Chasing My Trail

Gin is a spiritual drink for me because with Gin I throw up the least.
Of course, I drink Gin most frequently because of this, so I throw up the least most often.

I went mountain biking.
It wasn't erotic, obviously, but it was something that may have turned you on.
Myself, cascading over little paths with rocks on them.
Mud splashing everywhere.
Mountain biking I can do somewhat confidently because I haven't grievously injured myself on a bicycle yet.
Andie suggested that we take some path or another because she's into the concept of exploring.
And I say that's all fine and good and whatnot, but it's very difficult to explore while you're wearing your pajamas.
Unless you're exploring the jewelry section of Wal-Mart at 8pm, but that's another sort of thing.
I'm a bit of a homebody, granted.
I tend to not risk or...participate, but that's because I received so many participation ribbons while growing up.
So, according to the trophy case, which only contains participation ribbons, I have participated enough.
Not so for Andie, however.
She has this habit of pushing forwards at the precise time I want to go home.
Like, at Mad Rock the first time that we went there?
Mad Rock is the place in Bay Roberts that you never go to as a kid because it's way out in the east end, and paddling your bike beyond your piano teacher's house would be crazy.
Anyway, she wanted to get right on down there by the rocks.
The slippery ones, y'know what I mean?
Wherever the signs tell you not to go. That's where she's headed.
In Banff - this is unrelated - in Banff they had signs around the hotel because you weren't allowed to go into certain areas.
Wanna guess why?
Oh, come on. Guess. It's not like you're doing anything important at your job.
Unless you're the mayor.
Is this the mayor? Denny? I forget what he likes to be called.
He officiated a wedding I was at once.
Anyway, Denny, if you're reading this, you can get back to the slush funds or whatever.
The rest of you?
Anybody?
Snails.
They found special, endangered snails that you weren't allowed to trod on.
Then some idiot tourists wandered in there and got into trouble because tourists are idiots.
Ever been travelling elsewhere?
You were an idiot at the time.
Don't feel bad; my family owned a motorhome when I was a kid.
We were a tribe of idiots right up and down the eastern seaboard.
When you're on vacation - wait...I think I wrote about this before.
Try this post, I think. 
My theory is that when you're on vacation, since it costs so much money and since it is for such a brief, particular amount of time, people tend to lose sight of themselves while vacationing.
And, when you lose sight of yourself, you tend to forget about other people.
And, when you tend to not think of others, you tend to be an asshole.
Hence...
Banff was a real tourist town. I witnessed a lot of their habits, all of which were annoying.
"A postcard town" is the tab you want to hit for more Banff stories.
Most involve me not closing the deal with women and getting high a lot.
Anyway, Andie goes into dangerous places.
If you're on a hike with her, you're going to get your boots wet.
Inevitable.
So, on the bicycle I was sort of going for it, and she liked that.
And I liked that she liked that, and I liked going for it because I never go for it.
Like, when I was a kid, Dennis would always build ramps for our GTs (sleds, if you're from the mainland), and he'd immediately goad me to go first because he knew that I never would.
I always hesitate. I always avoid fractures.
With the missus, though, I go out of my comfort zone a little bit.
I second-guess less.
I still pay close attention to the signage though, as that's something she tends to miss, and we don't want to kill any snails that are in short supply.
I'll upload a photo of us on our little bike go-about.
We crossed a brook twice!
You'll see in the picture that, by Warford standards, I am smiling.
It's good to get out sometimes.

Oh,this is just an aside, but check out this picture.

I already put this on my social media bullshit, but here it is again.
Foodland parking lot here in Pasadena.
That's the keys to the car, and the window is open.
I'm used to Newfoundlanders leaving things unlocked, but even this was a bit far for me.
That's a Mercedes SL, which means that, even by Mercedes standards, it's expensive.

