Your Fly Is Down

"Were you neurotic as a child, Paul, or did that onset only happen when you learned about sex?"
Excellent question, introductory sentence.
I'll answer this question with a question:
Have you ever been on Space Mountain?
Not me.
Instead, I watched the line giddily shuffle past me as I remained steadfast at my mother's side.
Good times be damned.
I visited many amusement parks in my youth.
Though they were usually ammusing, I've never been great with rides.
And even as a tyke, my overactive imagination would visualize cars careening off of tracks and rails.
I never got into dirtbikes for much the same reason.
I was into the tapioca rides instead.
"What is that, a tiny novelty train?
Well, all aboard!
Tiny caterpuillar roller coaster for the toddlers?
That sounds okay."
I mean, I would go on some rides.
Scrambler.
Tilt-A-Whirl.
I enjoyed flumes. All flumes.
No safety concerns there.
Straight plummet into a giant pool is fine.
Everyone gets wet. The pictures are real candid.
Great rides, the flumes.
But others would hit a nerve and I'd say, "Nope. Not that one."
The Zipper was an excellent example.
Dennis loved The Zipper (he also owned a dirt bike.)
But he could've goaded me until he passed out onto the fairgrounds.
I wasn't going on The Zipper.
And I never did.
Fast-forward about twenty years.
Andie wants to do a Fall activity.
Autmn makes her insane.
Walking down the promenade she'll suddenly inhale passionately, saying something about the air.
"Smell that fall air!"
I play along, but it smells like oxygen to me.
Fall is whack because I need to dig out jackets and there are deadlines for everything, inexplicably.
But what can I do? She loves it.
I'm due to make scarecrows, for example.
Jam some leaves into my jeans and elastic-off the pant legs, sure.
If this is what has to be done.
About two weeks ago, the fair assumbled itself in Shitty Dartmouth.
As it always does...in the Fall.
So, we walk over to go on at least one ride.
Crossing the bride on foot was ride enough for me, by the way.
Tickets. Junior high kids brandishing too much makeup.
The fair.
5 bucks to whip 3 balls at your last night's empties?
Fuck that.
The fair.
Andie stands at the base of The Zipper and tells me she wants to go on.
So, I explain my (non)history with this ride.

This is not an image of The Zipper we were faced with.
The one in Shitty Dartmouth looked far more neglected.
There's not much else to choose, though, besides The Kamikaze, which looks fucked all together.
Now, I'll mention that it was her idea to go on the wooden rollercoaster in Cavendish.
Then, after getting buckled in, she immediately began repeating that she didn't want to do it anymore.
Too late then.
So, too for The Zipper.
I don't know why they have to make these carnies look so terrifying.
He opens the gate and you think, "How can you possibly fit a stereotype so exactly?
Please, before I put my life in your hands without signing a waiver, please just promise me that you're not drunk right now, this minute."
Everyone shits on carnies for looking like rabble (like I just did.)
Realistically, though, how educated do you have to be to flick a switch?
Most look perfectly qualified.
To be honest, if it was a clean-cut guy in a suit operating the ride, I think I'd find it more unsettling.
Anyway, we're in the cage.
If you're unfamiliar with the interior, it looks like a cage designed to die in.
No straps. Nothin'.
Just semi-standing in this thing.
He closes the gate.
Did you lock that? Alright, if you say so, strange man.
We're both blatantly nervous.
Then he turns it on.
This is just to convey us upwards to load in the next suckers.
Already, Andie is saying she wants off.
I also want off, but it's too late for that.
Regardless, she's asking buddy, 10 feet below us.
"Can you let us out? Sir?"
I tell her that 'sir' probably isn't a term he often responds to.
Might not realize he's the one she's pleading with.
Time holds its breath until he fires this thing up.
Fuck this ride.
Neither of us are enjoying ourselves at all.
Have you been on this thing?
The Zipper is a miscarriage.
It is a car accident that happens to you for 5 minutes.
My phone came out of my pocket.
That was terrifying, but less terrifying that The Zipper, so I only sort of noticed.
Trying to recover it was mesmerizing, as the phone was now experiencing The Zipper, too.
So, it was being shoved in various directions.
I felt like an astronaut trying to get it back in my pocket. 
After 2.5 minutes, it stops.
Pause.
Then it starts up again as I say, "Oh Jesus, it's going the other way."
Which it did for another 2.5 minutes.
The direction change miraculously made it worse.
And still she's asking to get off.
That's my favourite part.
After much violence and churning, it ends.
We're baby deer getting off of the ride.
Disoriented. Confused.
Recovering was strange.
The world took its time getting back to me.
And in the meantime, nothing registered with me.
Like, someone could have walked up to me, removed my wallet from my ass pocket, and two to seven minutes later I'd notice and say, "What the? My wallet's gone."
Anyway, we're never going on it again.
If another Autumn finds her wanting to ride it, I'll make a scarecrow and he can take my turn.

