, and videos of fat people falling down.
These are the most effective ways to distract ourselves from the fact that we're alive.
Which begs the question:
What really defined the current society we find ourselves in?
The telegraph?
The printing press?
Or America's Funniest Home Videos?
Imagine, explaining this ghost story to all of the neanderthals around the campfire.
If they even had the ability to fathom, they would never be able to fathom it.
However, I will admit that even they'd probably forget the issue entirely if they watched this.

You can't argue with progress, now can you?

You'll think I'm dicking around, but I really mean for this to be a serious question:
If you went out to the Savannah, and you found a pride of lions sweltering and lazing about, and you placed among them an empty refrigerator box, would one of them get in it?
I honestly want you to think about that.

Generation Y(2K)

I had more dental work done this morning because I have the wherewithal (and insurance).
My teeth were restructured. So, too, is this post.
I lost the sheet I originally wrote it out on.

They call them 'Millenials'.
They're called Millenials because, at the time of their birth, adults had a real preoccupation with putting silly names on things.
The title was cooked up by the Movember people (spit), or so I heard.
Given our current Earth timeline, the Millenials should end up being the group who will ultimately inherit the planet when it actually reaches its doom.
It's between the Millenials and their (as yet unborn) teenage-pregnancy-children, of which there will likely be many.
They call them Generation Y.
More like Generation Y2K.
That was the hoopla-laced event that they were born into.
What a fitting precursor.
An entire listless, wayward group of juveniles.
Born into an era that was earmarked by the promise of two things:
Warranted uncertainty, and inevitable cataclysm.
And so far, the era has delivered.
"Is swine flu going to kill your grandmother?
Maybe."
"Do you have enough bullets and ammo to survive the next amber alert?
Probably not."
"Are the ice caps melting?
We don't think so, but the polar bears seem to have nothing to stand on these days."
"Is Al Gore the next Nostradamus?
...Nah."
Being unsure of ourselves personally, economically, vitally - that's daily for us.
"Does my Twitter account effectively define me as a person?"
The answer, of course, is "No, it doesn't.
But, for these fledgleing adults, it's the next best thing.
Their constructed personalities have more substance than their actual personas, simply because they spend more time grooming the former.
I shouldn't have to tell you that that's fucked.
It's one thing to take a child, raise him in a cool household with a lot of pretty knickknacks and no love, send him off to a first-rate college with a third-rate attitude, have him graduate, work in junk bonds, get hooked on cocaine and eventually misplace his soul.
It's another thing entirely to suggest to that same child that perhaps he shouldn't bother with one in the first place.
Today's youth are raised on doom.
Take a group of pre-teens, sneak them into the cinema and have them watch a flick about the end of the world.
Repeat that again and again.
The end of humanity is such a trend, and no one's into it more than humans.
Sure, in my day we had Armageddon and Deep Impact.
But those were about interstellar geology as much as anything else.
That, and who can play the most convincing president (Bill Pullman)*.

These days, on the other hand, everything is apocalypse this and that.
The Road
The Day After Tomorrow
I Am Legend
28 Days Later
Children of Man
Oblivion
After Earth
This Is The End
Not to mention the zombies.
Everyone began talking 'bout zombies, and now no one will stop.
The fad makes no sense to me.
Namely, why now?
No one seems to ask that, and I think the question is great.
"Zombies are cool, bro!"
Zombies were cool during Evil Dead.
During Thriller. 
Why are they so popular now?
We're not talking Avatar. 
It's not like we had to wait for the technology to catch up.
There is no technology.
Some makeup and a ripped pair of jeans.
Boom. Zombie.
We're not filming Transformers, here.
Yet, it's now that we find survival guides for something that doesn't exist.
The more I think about it, the more I think it's not the "zombie."
It's the "apocalypse."
And when I'm with a group of 20-somethings and they're talking about what they'd do in a zombie apocalypse, I feel like screaming:
"You're all adults! What in the fuck are you talking about!?"
But you can't say that. I can't say that.
So, instead I have to wait and nod along, riding out the conversation until it steers towards some TV show.
You're taking it too far.
It's like discussing, over wine, how G.I. Joe and Barbie's kids would do in school.
Perhaps it's a drill; a refresher.
Sure, everyone knows full well that no zombies are going to be busting soil any time soon.
But, it never hurts to talk about the best places from which to steal lumber to board up your home (lumber mills).
Or how to occupy a grocery store and effectively defend it.
If you're bred to understand that the worst is all there is, isn't it just as well to prepare for it?
I say that we ditch the term 'Generation Y' in favour of 'Generation Z'.
'Z' for 'Zombie', and because, if all goes according to plan, this one will be the last.

