Saving Some Scratch...

Don't ask me why I have the Baby Orajel.
I don't want to explain.
Just know that I have it. In my little laptop satchel.
I'm in Starbucks currently, and the woman sitting punching-distance behind me just said:
Well, I don't know what she said, exactly.
But it pertained to having a fussy baby.
And I felt an urge to reach into my bag, turn around and say:
"What your baby needs is Baby Orajel for babies.
Guaranteed to make your baby less irritating for at least an hour or two."
I have the wrong job.
Which is, well, no job, I guess.

"Spinning" is a generous term for spending an hour on a bike that doesn't go anywhere.
Have I said this before?
I feel as though I have...

The really attractive woman from American Pie is in a dandruff comercial.
She's the one that only I would have found attractive in American Pie.
The flute one.
Buffy.
She was on there, too.
And now she's doing that How I Met Your Mother.
A popular show.
It has Bob Saget.
It has Doogie Howser.
Some people who aren't really passionate about The Big Bang Theory still watch it.
So, why is she in the dandruff commercial?
Protocol is: Your career tanks, you do the Proactive informercial.
Shatner is selling cars.
Christ. Shatner isn't struggling.
Sure, the world needs resturant servers.
But the world will eventually need new actors and actresses as well.
Christopher Walken, against all logic, will die eventually.
Give some new up-and-comer the dandruff commercial.
What else do you do, Willow?
Go to the corner stores in your area every day and buy all of the scratch tickets that they have?
Share some with the rest of us.
As if you would ever have dandruff.
Like that's even possible.
Like you would ever actually use Head & Shoulders.
Your personal shampoo probably has rhinocerous extract in it.

Women. The Pitts.

Take the afternoon off on the secretary.
It's Friday.
It must be rough for Brad Pitt.
When you think about it.
Because he's fetching to all women, everywhere.
So, when Brad sits down and has a relaxing evening with his buddies (and he does do this.
Sometimes.
He has to)
Brad has to provide some astronomical number for sexual partners.
He can't count out three or four women.
"Well, there was Jennifer. And that one with the lips.
What's-her-name.
Looks like John Voight."
No good.
Brad Pitt isn't cool unless he's slept with at least thirty or forty women.
And those are generously low figures.
If he doesn't give the right answer, all of his buddies can and will mock him.
Causing Brad to storm out in a huff.
Get in the jet and fly away from the situation.
Hey, is Michael Pitt related to Brad?
He has the same delicious eyeball color...

I'm not really hot into debating.
Despite the number of women I date who are passionate about it.
But I do love debates that have no bearing on anything.
For example, Peter White and Bryant Thompson invited me into this one:
How many babies do you think you could kill if you were faced with hordes of babies...
...before getting tired?
That's a worthwhile discussion to me.
It really is.
Anyway, Family Feud may be my outlet for further questions.
The other day they posed this one:
Name something only an infant can fit into.
My answer was 'roasting pot.'
But, to challenge myself, I'm going to try and write a new answer every day.
Day two I came up with 'bread box.'
And today...
Shoebox.
I think you could get an infant into a shoebox if the baby was fresh enough.
It's a coincidence that both of these debates involve discomfort for babies.
I'm open to discuss any ludicrous situations you may want to delve into with me.

Speaking of ludicrous situations, Hallowe'en is approaching.
For all of my fellow drifters out there, I'll supply you at least one affordable costume idea:
Get a blanket.
Cup of cocao.
Don't shave for several days.
Wrap the blanket around yourself and carry the cocoa.
Tell people that you're a guy who got lost in the woods, and has just been rescued.
Not bad.
You could knock on a few doors with that one.
Get some Lays.
Some tiny, individually-wrapped orange gumballs.

The Last of Barrett's Privateers

I know.
I know.
I should have written before now.
You've been worried sick since I packed up all of my pairs of pants and moved to Halifax.
The coffee maker drips in your languid apartment.
And each 'plink' seems to say, "Paul...Paul...Paul..."
You need to get out more.
As I have.

I didn't want to write until I could communicate something truly Halifax to you.
I wanted to prove that I'm truly a Haligonian, properly embarassed by the stupid title.
'Haligonian' sounds like an extinct reptile of some sort.
It's not an appropriate name for a group of people who really enjoy used furniture.
Which doesn't coincide with the Halifax tidbit that I had fabricated to tell you people.
As I was getting my morning apple (Sobey's apples are shit) I thought:
I'll tell everyone that the people of Halifax all enjoy inflatable furniture.
And that is all there is to know about them.
But I just ruined that.
We're moving on.

