What's it like to know her? Well...

"You're going to have to talk to Imogen," Colin mentions as I rouse myself from my couch.
"Why is that?"
"She called at about 5 'o clock this morning and woke me up. If she does that again I'm gonna fly to BC and beat her." Colin's a surly man. It could be a legitimate threat.
I consider this odd.
So, I check my voicemail. And this is what Sarah Turpin has to say:

Paul. I'm drunk. I'm drunk, and it's...2 'o clock in the morning, which means you shouldn't be answering your phone anyway, and I'm glad that you're not, but at the same time, the woman that's in charge of your answering machine message stresses me out so bad. She makes me feel like I need to know what I'm talking about, and (unidentifiable word) let's face it, sometimes I can't remember that I'm calling you, sometimes I think that I'm calling someone else, and this woman makes me feel bad about that. I feel like she's judging me-mmhmm (note: I've never heard her make this noise before this message)-I feel like she's judging me for even calling you in the first place, like, 'who the fuck calls Paul Warford?' And on a second level, 'who the fuck calls Paul Warford so drunk?' And on a third level, and I don't even know if she knows that she's implying this, 'who the fuck calls Paul Warford so drunk at such a ridiculous hour at night?' No one. Probably just me. Oh! Oh. And I'm mad at you now because you're not answering your phone and that's completely... ...ordinarily that's completely acceptable, but not right now because I'm drunk. On top of this I was talking to your mom-uh huh (never really heard her make this noise either)-I was, and, um, she likes me better than you. Goodnight.

She's a catch, this one is. Wouldn't trade her for all of the sapphires in Africa.
Are there sapphires in Africa? How much are they worth?
Maybe I would trade her...
She has, in the past, been less eloquent than this on my voicemail.

[edit]: my mother has not seen this post.
But she is a frightening woman.
Ask anyone.
For fear of her, I took out a golden portion of this message that Turpin utters vagrantly at the end.
She commands respect, my mother. From everyone.
Like a mafia don.

Once I get to Know Him, I'll Like Woody Allen

I've been missing, and I'm sorry.
To sweeten the biterness, choke on these:
Brad Zimmerman. This guy is phenomenal, says I. He has a bit on attending a wine tasting that's far better, but I couldn't find footage of it.
For anyone who cares, he's performing in Caroline's, one of the more classic comedy venues in New York.
No one cares? I was afraid of that...

The best Christopher Walken impression.
And when it's Christopher Walken, that's important.
It's from this film, which is hilarious. You really have to see the film to appreciate this, by the way.
Gilbert Godfreed convinced Americans to laugh again after 9/11 with his rendition of this joke.

Did I ever have a show. Man oh man. Never before have I heard the word, "pussy!" uttered by so many middle-aged gentleman, being immediately followed by..."har har har har har!"
The show was so burnt, I have to use the expression 'man oh man' to describe it.
But I did get paid. I'm going to fill the car's gastank tomorrow.
And I did get fish and chips.
I'll tell you about it tomorrow as soon as coffee with Martin is over, I promise.

Somewhat Stanford

I don't notice toupees.
I think it may be one of my greatest weaknesses. Toupees and eggs.
They're designed to hide shame and ridicule. I'm designed to pinpoint shame and ridicule.
But not in this, the most base of instances of cover-up.
"Isn't it obvious?"
And it's not for me. And that brings me down, sometimes. On my weaker days.
I could never be a detective. Though I have been pondering a trench coat lately.
Because, let's face facts, a trench coat is one of these ideas that pops into my head that I get all excited about, and everyone thinks it's a stupid idea until I follow through with it, and then everyone agrees that I was not quite as misguided on the issue as was originally assumed.
This happens surprisingly often with me.
Occaisonally.
It has happened.

Fedoras are next.
All of the cool kids are going to start wearing fedoras.
Because our society, planet, what have you, has run out of ideas regarding fashion.
All of the mixers and blenders in SEARS look like the blenders and mixers our parents used before we were born.

"You're growin' man"

My favourite set yet.
Which, of course, wasn't taped. There weren't even photographs.
There will always be the memories, though.
That everyone besides me will have after tonight.
Friday I literally do it for my supper.
Everyone start lighting candles for my sake...now.