"We'll Let You Know"

Written October Somethingth (about a week ago):

I had an audition today -
Broke the cherry!
Preparing for an audition involves memorizing your lines (all 4 of 'em).
The next step is to repeat those so many times that they no longer bear meaning as sentences.
Which I did.
Then, I entered the abandoned train yard and found the room with the other hopefuls.
Louts.
When you enter the audition ante-chamber, this is what happens:
A roomful of people with a similar ethnicity and age demographic to your own look up.
Kinda.
They do a half look up before resetting their heads to the exact position they were in before you got there.
I guess no one wants to get psyched out by the competition.
Maybe they just want to ensure that Rowan Atkinson didn't just walk in.
If he did, I'm sure that at least one guy would slam his script photocopy down exclaiming, "Aw, fuck this," before storming out of the room.
Anyway, I've been all coughs and sputters this week, so I wanted water.
Needed it.
Cooler was there. Hot water. Cold.
The dispensary buttons weren't working, which felt like a bad omen.
So, I'd try for some water -
They had Showcase mugs for us to use.
That was the only aspect that threw me off, really.
I wasn't nervous because I assumed I wouldn't get it anyway (my secret weapon).
So, I felt okay.
But those Showcase mugs were disconcerting.
"Showcase is a TV network on TV.
This is for TV.
...
Wish I had some water."
So, I'd periodically try the cooler again, like an idiot.
Like it wasn't working because I didn't want it enough, or I hadn't pressed the button enough times.
Waiting in the room with these set pieces was like the chemistry final.
Everyone's cramming with their notes.
Quietly clearing throats.
Disregarding everyone else while also trying to determine if they're all nervous, too.
Not a healthy vibe.
I decide to get water from the bathroom with a Showcase (TV) mug.
I grab one and start to leave when the casting assistant asks, "Paul?"
I hadn't been received in any way at this point, so it was unexpected.
What do I do with the mug now?
Is it going to have to do the scene with me?
I didn't practice with a mug.
No, just put it down, Paul.
In retrospect, I've no idea where I laid it.
On one of the guys' heads, for all I know.
Room. Camera. Black tape on the floor.
Casting director.
Casting director's hopelessly attractive assistant.
The director laughed on my first line, which was an uneventful sentence. So, a good start.
Beyond that, I have no idea how it went.
I'd do the lines and then she'd give me direction.
And sure, I maintained eye contact and nodded my head, but I'm not certain I absorbed any of her instruction.
On the fourth one she said, "Great, you got it."
Which, I realized there and then, meant one of two things:
Either I got it, or I'll never get it.
As for the part, I'm not sure if I got it.
Or if I'll ever get it.
Over a week has passed.
She did seem legitimately pleased with me, but I was one of the first on the slab.
She did ask me to rock back and forth less, citing me as 'fidgety'.
Mike Wilmot once told me that he didn't think I could play a corpse.
"The twitchy fucker. Paul whoever. Get him our of here."
So, what did we learn from this experience?
Bring your own water, good.
What else?
It's not a job interview if you don't have to discuss past jobs you weren't suited for.
Anything else anyone wants to add?
Don't describe an audition in your blog until the role has been cast.
Perfect. That's what I was looking for.
I could do the role, y'know.
I learned that, too.
While reading I thought, "This isn't hard [I'm sure it gets hard]. I could do this."
I could.

First In Line

Written September 11, 2013 

Sometimes the stars unalign.
I was burn under one of these.