Post of the Sleek

I'm going to Chicargo, y'know.
I may have mentioned it (turns out I didn't), but I'm sort of reminding myself right now.
Chicargo is a city in America.
I'm going to Lollapalooza with my woman and some parents I know.

I know that they have at least two zoos there.
One of them is free, which is cool, but there are no bars or anything, so the animals can eat your popcorn or your infant if you let your guard down.
"The hawk just swooped down, and then they were gone!
It even took the stroller!"
Birds of prey fascinate me.
The key is comparing them to other birds.
That's when you realize that these organisms are as much weapon as they are animal.
Okay, I guess that's enough for now.
It's the sexy schism of blog writing:
One post every few days (weeks; TV seasons), or a bunch of inconsequential posts daily?
Comin' at ya, live! This is one of the latter.
Never going to be an inductee into my hall of fame.
Never going to be a favourite for anyone.
"My favourite post, if I had to pick a favourite, is the one where you spell Chicago wrong three times and finish the post with..."
This.
A song I can't get out of my head, and a video I'm slowly growing to like.
The video is a wee too surreal for me, but I do like the dancing segments a lot.

I found this song through the soundtrack of this game.
I think I'm learning to appreciate cars more.
I have always liked them the ways that boys like them.
Boys like the angles of them; how threatening a sports car tends to look. How exotic and unattainable. Boys love that sort of thing.
Kind of like Cyndi Lauper.
No wait.
Crawford.
These days, well, I guess I like them in the same way.
I'm just old enough to appreciate that they're even less attainable than I thought when I was young.
Speaking of being more weapon than animal...

They only made 20 of these.
One costs as much as Andy Dick's house.

Dressed. To Kill.

I used to be a music man as I toured about.
Like the silhouttes in the commercials, I enjoyed a little Aerosmith while waiting for my massage at the local parlor.

The gentleman's club.
The undersides of bridges.
I listened to music whenever I walked about.
Mostly because I really get off on buying headphones, I think.
These days, I listen to music much less whilst walking.
Choosing instead to punish myself with the echoings of my own boorish thoughts.
When I'm not undressing women with my eyes - actually, even when I am undressing women with my eyes, I can now eavesdrop on conversations.
Consequently, I have learned that people say stupid shit all the time (I guess I should've known).
I was on the metro, taking the #1 to the shoe horn store (I don't know why i just said that).
I heard a woman describing a recent first date to a friend.
And she said, "I dunno if I'll see him again.
The first date is just to make sure that he's not a serial killer anyway."
Wishing I had my music back, I pontificated that serial killers-good serial killers (which is all of them)-don't reveal themselves as serial killers in a 3-hour encounter.
If you want to be sure he's not a serial killer, I would recommend at least twelve dates and a trip or two to the cottage for good measure.
Survive that, and you'll know you've found your man.

Whenever I experienced writer's block (laziness), I assume it's an emotional blockage that's preventing me from progressing.
In actuality, though, it's usually just a ball of my hair.
Speaking of, it's time to get it cut.
I have to be attentive to my look with this new job.
I had a gentleman kindly suggest that I not wear three-piece suits to work because they could be perceived as intimidating.
I felt like saying, "You're the one wearing rimless glasses!"
I'm not sure everyone would want to buy a car from hair like mine.
In a similar vein, Andie suggested that I sometimes wear the bow-tie that she bought me.
I love the idea, but if you're a car salesman and you approach someone while wearing a bow-tie, they're going to think:
"Look at this lying piece of shit coming our way. Let's get out of here and buy a Kia."