Here & Vow

That's it.
I can't watch any more footage of people injuring themselves while trying to pour buckets of water on their head.
It would appear I don't have much going on, but there has to be something that would be a better use of my time.
Perhaps I'll wash the dog...
While I'm unkinking the hose, read the remainder of Colin's Marriage Chronicles, for those of you who still give a damn:

The wedding did, in fact, happen.
Nothing really went awry.
The babies made a lot of noise and fussed about and so on, but anyone who has been to a decent wedding or Christmas Eve church service has seen this before.
The maid of honor did forget Colin's ring, but that was glazed over with a lot of sitting around and murmured discussion.
After what seemed like a fair amount of time for the groomsmen to just be standing there, I managed to draw attention to myself, getting on the mic, saying:
"Umm, we just have a brief delay while the women find the rings. Remain patient, all of you will still have plenty of time to object."
I'm not sure all of mom's friends got it.
He did okay, the fussy codger.
Colin really dislikes public speaking (he also dislikes being mentioned in blogs), but he did pretty well.
No flubs along the way.
I know that I tend to not get nervous about this sort of thing.
And I know that I haven't been married.
But I've heard a lot of dudes say that their biggest fear is messing up the vows.
Even though you repeat after the priest, and he really breaks the sentences up quite a bit:
"I, Paul..." "I, Paul..." "Craig Warford..." "...Huh? Craig Warford..."
That sort of thing.
How badly can you fuck up the vows?
It's not like you're going to come out on the other side married to your mother.
"I knew this would happen! That's why I told you and Dad to sit in the back! Now I'm married to both of you and the whole day is ruined!"
Just take your time when you're doing your vows, kids. You'll be okay.
The photo shoot was tricky.
Oh, sure, the photographer and her assistant both had very charming bodies and asses and so on, and it'd be great to see the two of them enjoy a hottub together, but the day was too warm.
And Colin hates getting his picture taken (noticing a trend?).
By this time, I was very out of sorts because I hadn't slept the night prior (I love doing this for major family events), and I hadn't napped.
Also, acting as the MC, it was relatively unwise to drink, so I was getting pretty contrary.
Not as contrary as old wedding pants, though.
He really wanted to get out of the limo, send...Eddie? Was that the driver's name?
Anyway, send Eddie on his way, and get started on supper.
That's what Colin wanted.
We stopped at several locales, and the lack of communication between limoist and photographer was complicating things slightly.
Sending him out to stand on a cliff edge for half an hour likely didn't help Colin's mood.
And, Flynn, who is a wedding veteran, wasn't helping during the sojourns between shoots when he'd tell Charlotte, "You're never going to use these pictures. Do you think you're putting a photo of us all doing shots on your mantle? This is all a big waste of time."
We peed in a governement house and went to the reception.
We were half an hour late and everyone was waiting to eat.
Showtime!
I did great. I'm available for all of your weddings, should you need me.
No matter how many times you get married!
The speeches were whatever and the turkey was pretty good. They had a glaze on the carrots.
Then we danced and that's another couple who are now one another's emergency contact.
The tradition lives on.
Colin was smiling a lot. Everyone commented.
Despite himself, he was having a lovely time.
Andie and I represented the young, unattached heathens that everyone else longed to be once more.
Some were overheard to say that if we got married, they would attend the ceremony, whether they were invited or not.
I have only one thing to say to these crashers:
I hope you like skydiving.
Because if we do get married, the whole goddamn thing is going to be one skydive after another.
That's the theme.
Wedding shower (whatever the hell that is)? Skydive.
Bachelor/Bachelorette parties? Skydive.
We'll be throwing the cake and all of the gifts out of the plane on their own little parachutes.
At first, we considered scuba diving (as a play on "taking the plunge"), but you can't fit a tuxedo under the wet suit.
So, skydiving.
We hope you get the chance to...drop in!
You get that one?!
Anyway, it was a helluva wedding.
Too bad I'm out of unmarried brothers now. 

Bachelor Patio

The benefit of a french-immersion course, besides ensuring that your child will become a successful flight attendant, is that when they call for a cab in Montreal, one will actually collect them.
Not the case for this anglophone.

I'm ordering another tarantula today.
Don't tell my mom.
The west coast of Newfoundland has much larger spiders than the east coast.
I suppose they're necessary for ensnaring the massive, unyielding bird-moths that live here.
There are a bunch of them among the bedroom's ceiling corners as I type.
I insist upon keeping them there because I'm difficult to live with.
Anyway, wanna see?

It will look much like the one that this engaged person is sporting.
Andie agreed to the idea because she never thought I would actually get around to ordering one.
Since I'm so lazy and all.
However, she didn't anticipate how focused I am when it comes to spending money.
I 'feed' wild spiders all the time. I'll grab some stupid bug and throw it into a web. 
I'm on the side of the good guys.
Spiders will never give you an itchy bite on the webbing between your fingers, or on your genitals.