"The GTA midnight opening is today!"
This was the exclamation of your plucky young hero on Monday.
"See, when a big game comes out, stores will do a midnight opening. That way, you can get the game as early as possible."
I could be heard telling anyone within earshot this information on Monday as I counted the seconds down.
I have trouble getting excited these days.
I can only assume that this is due to my involvement with reality lately.
In my chirlish youth, I detached myself from reality as often as possible.
My one remaining avenue for imposed boyhood is - you guessed it - video games.
Consequently, an excited Paul blabbered to everyone he encountered.
I really was behaving like I found the last Wonka ticket.
I was telling friends, family, co-workers, my drug dealer - even customers.
And as I jaunted about town on Monday, nothing could bring me down.
GTA was coming. Further, I had the day off on Tuesday.
Overly understanding Andie was going to give me the okay to completely disregard her Tuesday afternoon.
We're all set.
Midnight opening, guys!
Everything's going to be okay!
I stick Andie in bed at 10:30 and make my way to the store.
Got my tunes. Got my dope. Got my imitation milkshake.
Not going to find myself getting roped into a conversation.
I'm ready.
No one there upon my arrival.
I immediately denounce the north end of Halifax and question their dedication.
"Pussies," I utter as I search for a nearby pad with wi-fi.
Burger King is closed early due to renovations.
There's a BK lackey in the parking lot dismantling a bench with a grinder.
Unless your father was a mechanic, this is a sound that you generally hear on TV.
A low and persistent 'ereeeeeee' as the disc bites and shears the metal.
This echoes in the twilight as I walk to shitty Tim Horton's.
I don't even want the sandwich, but I'll need fuel.
Donuts are dried out and shitty, y'say? That's okay.
It's the GTA midnight opening.
Don't need a coffee, thanks. I have a fake milkshake right here.
I sit and watch launch trailers.

Eventually, I wander back over.
Parking lot's dark. No one's there.
It's well past eleven.
Now, 90% of men would leave at this point.
"Fuck this, I've got things to do."
Nope. I'm calling numbers. I'm checking websites.
This is Monday, right?
Yes. It's Monday.
Now, as it turns out, it's the wrong Monday, but I won't discover that for another few minutes.
It doesn't release until next week.
This dawns on me at a slowed rate due to denial.
Yet, it's perfectly clear as I stand alone in the dark, the din of the disc grinder peeling laughter right at me.

Culture or Bust

Written about a month ago.

This keyboard is terrible.
I think that I wish I was popular.
I'm wearing my rain slicker today.
It's raining everywhere somewhere today and we all need to be prepared.
Never before now have I prayed for rain.
But my new rain slicker is so cool that I love a splish-splosher when it happens.
Yes, the blazing orange colour. The double-welded seams. The replacement patch of rubber.
This jacket virtually transforms me into a regular Christopher Robin.
What a jerk kid. Like "Pooh" is any kind of name for a bear.

I post this video hesitantly because I'm concerned people will watch it and then watch every other goddamn heritage moment there is.
The peach baskets. "I cannot read a word."
They're all very entertaining now that we're too old for them to be educational anymore.
Here's a picture of the jacket while my drug mule girlfriend wears it:

Once the weather turns sour I like to send her out to fetch things. She never worries about getting busted.
I worry about getting busted all of the time.
It's a big reason why I never had an exciting childhood, and is, in fact, a likely reason for why I'm wishing to be popular at the age of 31.
I can steal the rupees right out of your grandmother's credenza without batting an eye, but I worry about getting busted.
The difference being, by my definition, that getting busted means that one's cover is blown.
Stealing is just stealing.
Getting caught is just getting caught stealing.
Unless it's stealing from Lablaw's. Then it's not just getting caught stealing. Then it's 100% prosecution.
We wanted to go to the Chicargo aquarium. I've always wanted to go to a municipal aquarium.
Anyway, the lineup was out the door and it cost, like, 50 bucks.
So, we decided to hit the museum right alongside.
Now, that was also a little pricey and we were on our last day of the trip.
So, the Benjamins were getting a little scant.
We stood at the front and tried to figure out whether or not we wanted to (could afford to) check the museum out.
Then, without telling me anything, Andie asked for some maps of the museum.
Counter handed them to her, and she just started walking in. And there were security guards right there!
So, I'm hurriedly catching up to her, murmuring, "We're gonna get caught. They're going to kick us out."
Unflinching. She was unflinching.
We checked out as much of the museum as we could physically tolerate (we got really hungry).
This from the same woman who gets all squirrelly if I don't pay for a lime.
And why would you pay for a lime, really? They grow on trees.

Pea Shooter

I've tried to begin a post three times now and I keep halting myself.
This can mean only one thing:
I want to do something else.
I have no idea what that might be.
If I were to know myself (which has admittedly been an uphill battle), I'd guess I'd prefer to nap.
Who could say?
Anyway, I've resolved to write something today.
So, I guess we're looking at it.
...
If the fattest twins in the world can keep their balance on a motorcycle, then surely I can too.

