Missing essentials dawn upon me each day anew as I while away in my desolate cabin. I use the term 'desolate' with a meagre affection, as it is now my one true sanctuary aboard this vessel. In truth, it is not without its merits. To wit, I have running water, a single stand-up shower capable of fitting three grown men simultaneously (upon renewed inspection, I might decrease this number to two). I have a lavatory and the chemical agents needed to maintain it. Further, I have a small, wall-mounted monitor (likely inoperational), a desk of ample width and height, a single cot (with reading lamp), a standing dresser, a fainting plank and a series of chested drawers. The walls, currently bare, resemble the inconsequential colouring of a kitchen's countertop, and my desire to mask this unwelcome decorum has far from lessened as the days pass.
On a related note, I have verified that I must adorn my hovel with a calendar. This I believe will benifit my surroundings two-fold: Primarily, it will allow me to mark off each day, likely in a traditional, large red 'X' fashion, thus advertising, if only for myself, my progression through this period and its foregone conclusion, at which time I will be reunited with my lady true, whom I miss dearly. Despite my sound devotion, I have settled upon the purchase of a nude, or "nudey" calendar, if such a thing may be procured from the town merchant. An item of this description will alleviate my Julianic need, while also acting as pornographic fodder, for which I am in short supply, as noted in a previous entry.
The crew continues to be outwardly wary of my newbord prescence on board, but some well-timed wit and lofty banter will hopefully correct this in time. While it is true that they and I seemingly have little to share by way of conversation topics (they speak, for example, at length regarding various all-terrain vehicles of which I have no knowledge nor interest) I remain vigilant in striking common chords among them all.
Perhaps they share my love for paintball...
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
Steward's Log; April 12, 2014
I have not brought sufficient pornography on board and this has grown rapidly apparent. I hear jocular discussions of shared external hard drives that are laden with smut, and though I believe these perversions might be shared should confidence among the crew be gained, I suspect that our tastes vastly differ.
I have deduced with equal quickness that I must populate my cabin with a plant, a fish, or both. Indeed, I would be happy to share my cabin with a cat, but it is my understanding that felines despise water. Perhaps I do as well. This, for the time being, remains undertermined as we remain moored here in the berg of Lewisporte, Newfoundland, Canada. As such, creature comforts are abound following a short walk to shore, and domestic plants may very well be available from a few named, local horticulturalists. The fish, I am told, may be less easily procured.
I am familiarizing myself with the crew, who seem a fine bunch. As of yet, none of them are aware of my lavish clothing, and I can only hope that I am not acutely dismissed as a 'fag' upon their revelation.
Alcohol is not allowed on board, yet it is readily available.
I peer out at the ice floes choking the harbour and to the expansive sea beyond, and I ponder when it is we shall meet.
I have deduced with equal quickness that I must populate my cabin with a plant, a fish, or both. Indeed, I would be happy to share my cabin with a cat, but it is my understanding that felines despise water. Perhaps I do as well. This, for the time being, remains undertermined as we remain moored here in the berg of Lewisporte, Newfoundland, Canada. As such, creature comforts are abound following a short walk to shore, and domestic plants may very well be available from a few named, local horticulturalists. The fish, I am told, may be less easily procured.
I am familiarizing myself with the crew, who seem a fine bunch. As of yet, none of them are aware of my lavish clothing, and I can only hope that I am not acutely dismissed as a 'fag' upon their revelation.
Alcohol is not allowed on board, yet it is readily available.
I peer out at the ice floes choking the harbour and to the expansive sea beyond, and I ponder when it is we shall meet.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Shipping News
How much can you fit in a 10-foot U-Haul?
2 lives and a medium-sized dog.
When I was first told I would be sailing on a ship and not a boat, I asked what all fledgling mariners ask:
"What's the difference?"
The difference, as it turns out, is that ships carry boats.
Tug boat. Cruise ship. See?
If you're in the company of sailors, call a ship a ship.
Unless you want some salty looks...
Okay, so.
This house in which I sit is 100 years' old.
It overlooks Deer Lake which, I have learned, is a lake, and not just some town with a hospital in it.
Once, it was the town's post office and general store.
Right on the railway line, it was!
The train would stop, people would buy their newspapers and replacement iPod chargers, and then they would steam on.
In time, it became a place where you could rent paddle boards. Kyaks. Okay, how do you spell Kiyaks?
You see the word enough that you figure you know how to spell it.
Kayak. That's it.
Anyway, this place is still that place; you can still rent kayaks and paddle boards, but now we also live here.
My lady love and I have U-Hauled our way into this villa and are now nesting comfortably.
I am in the company of many, many bicycles.
I rode one yesterday in order to collect Mary Brown's.
I wore a light jacket while doing this even though it's June.
I am home.
Beer in gas stations!
The weather is nicer here, I think.
And the flora! The fauna!
We had a "june bug" fly into our bedroom area, and it was very frightening.
The creature looked and sounded like a moth covered in hard plastic.
Unsettling.
Andie stayed under the covers (which I heartily encouraged) while I nancied about and tried to make it leave.
It was immediately beside her on the pillow for a moment.
This is country livin'. Bumpkins deal with this sort of thing all the time.
Anyway, I can't wait until we hit July so that I won't have to see one of those fuckers for another year.
The ship, then.
Well, to keep my mind limber and my arrogance inflated, I kept a sailing account of my voyage.
I'm going to post all of these entries more-or-less simultaneously, to make it seem like the blog has a bunch of new content. Which I suppose it does.
Will.
I have much confusion over my orientation.
Not my sexual orientation; I just don't know which way I'm facing right now.
2 lives and a medium-sized dog.
When I was first told I would be sailing on a ship and not a boat, I asked what all fledgling mariners ask:
"What's the difference?"
The difference, as it turns out, is that ships carry boats.
Tug boat. Cruise ship. See?
If you're in the company of sailors, call a ship a ship.
Unless you want some salty looks...
Okay, so.
This house in which I sit is 100 years' old.
It overlooks Deer Lake which, I have learned, is a lake, and not just some town with a hospital in it.
Once, it was the town's post office and general store.
Right on the railway line, it was!
The train would stop, people would buy their newspapers and replacement iPod chargers, and then they would steam on.
In time, it became a place where you could rent paddle boards. Kyaks. Okay, how do you spell Kiyaks?