Speaking of an uncomfortable penis, paint-balling was on the docket for the bachelor party.
Any of my readers who are in the fan club and have the member's sew-on patch already know how I feel about paintball:
Strongly 'for'.
We trundled ourselves and our beer coolers into St. John's so as to bruise and intoxicate Colin.
We all stood about in Frontline's parking lot as we tried to pretend it wasn't 35 degrees outside.
Difficult for Newfoundlanders to do, as they tend to complain about warm weather more frequently than they even do about cold weather.
I shot two people in my first round.
Brian, however, also shot me in the head and on the hand - two places that are specifically known for being unpleasant.
I didn't really care, what with the adrenaline and all.
My body is so unfamiliar with it that even a thimble-full toughens me right up.
However, when the ball hit my head (forehead corner region) I heard a distinct ringing noise for half a second, which I wasn't crazy about.
I crawled through the thickets on my stomach and elbows and had a wonderful time.
Eventually, we pelted Colin with the remaining balls we had left.
He was permitted to defend himself, and he managed to shoot Ian right on the head of the penis!
Once he had finished doubling over, I believe that even Ian was a little tickled that it had happened. 

We ate barbecue at a nice woman's house and I mixed some incredibly shitty daquiris.
They always look so tasty in the movies, but I definitely took a wrong turn in the mixology somewhere.
For the safety of pedestrians, we took a cab downtown.
We went to Lottie's and I drank one White Russian before laying the other one aside.
Disembodied hands gave me these drinks, so far as I know.
I have no idea who bought them.
I learned, over breakfast the following morning, that we had gone to a second bar.
I couldn't remember this.
I did an Irish Car Bomb? Pardon me?
When did that happen?
Don't remember that. And I did pretty well at it?
That would be a first for drinking any beverage of any kind.
Well, that's fuzzy.
No, now that you mention it, I can't really remember how I got home or how I ended up in our hotel room.
Guess I took a cab. I'd hate to know how much I tipped that guy.
Luckily, I have no recollection of interacting with anyone after my half-hour conversation with some truck driver at the bar.
He, in fact, is about the only part of the evening that I do recall.
We talked about life on the road.
If I hadn't been so hammered, I'm sure I would have found it depressing.
Breakfast was dandy the following morning as everyone recounted their drink orders.
Some hard-on with a power drill kept interupting our brainwaves while doing some sort of renovation.
I was tempted to say to the waitress, "Can you please tell the man with the drill that he's negatively impacting your tip?" but I decided not to be catty.
Besides, I'd already confused the woman when she asked me how I liked my eggs and I told her that I didn't know.
All of Colin's old friends were there (the only kind he has these days).
It's a beautiful thing, really.
A collection of memories and laughs, all bundled into a group of men standing on a patio.
Bachelor parties are the echoes of childhood that men rarely get to hear once they become men.
The hair thins and the eyes wisen and the wives get in the way, but the personalities persist, unerred, once the boys get together. 