Comedy and Tragedy

Written on Saturday, June 8 (probably):

I fantasized about meeting Hank Azaria while showering today.
I know that a lot of guys will tell you that when it comes to wayward thoughts in the bath stall, Halle Berry is the one to think of.
Ingrates.
Hank has delivered so many lines I have laughed at, all without looking upon his face.
Also, I adore his scene in Eulogy when he delivers a few lines from 'Death Of A Salesman'.
This is where I'd post a clip of that performance, but no one has ever heard of Eulogy, so it's not on YouTube.
Lastly, for anyone who has seen The Aristocrats (don't play with audio at work), Azaria's version is great without being vulgar.
Now, some might think that crassity is the whole point of the aristocrats joke.
However, I think the purpose of the joke is making it your own, which Hank does excellently.
This one is popular enough to be view-able, but not popular enough to be specific, so skip to 5:57 (again, not at work).



Despite how much I talk to your mother and girlfriend, at the end of the day, I'm just not that personable.
I musn't be.
If I were, I'd know the coffee wenches' names.
(I'd also probably stop calling them wenches).
I frequent Java Blend these days.
Supplying coffee throughout Nova Scotia, they have the gumption to roast their own beans.
Pretty legit.
The area has Blend, as well as a crematorium, which also does its own roasting (corpses).
On hot days, I don't know which smells like which, but Java Blend sells smalls for $1.20, and you can't beat that.
Yet, though I've filled nearly two stamp cards, I don't know anyone's name there.
No one knows mine.
I was in line this morning, and one of the counters referred to the guy behind me by name.
"Hey Cliff, et cetera et cetera."
I was then a little jealous of Cliff.
What am I doing wrong?
Did you know that many Newfoundlanders refer to cliff - not 'Cliff', the guy in line, but 'cliff' the sheer drop as 'clift'?
Just a little culture for you.
We have some clifts in Bay Roberts.
Mad Rock is famous for being not-the-stadium in Bay Roberts.
I never knew its crags and juts until I brought Andie to them.
Knowing we were off the suggested foot path, which the signs advised against, she and I splished along the shoreline's borders.
Though it was out of my comfort zone, I followed her.
That's what love is all about, maybe.

A boy fell over similar Bay Roberts cliffs recently.
The visiting cousin of a local boy, in town from Ontario.
...
Mom was quiet that day.
At the kitchen table, I asked her what was on her mind.
She explained that she was thinking of the boy who had died that day.
What his mother must be going through.
I reminded her that many ten-year old boys died that day throughout the world, many of them tragically.
But I knew that that wouldn't matter.
Mothers share an empathy I wouldn't understand.

I'm sick of Mariah Carey.
Do you know that she's sold more albums than The Rolling Stones?
I don't particularly like The Stones, either, but I still find this upsetting.
I know she has an incredible vocal range (rack), but she doesn't even sound like a person on the high notes.

Incarcerate-A-Pia

We have some really big plants here at the dealership
("Warford's talking about plants today. I think he's lost his edge.").
I just assumed that they were fake because they look sort of fake.
They also look tropical.
Turns out you can grow plants inside.
I say we should get an orange tree in here and throw away the service department's fruit basket.
Some woman comes in and tends to the plants.
You can tell that she's a plant woman because she carries misting bottles and she doesn't seem to want to speak to anyone.
I suggested that she get some ivy in here to give the place a real academic look, and she muttered something about our already having ivy in here.
That's another bridge burned.
But enough about spinsters.

