So Fresh And So Clean

Eindhoven: A great place to dip one's toe in Dutch culture before hitting Amsterdam and losing track of it all.
All buildings in the area are classically slim, with narrow, winding staircases. If you plan to bring heavy luggage, be sure to have a loved-one accompany you for any lifting.

Opting to not camp on our first night of arrival as we'd originally planned, Andie and I found a little spot called Hotel...I don't know what. I'll find a photo and figure it out.
We're gonna be Trip Adviser guerrilla terrorists now that this is all over, whatever that means.
With our stuff dropped off, Andie and I hit the street and started wandering into traffic and bike lanes. 
We dropped by the next-door bar and then decided to search several blocks to find a place to eat before settling on the restaurant next to the next-door bar.
We had one of the most beautiful meals of the trip, and our waitress was a tough-to-place age with a tough-to-place sexuality, and I tried to figure out if she was attractive.
I was more preoccupied with what her sexual habits might be than I should've been as I had the fish:

We dropped into a 'coffee shop' to be told that we couldn't smoke or buy weed because we weren't locals or members.
I put 'coffee shop' in quotes like they don't sell coffee in there, but they do. They also sell the weed. Coffee shops are the weed shops for any folks who are unenlightened as I was.
I didn't realize just how unenlightened until the guy told us this, though.
Moments later, a man pulled by in a car, saying, "Couldn't get weed, huh? I could grab you some for a few Euro."
We later learned that this was a common sort of practice, but we were trying really hard not to be gullible tourists, so we declined. He was probably a cop.
French assholes from France. It's their fault. They, among others, would pick up from places like Eindhoven and then cart it all back to their less cool countries to sell.
It's a new thing, just signed in 2012. Coffee shops respect the law, but no one outside of the business owners seemed to take it too seriously.
So there you go, honkies. There's a travel tip. There will be more.
At first, I wanted to describe the whole trip in a travel style like the first couple of sentences of this post, but I have now decided, sitting in my chair, that a dozen posts of that would be way too exhausting.
I gotta be me, everybody! I've got no one else to turn to!
We awoke to a breakfast of the best goddamn coffee I've ever had and some ham and stuff.
After checking out, we wandered into some bike lanes and explored the area.
I saw a municipal employee picking up litter with a claw thing and noticed he was whistling.
"Of course he's whistling, there's no garbage," I thought. Later, I saw a cigarette wrapper on the sidewalk and decided they were human after all.
The setting was bizarre in its meticulousness, though, and Eindhoven was as neat as a pin.
On the train, as we made our way to Amsterdam, I peered the countryside and wondered who was doing the landscaping. I mean, how do you get a whole region to look like a golf course (there's even windmills!)?
Then, gazing signs at the next stop, I wondered if the letter 'L' often followed 'J' like that over here.
What a cooky place!
How is this? Is this travel writing? If so, then travel writing is easy.

Once again, this post is brought to you by the city of Eindhoven and Schwarkzopf hair products. When you're buying your haircare at the grocery store, it's Schwarkzopf. 

The B'ys of Athenry

The B'ys of Athenry

The b'ys of Athenry get loaded on the train
No matter that the sun's up, they know their share of pain
Of dirt under the nail, of brows that can't be raised
Enough to meet the bar that would see them truly paid
Euros from the Landlord with his sneering, reaching arms
That enclose upon their privilege, enclose upon their farms
The b'ys of Athenry guffaw despite themselves
Sing their songs and crack their beers to drink them by the twelves