You see the word enough that you figure you know how to spell it.
Kayak. That's it.
Anyway, this place is still that place; you can still rent kayaks and paddle boards, but now we also live here.
My lady love and I have U-Hauled our way into this villa and are now nesting comfortably.
I am in the company of many, many bicycles.
I rode one yesterday in order to collect Mary Brown's.
I wore a light jacket while doing this even though it's June.
I am home.
Beer in gas stations!
The weather is nicer here, I think.
And the flora! The fauna!
We had a "june bug" fly into our bedroom area, and it was very frightening.
The creature looked and sounded like a moth covered in hard plastic.
Unsettling.
Andie stayed under the covers (which I heartily encouraged) while I nancied about and tried to make it leave.
It was immediately beside her on the pillow for a moment.
This is country livin'. Bumpkins deal with this sort of thing all the time.
Anyway, I can't wait until we hit July so that I won't have to see one of those fuckers for another year.
The ship, then.
Well, to keep my mind limber and my arrogance inflated, I kept a sailing account of my voyage.
I'm going to post all of these entries more-or-less simultaneously, to make it seem like the blog has a bunch of new content. Which I suppose it does.
Will.
I have much confusion over my orientation.
Not my sexual orientation; I just don't know which way I'm facing right now.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Steward's Log; April 12, 2014
Okay, here's one.
I was off to a good start with these passages, but after a while I put more of my time into napping.
Today I saw a wolf, perished and frozen.
I have not brought enough pornography on board and this has grown rapidly apparent.
I hear jocular discussion of shared external harddrives that are laden with smut, and though I believe these perversions might be shared should confidence among the crew be gained, I suspect that our tastes may differ.
I have deduced with equal quickness that I must populate my room with a plant, a fish, or both. Indeed, I would be happy to share my cabin with a cat, but it is my understanding that they despise water. Perhaps I do as well. This, for the time being, stands undetermined, as we remain moored here in the berg of Lewisporte. As such, creature comforts are readily available following a short walk, and plants may very well be available from a few named, local horticulturalists. The fish, I am told, may be less easily procured.
I am familiarizing myself with the crew, who seem a fine bunch. As of yet, none of them are aware of my lavish clothing, and I can only hope that I am not readily dismissed as a 'fag' upon their revelation.
Alcohol is not allowed on board, yet is is readily available.
I peer out at the ice floes choking the harbour, and to the expansive sea beyond, and I ponder when it is we shall meet.
In closing, I remain enthusiastic and hope to maintain such spirits while this as-yet stationary journey unfolds.
I truly did see a wolf today.
I was off to a good start with these passages, but after a while I put more of my time into napping.
Today I saw a wolf, perished and frozen.
I have not brought enough pornography on board and this has grown rapidly apparent.
I hear jocular discussion of shared external harddrives that are laden with smut, and though I believe these perversions might be shared should confidence among the crew be gained, I suspect that our tastes may differ.
I have deduced with equal quickness that I must populate my room with a plant, a fish, or both. Indeed, I would be happy to share my cabin with a cat, but it is my understanding that they despise water. Perhaps I do as well. This, for the time being, stands undetermined, as we remain moored here in the berg of Lewisporte. As such, creature comforts are readily available following a short walk, and plants may very well be available from a few named, local horticulturalists. The fish, I am told, may be less easily procured.
I am familiarizing myself with the crew, who seem a fine bunch. As of yet, none of them are aware of my lavish clothing, and I can only hope that I am not readily dismissed as a 'fag' upon their revelation.
Alcohol is not allowed on board, yet is is readily available.
I peer out at the ice floes choking the harbour, and to the expansive sea beyond, and I ponder when it is we shall meet.
In closing, I remain enthusiastic and hope to maintain such spirits while this as-yet stationary journey unfolds.
I truly did see a wolf today.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Still Here, I Ashore You
Your e-mail's historic folders can be saddening at times, depending on who you are.
Like, for dudes who went to school with Scarlett Johansson and kept in contact during college, but who never 'made a move'.
"I could be high on the hog right now, making Colin Farrell jealous."
For those who have no friends and save their spam mail as though it's from actual people.
"Oh! The diamond miners wrote again! Gee, for guys who mine diamonds, they sure need a lot of my money."
And for those who are bad at keeping in touch. Like myself. I have so many replies that begin with, "Sorry I took so long getting back to you..."
Anyway, sorry for taking so long to get back to you.
I think I have eczema.
"Eczema? Gross!"
I spelled that correctly on the first attempt, without ever dating one pharmacist.
Pharmacists are sexy.
And I'm not just saying that because one of my cousins is a pharmacist.
I did a gig once with Brian Aylward and Bryant (pronounce the T) Thomson for graduating pharmacy students.
Beauties. Just out of this world.
That's because the lady pharmacists know both the skin creams that actually work, and those that just give you eczema.
Anyway, I'm on a boat.
Ship.
I have to remember to call it a ship.
If you're asking "What's the difference?" and to be fair, I suppose you should be, the difference as explained to me is that "Ships carry boats."
This one carries...three, I think.
It also has at least two cranes. Not that anyone will let me operate them.
Yes, I'm on a boat, and no matter how many times I say it (aloud, alone in my cabin), it doesn't put me on land.
To be fair, land is currently just a gangway away, but that land is Lewisporte.
No offense to the finite people of this town, but Canadian Tire is closed, and I'm not sure where else I'd go.
On Friday, however, I'll be going to The Pub (that's the name of the place. It's a flamenco studio [I'm kidding; it's a pub]).
Fridays are bumping at The Pub. I'll be going there with sailors. Real ones.
I suppose I'm a real one now, also.
I was on this thing while it was careening about forcefully enough to move all of the chairs to and fro in the crew's mess - while the crew were seated in them.
And I didn't vomit once! Ya hear that, world! Not one time!
Knock on bulkhead. I really don't want to vomit while I'm sober enough to enjoy it.
The short answer to "What are you doing on a boat? Ship?" is: maintaining sanity.
It pays well and it'll allow me to sit around during the summer and catch up with all of you fine ingrates.
At a real desk. The desk is already situated and it exists somewhere in the world right now.
But more on that later.
Sailors!
They're fascinating, kind of.
The whole process is fascinating.
In essence, I live and work with these people in a steel, three-storey apartment on the ocean, which is housed above several million liters of flammable liquid.