A Ken And A Prayer

Here's the difference between my mother and I:
Mom prefers to plan each and every detail of an important event so that it will unfold smoothly.
While I, on the other hand, prefer to do everything differently than my mother.
Andie and I were six hours away from the wedding by car, twelve or fourteen hours by boat, and about 66 million years by pterodactyl.
How were we getting across, mom wanted to know.
Well, da b'ys were supposed to be dropping out for the weekend.
Boys' Weekend we had taken to calling it.
Doesn't take a genius; we'll hitch a ride back with da b'ys.
The days lined up near-perfectly.
Yet, Boys' Weekend bottomed out at the last minute and became Babies' Weekend instead.
Still fun, but fewer molested strippers.
Anyway, babies use baby seats and baby seats occupy regular seats, hence our ride was kaput.
Well, how would we get across the island?
Rent a car, whatever.
A rented car is a perfect excuse to show off new sunglasses anyway, so whatever.
Big deal. Rent a car.
Everyone leaves on Sunday. Bachelor party is a couple of days away, the wedding itself is in six.
Ring-a-ding, "Hello, car company? One car, please."
All cars across the entire island were rented because my life is a joke continuously being played on myself.
So, how were we going to get across the island?
Well, now I no longer knew, but Mom didn't need to know that (yet).
I called Colin and gave him an update on Sunday evening, and he pointed out that I had to make it because I was due to stand in the wedding.
Duh.
"He's also the MC!" Charlotte called from the background, which I had forgotten.
So, the lady perused Kijiji and found some fellow darting across.
New Subaru, so we couldn't take the dog and had to instead stick her in a kennel, which was too bad.
Yet, at this point, we had to focus on the big picture:
Getting to the bachelor party in time so that I wouldn't miss paintball.
Ken was a fellow from China with good English and a nice interior.
We got aboard, laid out our cribbage board, some books, magazines. This won't be so bad, right?
A town or two over, Ken picked up a young German couple who were traveling around.
They also have good English and nice posterior, but I know that Germans poo on each other in the bedroom, so I couldn't even look the lady German in the eye.
So, now we were a little crammed in.
Tough to play crib when you can't move your elbows from the sides of your body.
As we began to cruise, thus discomforted, Andie asked, "Oh, are you a Whitney Houston fan?"
"No," Ken explained, "This is Celine Dion. I got her CDs at some such place and so on..."
Three hours. Every Celine Dion hit that you'd forgotten about, plus some other tracks you never gave a shit about in the first place.
Anyway, when it was all said and done it wasn't so bad.
We ditched the Germans in Terra Nova, and then we were able to sprawl out enough for me to beat the missus in crib three or four times.
She's still learning the game, but she has to win stuff, y'know?
You know the sort? Typically they play sports and get way too into croquet at barbecues.
I've never cared about winning or losing at anything I've ever done at any time in my life.
I could play jacks with a five-year old girl fifty times in a row, losing each time, and not care whatsoever.
Who gives a shit? It's jacks.
Who gives a shit? It's crib. We're passing time, here.
She was a few points from winning, talking all sorts of shit and jabbing it in my face.
Suddenly, I bamboozle her with a 16-point hand and win the game.
Well, now what?
Heavy breathing. Like, she had to take huge, paper bag breaths so as to not freak out on me in the back of Ken's rig.
"Okay," deep breath, "That's okay. Let's put the crib board away." Deep breath.

We chit chatted and chicken salad sandwich'd our way through the ride and got to Roach's Line.
My brother Brian was there to collect us and he and Andie met for the first time and we gave Ken nods and thanks you's and best-of-luck's and parted ways as he continued on to St. John's and the rest of his life.
Got back to Mom's, unloaded the truck.
I hefted along with my bag and I looked ahead to Andie who was about to enter the house, and it dawned on me.
"Oh Jesus."
She was wheeling Ken's luggage across the driveway.

Tying the Knot

Like most sprawling voyages, this one begins with Ken.

It's a long story, but in June I bought a tiny book about knots for eight bucks in Lunenberg, Nova Scotia.
While I was on the ship I vowed that I would learn how to tie some cool knots from all of these clever sailors.
But you know me with vows...
I left the ship learning nothing (what a relief!) and I decided I'd try to uphold my empty promise to myself regardless.
Then, while having a two-day hour long conversation with an old buddy's dad, I found this wee book about knots.
Serendipitous as it was, I decided to get fleeced on the price and take it home with me.
I really will have to try and pack the story of the knot book into a seperate post because it really was quite retarded.
Anyway, yesterday I thought I'd cut off a length of rope, wrap each end in electrical tape, and get to work.
Here's what I picked up:
I have no spatial reasoning, no patience, and no new knowledge of knots.
I learned the half-hitch and thought that everything was going quite smoothly.
Half-hitch slipknot. Hey! I just pull this guy and it comes undone! Tying knots is a great bit of fun.
Figure eight stopper knot.
...
Half an hour later
Figure eight stopper knot.
The book, proving to be of less and less value with each passing day, shows the knots, but doesn't provide figures instructing you how to actually tie them.
And goddamn this knot.
Ten minutes later
I'm watching a YouTube video on how to tie a figure eight stopper knot, realizing that this is why people are reading less books.
The video didn't help either and by then I was too pissy to continue.
Anyway, feel free to try it yourself.
The book says it's a better stopper knot than the regular overhand we all use to tie everything.
If you're willing to trust the book, that is.