Kids in the Holland

How beautiful a society. How quaint and enlightened and kind.
On the third day in The Netherlands I said, "Fuck it," grabbed a bike, and started pedaling.
They really are everywhere, and though I understood that I would be seeing a lot of cyclists, I just couldn't grasp just how many there would be.
Everyone rides a bike, and though you see it and say, "Oh, isn't that environmental. Doesn't that make sense?" it's still bizarre to see a man in a three-piece suit rolling by, ringing his bell. Women in full-length skirts, or ball-gown regalia. It's not just that they use bikes all of the time, they use them for all events.
Another thing I didn't expect (and I loved this) is that they run, if need be, despite their dress.
A couple of times I saw 50-somethings sprint by me, rushing to catch a train or tram, their scarff billowing behind them.
That's where my 'enlightened' comment comes from.
It's important to understand this if you have never been to Holland before: It's simply better there. It's better in every conceivable way.
It is clean (in fact, outside of Amsterdam, I'd go so far as to say it was spotless, and I'm sure the garbage from Amsterdam is a result of the goddamn tourists), it is effecient, and it is tolerant.
Being in an entirely tolerant place means that everyone gets to do their own thing their own way.
Of course, those of you who know me understand that I must find this very appealing, but why wouldn't it be appealing to you as well? Just because I like to stir things up socially doesn't mean you wouldn't enjoy doing what you enjoy without being hasseled.
Let me give you the best example I saw: I witnessed a guy - about my age and status (whatever that means) ride by on a pink bike.
Not just a pink bike, but a pink girls' bike.
No guys on the street were stopping to elbow one another, no dudes were yelling "fag" at him.
How far would a man get in Newfoundland (anywhere in Canada, anywhere in North America) before that would happen to him?
I can tell you how far: as far as it would take to ride past two ignorant men, which would be about a block or so.
Witnessing this didn't make me envy them (well, I guess it did), but it made me embarrassed to be where I'm from, and I hated that.
It's not about riding pink bikes, it's about getting to the point.
It's the bike he had access to for whatever reason, it's the bike he needed to get to where he was going to that day, and it's just a fuckin' bike. Who gives a shit? The entirity of Holland understands this point, whereas I wouldn't be able to explain this to a gaggle of North American 'bros' if I had an hour and charts to aid me.
It's sad.
Running as they did was the exact same concept: They're late, they have to be someplace, they're going to run because it improves their chances, who cares if it looks ridiculous (which, to be fair, it does. I laughed every time I saw it).
If you don't have to spend your time worrying about what society is going to think or say about you, it frees your mind to focus on what's important.
This is without even getting into the marijuana and prostitution laws. Don't even get me started.
It's the same deal, though.
We could never have the laws that they have because idiots would fuck it up within a year and the laws would have to be immediately changed.
Not so over there.
The weed cafés ('coffee shops') are set up 'just so'. You don't have to be a pothead like me to see that, either.
You could walk into any of them despite the time of the day and smoke a joint as large as you please, and then carry on.
Yet, not once did I pass pockets of teens, giggling and fucking around.
I never passed someone staring blankly at a Burger King menu for minutes on end.
It's just how they do things. There's no need to be immature about it. There's no need to be giddy because it's just...normal; accepted.
Same deal for the sex workers.
It could never work in North America (I appreciate prostitution is legal in Nevada and wherever, but it will never be a part of American culture as it is of The Netherlands. Never).
It could never work where we're from because the women would never be respected. As they wouldn't be respected by customers, or their society (Bible-bashing assholes would have to ruin it for everyone, I'm sure), they could never respect themselves.
Not so in Holland.
If I visit The Cotton Club it's usually a good laugh and the women are beautiful and whatever, but the fact is I have to be a bit drunk before I get there because if I don't...I kinda feel bad for the strippers.
Not all of them, but a lot of them.
This is because some of them are ashamed of themselves, I think. Or the guys make them feel that way. I don't know what it is because I have never been a stripper myself and I don't want to put words in their mouths, but you can see it in their eyes. Some of them wish they were elsewhere, and we do that to them.
I thought that upon entering the famed Red Light District, I would experience the same sensation, but I realized within minutes that this wouldn't be the case.
When you look at these beautiful creatures in their glass windows, they look right back, right in your fuckin' eye.
They have nothing to be ashamed of.
Why would they? Their city supports who they are and what they do, there's a statue commemorating their trade, and placards that explain their history. They are protected, they are appropriately compensated, and they are appreciated (they're definitely appreciated).
When their children go to school, no one is teased about what their mom does for a living (or so I've read).
That would never happen where I live.
And so, the streets fill at night as the curtains are drawn, and you can walk hand-in-hand and admire these lovely women, you can smile at them and nod, and they will entice you in the brief moment that they have (and they're good at it).
I was blown away by how real they were, as stupid as that sounds.
You only see them for a moment as you pass, but in that moment you can see just how professional they are. They each have a persona, a style and a clientele that they meet, and it's plain to see that this is something that each individual woman develops on her own over time. It all comes through in the amount of time it takes to walk past them. It's an incredible thing.
And boy oh boy, are they distracting.
Andie and I entered a horseshoe-shaped room (which was weird, most were outside, but these five or six girls were not), and as she got a few paces ahead of me, I glanced at a girl at the end of the row and did a double-take because she was so sexy and she said, "Come inside," and I actually looked around the corner to see how far away Andie was.
Like I could duck in for a minute if there was enough distance between us - she was that mesmerizing.
The way she said it wasn't all gross and sexual, like, "Cum inside and fuck me, blah blah blah." It was pleading and simple, kinda like, "You. You're late for your appointment," and my response was to look at my watch and say, "Jesus, I am late for my appoitnment, right you are."
And so, they weren't hookers, they were sex workers. Not just because that's what you're encouraged to call them, but also because it's what their society has allowed them to be.
It's a beautiful place.
And we got really high there and we sort of almost got kicked out of a very old, very beautiful museum.
We didn't almost get kicked out, really, but the security guys were definitely keeping an eye on us.
However, that's for another day.
For now, I have to logoff before I have to pay another Euro (we're on a budget, here). Then, I'll go upstairs to see if there are any geckos on the walls tonight.
This post wasn't meant to be such a diatribe, but here we are.
I'll conclude by saying this:
Holland is a place where I am constantly in the way.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Written on May 25, 2015 at St. John's Airport, in St. John's Airport:

I am in an international airport.
I don't know if all British guys sound like assholes when they speak to their beautiful Asian girlfriends, or if it's just this guy.
Myself, I'm not speaking to my own girlfriend (fiance. She's on the paperwork now) for the time-being.
It's everyone's entertainment for themselves at the airport, that's what I always say.
I also always say that - oh! I have electrical tape on me. That's been there for hours.
Anyway, I met our Rose of Tralee contestant for Eastern Canada just now.
Her chaperone introduced me after engaging me to mention that she reads my Downhome ramblings. Before I get started, I should really mention that the chaperone was very sweet and a true fan, so if she happens upon this post (Hi Cindy!), I don't want her to think I'm shitting on herself, the contestant, or the Rose of Tralee event.
She is on the same flight as us, which is wild. We got a picture together (on her phone).
She's representing us among a brigade of Irish-background young ladies. The pageant's not about looks, and it's not about talent and it's not a pageant. Since learning this, Andie and I have been trying to deduce what it is about, exactly.
What's important is that Ireland is being honored, and these young women have the opportunity to enjoy their first sexual experiences.
Overseas!
I hope to do the same once we reach Ireland, which should be about six hours from now.
Wow, these chicks are either drunk or really immature (not the Rose or her chaperones; some other women).

I miss when wet floor signs signified something.
Remember when seeing a wet floor sign meant that the floor was wet?
Days gone by. Now, wet floor signs are just placed in a specific spot by a businesses's lawyer and left there. He then drafts a document explaining that the floor will be wet sometimes, as noted by the sign, and they are not liable if you otherwise trip over it.

I Hate Myself and Want To Fly

Written on...yesterday? Two or three days ago in Lisbon, Portugal:

Okay, good. Good. 

So, I'm in Portugal at a hotel I don't know the name of and probably couldn't spell anyway. 

This has been a long time comin', so let's get our pants on and get down to it. 