I tried riding a pocket bike one time.
I figured that I'd be able to pull it off because it's not man-sized and neither am I.
No dice, though.
I just sort of hit the throttle and immediately fell over.
I think I scraped a knee.
I have a scar on my chin and I have no idea where it came from or when I got it.
I remember no chin injuries.
I asked my mother about its origin, and she didn't have an answer for me either.
That means that I will never know where this scar came from.
Isn't that a little bizarre, when you think about it?
No, it's not.
However, I'll tell you what is:
You know that guy who started the company that's willing to fly anyone to space?
As long as that anyone is the sort of anyone who has millions upon millions of dollars?
That guy is looking to develop a new transit system.
You know what he wants to design? I love this.
Futurama Tubes.
That's true.
Pneumatic tubes that zip you around without needing to bother with engines, oil, or crash test dummies.
All the system would really need would be...y'know...air vents.
Presumably, this people-propelled ejection system wouldn't harbor traffic jams - at first.
However, they'd ultimately end up in Toronto, and as soon as that happens, everyone will have to sit in their tubes for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening.
Having to listen to Twister Sister twice in one day while waiting to get home is bad enough.
Suffocating along with three dozen other people is far worse.
Especially if that happens while listening to Twister Sister.
It's time.
It's time for pneumatic tubes.
Just don't tell my boss that I said that.
Tubes, of course, would put us honest-working car salesmen out of business.

Alma Mater Matters

I'm not hungover, exactly, but I do wish I was still in bed.
I dropped by my buddy Scott's last night.
Scott is quickly turning into that long-standing friend who you want to keep around in case you ever need to borrow money.
We had beers with an old Acadia buddy and then we had hamburger dogs with a slightly older buddy (ol' Joshey).
As busy as Dave Chappelle, Scott has a huge case that he's working on, and his free time totals nil.
I pondered this last night as he rambled on about how busy he was while I tried not to stare at his veneers
(I still haven't gotten used to them).
If I have free time, which I often do, I spend it alone in my room, or down at the sushi house.
Scott spends it with old college buddies.
There's something important to that.
As we traversed a hamster's maze of overhead walkways en route to meet Brendan-
"What's he been up to? Is he living in America [Brendan's from Maine]?"
"I dunno, man. I haven't talked to him in years."
"So, what's he doing now? Does he have a wife or a baby?"
"I dunno, man. I really have no idea what he's been up to."
"Well, that's good, that puts you and I on the same page, then.
Does he know I'm coming?"
"Nope."
"Well, that'll be a nice surprise for him."
-Scott had a couple of people greet him as we passed.
Meanwhile, the bums don't ask me for change
You have to make time for people.
You also have to lock your windows at night, kids.
The northern face of Halifax has seen a rash of break-ins lately.
Thieves are primarily making off with the family jewels and the Xbox controllers.
While we sat outside that night, a copper shone his light into our yard and asked if we'd heard any bushels rustle.
The neighbor's alarm had gone off.
It's only when something like this happens right on your doorstep that you realize:
Cops have exceptionally bright flashlights.
Anyway, don't look at me.
I'll stick to robbing grocery stores, thank you.

Brendan didn't have a wife, but he did bring along a woman.
He was in town for a wedding.
While making conversation with her, I asked how long they had been together.
She replied with, "Three months."
This is the exact time frame in which you start going to weddings together.
And the first wedding you go to together is the point where you look at the other person and either say, "Yeah, alright."
Or, you say to yourself, "Jesus, does he always eat this many shrimp at a buffet?
In public?
I've gotta get out of this."
It's a very deciding time to be at a wedding.
Luckily, I was too distracted to mention this because I was trying not to look at her breasts through her semi-see-through dress.

SWORDFISH UNCENSORED

Get drunk and wing the bridesmaid speech.
It's Friday.

Myself and the hired statisticians were looking at some recent Tragic Hero figures.
Upon doing so, we uncovered a startling discovery:
Among the most prominent keyword searches on Google that led readers to my blog, five of the top ten were for media of Halle Berry nude.
"Halle berry nude pics" "Halle Berry Nuda" and so on.
I had no idea that she has been acting as such an influence on this blog's continued, baffling success.
So, I decided to write Halle a letter to thank her personally, the body of which follows:

Miss Berry,
It would seem as though we're strange bedfellows. Through the course of describing your supple body and all of its intricacies, I have garnered for myself, unintentionally, a new stable of readers for my humble blog (www.paulwarford.com. A great read if you're bored on set. Does your trailer have wi-fi?). Evidently, miscreants who are perusing the annals of The Internet to view nude clips and images of yourself are finding themselves at my doorstep, so to speak, and, as a result, traffic for my little Internet nook are at an all-time high.
Now, far be it for me to poach your own fan base - ample though it may be - and I can assure you that a diminishing of your popularity was, and is, far from my mind. As such, I have informed my readers of you body's influence on my success, and have assured them that I will be thanking you for your continued, albeit ignorant, support. Consequently, I have enclosed with this posting a Tragic Hero button (the first and only of its kind), as well as a gift certificate for Best Buy. Furthermore, I have included a small sampling of my skin cells and eyelashes, should you need them.
I bid you kind regards and true wishes of success in your continuing career, and I will be sure to grant you more accolades regarding a body most decadent in the years to come, until your age ultimately catches up with you.
With profound sincerity,
Paul Warford

P.S. Your breasts really are terrific. Your sex scene in Monster's Ball with Billy Bob Thornton gave me a massive hard-on, despite Billy Bob Thornton.

Hot Cross'd Bus (Drivers)

Talk about your martyrs...
Some bus drivers in Paraguay are protesting their recent layoffs by having themselves crucified.
This is a pretty far cry from our metro protests, which involve a few of the b'ys lighting a fire in a barrel, and then standing around it.

Maybe making a sign or two:

"HONK YOUR HORN IF YOU DRIVE A CAR AND DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT BUSES ANYWAY!"

I believe in integrity and standing up for your work ethic. 

However, there has to be a point where you say, "Fuck this, I'm going to apply for a job at the post office."

If I've Told You Once, I've Told You A Thousand Times

Alright, enough's enough.
Let's simplify this:
When I say, "Hey guys, this is post #1000," you all raise your hands over your heads slightly, and mutter, "Yay."
Ready? Okay.
Hey muchachos, it's post #1000.
...
Alright, great. Let's get back to talking about chicks in bikinis.
Poolside!
Y'know, it's not even the thousandth post, technically speaking.
The post where I said, "Stay tuned, next post is a multiple of 1000," that was the 1000th post.
And, to get technical on our technical speaking, which we should, that wasn't it either.
See, while trying to decide on what to write about for my 1000th post, I considered a "through-the-years" sort of reflection.
However, my lack of thoroughidity put the calipers to the discs on that one pretty quickly.
You go back through your blog that is supposed to be your life and you realize that your life's a mess.
Or, it's in need of tidying, anyway.
This is where this whole "1000th post" wreath begins to lose its petals.
Because, if I read something from October of 2009 that consists of:
"Hey guys! No time today, so check out this link while I go get a haircut," and I check the link to find it broken, I'm not sure that that counts as a post.
It doesn't, is why.
Besides the haircut, nothing is being communicated there.
So, God knows what number this post actually is.
Frankly, I think it's best if we all just move past it and get on with our blogs.
Am I right, comrades!?
Y'know, 1000(ish) posts have gone by, and I'm not sure I've used the word 'Nazi' once.
So much content, and still things get left out.
Alright, let's see the stupid cake:

Ta-da.
Whatever number we're on, I've had a good time.
I thank all of you who check this blog regularly, no matter how misguided you may be.
"Another post and he still hasn't written shit all about hunting quail!"
All I've ever needed is someone to pay attention to me, so thanks for that.
...
...
Rob Lowe actually startled me with how beautiful he is a couple of weeks ago.
I swear to God(s) this is true.
It was dark and I was tidying my play area, and Rob Lowe was on the cover of a magazine that I had already seen.
And I glimpsed it and physically started.
Thinking something along the lines of, "Jesus! Oh, it's just beautiful Rob Lowe."

Alright, well, let's cut the shit and make way for post 10,000.
Meanwhile, here are some things to expect in the future:
-more stock market quotes
-more injuries
-more steamy love scenes
-more discussion on just how hot Anna Paquin is, really
-more material I`ve unintentionally lifted from The Simpsons
Along the way, I`ll continue to see you as I have always seen you:
Potential Ad Revenue.

There's A Monster At The End Of This Book

The post after this snippet will be #1000.
Just decided I'm going to buy a cake for it.
And when I say that I "just decided" that, I mean literally, this second, I just decided it.
Alright, well, I'm going to call Sobey's and order that.
While I wait for buddy to frost it wrong, I'll figure out which profound, retrospective topic I'll discuss for this momentous fraction of information huddled among the other dozens of billions of fractions of information on the Internet.
Probably going to be something about how hot chicks only show up in the summer.

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.