I'd type all of that out a second time, just for effect, but this is the 21st century, so I'll copy and paste it:
In essence, I live and work with these people in a steel, three-storey apartment on the ocean, which is housed above several million liters of flammable liquid.
It's great and terrible, as you can well imagine.
Drunken sailors being obnoxious and eventually ejected at a bar makes perfect sense to me now.
Made perfect sense within days of joining them.
I hope it happens to me, particularly in Montreal.
Sailing on an oil tanker is sort of like being in a very small prison.
The only difference is that in prison you're able to play basketball sometimes.
We're all dudes. There are no women. We can't escape, and even if we could, there's nowhere to escape to. We all eat together. There's no alcohol allowed on board. No drugs. Either are searched for and confiiscated.
The similarities are there.
It's not so bad, though.
I have access to several pounds of baking soda, and I've never been able to say that before.
Let me tell you a bit about the boat.
Ship.
Umm...let's see.
It's 161 meters long, for any engineers who may be reading this.
It does usually have wi-fi, but it appears that, once you go far enough out to sea, even sattelites won't bother with you.
All of the doors are quite heavy, and I believe they're water-tight.
Despite its tremendous size, it does not just 'float on the water' like a 'cruise ship'.
And that's just the first of its many dissimilarities from cruise ships.
It has rolled back and forth so severely that I have feared for my safety.
Not for fear of it capsizing, mind you, but for fear that the small potted ivy I purchased to 'spruce the place up' might careen across my cabin and hit me in the head.
That chair thing I mentioned before?
That happened while we were all eating.
The chairs (and men) all slid one way, and then began to slide the other.
I panicked and hopped out of mine, only to have several heavy chairs come barreling towards me.
I had to do a little backup hop onto a table, the way referees scoot to avoid pucks sometimes.
Then the chairs stopped moving and I said, "Now what do we do?"
Everyone laughed.
The water that comes out of my tap is slightly yellowish, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to brush my teeth with it, but I'm too embarrassed to ask.
We have traversed through melting ice floes.
Some of them had seals on them.
And we beat them with our clubs and we sang our jolly tunes.
That last part I made up.
There were seals, though.
The same boat (ship), while on an Arctic voyage, encountered a polar bear. The lads threw a rope overboard, and played tug-o-war with it.
That's true. I've seen footage of it.
Four men couldn't move the bear, by the way.
Everyone has hard-drives dedicated to porno, and most of them seem willing to share these.
We stay on Newfoundland time, despite the time zone.
These are some of the basic details of the boat (ship).
I've been keeping a log of my travels.
I'll start including those because the tone is really fun and it gives me a reason to continue writing them.
You give me a reason to continue.
I suppose I forget that sometimes.
...
I'll upload some pictures because I never do that.
Oh! One last thing, and I'm not saying this to be funny or whatever.
Whenever we pull out of a port, I get Barrett's Privateers stuck in my head for a solid hour or two.
Like, for dudes who went to school with Scarlett Johansson and kept in contact during college, but who never 'made a move'.
"I could be high on the hog right now, making Colin Farrell jealous."
For those who have no friends and save their spam mail as though it's from actual people.
"Oh! The diamond miners wrote again! Gee, for guys who mine diamonds, they sure need a lot of my money."
And for those who are bad at keeping in touch. Like myself. I have so many replies that begin with, "Sorry I took so long getting back to you..."
Anyway, sorry for taking so long to get back to you.
I think I have eczema.
"Eczema? Gross!"
I spelled that correctly on the first attempt, without ever dating one pharmacist.
Pharmacists are sexy.
And I'm not just saying that because one of my cousins is a pharmacist.
I did a gig once with Brian Aylward and Bryant (pronounce the T) Thomson for graduating pharmacy students.
Beauties. Just out of this world.
That's because the lady pharmacists know both the skin creams that actually work, and those that just give you eczema.
Anyway, I'm on a boat.
Ship.
I have to remember to call it a ship.
If you're asking "What's the difference?" and to be fair, I suppose you should be, the difference as explained to me is that "Ships carry boats."
This one carries...three, I think.
It also has at least two cranes. Not that anyone will let me operate them.
Yes, I'm on a boat, and no matter how many times I say it (aloud, alone in my cabin), it doesn't put me on land.
To be fair, land is currently just a gangway away, but that land is Lewisporte.
No offense to the finite people of this town, but Canadian Tire is closed, and I'm not sure where else I'd go.
On Friday, however, I'll be going to The Pub (that's the name of the place. It's a flamenco studio [I'm kidding; it's a pub]).
Fridays are bumping at The Pub. I'll be going there with sailors. Real ones.
I suppose I'm a real one now, also.
I was on this thing while it was careening about forcefully enough to move all of the chairs to and fro in the crew's mess - while the crew were seated in them.
And I didn't vomit once! Ya hear that, world! Not one time!
Knock on bulkhead. I really don't want to vomit while I'm sober enough to enjoy it.
The short answer to "What are you doing on a boat? Ship?" is: maintaining sanity.
It pays well and it'll allow me to sit around during the summer and catch up with all of you fine ingrates.
At a real desk. The desk is already situated and it exists somewhere in the world right now.
But more on that later.
Sailors!
They're fascinating, kind of.
The whole process is fascinating.
In essence, I live and work with these people in a steel, three-storey apartment on the ocean, which is housed above several million liters of flammable liquid.
I'd type all of that out a second time, just for effect, but this is the 21st century, so I'll copy and paste it:
In essence, I live and work with these people in a steel, three-storey apartment on the ocean, which is housed above several million liters of flammable liquid.
It's great and terrible, as you can well imagine.
Drunken sailors being obnoxious and eventually ejected at a bar makes perfect sense to me now.
Made perfect sense within days of joining them.
I hope it happens to me, particularly in Montreal.
Sailing on an oil tanker is sort of like being in a very small prison.
The only difference is that in prison you're able to play basketball sometimes.
We're all dudes. There are no women. We can't escape, and even if we could, there's nowhere to escape to. We all eat together. There's no alcohol allowed on board. No drugs. Either are searched for and confiiscated.
The similarities are there.
It's not so bad, though.
I have access to several pounds of baking soda, and I've never been able to say that before.
Let me tell you a bit about the boat.
Ship.
Umm...let's see.