Internet cafés shared the fate of the Stegasaurus and the Polar Bear - wait, do we still have Polar Bears? Cause we don't have internet cafés any more. 

Consequented (not a typo), this is my first opportunity to update you on the gallivanting of this travelling Gulliver. 

Right off the bat, Portuguese women have nicer bums than those of the Dutch, but nothing beats browsing Holland's prostitutes ("sex workers" if they're within earshot). 

Currently, I'm at a street cafe on some avenue in Lisbon, Portugal. 

Pigeons are essentially the same here, though they were more brazen outside of Sao Jorge Castle, flitting about discarded lunch trays, knocking over the drinking glasses. 

They seemed gray as cigarette ash contrasted against the striking, electric-blue plumage of the peacocks, who are much like pigeons besides being huge and beautiful (and proud, of course). 

I was working on a nice close-up shot for you guys when some pink-skinned fanny pack asshole got between us and scared it away, which I'm sure he does with animals wherever he goes. 

Don't like tourists. I do not like tourists. 

Yes, yes, I'm a tourist. I get that. I also hate myself when I point in a direction and say to the missus, "I think the hotel is that way."

I learned to dislike the wayfarer in Banff, and little has changed, as it turns out. 

Anyway, rather than complain about them for a paragraph, let's break, regroup, and I'll give you some of my first-ever travel tips. 

edit: This keyboard is very Portugeuse, and despite changing language settings, Blogger is telling me that every word I'm typing is spelled incorrectly. We're on the clock here, so you make the corrections in your head as we go, and I'll fix them when I'm back in the land of the frigid. Thank you. 

This Is Only A Test. Do Not Adjust Your Internet

Internet cafés - wait. Signing in was a real pain in the ass, so let's make sure I can publish this before I go any further.

All Talk

I want to have a late-night talk show on local TV.
Technically, I guess I'd rather have it on Showcase or something, but I figure I should take baby steps here.
If that's how Howard Stern did it, I should do it that way too.
Of course, he was the shock guy. That is, until he became the vibrating sex saddle guy (which is still shocking, I guess).
I'm not looking for anything quite as intimate.
I want a desk, I want two chairs (I'm thinking of calling it "The Desk and Two Chairs with Paul Warford"), I want a band guy and I want a fish tank, maybe.
Not a fish tank.
Maybe a fish tank.
And I'd like a piñata every week that the closing guest can beat the shit out of.
I just thought of that this second.
It's where I'm supposed to be.
Writing. Comedy. Begging for change.
Among all the things I excel at, late night is where I'm supposed to be.
I didn't grow up watching Carson or Letterman or Arsenio, but I'm not sure that matters.
It's where I should be anyway.
A different suit each night and an expectation to flirt with women in a way that doesn't go anywhere?
Perfect. That's the perfect fit.
I think I could make it really fun if I could do what I wanted and I had someone take care of me while I tried to figure it out.
My buddy Peter White did the same thing in Halifax (Mark Little kinda did, too), but Peter made the mistake of not putting me on the show.
I'm linking his Comedy Now! because he hates it, by the way. 
He's got great comedy and writing credits, he's very well-liked in 'the industry', and when he's drunk enough, he's funny.
However, the guy's got the personality of a wet sack, and if it were up to him, he'd only wear jogging pants with stuff written down one of the legs.
Showrunner. I wish he was around to do that with me.
However, he's slowly starving himself to average weight in London.
Anyway, I'm sure that this passion will last a week and won't come to fruition, but I want you to know that today I really think that this is something that I should be organizing and today I'm gonna do it!
We'll see where I'm at this time tomorrow...

And I could have a band each week and pretend I know their music.
And I could try to get Ryan Snodden on there, and despite our differences (that he doesn't know about), I have to admit that that would be awesome. 

