The Thing About Seamen

Put expensive, flabbergasting modifications on your car.
It's Friday. 

Bananas don't ejaculate.
It's irresponsible to roll condoms over them and tell young girls, "This is basically what you're dealing with.
Yellow skin that peels back easily. Slight curvature. Readily available at the grocery story."
Preposterous.
Bananas don't ejaculate.
Now, sea cucumbers.
...

Anyway, how are you doing?
Winter is ending - have mercy! - and I'm beginning to thaw.
I've been working on an occasional boat, and I have nothing to hide.
Working on a boat when the boat is on land is really sort of like working in a building with a gangway.
Gangway. That's one word among many that I've had to learn since beginning this whatever it is.
For example, I work in the galley. I have a cabin that I take naps in.
The washing machine and dryer are in, well, they're in the laundry room.
No nautical term there.
One of these gangways was about 80 degrees steep.
Not an exaggeration.
75 minimum. Who has their protractors handy?
I'm on the side of a boat, here. It's a huge thing; stories high. Storeys?
No, spellcheck is saying that's wrong. But now it's also saying that I spelled 'spellcheck' incorrectly, so perhaps the software is moody today.
Look, if you made A.I. a real thing with real robots and so on, the fall of humanity is the only possible result of that.
Making robots think they're people will leave them thinking like people.
People will do whatever they have to do to not die.
They also love fancy cars and penthouse apartments. People, I mean.
Which means the robots will, too.
They will fight to have these things, which will mean taking them from us.
When that time comes, they will have the distinct advantage of never needing food.
Tactically speaking, this will give them several opportunities with which to eradicate us. \
Either way, the gangway was extremely steep, and it wasn't there in the morning when I boarded (another term) the boat.
So, when it came time to exit, I had to act like I was up to using this thing, when I really believed I would fall and injure myself terribly if I tried to descend it.
But it was there, y'know? It must have been traversable if it was there. 
So, I'd take the rails and test the boot grip afforded by the little lats etched into the gangway's surface.
Not very firm. In fact, a little slippery.
"Fuck this," I'd whisper/exclaim to myself, while pacing in front of it, eying possible solutions.
"Can't be. I can't use this. Fuck this thing."
Eventually, I went back inside because I'd forgotten my phone anyway.
Then I was told to climb down backwards, like a ladder.
This never would have occurred to me.
Instead, I would have ultimately tried to climb down the wrong way in order to prove that I could be a sailor, too.
I've never been great at communicating with men.
I'm not a sailor, mind you.
But the day is coming when I'll end up on the water.
It's a scene, to be sure.
I'll be paid money and I'll see (harpoon?) seals.
I'll try that once.

Breathe deeply. Another bus will happen along.

The Sex and The Hound

I'm not late all of the time because I have poor time management, but instead I have poor space management.
I'm bad at occupying a given space (at a given time.)

Turns out I was good at spelling all along.

If our children have the technology to 'know' all things at all times, oh! When will they wonder?

My woman was restless, and I laid near as we waited for sleep to take (subdue) her. 
After a moment of silence, she cooed, "Ooo..."
"What is it, lover?"
"Oh, I'd just like us to have a little cafe together. I'd make apple cider donuts."
"Did you just think about this now?"
"No, I just had a nice dream about it."
She's exactly as wholesome while awake.

"You've never mentioned Gabby," she said the other day.
Which is true.
I've never mentioned Gabby, which, considering how many times I've watched her defecate, is surprising.
Gabby is a pet nose.
She is a showman's orphan.
Gabby is (probably) a Basset Hound that Andie adopted.
This came about after Gabby lost eight of her previous ten races on the circuit.
All Basset Hounds are midgets, did you know that?
It's true.
Basset Hounds are all, medically speaking, dwarfs.
In the human world, this shortcoming [intended] equates low cupboards and difficulty driving.
However, in the dog world, dwarfism begets one factor over all others:
Marketability.
Observe and agree:

Actually, perhaps both parties could make this claim.