Wishbone

It's a day to be funny.
It's not easy, you know. Doing comedy on a Sunday.
No one is in the mood to laugh on a Sunday.
The weather is always garbage.
Your TV betrays you with movies like Marked for Death and Blue Streak.
You can't go to any stores because God says buying 2 DVDs for twenty bucks on His day is a sin.
Pushy God.
No one wants to do anything because it's too Sunday. You have work, or school, or alcoholism to return to in the morning. No one's in the mood on Sunday.
I'm hardly in the mood. I've been downing percacet all day.
I used to make drug jokes. In Banff.
If I was meeting someone new? Give it a few minutes and then make an off-hand comment about taking some sort of intense drug the day before.
The more unstable the drug, the better.
Crystal Meth has been a favourite of mine for a while. But I've been leaning towards mescaline lately (because I still make the joke occaisonally now). It works in Banff. Because the person doesn't know you. And people are on drugs constantly.
Maybe you were watching the locals play hockey yesterday afternoon after downing some PCP. How are they to know?
Exactly. They probably don't want to talk to you anymore.
Just as well. One less 'So and So's last night in Banff party!' that you are forced to go to.
If debasement were a town. Seriously.

In other goo, I went bowling yesterday for the first time in centuries.
Peter and his new girlfriend.
I kept looking at her bum while she bowled.
I swear on coffee, it's a reflex.
It was a timed session. Your score screen changes colour when time is running down.
The screen's another colour.
I bowl two strikes in a row. At this place, if you get three strikes in a row, it's referred to as a 'turkey.'
I don't know why.
Probably because they flash a large turkey on the score screen when you pull it off.
I'm on the third frame. The potential turkey frame.
The score screen shuts off. It's time to go home.
And just when I was about to do something worthwhile with my life.
My mom won't answer my phone calls.

Swim so Wild and ya Swim so Free

This one's for all of the female vegetarians who read my blog.
You're not included, Turpin. You eat animals all of the time.
Remember when we discussed whether or not manatee would taste good?
I still say it would be too gamey to enjoy.
Now beluga whales. There's a rare aquatic animal you can really sink your teeth into.
Get it everybody?!
Cause I'm talking about eating it!
And I say 'sink your teeth into'!
It's a double meaning!
Ah.
My teachers all said that I had a lot of potential.
...
Here's the song.

Divine? Right.

I have this uncle.
Fake uncle, really.
Well, he's an uncle for someone, I'm sure. But not me.
It's not important, really.
This uncle, he had surgery yesterday.
They opened his chest up, and they tossed six bypasses onto his heart.
And they 'cleaned up' some other tubes and aortas and things.
I've never been hospitalized. Which I consider to be a curious thing about me.
Because I'm frail.
I was in a wrestling match with a woman, once. Twice, actually (Andy Kaufman, eat your heart and aortas out). And really, I lost both times.
Melanie Morgan is wiry and taught, first of all. That's why I wrestled her.
And the other woman, well, you could have strapped some socks on her and tossed her onto the Acadia rugby team, easily.
Men's or women's.
Her frosh shirt had some sort of barbaric title on it. 'Killer', or Butch', or some such threatening word.
I can't touch my toes.
I can't dive into a swimming pool.
I have never, in my life, won an arm wrestling match.
"Alright, Paul versus Leanne!"
HAHAHA
That's good for my self-esteem. Thanks hockey players.
You would think I would have had rheumatism as a kid.
Bronchial Meningitis. Something.
Metabolic Acidosis.
I encounter friends with allergies.
Back problems.
Astigmatisms.
Ever go to class as a kid without having finished your homework (everyone but my mother will say 'yes'), and you sit in your seat, praying the teacher won't call on you to answer a question?
Then the class ends. And you get away with it?
I feel like I have done this every day since I've been born.
With God.
He's moving the magnifying glass, but whenever He spots me outside, it's always cloudy.
Ironically.
Because He's God.