It's 161 meters long, for any engineers who may be reading this.
It does usually have wi-fi, but it appears that, once you go far enough out to sea, even sattelites won't bother with you.
All of the doors are quite heavy, and I believe they're water-tight.
Despite its tremendous size, it does not just 'float on the water' like a 'cruise ship'.
And that's just the first of its many dissimilarities from cruise ships.
It has rolled back and forth so severely that I have feared for my safety.
Not for fear of it capsizing, mind you, but for fear that the small potted ivy I purchased to 'spruce the place up' might careen across my cabin and hit me in the head.
That chair thing I mentioned before?
That happened while we were all eating.
The chairs (and men) all slid one way, and then began to slide the other.
I panicked and hopped out of mine, only to have several heavy chairs come barreling towards me.
I had to do a little backup hop onto a table, the way referees scoot to avoid pucks sometimes.
Then the chairs stopped moving and I said, "Now what do we do?"
Everyone laughed.
The water that comes out of my tap is slightly yellowish, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to brush my teeth with it, but I'm too embarrassed to ask.
We have traversed through melting ice floes.
Some of them had seals on them.
And we beat them with our clubs and we sang our jolly tunes.
That last part I made up.
There were seals, though.
The same boat (ship), while on an Arctic voyage, encountered a polar bear. The lads threw a rope overboard, and played tug-o-war with it.
That's true. I've seen footage of it.
Four men couldn't move the bear, by the way.
Everyone has hard-drives dedicated to porno, and most of them seem willing to share these.
We stay on Newfoundland time, despite the time zone.
I have a life vest and an immersion suit in my room.
I miss sex.
These are some of the basic details of the boat (ship).
I've been keeping a log of my travels.
I'll start including those because the tone is really fun and it gives me a reason to continue writing them.
You give me a reason to continue.
I suppose I forget that sometimes.
...
I'll upload some pictures because I never do that.
Oh! One last thing, and I'm not saying this to be funny or whatever.
Whenever we pull out of a port, I get Barrett's Privateers stuck in my head for a solid hour or two.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Done 4G
Wouldn't it be nuts if it turned out that Steve Jobs was in fact a malevolent asshole?
Like, he purposefully put cancer in all of our phones and we just don't know it yet because we're still alive (for now) and no investigative reporters have uncovered the secret?
No one enjoys a good conspiracy theory these days.
They're putting rickets in the bacon!
Like, he purposefully put cancer in all of our phones and we just don't know it yet because we're still alive (for now) and no investigative reporters have uncovered the secret?
No one enjoys a good conspiracy theory these days.
They're putting rickets in the bacon!
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Try As You Might
Single ladies, if you believe you have a big bum, don't be sad about it.
Some boys really like a big bum.
Some boys just love dat ass.
Well, that's my good deed for the day.
What an indication of humanity's scope for being considerate:
Counting the nice things we do so we can reach the cutoff, and stop.
And our cutoff is, as it turns out, one.
Also, some people have a tough time distinguishing a 'good deed' from a 'chore'.
"Well, I mowed the lawn. Time to go cheat on the wife."
Where are my grammar bunnies at?
Did you catch that one?
I put periods and so on outside of single quotes, inside for double quotes.
The latter is right, but I'm not sure about the former.
Fortunately, I don't care.
I did a comedy show in Bridgewater recently.
Besides having a Best Western, there's not much I can tell you about the town.
Went on down there with Blacky, Thomson, and the sexually impressionable Catherine Robertson.
Many of you don't know any of these people, I know.
I'm just sticking their names in there so that I can hope to recall this down the road once I'm senile and this blog is the only relative I have left.
Relatively speaking.
We had a great little time.
The hotel owners were both very lovely, and maybe a bit drunk.
They let us order food and I didn't eat any, which flabbergasted everyone.
If there's one sort of food I find tastiest of all, it's free food.
No one knows this better than my comedy buddies.
I did have a few gins though.
Anyway, one airhead called me a 'faggot' on his way out of the venue.
Some puffy-jacketed, simple man.
He muttered it under his breath as he walked by.
Unless they bellow it from a moving vehicle, they always mutter it.
I wasn't in the mood, really.
It's a staggering thing to hear, but it's hard to place why.
People will say, "Oh, in this day and age, how could someone still say..." and so on.
Which misses the point.
Close-minded people will always be around, no matter what decade it is.
It's just shocking in the sense that I didn't do nothin', y'know?
Like, I get that I'm skinny and I'm wearing my grandmother's shirt, but I talked about banging women onstage.
Was he not convinced, or simply not satisfied?
Anyway, I wasn't in the mood.
So, I said, "What was that?!"
He turned around and acted like he couldn't understand why I was addressing him (this was annoying, too. They always do that.)
Look them right in the eye, let them know it's a challenge.
"Maybe you're the fag!"
Yes, I said that. At this point in the story, everyone so far has stopped me and said, "You didn't say that!"
Yes, I did.
Really, you're sort of doing the same thing as buddy by assuming I wouldn't say that.
"Paul stood up for himself? But he's always been such a pussy."
Now, homosexuals might get bent out of shape that I'm offended at all, since I'm not gay.
Anything that implies homosexuality they sometimes believe is theirs exclusively.
But I'm here to say that if I've spent my life having to put up with shit like this (and I have. Pre-teen. Before junior high. Before sexuality) then I have a right to a reaction.
Besides, he wasn't really calling me gay. He was calling me weak.
And I ain't no Nancy. Not these days.
Besides, as I've told everyone I've recounted the story to so far, these men are gutless.
It's a coward who accuses without meeting one's eye.
I didn't feel physically threatened in the least.
So, "Maybe you're the fag!"
He said nothing at first. He didn't expect this, of course.
Then he simply muttered that I was a faggot again and walked away.
Now, what can we take away from this occasion?
"Bridgewater is full of backwater hicks."
Wrong! That's wrong.
I was surprised by how many people said that after the fact.
"Jesus...Bridgewater."
It's not the town. There are cowpokes like this guy in every town, including your own.
The people of Bridgewater were lovely.
So, I guess we'll just have to accept that humans can't handle what's different.
Not just that guy, either. I mean, he's a bit of a dick, obviously.
But all of us have fringes to our comfort zones.
I curse on hippies under my breath and in my head all the time.
So am I any better?