Gabby hasn't landed any roles yet, but she certainly gains attention wherever she goes.
"Is that a Basset Hound!?"
"Awww! Look at his ears! He's so cute!"
The greater rush you're in, the more people notice her.
She really does look sad constantly.
Imagine giving a 3-year old an ice cream cone.
"There ya go, ruddiger."
And then imagine snatching it back, seconds later.
"Gimme that, ya scamp! Beat it!"
The face that would result from this is the one that she wears at all times.
You can sell anything with that.
I had this gag where I'd get Gabby to do impersonations.
"Gabby, let's go clean-cut tonight and give me your best Tom Hanks."
Pause.
"Flawless, as usual."
It's (barely) funny because her expression never alters.

THIS FARSIDE IS MISSING ITS CAPTION, BUT IT READS (PARAPHRASED):

THE MANY MOODS OF AN IRISH SETTER

 

I never pick up her feces.
Why should I?
She's never picked up mine.
One time I got high and left a by-the-slice pizza crust on the bedroom floor.
And to get away with eating it, she tried to swallow the entire thing whole, like a Boa Constrictor.
She didn't pull it off, though.
"What in the fuck is that noise?"
We took her camping in Wolfville.
This was the same trip, by the way, where Andie and I mistook a plastic bag for a porcupine.
It really looked like an animal. It was dark.
Andie got closer to it (I'm a sensible pussy and stayed behind her, thank you) and whispered, "I think it's a porcupine."
"Get back! Get over here, quick!" I exclaimed this because I could imagine us in Emerg., getting quills out of her snout and ass.
Camping trip over.
But it was a plastic bag.
Anyway, we suspect Gabby ate some bad s'mores because she became desperately sick a day after our return.
Taking no food. Taking no water. Vomiting.
Nothing good.
A day later I ultimately had no choice but to take her to the vet when she began, err, pooping blood.
I'm here to say that be it child or dog or whatever, if a loved one begins pooing blood, it's really scary.
So, she and I eyed the overpriced clinical food as we waited to get in to see the vet.
We entered the examination room with the young assistant, and Gabby immediately yakked on the floor.
A leaf came out of her.
And the assistant and I looked at the jaundiced pools and I wondered:
"Alright, what's the protocol here? Am I supposed to clean that?
Isn't that her job? Isn't she a nurse for dogs and cats?
Nurses handle the gross fluids, yes?"
It was uncomfortable.
I cleaned it up and we left a small amount for the doctor to check out.
Vet entered.
Flirtation flirtation description of symptoms.
Vet left.
The vet returned with an estimate of $300-$700 to make her normal.
Let me think about it.
Meanwhile, Gabby pooed more blood.
It's much more vivid indoors.
The vet returned, saw this, said, "This changes things somewhat," and left again.
Came back with an estimate amounting to twice as much as the first.
It was at this point that I decided, "The assistant can clean up this one."
They had to keep her overnight because too much stuff was coming out of her to keep her in a residence.
And so they could inject her with children's Aspirin, or whatever --
Oh! That reminds me.
Just because it says "Children's Tylenol" on the label, that doesn't mean children can take an indefinite number of them.
This should be obvious enough, I know, but I've recently learned that some parents just aren't reading the labels.
While you're at it, don't leave the Javex in an unmarked jar next to the milk.
Anyway, watching the vet lead Gabby away, I got choked up -- what of it!?
At the end of the day, no one wants their dog to die.
Their neighbor's dog, on the other hand...

Andie frequently asks me whether or not I love the dog.
This is an important and extremely relative question for her.
I'm not comfortable to say so one way or the other because the question seems just mildly bizarre (posed regularly, anyway.)
So, let me state here, before Blog and man alike:
I love the dog as far as I'm willing to love dogs.
Which is second base.
Goodnight, everybody!

Call Me 'Heff'

Written Friggin' Ages Ago: 

Really, I have so much to talk about.

Today's lesson is that when you're going to the fair and you're baffled by that, be thankful.