Dog Gone

Watch yourself if you're the weather girl.
If you're on The Weather Network and you accidentally stumbled across this post while looking for the definition of a cold front, start putting out resumes.
I come to this damn "coffee shop" or whatever it is most days.
The Weather Network is always airing on the unnecessary (yeah, I said it) TVs that are bolted to the walls, and I have never seen the same weather girl in front of a map consecutively.
It's a new woman each and every time.
Maybe this is a tactic of the network guys. They have meetings and say stuff like, "...but how do we keep it fresh? We need to draw new sponsors, and our climate doesn't change because we're in the same country each week."
"Well, viewers have been responding to our sexy weather women; they like their hips. So, how about a new weather woman for each broadcast?"
"Yes! Saturday Night Live does that and they've been on the air for decades! Disposable weather women! It should attract the disposable razor people--get someone from sales to contact them right away!"

Some, but not all oceans are full of oil.
So that's something.

The dog ran away.
"You don't mention me in the blog. You don't talk about how nice the dog is. You don't tell them about all of my pleasant qualities. Write about me in there!"
That's what Andie will say while brandishing the rolling pin, in her kerchief.
When she bakes bread it's terrifying.
That's a joke, she doesn't do any of that and we have a lovely time.
I checked on her while she was sleeping the other night (not necessary, but not a bad idea), and she sat bolt upright in bed going, "Are you festive!? Are you festive?!"
And I was all like, "What in the fuck are you talking about?"
"I had a dream that it was Christmastime and you told me that you weren't feeling festive."
Even in a dream, that would concern her. She's wonderful.
Anyway, the dog ran away.
Like most of us, when the weather is no longer retarded outside, Gabby is content to just sit and be outdoors while not being miserable.
I love this about the dog because, quite simply, she's up my ass all the time.
She's the most caring, gentle dog you could meet. I can plop her in front of a three-year old, and that kid'll be poking her in the eyeball and shouting in her ears and I don't have to worry at all because Gabby would never lash out.
She doesn't do that.
The reverse of that, however, is that she needs your affection, or my affection, or whoever's. Someone's affection. It doesn't matter who's petting her, so long as someone is doing that at all times.
The fish monger. Whoever. Anyone will do.
Luckily, I don't have a lot going on during the day, but it's nice to just have Gabby go be herself sometimes.
Not only is it a break for me (us), I think it's nice for the dog. Even dogs should want to be alone sometimes, no?
Anyway, I tied her up outside and I checked the knot.
Getting out of the shower I realized that the dog wasn't doing stuff and we were like, "Oh yeah, we tied her up."
The rope was there and the dog wasn't.
As quickly as that, the day turns into, "Oh shit, the dog's gone. That's bad."
I was totally cool at first because she's the only Basset Hound in town, everyone knows Dad, people see me walking her, it'll figure itself out.
However, we left her out there for an hour before noticing that she'd Houdini'd out of there.
How much of that hour had she spent off the farm?
How far can a dog designed for tracking stuff over long distances go in an hour?
That part was kinda worrying.
Andie was more concerned that the dog was dead in a ditch somewhere (also a possibility).
To deal with that, she kinda ran around the yard while sobbing, yelling "Gabby!" over and over again.
Andie and the dog are special friends. It was a scary thing.
In retrospect, I'm a little surprised at how together I was about it.
I'd much rather have the dog up my ass versus never seeing her again.
Anyway, my parents spotted her, lumbering in the middle of the street, directly in front of the yard she had left.
Perhaps that's another reason I was calm; how far would Gabby really be willing to go without us?

Wait, shit. That's the wrong dog.

Oh! I almost forgot:
A cold front is defined as the leading edge of a cooler mass of air, replacing (at ground level) a warmer mass of air, which lies within a fairly sharp surface trough of low pressure.