Next paragraph!

So, I have a room in a house.
I have a bed.
I have a weed contact.
I do not have a job.
I do not have anyone to have sex with (yet).
I do not have an end table.
It has been great.
It has been okay.

This city is tiny and so I walk everywhere these days.
I take the bus sometimes, but only when it's raining a lot or I have actual, physical change.
Bus passes cost a pissload of money.
I'm considering an attempt to have someone forge me a university I.D..
Those get you past the bouncer for free.

I did comedy with Scott Faulkenbridge and Dom Paré when I first got here.
That was fun.
Dom made chicken pot pie and Stove Top for Thanksgiving dinner.
The three of us met some strange man who claimed to be a comic.
He struck me more as a T.V. vaccuum salesman.
He was suddenly there and then he wouldn't go away.
He was issuing me business cards and shaking my hand.
Next thing I knew he was peeing in the toilet I'd been peeing in the past number of days.
It was terrifying.

I've been meeting the comics here and studying the dimensions of their girlfriends.
Mike MacQueen (Night Train) has driven me home a few times.
Thompson (Four-Eyes) learned from me that he has birds roosting in the eve of his house.
Mark (Merv) almost went to a reptile show with me.
He also found out about birds in his eve from me.
They live in the same house.

Robert Shandera had a baby just before I left and -
Wait.
Scratch that.
His wife had the baby.
Now I'm Uncle Paul.
I've been buying an appropriate amount of pornographic magazines as a consequence.
Every family has 'that uncle.'

I have done an open mic since getting here.
I had a great time.
I explained that Halifax has more cultrure than Newfoundland.
Which I figured out after passing guys spelling out 'TITS' and 'CLITS' in the infield sand of the public baseball diamond.
I also let them know that I have this strange fascination with seeing women change in the top floors of Halifax houses.
I keep expecting to see a topless woman in some window if I just look up often enough.
What's silly is that this would be true of almost anywhere.
What makes it strange is that I really expect to see her in Halifax.
That's 100% true.
I can't explain it, though.
I suggested to the audience that perhaps we're all in the wrong place at the wrong time.
No one laughed at it, but I didn't give a shit.
It was my favourite thing that I said.
Open mic again tonight.
Who knows?
Maybe I'll tell you how it went.
Probably not well.
All I've written in the past week is an anecdote on how difficult it is to have a pet elephant.
Walking it.
Because once it poos, I have to carry around a garbage bag full of shit, not unlike Santa.
Which is really stupid.
I just like picturing it.
Standing off-balance with this large bag.
Speaking to someone at the bus stop.
And having them say, "Do I detect a slight odour?"

It should be legally permissable to kick pigeons when you're having a bad day.
I love all of you.
http://youtu.be/-Gu3gDhESRY

Take A Shit. On Me.

They'll give you a look, you know.
Women.
If you can prove you're competent.
I know.
Because I spent the vast majority of my life being incompetent.
Getting no looks.
So when I get them they're ultra-apparent.
Like when I made toquitos and salt & pepper wings for da b'ys?
I told you about that one, I think.
For some occasion or another at Bussey's place years back.
I made all of the food for everyone and it only took me three hours.
And when it was finally dished out I remember thinking:
Why are Miranda and Christa looking at me like that?
And to my horror I realized that it was because they wanted to do me.
Now I have a new list of chores I can blindly manage.
Having spent a summer (or two) working with dad.
Yesterday was plumbing.
He and I installed my brother's toilet after my brother and he installed bathroom tile the day before.
If you've never installed a toilet, I don't recommend it.
For fun, anyway.
Don't install toilets for fun.
My knees were wet for the entire afternoon.
Toilets weigh several many pounds.
"Get the matt under it, quick! It's heavy!"
Whenever Dad gives me direction with a sense of urgency I forget how to do everything.
Next time you're on a toilet and you have a minute, notice that it's bolted down.
With two bolts.
Dad dropped both of these down the drain (individually).
At the end of it all the little water-tube thingy was leaking.
There was a plastic nut involved.
Dad's tightening it with the wrench.
"It's almost good there now. Maybe another half-turn," this is dad.
My head thinks, "Tell him not to do it!"
But it's too late.
There's water spraying everywhere and dad is saying "Jesus! Jesus!"
It looked a lot like TV.
We fixed it eventually.
One day perhaps I'll install your toilet.
With you looking on with The Look the entire time.