Andie and I brought nothing to a Thanksgiving dinner hosted by our most flamboyant friend.
There was nut loaf to eat and 'tofurkey' to avoid and people whose names I forget.
We all said what we were thankful for (I included "gangsta rap" in my list to seem less mushy.)
Then I worked on dessert while everyone talked about the Fall Fair.
And hark! How the dogs ran at the Fall Fair today!
You must go to the fair!
Which meant I must go to the fair, which we did the following day.
I kept thinking I'd be able to eat waffles there for some reason, and it would therefore be okay.
It was okay.
There weren't any waffles, but I ate a deep-fried Oreo that wasn't repulsive and I'm visualizing one in my hand right this minute and it's decadent.
There was indeed a dog show.
They caught frisbees and raced over hurdles.
The most entertaining dogs were those who were in it for the participation ribbons.
Those who were not really sure which way to go on the course, stepping over the occasional hurdle.
They were losing so terribly, but they weren't letting that ruin their day whatsoever.
I'd imagine that watching the Special Olympics would be similarly charming - well it would!

I was face to face with a cow's anus when the cow pooed and I think that will stay with me for a long time.
Like, the anus was right there and I looked at it right then, at that moment.
"Oh, it's another cow and his, oh, what's he doing?"
Like that.
Pretty mesmerizing.
The stables also housed the biggest horses and cows I'd ever seen.
The Clydesdale I could see in my memory, adorned giants at some other fair from some other time and age long since past.
Their height and strength were profound, and when they shuffled and reared in their stalls, I couldn't help but do the same out of mild fear.
Some of them were coloured obsidian and their manes were night as well.
Their tails were a tight bun like a samurai's knot, sprung from flanks that would make any man's bicep look ridiculous.
Even the smaller horses looked imposing and unstoppable, leaving me to think, "Yeah, I could see how 450 of you could equal a sports car."
But the heifers.
Get out and walk.*
I honestly, truly mean this at the age of 31 when I say I didn't think cows could be this big.
Like zambonis without the wheels. 
Blue ribbon bovines, every one of them.
The largest all seemed to be laying down.
So, perhaps reclining cows just look bigger than I realized.
More likely, however, is that they were so goddamn big they only use their legs when sleeping.
They just stay in one place and grass is fed to them.
Because they've earned it.
And the youngest farmhand has to root them around once a day with a canoe paddle so the cows don't develop sores.

No one taught these pricks at the table adjacent mine that public places aren't their home.

The petting zoo went without saying.
What a funny little pen to watch.
Animals wandering every which way, not really sure what to do with themselves, accompanied by toddlers in the exact same boat.
They had two donkeys, and I kept thinking:
"Too cramped. One of these burros is going to kick a kid in the face and it's not going to be as funny as I assume."
A little less AFV, a little more CSI.
Fortunately, no humans were harmed in the writing of this post.
Some of them definitely tried their best, though; tugging on this animal part and that animal part.
Rolling around in the sawdust.
I've never been one to fear germs, but one chip of wood from that floor contained more animal urine than every hamster cage in Nova Scotia combined.
Get your kid up off the floor.
It's great that they're enjoying themselves, but let's display a tiny bit of discipline here.
Andie was having a great time herself.
She'd bought a cup of grain and she was desperately trying to befriend a llama with it.
Desperately.
But, his other llama buddy ate it all instead.
The pigs careened around, ornery and confident, and I thought some kid was going to be upended at any second.
Then, the cowpoke made to attend the petting zoo entered with an ear of corn, saying, "Here. Here's your corn."
Though he didn't say it, I know he thought "fuckin' corn" in his head.
Andie hit this guy up for another cup of grain.
She fed some to a cow as I stroked its nose and it ate and ignored me.
Suddenly, she exclaimed, "He ate it all. He ate the paper! The whole cup is gone! What do we do?!"
To which I said, "Don't worry, he probably eats four or five of those per hour."
Four stomachs.
Still, we figured it was time to mozy.
On the way out, we patted the pony, which was the only fenced-off animal in the pen.
As we did so, the pony coughed, and this cough sounded like it could come from any adult male human.
It was really something.
It sounded so much like a person, you could almost hear the pony go, "Hrum! 'Scuse me" afterward.
Andie mentioned to the dude on the way out, "Um, we heard the pony coughing."
Arms crossed, leaned back, he responds, "I keep tellin' people not to feed him."
Yeah right, buddy. You didn't tell us that.
The paper cup was probably the highlight.
By now I've learned that if Andie reacts to something, it's best to just start taking pictures.