Self-Probing

I've been really attentive to good days versus bad for me, lately.
When I say 'good' I mean funny.
Are they off and on because of weed inhalation?
(no) Sleep?
Diet? Vegetables are important, maybe? I hear Vitamin A really helps with deadpan humour. I read that Jeff Garlin ate a bunch of apricots while writing his new film.
Maybe it revolves around solstaces. Or the tide.
It's a process. Like doing a psychology study with no control group. Or participants.
Or funding.
I have noticed one thing so far, though.
On good days, I talk to myself when I'm alone.
Speaking of psychology...
In all likelihood, it's probably immediately relative to sexual activity.
That I'm involved in.
Before I got laid everyone was just laughing at me.
Now, the only ones still laughing at me are the girlfriends.
Hiyo!

There are more. But this is enough.

Lighter than Air

Colin is cutting out the figures. Of us.
I'm giving occaisonal instruction and cleaning up all of the remnants of chopped pictures.
Colin really pulled through on this one. He cleaned the stovetop. He exercised far more patience than I'm accustomed to seeing him exhibit.
You know what they say: when it comes to entertaining female guests, brothers stick together.
Is that an expression? It should be.
Anyway, I'm discarding photo portions. Colin is cursing because he has just cut into a staple, thus dulling the blade of the box cutter.
Pressure's mounting.
Time is running down. It is 10ish. She arrives at 10:40.
My logic revolved around cleaning the entire day.
The apartment.
The car.
Then to the shrine. Cutting out the figures.
The pictures.
The candles.
During all of this hectic, sweaty work, I never thought to get a shower. I still have to do that.
Me: Shit! I just remembered something.
Colin: You can't start remembering stuff, her plane is rounding Torbay now.
Which is probably true.
I shower and book it. I have a helium balloon that says "I'm over here" because I believe it will seem cute.
You decide:

I have three helium balloons. One for me.
The other two I plan to take in case there are children in the airport. Kids love helium. Gets them all fucked up and light-headed.
I figure if I see a kid or two in the airport, I can give the balloons to them.
Thus making me look like a fantastically thoughtful person.
I walk into the airport with a few minutes to spare. There are no children.
Pissed, I take the two remaining balloons and leave them in a men's room stall in one of the bathrooms.
Because I only want to be holding one. I'm not a guy at a carnival.
She arrives. By the time she does so, there are kids running around everywhere.
I consider doubling back to the bathroom, but deciding that the whole thing would lose its charm if she entered the airport unable to find me because I'm extricating helium balloons from a men's lavatory.
It would be a poor start.
Appropriate. But poor.
We didn't have the common sense to get a picture together. The thought occured during her departure, but we were too short on time.
Curiously.
I took her to Ches' and Signal Hill.
We ate chicken breast stuffed with brocoli, cheddar, and garlic.
In bed.
And that's all you're getting. Besides these pictures. Ches'.
And the last one is her looking pretty in front of Moo Moo's.

In the Nick of Shrine

I'm in pajamas.

No Rolaids today.
I was asked to 'stay behind after class' this afternoon. No. Really.

Luckily, I was not alone. Though the rest of the people who stayed behind I would likely classify as putzes. There are a lot of putzes in my classes.

Today was an okay day. I bonded with three of my four professors, and with (late) papers on the horizon, this is important news. It's a dance, really. An elaborate, sweaty dance.

Speaking of which, I had a girl come visit me recently. Let's talk about that.

I'm not telling you a lot, but I will tell you some things.

Now, just in case you've been reading my blog while intoxicated, and need a refresher, Imogen came to see me.

We had never met.

We were just attracted to one another, she had a vacation, my car gets 22 to the gallon in the city, and the rest writes itself.

To welcome her, I immediately decided to make her a shrine.

Because nothing says 'It's nice to finally meet you' better, really.

So, here's some pictures of that:

Notice that all of the pictures are doctored to have my creepy head in them.

The sheet of paper contains the lyrics to Lionel Richie's "Hello". Look it up yourself, if you're curious.
Da b'ys were all concerned that this was perhaps not a good opener. They thought that perhaps the shrine, with the candles and the 'Imogen is Life' banner might be a little heavy to start with. I disagreed. I was right.
Now, a shrine's not a shrine without giant cardboard cutouts holding hands, so here's that:

Never one to let me use anything sharp, here is Colin cutting the figures out.
While doing so, he said, "Why can't I have normal brothers?"

Posts with a lot of pictures are difficult and wacky to edit. Let's break this into two.
I've got nowhere to be.
Do you?