Oh, P.S.:
I know the title's kinda crass, but I still think it's pretty funny.

point three three three three...

We climbed out of the ocean.
A bunch of other stuff happened.
In time, mathematicians were considered to be wise, rather than philosophers.
Because mathematicians can calculate profit yields and key demographics and whatnot.
But if you try to discuss the idea of infinity with a mathematician, he'll just tell you that it's an eight on its side.
And that answer is wrong.

Orgy of the Species

Have sex with the bridesmaid.
It's Friday.
Oh, remember when I used to say that all of the time?
"Something cutting edge.
It's Friday."
I haven't done that in so long.
Because I forget even the things that I regularly remember.
Here's a feel-good tune for you.


You play it, you listen to it, you feel good.
Also, it reminds me of having sex with bridesmaids.
You people ever sleep with bridesmaids? Groomsmaids?
What songs make you think of these experiences?
Post 'em!
Let's all remember our indescretions together today.
And here are some past Fridays to take a look at.
I wonder where orgies are most likely to happen spontaneously.
Amateur orgies fascinate me.
It's too bad because most of them are likely conducted by our parents.
And their friends, of course.
They can't have an orgy alone.
Well, not necessarily their friends.
Might be with total strangers who happened to answer the ad on Kijiji.
While young people should be having the orgies, we're not.
And I can't understand why.
We're all so sexually permiscuous (even the bashfull of us).
And we're matter-of-fact about it.
Doing bridesmaids left and right.
No orgies.
If tonight there are hundreds of thousands of pairs getting drunk and having sex with one another.
Having never met before.
How is it that there aren't tens of thousands of pairs of pairs of pairs doing the same thing?
I'm guessing cruise ships.
I'd say a lot of orgies happen on cruise ships.
All of the booze is free.
You have a cabin all to yourself.
Everyone's wearing revealing clothing.
Your neighbors aren't around.
That would be my first location choice.
Anyone have other theories?

edit: I have more Fridays to tack on later, but for now I have to go bathe.
I have an eye appointment with the optometrist.
Then I have to see Meaghan Whelan
(I'm giving her her life back one meeting at a time).

In the Neighbourhood

I've tried to start a post about Ice T three times now.
It was two times when I first wrote this.
Now it's three.
I made a note about him in my book, and now I just want to put a check mark next to the note.
And forget that this happened.
I made the note in the first place because he's a video gamer.
So says Spike TV.
He's like a little spokesman for the mainstream.
It's strange.
I follow Ice T on my Twitter account, for fuck's sakes.
What an odd twist.
And I just thought it would be funny if he never actually plays anything.
He just saw an oppurtunity and went for it.
"Sure, I play video games from time to time, when I'm not banging women."
It's not funny unless you really visualize Ice T saying it.
Here's how ganster I am:
In my book I referred to him as "Iced Tea."

I have an apartment lined up now.
Cork Street.
If you want to visit me, it's the one that looks like a haunted mansion.
Because it is a haunted mansion.
I hate this blog post so far. I really do.
It actually looks like every house that you lived in until you finally settled into a place of your own.
At least, I think that that's what it looks like.
Mom used Google Postman so that she could see the street that it's on.
I'm not sure which house it is.
But I can tell you that someone living nearby drives a Volkswagon.
 My future roommate is a fellow comic.
He's tall and he looks like he sleeps with a lot of women.

A Job (To Do)

Is this a hurricane?
I can't tell if this is a hurricane or  not.
I know it's not a day to look at women while I pretend to enjoy the beach.
So I'm staying inside.
Are all of you people at work?
You are?
Drag.
I'd bet you can afford a can of Coca-Cola from time to time, though, can't you?
Well, that's not bad. 

I participated in a comedy contest last night.
The only way to be a cool guy in one of these things is to act like it's no big deal.
Which it isn't, really.
The winner of this particular contest is chosen through online voting.
It's the sort of thing that's going to go to the Mark Days of the world.
Talentless, big-headed men with too many friends.
I had to do five minutes.
I opened by equating participation in a comedy contest to sticking your tongue on a battery when no one's looking.
And then swallowing the battery.
Then I asked how much time that ate up.
Felt great.