Swing Life Away

I have sampled many lubricants.
All flavoured lubricants taste like flavoured lubricant, which does not taste like strawberries or pomegranates. Not that I've ever eaten a pomegranate.
Have any of us eaten one, really? Or have we just tasted it in smoothies and shampoos?
Isn't that the one with the seeds?
If I was a woman I'd be flat-chested and I wouldn't know how to pluck my eyebrows properly, I assume.
I don't know how to tweeze them now, so I guess it would be the same deal if I had a vagina.
Luckily, I'm a dude. Straight penis, poor circulation. Things could be worse.
They're not though, not right now. My across-the-island tour that I haven't really bothered to mention is drawing to a close this evening.
Tours are great if you enjoy being a vehicle's passenger and you tend to eat meals that come from vending machines.
Or, if it pleases you to tell jokes in front of 50 people in Clarenville on a Monday night.
It doesn't please me, really, but it was worth a try.
We ran out of gas once, saw a moose once, saw two caribou once (we yelled at them to come to our show).
The Grand Falls performance had a baby in it. Like, in the crowd there was a baby. I'd never experienced that before.
I ultimately kinda...kicked the baby out. I didn't mean to, but the mother was out in the lobby when Burton and I ventured to the balcony.
Called the baby a 'deadbeat'. It was great.
There's a poor audio recording of the exchange, perhaps I'll upload it when I become a better man.
It's warm, but it's chilly. Which is to say, it's sunny yet chilly.
However, it's May 2-4 weekend and spring has taken its time getting here, so we're gonna go ahead and pretend it's warm.
I'd be cold anyway--I believe I mentioned the poor circulation.

There I go again, over-thinking things.

I went to a wake in order to sign the guest book and score some coffee.
Actually, it was a family friend of ours who passed away. Mom's ol' college buddy. I'd be sure that they had a slew of tawdry university stories, but Mom was never one for tawdry (or stories).
We were all very close, though. They were our 'travellin' buddies' during our motor home days when we were still kids and we were legally required to enjoy one another's company.
They would travel with us every year, and I would sidle next to Pamela, the daughter, who was near my age and way more interested in swimming pools than myself.
I was more an arcade kinda guy at the time (as well as at this time), and even on a summer's day, I managed to find a dingy barn that was converted into a place that housed game cabinets.
Those were the days.
If there was no arcade (or no change), I guess I took a dip sometimes. I recall having a special towel, though I can't remember what was on it.
Is this trip down memory lane boring anyone else?
We were on the local news, once, during the weather. That was in New Brunswick, maybe. Pamela and I were on swings and the guy filmed us for a minute and said we'd be aired that night.
I'm still living off the royalties from that one.
Pam was at the wake, of course, because her mother had died. It was sad and bizarre, but wonderful to see her at the same time.
Yet I learned that you can't have a conversation at a wake. Not a Newfoundland wake, anyway.
When we'd try to catch up, some old person would approach her and interrupt by saying, "You don't know me, but..." and then they'd fill in the blank.
"I worked at the bank your mudder used to go to when she was first teaching."
"Your mudder and I used to play cards down at Daly's farm when we were youngsters."
It's beautiful that these people made a point of stopping by, but who gives a shit, y'know?
They were all lovely anecdotes that didn't go anywhere, but Pam and I shared actual experiences and I hadn't seen her in a decade. She lives in some country I can't point out on a map. Could you interrupt some other conversation? There are lots of people here...
But that's how it goes, I guess. Newfoundlanders have to make that connection with other Newfoundlanders, and that's just how they are.
It's unsettling to think that one day I might be at Pamela's wake, saying to her now-three-year old, "I knew your mudder when we were young. We were on a news broadcast together."

I actually can't sign a wake's guestbook because I can't help but write something retarded in guestbooks, wherever they are.
I didn't want to seem insensitive by writing, "Try the pie!" next to my name, or something like that.