When you strip away the anthropology, the answer is "not really."
So, then, the real question is, why are we this way?
We're all bothered by some group or another, no matter who we are.
Factions or tribes that we would prefer to do without.
Look at the bigot in yourself (he's in there. He looks and sounds exactly like this guy) and try to figure out where he came from.
Then try to kick him out.
You'll be surprised at how hard it can be to appreciate everyone.
To just say, "Well, that's their thing."
Many of us, especially the arts majors, tell ourselves that we do this.
The artsy-fartsies will tell you how open-minded they are before spending half an hour shitting on jocks.
It's a very special, extremely minute population of humans who truly accept everyone.
I try with the goddamn hippies. I really do.
But you can't make pants out of yarn and eat food that makes you miserable and then act like you're better than me.
Still, I wouldn't cough, "Hrmph! Goddamn hippies!" while walking past their shanties.
I'd just call them that in the privacy of my own home.
Some boys really like a big bum.
Some boys just love dat ass.
Well, that's my good deed for the day.
What an indication of humanity's scope for being considerate:
Counting the nice things we do so we can reach the cutoff, and stop.
And our cutoff is, as it turns out, one.
Also, some people have a tough time distinguishing a 'good deed' from a 'chore'.
"Well, I mowed the lawn. Time to go cheat on the wife."
Where are my grammar bunnies at?
Did you catch that one?
I put periods and so on outside of single quotes, inside for double quotes.
The latter is right, but I'm not sure about the former.
Fortunately, I don't care.
I did a comedy show in Bridgewater recently.
Besides having a Best Western, there's not much I can tell you about the town.
Went on down there with Blacky, Thomson, and the sexually impressionable Catherine Robertson.
Many of you don't know any of these people, I know.
I'm just sticking their names in there so that I can hope to recall this down the road once I'm senile and this blog is the only relative I have left.
Relatively speaking.
We had a great little time.
The hotel owners were both very lovely, and maybe a bit drunk.
They let us order food and I didn't eat any, which flabbergasted everyone.
If there's one sort of food I find tastiest of all, it's free food.
No one knows this better than my comedy buddies.
I did have a few gins though.
Anyway, one airhead called me a 'faggot' on his way out of the venue.
Some puffy-jacketed, simple man.
He muttered it under his breath as he walked by.
Unless they bellow it from a moving vehicle, they always mutter it.
I wasn't in the mood, really.
It's a staggering thing to hear, but it's hard to place why.
People will say, "Oh, in this day and age, how could someone still say..." and so on.
Which misses the point.
Close-minded people will always be around, no matter what decade it is.
It's just shocking in the sense that I didn't do nothin', y'know?
Like, I get that I'm skinny and I'm wearing my grandmother's shirt, but I talked about banging women onstage.
Was he not convinced, or simply not satisfied?
Anyway, I wasn't in the mood.
So, I said, "What was that?!"
He turned around and acted like he couldn't understand why I was addressing him (this was annoying, too. They always do that.)
Look them right in the eye, let them know it's a challenge.
"Maybe you're the fag!"
Yes, I said that. At this point in the story, everyone so far has stopped me and said, "You didn't say that!"
Yes, I did.
Really, you're sort of doing the same thing as buddy by assuming I wouldn't say that.
"Paul stood up for himself? But he's always been such a pussy."
Now, homosexuals might get bent out of shape that I'm offended at all, since I'm not gay.
Anything that implies homosexuality they sometimes believe is theirs exclusively.
But I'm here to say that if I've spent my life having to put up with shit like this (and I have. Pre-teen. Before junior high. Before sexuality) then I have a right to a reaction.
Besides, he wasn't really calling me gay. He was calling me weak.
And I ain't no Nancy. Not these days.
Besides, as I've told everyone I've recounted the story to so far, these men are gutless.
It's a coward who accuses without meeting one's eye.
I didn't feel physically threatened in the least.
So, "Maybe you're the fag!"
He said nothing at first. He didn't expect this, of course.
Then he simply muttered that I was a faggot again and walked away.
Now, what can we take away from this occasion?
"Bridgewater is full of backwater hicks."
Wrong! That's wrong.
I was surprised by how many people said that after the fact.
"Jesus...Bridgewater."
It's not the town. There are cowpokes like this guy in every town, including your own.
The people of Bridgewater were lovely.
So, I guess we'll just have to accept that humans can't handle what's different.
Not just that guy, either. I mean, he's a bit of a dick, obviously.
But all of us have fringes to our comfort zones.
I curse on hippies under my breath and in my head all the time.
So am I any better?
When you strip away the anthropology, the answer is "not really."
So, then, the real question is, why are we this way?
We're all bothered by some group or another, no matter who we are.
Factions or tribes that we would prefer to do without.
Look at the bigot in yourself (he's in there. He looks and sounds exactly like this guy) and try to figure out where he came from.
Then try to kick him out.
You'll be surprised at how hard it can be to appreciate everyone.
To just say, "Well, that's their thing."
Many of us, especially the arts majors, tell ourselves that we do this.
The artsy-fartsies will tell you how open-minded they are before spending half an hour shitting on jocks.
It's a very special, extremely minute population of humans who truly accept everyone.
I try with the goddamn hippies. I really do.
But you can't make pants out of yarn and eat food that makes you miserable and then act like you're better than me.
Still, I wouldn't cough, "Hrmph! Goddamn hippies!" while walking past their shanties.
I'd just call them that in the privacy of my own home.
Thursday, April 3, 2014
Hair-Trigger Hairdo
You have a cat nearby? Is there a cat lounging about as you read this?
Are you videotaping that cat? Uploading the videos?
If you're not recording that cat, then you're wasting the cat.
Older ladies will cluck their tongues at you and dustily say:
"Why would they want the animal in the first place if they're not going to record it?"
Okay, first thing's first:
Having a conversation on Spring Garden Road here in Halifax will cost you bus fare.
Going rate these days, then, is $2.50 per exchange, unless you have a transfer on you.
It's okay, y'know.
Sometimes it's worth it.
Andie (vixen) and I were waiting for a bus inside a Subway (the sandwich place) recently.
A nice fellow spoke to us about the weather, and we found out he was from Jamaica.
We then learned a number of extra things about him (nothing objectionable.)
Then he recommended Appleton Rum and requested two bucks for the bus.
I decided he'd earned it.