I have an apartment in Halifax now.
Which is really something.
Guess I'm doing this.
All that remains now is a job.
Just once.
Just once in my life I'd like to have a job like the ones you people have.
Where you surf around on the internet for half of the day.
Because no one's truly paying attention to you.
And several of your co-workers don't even know what your job is.
Or theirs, for that matter. 
Perhaps a situation where I can read all day.
A used bookstore near some train tracks that no one ever goes to.
Except for that one fair-skinned woman with the long cardigans.
And leather bodice!
Looking for mint copies of Harry Potter to sell to people in Africa via Ebay.
I'll probably be pumping gas.

I went to Trapper John's last night with Peter White, Brian Alyward, Andrew Ivimey, and herself.
Ivimey's ego had to get the bus down and meet up with us later.
Crammed into my mother's car, we jammed to Lauryn Hill on the way down.
Don't blow away out there today.

On the Other's Land

It's hard to concentrate because I'm listening to Enid right now.
And that song always gets me.
"...and every time I remember the taste of your lip gloss."
That's me.
I'm enid.

The internet, when you size it up, is the sum of humanity's knowledge this far.
It's everything that we have.
Whatever we have done or intend to do. That's the internet.
So, is it just me that considers it fucked to see that the most important search of the day is:
Smoking Orangutan.
I am the only one who thinks that's fucked, aren't I?
Sure, it's adorable because it's a monkey doing something
(Kind of how evolved versions of us will look at current versions of us),
But couldn't they have had the monkey do something healthier?
Like chewing gum.  
Ever feel like you were born in the wrong century or decade?

Coincidence can be so tender sometimes.
I played some Randy Travis for Avril the other day.
For no real reason, particularly.
Aside from Randy's being the fucking man.
All of these Tim McGrath cowboy hat jerkoffs don't deserve to tie Randy's bolo.
Anyway!
Avril has this unit nextdoor neighbor who enjoys playing Kixx Country at full blast in the middle of the afternoon.
He probably enjoys a bunch of other things that I'd consider intrusive.
I think he deals drugs.
Whenever he walks up the steps to his front porch, he does so really slowly.
While glowering and glancing up and down the street.
That's not a normal way to enter your house.
Also, he has a small motorhome.
People who own and maintain small motorhomes either deal or grow drugs.
We've all seen Breaking Bad.
Avril and I have sex and then we stop having sex.
She's loosening the ball gag when it dawns on me:
"Randy Travis!" I shout.
And then I point at the ceiling.
Because that's what I do when I'm referring to music currently playing.
And if I think Jesus is nearby.
I point at the ceiling then too.
The very same song I had played for her.
Now for you...

Kids' Stuff

They say that accidents tend to happen in the home.
But I usually knock up women behind the mall.

I'm going to have a kid alright.
I might have dozens of them, just for the sake of racial and language variety.
The spice of life, you know.
Because if I have a kid, I can go into women's change rooms.
I see people taking kids into change rooms all the time.
No one ever seems to notice or care if the kid is the opposite gender to the ol' silhouette.
I can only assume it works if the parent is the opposite gender.
Mom used to bring me into the change room at the Aquarina.
Up on the counter, she'd turn me around so I wouldn't watch the women.
But then I'd just ogle them in the mirror.
Three or four years old.
Perversion is something ingrained.

Because more associates of mine are having babies, there are more things I have to act interested in.
The trickiest is definitly those ultrasound photos.
"Here's a picture of my baby."
Are you certain?
Maybe they mixed up the photos in the outbox and that's actually some Indian woman's baby.
How would you know?
Why would you even show these to other people?
"This is a picture of my fetus taken by the Mars space probe."
I just cannot feign enthusiasm over what looks like a photocopy that used too much ink.

I Can't Pretend

Peter Russell frightened me in the shower today.

With my parents away and my inhibitions skyrocketing, I showered with the door open.

Generally I shower with the door locked and the lights off.

It's just common curtosy.

Anyway, I'm singing the second verse of En Vogue's Don't Let Go.

Suddenly Peter's arm juts in front of me, holding a bar of soap.

Then he asks me if I want it.

Showering in front of other men has always terrified me.

I couldn't possibly act like I was comfortable while it was happening.

Which means I have something to hide.

Maybe I'm concerned that my penis will be larger or smaller than everyone else's.

(Smaller).