 

I'm warm and I'm probably sooky.
It's incredible how desperately a man may need a coffee shop.
I'm not one to write at home.
Perhaps I've always had problems with writing at home because I fish for excuses to not write anywhere.
Or, ultimately, maybe I just enjoy a three dollar oatcake from time to time.
No oatpucks to be had in this town, however.
Oh sure, I can buy cotton gloves and rat poison under one roof here in Pasadena ("Where? Where is he?"), but coffee shops are a tad rare.
There isn't even a Tim's, for crying out Horton's.
There is a Trudy's, however.
Picture a cafeteria in a trucker's driving school, then attach a walk-in beer fridge to it.
That's Trudy's.
It's my first day writing here in Trudy's, and I suppose, ideally, it won't be my last.
I mention all of this because there are two dudes wearing steel-toed boots sitting across from me, and I think they're finding my prescence strange and it's making them uncomfortable.
I hope this is true because they're definitely throwing me off of my game.
So, Colin got married.
This is my oldest brother for any newcomers.
Colin is a curmudgeonly, sour man.
He likes cats and those soft cheezies, and that's about it.  
No one who knows Colin personally would have expected him to agree to something so joyful as a wedding. 
Don't worry, he planned none of it.
As a consequence, it was a pretty good time.

Andie and I just returned home after an almost-week at Mom's, full of sweaty family members, screeching toddlers, homebrew and sex down at Mad Rock.
So, settle in with your mamosa - wait, let's find you a recipe for that.
Okay, so coochy in with your mamosa and your favourite lap dog, and let's see if I can relive the magic over a number of seperate, marketable posts.

Don't Cost A Thing

Written the yesterday before yesterday, Corner Brook Tim Horton's (da one by Dominion):

I'm writing this on a...I think it was an info tag for a life jacket.
Y'know the sort; they attach them to winter coats all the time.

DESIGNED WITH INLAID ZIPPERS AND GORETEX© SWEAT POCKET™ TECHNOLOGY

"That should impress the fellas. I'll take it!"
They always look at the price tag second.
"$280 goddamn dollars! That should impress the fellas. I'll take it!"
There are more life jackets in my day-to-day lately. Yet, I've been doing very little boating...
I'm in Corner Brook dropping dollars because the missus' birthday is fast approaching.
The circus tent is paid off (sold me quad), but I couldn't afford the 3D-printed balloon animal machine, and it looks as though the contortionist may not make it.
She says she has rickets, but I think she's found a better gig.
I find girlfriend birthday parties a little intimidating, to be honest.
Some women go in for the pearl necklace or spa facial (I chose sexual terms purposefully there. I don't know why), but my baby don't need the finery.
Lavish items don't really clang her bell.
Now, a lot of guys would say, "Awesome, bro! That's more money for brewskies!"
No guys I would associate with, mind you, but they're out there.
Fair, but my woman loves a nice outing. A good adventure. An event.
However, I've spent the last 5 years or so as a bit of a shut-in.
Consequently, my imagination gets a little gummy with a day out.
"Hmm...do people still roller skate? Not really?"
After which I just suggest a bunch of stuff that I want to do, and that's just it:
I spend too much time thinking of myself.
It's why this blog exists.
I run into trouble because I'm not valueing the things she loves; the things she will enjoy.
So, I will try my best to come up with a good day for Andie.
Each day she invigorates within me a slight desire to get out. To see something. To be myself among people, rather than being myself by myself.
It's the gift she gives me.
The least I can do is wake up first, make breakfast and greet the day with the fervor she does.

Lucky Duck

I don't know who I know in the places that I go. 

We docked in Montreal, and I was determined to feel its energy.
You know how Montreal is.
Alive. Bohemian, kinda. Aware of itself and proud of itself.
It's a city with a pulse.
I'd been on the ship for a while, and I wanted some civilization.
Specifically, I wanted to gawk at women and eat steak.
St. Catherine's is the rue to flock to, non?
I decided to walk there because I'm a floundering idiot and I thought it wouldn't take long.
An hour and a half later on just...the shittiest pair of shoes that you could wear on your feet.
I bought them at a place that sells surf stuff, but no actual surf boards. You get me?
I required quick, cheap shoes because I was en route to a gig and I refuse to do comedy in boots, which I had accidentally worn.
So, I found these canvas sleeves that were adhered to a length of what must have been parchment paper. 
Purchased them from some guy who seemed as though he wanted his store to stay open just a week longer.
He was speaking to two sexy blondes.
One of them tried on a bikini during their visit and I wanted to watch her do this.
Can't do that, though. Unless you get a webcam set up in the ceiling.
Which is the reason you open a surf place without the surf boards.
Anyway, piece of shit shoes. Walking and walking and thinking, "Why am I not getting a cab? This is a real city. There are cabs."
None drove by because I was leaving the ship.
What's shitty about leaving ships is that once you disembark, you're in some industrial area that normal people never go to unless they're collecting a pickup truck's worth of crushed stone.
It's isolated.
Lots of transport trucks.
Not many party buses.
I eventually ended up near actual restaurants and stores.
Ultimately, I landed at a place that french people would call a 'bistro'.
I only stopped there because the awning had beouff in the title.
The food was fancier to look at than it was flavourful to eat, but that wasn't important.
Becauese the waitress was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.
She must've been.
She was french and petite and she was bringing me food and - wait a second.
Was she really so beautiful, or did it seem that way because I'd been on a boat full of dudes for a week or two?
That's what it was.
This was just an everyday, run-of-the-mill hottie.
They're not that hard to find. Especially in Montreal.
And it donned on me:
If a woman has poor self-esteem or a goiter, she should just hang out down by the docks.
A month later, when I was ready to leave the ship for good, I'd learned that some women are already doing this.