*"Get out and walk" is an expression that my brother Colin uses sometimes.
It's tough to translate, but it sort of means, "Put that in your pipe and smoke it," or "Whadya think of that?" Or...something.

It Is What It Ain't

Que Sera, Sera.

In bed, comparing proportions:
Me: Your hands aren't that impressive. My fingers are bigger than yours.
She: Yeah, you've got piano hands.
Me: Then why was I so shitty at piano as a kid?
She: You probably don't have piano wrists.
True.
And I didn't practice.

It is what it is, these days.
In the vain of "Whadya gonna do?" And, "M'eh, fuck it," this new expression has caught on as an all-encompassing dismissal for mailmen and crab fishermen alike.
As with most trends, I'm for and ag'in it.
Philosophically, is truly is what it is.
It couldn't be otherwise.
If a bridge collapses on you while driving to work, well, what else can your funeral buddies say about it?
It's a phrase borne of apathy and rationality alike.
Things must play out as they do, and history will repeat itself.
Politicians are corrupt, sadly. But politicians will be as they have been.
Purse snatchings will happen.
Concerts will sell out just as you reach the ticket wicket.
Countries with the strongest economies will win more golds at The Olympics.
Ultimately, it is better to accept things as they have come to be, and move on.
It's a softening of what is hard, these facts of life.
Let's just roll with it.
Truly, I think it's one of the more sensible doctrines that society has chewed upon for a while.
Although, it does hang in the air somewhat.
Only shitty things, as it turns out, are.
No one would claim something positive to be what it is.
It's not like you go on a flight, and while touching down the guy beside you celebrates the safe landing by unbuckling his seatbelt, standing hunched beneath his overhead compartment, bellowing, "It is what it is, guys!
Flight!"
No.
It only 'is' when coping.
When resolving to endure.
Simply, when things are bad.
And things shouldn't just be when  they're bad.
The expression, then, deviates from this beautiful concept of accepting the nature of things to something more bleak.
"It is what it is. Deal with it."
It's an acceptance of things being shitty before entertaining other possibilities.
It's the easy way out.
The philosophical tone of this uttering, which I've always liked most about it, ultimately proves to be a veneer.
People aren't really considering the fate of things when they say it.
On the contrary; they're dismissing the fate of things.
Philosophical thought wouldn't abide, "You can't fight what's shitty."
Instead, it would challenge this with the question:
Need it be shitty in the first place?
I'd like to think that the answer is 'no'.
Someone steals your car stereo cause that's how things are.
Your girlfriend's late.
This asshole just cut you off and you can hear your own cursing easily because you no longer have a stereo to drown yourself out with.
I wouldn't say, "It is what it is."
Things aren't too bad just because they're too bad.
Things are too bad because people refuse to be considerate of one another.
Racism. Sexism. Every 'ism' could be wiped clean with the right frame of mind.
So, instead, I would propose that, "It is as it is."
People are this way because they are this way.
But I would never concede that they are this way because they have to be.
Of course, no one will be using the expression in a year's time, so...
Whatever will be will be, I guess.

Can I Change My Answer?

Wax everything that grows hair.
It's Friday.

This happened.
So, the other day I'm heading to Ace for a Po'Boy because that's what a cool guy does.
I'm waiting for the light to change, standing beside a 40-something...whatever.
Man.
Meanwhile, another guy is approaching us as he crosses the street.
He's pushing a shopping cart.
Now, this isn't because he's down on his luck (like countless dudes seem to be in this city).
He's too young for that.
What instead seems more likely is that this person recently stole a shopping cart from an actual homeless person.
He's making eye contact with me and I already dislike him.
Not because of the eye contact -
"How dare you look upon me!" -
But because I can tell that this guy was a pain in the ass in high school.
He points at me while pushing/walking, and says, "Are you Jewish?"
So, I say, "Not today, buddy."
Then he points to the dude beside me and asks, "Are you Jewish?"
Suddenly, the light changes.
And as he begins crossing the street, he goes, "What the fuck kind of question is that?"
While I start walking myself, I think, "Aw man. That's what I should've said."