A Shot In The Arm

So let's all get a look at this before I show you a dozen times later.
Great to get a picture of your tattoo as soon as possible so it looks like a gross, bloody sunburn to everybody.
First of many, probably.
Oh! There's a horse going down the road!
There's a police officer riding him--it's not some animal that got over the fence or anything.
Anyway, what are we talking about?
Sarah's dead! Yes. Right you are.
I'm going to add other notes of hers that I have found, over time.
Her written word entices me more than everything else, and I'm always scanning her home, looking for stray greeting cards or grocery lists (they all just say 'avacado').
I was originally going to get an image of her face on me somewhere, like a dead dog, but they were gonna charge more to do her nose, so I changed my mind.
Man, these jokes were way more fun to make when she was around to read them.
Now there are just folks who will read them and think, "I don't know about that...you shouldn't laugh at a dead person's nose."
You should, though. As well as their feet and gait and whatever other physical faults they had.
Because we're still here, and we have the luxury of doing things like laughing and eating yogurt.
Why not enjoy both today?


*I have in fact added many notes to my bicep, just as I said I would.
There's a certain satisfaction to the process; the indelibility of it, maybe. Amidst the chaos and change that Sarah's death has brought about, I can have these million little punctures set aside where I please, and know that no matter what else happens, they'll be there.  I sport them like a badge of honor and shave my upper arm every now and then, for the sake of presentation (I feel ridiculous when I do it).
The only tricky aspect of it is that people inevitably ask what they all mean, and I can only respond by telling them that my friend went and died, so now I'm one of those guys who gets tattoos about it. Then they inevitably feel compelled to gush on about how sorry they are and that sort of thing. It's all understandable, but there's no need to apologize. None of you invented cancer. Bill Gates caused it, didn't he? Didn't he develop it in a lab somewhere? I heard that once. Whether it's true or not, if I ever meet him I'm giving that guy a piece of my mind.
This feels like I'm shoehorning content a little bit, but I'm gonna mention Belling again. Near the beginning of her paper, she mentions this: "The medium that carries and communicates the burdens and lessons of past suffering is narrative. Suffering must be constituted within a story told be a narrator who can inhabit and convey the experience of the sufferer." I don't know why, but I feel as though this is the place where I should bring this up. I mean, these notes were all first-hand markings that we shared at one time--specifically, during our Education degree, when we were supposed to be paying attention in class. Again, it seems like I'm just reaching to bridge my blogging (my ink; my tats) with my assignment, but who knows? Maybe I stick them all to plain-sight-parts of the body on purpose. Maybe I'm trying to structure the tiniest hint of narrative onto myself. Maybe I want people to ask about the tattoos. Maybe I want to get right into people's faces about it. Maybe I feel as though I'm responsible for getting her name out there, and for getting her name in people's heads.
I've been trying to come up with a stock response for anyone who says, "I'm so sorry" after asking about the tattoos--stock responses were a sort of interest for Sarah and I. I'd like to come up with one that is genuine and funny that Sarah would have appreciated. Maybe something like, "Oh, your friend passed away? I'm so sorry!"
And then I can say, "Not as sorry as her insurance salesman!" or something like that.
 
The tricky thing is that  even though I'm maybe more suited to be her narrator than anyone else, I can't "convey the experience of the sufferer." So far as I know, I don't have cancer. 

The Princess Is In Another Dimension

The stupid royal baby was born.
Royal witchdoctors claim there are no mutations of any kind, so they've decided to name her.
They're going with Princess Glenda.
I always caution parents: Name your daughter Glenda and she might end up marrying a Barry.
Duke Barry of the Gas Station, maybe.
Lord Barry of the Moors.
Anyway, you all know my thoughts on the royal family.

If I might discuss we peons for a moment, I did a thing the other night.
Turpin's school held their first annual Talent For Turpin talent show.
This is designed to make children feel sad while bilking parents out of donation money.
It's a good thing.
They asked me to be - not a judge, exactly - but like, a talent-advice-coach-guy.
It was pretty neat for the most part.
A lot of kids from the play were involved, so that was cool.
The entire time I wrote stuff for Turpin in the margins of my program. The sort of notes (insults, mostly) we'd write to one another if we were watching something like this and she was alive.
It made the boring performances a little more fun.