I've been fantasizing about winning the lottery lately.
It's about as productive as anything else I've been doing.
I mostly blame Top Gear.
Have you watched it?
The entire population of India loves the programme.
Anyway, they review very lavish cars and make you want to own them.
Y'know the first thing I'd do if I won the lotttery?
Buy a suit.
I'd buy a suit that regular, hobo Paul would look at and say, "Even if I won the lottery, I wouldn't pay that much for a suit."
I'd immediately follow this by purchasing a $4,000 wristwatch.
I'd wear the suit out of the store, and I'd strut around town until I got mustard or whatever on it, and then I'd get out the pinking shears and turn the suit into rags to wipe down one of the several cars I would purchase if money wasn't an issue.
Money's always an issue, of course, and no one ever wins the lottery.
It's like a molecule getting picked to play shortstop. It never happens.
I don't know where that analogy came from.
When I was a kid I was jealous of Scrooge McDuck.
But it wasn't because of his vast fortune or his cool name.
It was because of his coin swimming pool that he had.
Remember that, people over twenty-six?
He'd go for a swim in his vault, and dive from his diving board into his pit of coins?
These days, Harper is doing the same thing with all of Canada's useless pennies. 

I thought this to be incredible when I was a kid.
I didn't envy the gold, or the vault, or the various fractures someone would get if they actually tried to dive into a pool of coins.
Being the youngest of three boys, I think I admired the privacy of it.
And the fact that his older duck brother didn't own it first.

I just want to take a brief moment to let everyone know that when I searched for that image, I typed 'Scrooge McDuck' into the subject line, and the first suggestion to come up was "Scrooge McDuck net worth."
Fictional cartoon ducks don't have net worths. Fictional cartoon ducks are worthless.
Just so we all know.

While waiting for my beautiful steak brought by the beautiful Montreal waitress, I saw someone practicing the tight rope.
She had a cable linked between two trees, a foot or so off the ground.
As I watched her, it all finally made sense.
"Of course! You start out at a low height!"

Steward's Log; May 16, 2014

By the grace of forces beyond my divination - be they God or merely the port authority - we struck land two days past. I awoke to see our vessel abreast the shore, one of Irving company's tentacle-like contraptions bloating our ship with oil or diesel or what have you. The day went by at an old hound's pace, yet I frequently found myself whistling as my work shift waddled on. The promise of land, of such simple comforts - commerce; soil; an evening stroll - heightened my spirits greatly. Upon my toil's conclusion I prepared to step the gangway and the expanse of St. John beyond. By coincidence, the aforementioned Russian fellow (of my log's previous entry) entreated he join me, so as to assuage the brunt of cab fare. Keen to accomplish this myself, I hastily agreed. Soon we were off.
Upon arrival at the city's known bazaar, I elected to part ways as I tend to enjoy solitude when entering a new or unfamiliar region. So isolated, I took my leave. All of the chincy shops seemed a little less gaudy as I passed one ostentatious awning after another. Few stores truly interested me, yet finding myself amidst this sudden surge of people was a thrill I would not have felt otherwise. Indeed, while dwelling on land, such a collection of wanton stragglers would likely upset my gullet, but now! A queer tranquility was to be found in the numbers. And women! Though I admit that I so heartily miss my lady true that it pains me at night, I believe that even she would understand my unbridled desire to be near strange women; to have them in plain sight. A man at sea is a man deprived, mark this! I would have no one tell me otherwise.
To the point, I found myself in a shop of unfamiliar name, in which stood an employee - a beautiful yellow-haired woman. As she assisted a pack of yabbering children with some footwear, I found myself positively entranced by her appearance, and transfixed by her tight-fitting attire. It took me a moment before realizing that I was staring at the poor girl, and what's more, I desired absolutely no merchandise in this tawdry shop. Further, their ambient music was truly abhorrent.