A chipper conversation of an evening is something that we all might have to pay for one day.
North Korea and South Korea are at it again.
South Korea is upset because North Korea is exercising military drills with live ammunition.
North Korea is upset because Kim Jong-Un's haircut still hasn't caught on.
Nor will it.
What a classic example of a kid who can't make friends.
You can tell that this fellow, this deity, if you will (and some do. Isn't that fucked?) can't make friends.
Has never been able to make friends.
Kids just hang out with him sometimes because his house has lots of toys and it's the only one with grain in it.
Now he's allegedly a man, and 'toys' has been replaced with 'nuclear weaponry'.
You're less inclined to play with nuclear weaponry, but just as likely to stay on the good side of the kid who has it.
People worry about The Big Red Button.
Nations with their itching fingers at the ready.
One goes, they all go.
Should the worst occur, I do think that this would be the reaction by all leaders.
"It appears they have chosen to decimate us, sir."
"Decimate back!"
But I don't really believe anyone, even Kid n' Play here, would ever actually push the button.
Nuclear weapons are a nation's equivelant to a home security system.
You don't have it installed for the alarm; you have it installed for the alarm sticker you put in your window.
This post brought to you by Appleton Rum.
Remember, if you want to drown in the hotel pool during your vacation, it's Appleton's.
Are you videotaping that cat? Uploading the videos?
If you're not recording that cat, then you're wasting the cat.
Older ladies will cluck their tongues at you and dustily say:
"Why would they want the animal in the first place if they're not going to record it?"
Okay, first thing's first:
Having a conversation on Spring Garden Road here in Halifax will cost you bus fare.
Going rate these days, then, is $2.50 per exchange, unless you have a transfer on you.
It's okay, y'know.
Sometimes it's worth it.
Andie (vixen) and I were waiting for a bus inside a Subway (the sandwich place) recently.
A nice fellow spoke to us about the weather, and we found out he was from Jamaica.
We then learned a number of extra things about him (nothing objectionable.)
Then he recommended Appleton Rum and requested two bucks for the bus.
I decided he'd earned it.
A chipper conversation of an evening is something that we all might have to pay for one day.
North Korea and South Korea are at it again.
South Korea is upset because North Korea is exercising military drills with live ammunition.
North Korea is upset because Kim Jong-Un's haircut still hasn't caught on.
What a classic example of a kid who can't make friends.
You can tell that this fellow, this deity, if you will (and some do. Isn't that fucked?) can't make friends.
Has never been able to make friends.
Kids just hang out with him sometimes because his house has lots of toys and it's the only one with grain in it.
Now he's allegedly a man, and 'toys' has been replaced with 'nuclear weaponry'.
You're less inclined to play with nuclear weaponry, but just as likely to stay on the good side of the kid who has it.
People worry about The Big Red Button.
Nations with their itching fingers at the ready.
One goes, they all go.
Should the worst occur, I do think that this would be the reaction by all leaders.
"It appears they have chosen to decimate us, sir."
"Decimate back!"
But I don't really believe anyone, even Kid n' Play here, would ever actually push the button.
Nuclear weapons are a nation's equivelant to a home security system.
You don't have it installed for the alarm; you have it installed for the alarm sticker you put in your window.
This post brought to you by Appleton Rum.
Remember, if you want to drown in the hotel pool during your vacation, it's Appleton's.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Baa Baa Black Sheep, Have You Any Soul?
BEWARE: SUNNY DAYS AHEAD
Winter makes us all miserable. It's a recorded fact, and yet we still have winter.
If we think winter is bad, wait 'til nuclear winter comes around.
When you can't go sledding without your snowsuit and your Geiger counter.
My loyal dregs already know that I love the turning weather.
The lush and ruddy marks of Spring spell the end of goddamn winter, so I love it.
Further, Spring nurtures the insatiable perversions of this old pervert, and he loves d'em bare arms and legs.
Yes he does.
Consequently, I'm wearing a dead man's knitted sweater, trying to convince myself that it's thick enough.
It isn't, but what's important is that it's almost thick enough.
Love that Spring. Spray champagne over your calendars.
That doesn't make any sense.
Sometimes, and only sometimes, paying eight dollars for a jar of peanut butter is okay.
When is this alright?
When it's more convenient than all alternatives, of course.
Or, when you're living in The Arctic.
Monkeys don't live up here.
In the north.
We're back on weather for just a second.
This donned on me over the peace pipe the other night and I thought:
"Whoa. Monkeys are geniuses."
Unlike ourselves, monkeys have the sense to avoid climates they're not suited for.
However, once the smoke cleared, I realized that though this is true, monkeys also haven't figured out how to craft a goose down coat.
Only geese have mastered that.
Typing the word 'arctic' reminded me of this.
Peanut butter!
As all corners do, I had a little corner store 'round the corner from my home.
A nice little spot where the shelves were stocked, but unconvincingly so.
Light bulbs would be placed alongside aluminum foil and pads for gluing mice.
The proprietor's children would play the Wii while tucked discretely into the alcove behind the microwave.
Samosas and pakoras were available to buy, presented alongside cans of Big8, or sometimes cans of the more obscure and more welfare Cott.
And at the till from morning until 9pm, a nice Indian couple who were pleased you were there and would make bus change without forcing you to buy a goddamn pack of gum.
Some weeks ago I stopped in to purchase prophylactics (not really) and they told me the store was changing hands.
New owners would be taking up shop within a day or two.
They were excited enough, but I was a little less enthused.
No one likes adjusting to a new shopkeep.
I'd already had countless non-conversations with these people about the weather and the upcoming weather.
To do all of that with new people. New people who may not have pakoras.
I wasn't sold on the idea, so to speak.
Fastforward to a few days ago.
I needed to pick up some Fun Dip (not really) so I poked my head into the store.
Sign said OPEN, the door was unlocked and it wasn't yet 9pm.
Inside, this is what I laid eyes on:
Two children, under 5, sprinting breathless among the shelves, which were now bare in a much more barren sense.
The shelves now looked as though they were stocked by a bachelor who rummaged through his fridge and cupboards and used those items to start a business.
The kids barely noticed me as they traipsed among discarded toys that littered the floorspace.
A pair of on-paper-parents were behind the counter.
Both were staring and prodding at their phones, side-by-side.
The duo looked up at me without actually seeing anything.