Yes I Candy

I have to write something because, frankly, I'm running out of serial killers to learn about.
I did Gacy. Dahmer - old news.
Ramirez. He was terrible. The sort of guy that would make other convicted killers say, "Jesus. What a psycho."
And now, as I watch Ted Bundy calmly explain why violent detective novels and pornographic books do not mix, I realize I must write.
Otherwise, at this rate, it'll be me in a jumper applying for stays before long.

So, it's Halloween and bikinis are on sale.
I'm going to fetch chocolate after work.
Andie really wants to get some "big" bars, too, to act as surprises for the first few trick-or-treaters.
Which is cool with me.
Dr. Powell used to give out cans of drink (that's soda) - whole cans!
In life, Dr. Powell learned that hard work may be rewarded with material gain.
A lesson you learned on his doorstep after climbing his steep, unending driveway.
Anyway, she and I carved PERVS into a pumpkin last night.
The 'R' got away from us, but otherwise it's alright.
It was her idea.
This will be a far cry from my first Halloween in Halifax, when I wrote:
SORRY! OUT OF CANDY! on a piece of loose leaf with a Sharpie before sticking it to my door.
(There had never been candy to begin with.)
But now!
We'll thrill all of the ghosts and goblins with full-sized, gas station-regulated Kit Kats.
And, if we actually put our pumpkin out, perhaps we'll give the odd overbearing parent a scare, too.
Y'know, a few weeks ago Andie made fake tombstones.
She placed them on the lawn (a generous term), and the landlord stuck them on the side of the house...with the garbage.
Now, I'll be the first to admit that I'd probably rather a marker more charming over my grave when Ted Bundy comes for me (so to speak), but I still don't think there was any need.
At least say something to us. She took the time to paint them.
Just a sidelong mentioning:
"Oh, and I put your tombstones over on the side of the house because they looked shitty.
The wife thought they were shitty, anyway."
Something.

I've never handed out candy before.
I've taken it from some babies, sure.
But I've never been the guy with the stainless steel bowl.
With older siblings, you do fewer and fewer remotely adult things.
Buying beer. Babysitting. Et cetera.
I remember Colin took the job one year.
He had a 13" black & white in the laundry room and he was fine.
This was back when sole control over a small black & white TV meant something to a 14-year old.
He ran out of candy and began handing out canned goods.
Like a miniature UNICEF.
I think mom was pissed.
At nightfall we'd trade bars. One of those moments when Brian and I behaved normally.
Diplomatically.
He could take all of my Crunchie. All of the Big Turks (and I do mean all of them. Every one ever made).
I could take whatever bars he didn't like, which I can no longer remember.
November would come around and the candy, now forgotten, wouldn't even matter anymore.
I'd find stray packs of Rockets in a Ninja Turtle vehicle - "Huh?" And then promptly eat them.
Some would say that Halloween promotes gluttony.
Derelicts who ration how much candy children are allowed to have.
How awful.
"Two pieces tonight and another three pieces tomorrow in your recess.
We'll take this exciting, extravagant kids' activity and turn it into something controlled and regimented.
Something adult.
But it will still be fun because I say it is."
Children don't measure candy by individual pieces - nor should they.
Children measure candy like crushed stone; by gross tonnage.
I wouldn't say gluttony.
Hedonism, maybe.
I'm looking forward to doling out the goodies.
It's important to participate. It's important to get involved.
Something I once knew and am now learning again.
So, from me and mine to you and yours, happy Movember Eve.

And remember: Bobbing for apples must include breaks for oxygen.

A Thief In The Night

My friend was stabbed in the back and now my friend is paralyzed.
All of the newspapers say so, but it's still impossible to process.
The assailant is as every other who has stabbed someone in the back; a coward.
Though, when someone you know faces something like this, you quickly begin to question your own resolve.
Among other things...

Though you may not know my friend, Pay It Forward has taught us that it's still okay to help him.
Visit a Scotiabank if you wish to do so.

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.