Pia's in hot water again, apparently.
For those of you just out of cryogenic freezing tubes, Pia is some broad who starred in some shitty movies.
She's significant to yours truly, however, because she ended up on a shirt that ended up on my body some ten years ago.
A Warford wardrobe staple for eons, perhaps my most distinctive, Pia is still around and occasionally worn to this day.
The shirt, I can depend on.
The actual woman, however, seems a little less reliable.
Today she is in the news because parenting is hard.
But not as hard as being washed up.
Case and point:
Imagine having your mugshot taken.
You're tired and you're in police custody.
You have to sit around for hours, like a doctor's waiting room.
The difference being that detainment doesn't have magazines.
However, instead of waiting to get a new prescription for your percocet, you're waiting to be de-loused.
But first thing's first.
The mug shot.
This is the only image that will turn out looking shittier than your passport photo.
The reason being, you're photographed at your zenith of shame.
Unless you're one of those 'in-it-for-the-glory' bank robbers.
Your hair is probably all frazzled.
You're holding that little ticker sign which displays your measurements right on there (like a piece of meat!).
And as the bulb flashes, you know that your mom fucked up somewhere along the way.
It's all in the photo.
Doesn't sound pleasant, does it?
Now imagine going through that process, all the while thinking to yourself:
"Those fuckers at TMZ are going to be all over this."

"And That's The Tooth!"

I went to the dentist the other day.

Like the average Korean, dentists love to kill themselves.
That is, so the story goes.
I'm not sure whether or not North America collectively read this statistic somewhere and filed it away.
Or if we all just heard it on The Whole Nine Yards and assumed it to be true.
It probably is true.
I think that everyone has a natural urge to believe whatever Matthew Perry says.
It's a disposition of his, isn't it?
Matt LeBlanc did softcore TV before Friends. 
It's true.
I personally watched an episode of Red Shoe Diaries that had him playing a sexy man in a vest.
I swear.
Anyway, I don't know what dentists have to be so suicidal about.
Decent pay, sexy assistants and wonderful teeth, for starters.
Those are perks. Those are job perks.
Since it's a profession-based suicide number, people assume that dentists are killing themselves because they hate being dentists.
I'm not willing to buy it.
There are far worse jobs.
Why don't we constantly hear about janitors blowing their brains out mid-mopping?
The stigma with dentists, of course, is that they're miserable because people hate to visit them.
Everyone fears them.
They never have good news.
This doesn't do it for me either.
All medical practitioners have to deliver bad news from time to time.
All of them are feared by some people.
Telling a man he has pancreatic cancer seems like more of a downer than telling the same man he has a pair of cavities.

I chose the dentist I chose because I sold his assistant a car.
Made sense at the time. Dental assistant. I need a dentist. I'm new in town.
Prone to not thinking things through, I didn't really think it through.
It's sort of uncomfortable.
I didn't expect her to be right in there with me.
Wrong about that.
She affixed my bib  and worked the suction.
She put plastic thingies in my mouth for my X-rays.
I had to bite down on them and, prudish as I am, they were hitting my gag reflexer.
So, I was gagging and urging as she was doing this, and she was asking me to please bite down.
I was being sexy because gagging is sexy now.
And I didn't want to be sexy in front of some woman I sold a car to.
So I learned, anyway.
For those of you who are still reading solely for my results, I have cavities.
Not sure how many.
Enough.
Enough to have a vague idea of the actual number, which suggests that I have enough.
Also, one of my teeth is fucked, which I knew before going.
I just wasn't sure how fucked.
The answer, as it turns out, is "all the way."
Might have to yank it.
But, even if it must be so.
Even if I fidget in my chair and track a tear or two down my cheek, I still don't think that's reason for my dentist to go home and 
stick his head in his oven.

Do We Have A Deal?

There's just something about a new suit, y'know?
Like a recently purchased handgun, or a new affair, there's just something about a suit that puts a spring in your step.
I took a picture of myself wearing it, reflected in the chrome of an old-timey car.
See, we have this display piece car down at the used lot.
It's more like a stagecoach without the horses. One of those cars.
Model T, probably.
Thought I'd capture myself in my new suit in the headlight.
Try to look stylish.
Being stylish has a lot to do with being photographed near old shit.
You don't show any respect for the old shit, mind you.
You just get your picture taken near it.
Like a band doing their photo shoot in a cemetery.
Anyway, the pic turned out blurry, so I'm not going to bother uploading it.
That takes steps.
Tweeting it, however, was relatively painless, so you can look at it over there if you're desperate enough for new photos of me.
Oh! I can embed the tweet right in here.
I'll be doing that far more often now.