They appeared as destitute as anyone who has ever perished alone in a desert.
Just gut-wrenching, haggard expressions, truncated with weariness and disregard.
And caring. They looked like they gave up caring a long time ago.
"We're closed," the woman/incubator said, sounding as though they hadn't yet been open.
To which I felt like saying, "Oh, well you should flip your sign from OPEN to DOOMED, then."
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
In my aging-but-not-yet-old years, I have taken this on as a very real, and I believe very sensible mantra.
I apply it to most everything, and sometimes state it to myself to abstain from doing something stupid.
I first had the thought years ago when watching what I thought was The Cars' video for You Might Think, which turned out to be wrong because I just watched that video and it isn't the one I had in my head.
But there's some music video from the 80s featuring a then-popular band, and at one point a not-real fish moves across the screen for seemingly no reason.
Now, when the video was shot, the 80s were likely in full swing, and all sorts of visual technology was gaining steam.
The Death Star didn't have to be a model anymore; it could be a model of a shitty graphic.
They were able to put the fish in there, but just because you can...
See how it works?
Just because you can have children doesn't mean you should have children.
Happiness isn't a trend.
You follow the trend, the result is happiness.
No matter how the Zorb people seem, it just isn't the case.
These people got married and then said, "Well, kids now, I guess."
Barely finish the first and then have the second.
This should solve everything.
One glance at these people told me that they hated their lives and they hated their children.
Perhaps they shouldn't have had them.
I know someone who had another kid simply because they wanted another baby shower.
And I thought I was short-sighted.
They last longer than a week.
Sometimes I think parents fail to grasp that and elect to have a child when they in fact just want a baby.
A puppy you can stick on Kijiji if you get tired of cleaning up its pees and poos.
With a kid, well, you have to get the government involved, and they don't make anything easy.
Everyone is trying to replicate a lifestyle their parents had in an economy and society that is now drastically different.
Perhaps we should try to eke out a new life instead of assuming this formula will work for us, too.
Who knows?
Maybe I just need a baby of my own.
Regardless, the moral of the story is that I'll be going to Needs now when I need an emergency carton of milk.
Hyphen count: A staggering 13.
When I tried to find the name for 'Zorb Balls' I searched for "those balls people get in."
One of the top results was the question: "What does getting kicked in the balls feel like?"
Didn't know this was a question that needed answering, but I'll field that one:
Terrible.
Winter makes us all miserable. It's a recorded fact, and yet we still have winter.
If we think winter is bad, wait 'til nuclear winter comes around.
When you can't go sledding without your snowsuit and your Geiger counter.
My loyal dregs already know that I love the turning weather.
The lush and ruddy marks of Spring spell the end of goddamn winter, so I love it.
Further, Spring nurtures the insatiable perversions of this old pervert, and he loves d'em bare arms and legs.
Yes he does.
Consequently, I'm wearing a dead man's knitted sweater, trying to convince myself that it's thick enough.
It isn't, but what's important is that it's almost thick enough.
Love that Spring. Spray champagne over your calendars.
That doesn't make any sense.
Sometimes, and only sometimes, paying eight dollars for a jar of peanut butter is okay.
When is this alright?
When it's more convenient than all alternatives, of course.
Or, when you're living in The Arctic.
Monkeys don't live up here.
In the north.
We're back on weather for just a second.
This donned on me over the peace pipe the other night and I thought:
"Whoa. Monkeys are geniuses."
Unlike ourselves, monkeys have the sense to avoid climates they're not suited for.
However, once the smoke cleared, I realized that though this is true, monkeys also haven't figured out how to craft a goose down coat.
Only geese have mastered that.
Typing the word 'arctic' reminded me of this.
Peanut butter!
As all corners do, I had a little corner store 'round the corner from my home.
A nice little spot where the shelves were stocked, but unconvincingly so.
Light bulbs would be placed alongside aluminum foil and pads for gluing mice.
The proprietor's children would play the Wii while tucked discretely into the alcove behind the microwave.
Samosas and pakoras were available to buy, presented alongside cans of Big8, or sometimes cans of the more obscure and more welfare Cott.
And at the till from morning until 9pm, a nice Indian couple who were pleased you were there and would make bus change without forcing you to buy a goddamn pack of gum.
Some weeks ago I stopped in to purchase prophylactics (not really) and they told me the store was changing hands.
New owners would be taking up shop within a day or two.
They were excited enough, but I was a little less enthused.
No one likes adjusting to a new shopkeep.
I'd already had countless non-conversations with these people about the weather and the upcoming weather.
To do all of that with new people. New people who may not have pakoras.
I wasn't sold on the idea, so to speak.
Fastforward to a few days ago.
I needed to pick up some Fun Dip (not really) so I poked my head into the store.
Sign said OPEN, the door was unlocked and it wasn't yet 9pm.
Inside, this is what I laid eyes on:
Two children, under 5, sprinting breathless among the shelves, which were now bare in a much more barren sense.
The shelves now looked as though they were stocked by a bachelor who rummaged through his fridge and cupboards and used those items to start a business.
The kids barely noticed me as they traipsed among discarded toys that littered the floorspace.
A pair of on-paper-parents were behind the counter.
Both were staring and prodding at their phones, side-by-side.
The duo looked up at me without actually seeing anything.
They appeared as destitute as anyone who has ever perished alone in a desert.
Just gut-wrenching, haggard expressions, truncated with weariness and disregard.
And caring. They looked like they gave up caring a long time ago.
"We're closed," the woman/incubator said, sounding as though they hadn't yet been open.
To which I felt like saying, "Oh, well you should flip your sign from OPEN to DOOMED, then."
Just because you can, doesn't mean you should.
In my aging-but-not-yet-old years, I have taken this on as a very real, and I believe very sensible mantra.
I apply it to most everything, and sometimes state it to myself to abstain from doing something stupid.
I first had the thought years ago when watching what I thought was The Cars' video for You Might Think, which turned out to be wrong because I just watched that video and it isn't the one I had in my head.
But there's some music video from the 80s featuring a then-popular band, and at one point a not-real fish moves across the screen for seemingly no reason.
Now, when the video was shot, the 80s were likely in full swing, and all sorts of visual technology was gaining steam.
The Death Star didn't have to be a model anymore; it could be a model of a shitty graphic.