Steward's Log; May 12, 2014

Anchored still. It is beginning to seem as though our ship is in a purgatory of some kind from which we may only be released with the proper timing or proper bribe. Rumors suggest our non-operation is business-oriented in nature, though in truth I can scarcely feign to care as I have no head for figures or for beurocracy. I will simply dein to wait without worrying myself with the details.
Some European gentlemen comprise a percentage of our crew. One fellow is of Russian decent, while the other man's I have yet to determine, as we have had little acquaintance. He is possibly Bulgarian. The two have a lewd tendency to debate Western politics over supper, much to the bemusement of the ship's remaining staff. I say "lewd" not due to their topic of conversation, but rather the fervor by which they conduct it. Within minutes, voices are raised and breasts are beaten by seemingly nationalistic fists. These 'discussions' in time seem to verge on the countenance of 'argument', and their angered tones beget uncomfortable chuckles from the adjoining crew mates. When not engaged thus, however, the two seem as fine men. The Russian fellow in particular seems a chipper sort. He greets me at daybreak whilst arranging his morning tea, favoring a private tankard that he carries about at all times, claiming it has been thus employed for eleven years. Keeping such an item for even eleven months seems beyond me. His accent is thick and nearly archetypal in its sound, echoing the Russian-English accent as it seemingly should be heard, though I'm hardly an authority on such a matter. Regardless, this musical dialect carries with it a certain charm, so long as it is not shouting points regarding the Russian government's approach to property tax.

Things Kids Never Say

"When I grow up I want to work in pest control services. With Orkin, maybe."
"When I grow up I want to sell musical instruments for a while before opening a failed heavy equipment rental facility."
"When I grow up I want to work in landscaping."
"When I grow up I want to be an accountant's secretary."
"When I grow up I want to be a gynaecologist."
"When I grow up I want to sell carpet at an outlet store."
"When I grow up I want to be a sales rep. for a snowshoe manufacturer."
"When I grow up I want to be what grown ups do."
"When I grow up I want to be a grownup."

Steward's Log; May 11, 2014

On anchored chain we bob. For what has felt like a lazy fortnight, we have been moored from the coast of St. John in New Brunswick. Though our actual period of inoperation has spanned but four days, these have passed under trying circumstances, as the crew has access to no internet or social relief such as is afforded ashore. Each day presents a fresh delay, poorly communicated or otherwise unspecified whatsoever, a new promised time frame merely thrust upon us as we stew along the coast. I take no solace in the knowledge that several ships and fellow seamen share in our frustration. Each direction I face while anchored allows me to espy distant vessels, stoic and pristine along the horizon, not unlike a collection of burly gentlemen impatiently que'd for the one lavatory stall.

The encroaching land chides us from its near, though inaccessible, distance. Nightfall seems to share in this jest, as the city's twinkling lights whisper and tease us of entertainment and drink. These pleasures shall remain idle dwellings for the time being as we await our port to call.
While still burdened with slumber's tenacious shackles, I received a startling fright in the early day. As I began my morning duties, I exited the galley, passing my pantry's threshold, only to halt in unnecessary fright as I discovered that a small bird had invaded my work space. Of course, it posed no manner of threat to my person, and yet I found myself unsure of, or perhaps unwilling to proceed in its ejection from our wheelhouse. It is the nature of finding wildlife, however docile, within human confines that unsettles me. Such a creature surely does not belong, and my subconscious foolishly echoes this as though the very principle should prevent the chickadee's entry in the first place. My ever-vigilant co-man, the deafened Irving, shooed the poor jay, though it remained alight on our ship's deck for the day's remainder, and may very well be roosting with us presently. Some hawks were reported to have been on board (so to speak) as well, preying upon animals such as my hereto mentioned intruder. Deckhands anointed me with stories of ghastly discovery, as small birds' heads were appearing on deck, as the ravenous predators appear to not care for the skulls of their victims, as it were. I inwardly stifled a mild disappointment in not witnessing the larger specimens firsthand, as I find carnivorous birds to be most fascinating. Perhaps I will encounter one before my voyage concludes, though I admit that I would certainly not wish to see such a magnificent creature in my pantry.