$=suits from Sears outlet store=confidence=sexy. twitter.com/paulwarford/st…
— Paul Warford (@paulwarford) May 15, 2013

Look, I can ask about throwing in the winter tires, but I don't know what answer my manager will give me.
Selling cars from the salesman's perspective is exactly like TV and nothing like TV.
When I mentioned in my interview that I had no sales experience, I really meant it.
Now, I suppose I do.
That being said, I would still hesitate to call myself a salesman.
I'm more like...
...I feel kinda like a tour guide sometimes.
Or, if I do the job well, I'm like a tour guide.
You know when you take a trip to Punta Cana, and there's that one resort employee who stands out?
"Punta Cana was fuckin' awesome, bud!
There was this dude, what was his name?"
"Enrique!"
"Enrique!Yeah! Enrique was fuckin' awesome, man.
Every time my drink was empty, Enrique was right there on the edge of the pool to fill it.
We told him that we were looking to go zip-lining without all of the safety harness bullshit, and he was like, 'Okay sir, we do that for you.'"
Everyone remembers him fondly, even though the girlfriends did find him 'a little touchy-feely'.
Nevertheless, Enrique will come up every time the trip is mentioned.
Because Enrique was accommodating.
If I'm doing my job properly, I have come to discover, I'm Enrique.
I have no real clout at the resort.
I don't know where the shrimp comes from, or whether or not it'll give you food poisoning, but I can get some delivered to your room.
All I am is a guy who works here. I just happen to be your guy.
More like concierge than a tour guide, really.
Oh right. TV.
I really do have to go see my manager.
You want the mats and stupid tonneau cover thingy included?
Can I do that?
I dunno. My manager will tell me.
90% of the time, when a car salesman tells you they have to ask their manager, they really mean that.
Just like TV.
However, unlike TV, we're not...I don't know what.
We're not shysters.
We're not - I'm not, anyway - out to fuck yourself and your wife from here to the gas station.
People are always trying to catch me on this hidden fee or that hidden fee.
That 'hidden fee' shit is in the past.
This isn't the 80s.
The cars are online. The prices are online.
The sticker price is the sticker price.
It's not like you pick out a sweater at Eddie Bauer, and while in line at the checkout you whisper to your wife, "I wonder what kind of a mark-up wool tax they stick on this fucker."
Do you? Maybe you do.
There's no hidden anything.
Sure, the price can be manipulated, but the margins for this are not as great as you'd think, and the parameters for them are pretty standard across the board.
Financing a Kia at a dealership in St. John's and a dealership in Ontario will be within dollars of each other.
No one's out to get you.
Except if we're talking used cars.
That's a different story.
I'll fuck a family out of their mortgage on a used car, if I can.

This post brought to you by Punta Cana Tourism.
And remember: If you have to get hepatitis, contract it in Punta Cana.

Bull Rush

How many bulls does a country need to have before someone says:
"Hey, let's let 'em all go, and then run from 'em!"
While we're on it, how do you round up dozens of bulls after they've had time to explore a city and some of its China shops?
Tranquilizers.
Thick-roped nets.
A huge Jesus sombrero.

I'm tired and wordless, but since I'm down to one post a full moon, I figured I should stop by and say something.
So, I'm saying that I'm tired and wordless.