They were able to put the fish in there, but just because you can...
See how it works?
Just because you can have children doesn't mean you should have children.
Happiness isn't a trend.
You follow the trend, the result is happiness.
No matter how the Zorb people seem, it just isn't the case.
These people got married and then said, "Well, kids now, I guess."
Barely finish the first and then have the second.
This should solve everything.
One glance at these people told me that they hated their lives and they hated their children.
Perhaps they shouldn't have had them.
I know someone who had another kid simply because they wanted another baby shower.
And I thought I was short-sighted.
They last longer than a week.
Sometimes I think parents fail to grasp that and elect to have a child when they in fact just want a baby.
A puppy you can stick on Kijiji if you get tired of cleaning up its pees and poos.
With a kid, well, you have to get the government involved, and they don't make anything easy.
Everyone is trying to replicate a lifestyle their parents had in an economy and society that is now drastically different.
Perhaps we should try to eke out a new life instead of assuming this formula will work for us, too.
Who knows?
Maybe I just need a baby of my own.
Regardless, the moral of the story is that I'll be going to Needs now when I need an emergency carton of milk.
Hyphen count: A staggering 13.
When I tried to find the name for 'Zorb Balls' I searched for "those balls people get in."
One of the top results was the question: "What does getting kicked in the balls feel like?"
Didn't know this was a question that needed answering, but I'll field that one:
Terrible.
Friday, March 21, 2014
A Night At The Theater
Sometimes serendipity is a person on the street.
Sometimes kismet is not taking the route you tend to take.
Andie and I were walking/trudging mid-January.
Salt-sleeked and chattering, we were making our way home.
Moving along Argyle and passing all those sexy hotspots, we reached an intersection.
I was going to say, "Let's turn up here," before deciding against it because the incline looked unforgiving.
Instead, we continued on, to encounter perfumed people mingling outside of The Neptune.
It was opening night for some play or other. We stood in the huddle, pockets turned out, and discussed trying to blend in long enough to eat some free snacks.
"Maybe we could sneak in," she said.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that those ticket tearers were pros who did little else, but figured I'd just usher us on instead.
Then some woman asked if we were going to the show.
"Excellent question," I said.
She had tickets she wasn't using waiting at the box office.
Give her name if we wanted them.
We weren't dressed for the theater.
The play was quite good.
The actual plot was fine, but the actors were great, and the set was really neat.
It had buddy from Trailer Park Boys in it, and he was a real scene stealer. He was solid.
Gin and mingling at intermission.
I'd never wanted a shirt with something scrawled on it so badly.
Patrons wearing that piece of jewelry from a forgotten anniversary set aside for occasions.
Gowns. Well, not gowns, but nice dresses.
Tortoise-rimmed glasses.
Everyone standing around having discussions instead of conversations.
I watched this and wished I was wearing a t-shirt with the words HEAD WOUND
on it.
We saw Contessa, this out-of-costume drag queen I met at a party months before.
I pointed him out.
He and his date.
"Oh! His date's a man!" Andie murmured. "5 o' clock shadow!"
It was definitely a man, yes. The dress was real enough, but the wig wasn't fooling this duck.
After the curtain, they were offering refreshments and wee sandwiches upstairs.
We single-filed with the procession of show goers, their overcoats casually slung over their arms.
Andie and I did as we do in a catered situation:
We started filling our pockets and boots.
That's a joke.
We probably did take our fair share, though, given the circumstances for our being there.
I kept trying to take a photo of her, but she was embarrassed by how much food she'd taken.
"But we're at the theater!" I wanted to capture the occasion.
Eventually, we caught sight of the generous soul and hairdo who provided our unlikely entry.
Holding napkins topped with salmon and perfectly-square bread, we gushed a thank you at her.
Disheveled and overly appreciative, we told her we loved the show and so on.
The whole time she was likely thinking, "Oh good. They looked as though they could use a meal."
Giving is a powerful thing.
Sometimes kismet is not taking the route you tend to take.
Andie and I were walking/trudging mid-January.
Salt-sleeked and chattering, we were making our way home.
Moving along Argyle and passing all those sexy hotspots, we reached an intersection.
I was going to say, "Let's turn up here," before deciding against it because the incline looked unforgiving.
Instead, we continued on, to encounter perfumed people mingling outside of The Neptune.
It was opening night for some play or other. We stood in the huddle, pockets turned out, and discussed trying to blend in long enough to eat some free snacks.
"Maybe we could sneak in," she said.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that those ticket tearers were pros who did little else, but figured I'd just usher us on instead.
Then some woman asked if we were going to the show.
"Excellent question," I said.
She had tickets she wasn't using waiting at the box office.
Give her name if we wanted them.
We weren't dressed for the theater.
The play was quite good.
The actual plot was fine, but the actors were great, and the set was really neat.
It had buddy from Trailer Park Boys in it, and he was a real scene stealer. He was solid.
Gin and mingling at intermission.
I'd never wanted a shirt with something scrawled on it so badly.
Patrons wearing that piece of jewelry from a forgotten anniversary set aside for occasions.
Gowns. Well, not gowns, but nice dresses.
Tortoise-rimmed glasses.
Everyone standing around having discussions instead of conversations.
I watched this and wished I was wearing a t-shirt with the words HEAD WOUND
on it.
We saw Contessa, this out-of-costume drag queen I met at a party months before.
I pointed him out.
He and his date.
"Oh! His date's a man!" Andie murmured. "5 o' clock shadow!"
It was definitely a man, yes. The dress was real enough, but the wig wasn't fooling this duck.
After the curtain, they were offering refreshments and wee sandwiches upstairs.
We single-filed with the procession of show goers, their overcoats casually slung over their arms.
Andie and I did as we do in a catered situation:
We started filling our pockets and boots.
That's a joke.
We probably did take our fair share, though, given the circumstances for our being there.
I kept trying to take a photo of her, but she was embarrassed by how much food she'd taken.
"But we're at the theater!" I wanted to capture the occasion.
Eventually, we caught sight of the generous soul and hairdo who provided our unlikely entry.
Holding napkins topped with salmon and perfectly-square bread, we gushed a thank you at her.
Disheveled and overly appreciative, we told her we loved the show and so on.
The whole time she was likely thinking, "Oh good. They looked as though they could use a meal."
Giving is a powerful thing.
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.
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.
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