Lighter Stuff

Did you know there's a helium shortage right now?
Besides having to anchor all our zeppelins, stoned kids who want to speak in funny voices are left suckin' air.
I've never done that, y'know.
The helium-funny-voice thing.
I couldn't definitively say why that is.
However, I spend a lot of time thinking about myself, so I do have some theories.
Or, just variations on the one theory, I guess:
Balloons have always made me uncomfortable.
Not when they're wafting about in the tent at the retirement party, mind you.
Inflating them. Tying them. Popping them.
Balloon maintenance. Balloon stuff.
Puts me on edge.
I've only successfully blown up a balloon (from flaccid) perhaps 5 to 7 times.
Generally, I just puff my cheeks out until someone takes pity on me and blows it up themselves.
Shameful.
I also heard an urban legend about a woman who was startled while inflating a balloon and she accidentally sucked it into her mouth and suffocated.
That always stuck with me and I think it made me afraid to put balloons near my mouth.
This isn't a joke; I'm not making this up.
However, adulthood has taught me to face my urban legends.
So, I intend to do the funny voice.
Unfortunately, there's a helium shortage right now.
Inhaling it to sound like a clown's assistant seems rather brash in these hard times.
Aerial views at football games are in jeopardy.

Almost spelled football with a 'p' just now.
Phootball.
Phutball.

If no one's going to listen to scientists, why do we have scientists?
"This could puncture a hole in the ozone, resulting in melanoma and gross moles that require removal."
"Whatever, scientist. How do you suggest I use Raid without aerosol cans?
I'll take my chances, genius."
Sure, scientists develop formulas to make better hair conditioners, but their legitimacy seems wasted.
"Helium shortage? Whatever, scientist.
Wait! Let me degrade you with my funny helium voice."

"There's No Place Like Home"

I could never be from Toronto; my disdain isn't stylish enough.
Comedy has afforded me several free meals and a slew of new acquaintances.
L.A. being too expensive a flight with too attractive a populace, a lot of comics bed down in Toronto.
I've had run-ins with the natives before.
Living in Banff, I roomed with Francis for a while.
He was all expensive trousers and constant, vocal judgement.
Don't get me wrong - I love Francis. I did then.
Today, he still stands as the only man whose back I have shaved (and I wouldn't do it for just anyone).
But everywhere we went. Everything we did.
"Oh, in Toronto etc. etc."
"In Toronto there'd be extra bathroom stalls in here."
"In Toronto you could buy coriander at any time of the day."
"In Toronto there are more homeless people."
I used to make fun of him for it all the time.
I lived in Toronto for a while. I get it now.
It's a teeming place with a real pulse.
What Francis said time and again was, I'm sure, usually true.
You can get an Asian woman to massage you and then jerk you off at 2 in the morning.
You can find somewhere to purchase a shower curtain immediately after your massage.
There is a restaurant representing every ethnicity - some shitty, some wonderful.
I get it.
There's more available. There's more to do.
I guess my problem, then, is the occasional Torontonian's inability to adjust.
You live in the biggest city in the country.
Other places will seem slight by comparison.
Those who are truly 'from' Toronto in the sense I'm talking about, they want it to be shittier everywhere else.
They look for fault.
I was eating poutine in one of the late night pizza corner places (see! We have late-night pizza) with a Toronto guy.
He's eating his chicken whatever it is. Wrap.
"I think the chicken's dry. Not sure if this is very good."
This is a bite or two in.
"Yup. Chicken's dry, guys."
Might as well add, "I knew it."
City Slickness isn't as charming as Billy Crystal portrayed it.
It's one thing to miss the comforts of the home you're used to.
It's another entirely to assume all other homes aren't built like yours.
It's not like I'd fly into Papau New Guinea and hope to find everything I'm used to here, and then complain when I didn't.
"I knew it. There's no 24-hour plumbing company here.
...
Nope. I checked Papau New Guinea411, AND the phone book.
I'll bet there isn't even a Rona on this whole goddamned continent."

Billy Crystal isn't looking good, by the way.
I don't know where his confidence level is, but he's disgusting.
I saw him on Letterman not long ago and I found it legitimately disturbing.
All of these surgeries.
You can dress up dying however you want, Billy...
However, the experience helped me realize one true fact:
If I, at 80 years, have a choice between a head that looks like a raisin, and a head that looks like a child's elbow, I know what my choice will be.