Like Pulling Teeth

Y'know, I think it's better when I only write occasionally.
It's probably the best way to enjoy me; occasionally. I haven't spent much time with myself besides within my head, but I strike myself as a 'small doses' kinda guy.
Good for what ails ya!

I had a root canal. Here's the irony with root canals: They're completely painless.
I think that the turn of phrase regarding root canals, such as: "I'd rather get a root canal than look my fuckin' boss in the eye ever again," is outdated.
Technology and the dental profession have made this sort of saucy quip obsolete.
My man Dyar swabbed me with Baby Orajel or something before giving me the needle, so I didn't feel that. Dyar is my dentist.
The needle, in turn, made the entire half of my mouth an afterthought.
I watched Blue Jays highlights on a TV embedded into the ceiling while he worked, and after two hours, it was over.
Then, I just had to make sure I didn't chew on my tongue while eating my burrito.
By the time the anasthetic wore off, I felt no discomfort of any kind.
I felt sleepy, but that was unrelated.  In fact, the only uncomfortable aspect was the thought that the TV was going to come loose of its moorings and land on my head.
So there you go.
Really, a root canal should be compared to feeling nothing, like, "When I have sex with my girlfriend these days, it's like I'm having a root canal."
Something to think about.
Of course, this is all just my tomfoolery. There is one part of the root canal that still stings, right to the bone.
"What's that, Paul?!"
When you get the bill.
Hiyo!

Try As I Write

Read, if you must, as you gnaw at the drumstick, right down to the bone!
They say that Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful. I say be thankful all of the time and just use Thanksgiving as a chance to ditch work.
Cause work deserves ditchin'.

I myself have plenty to be thankful for: a firm dog; textbook wife (also firm) and a tolerable family. I also own at least five t-shirts and we have so much fruit in our bowl that it's okay if the occasional kiwi goes bad.
If kiwis are ever good.

I'm taking a creative writing course from Lisa Moore. Perhaps you can tell by my curt, profound sentences and my devilish syntax.
There's not a lot of chemistry there, but she's wonderful at encouragement and deadlines (the two things a writer needs most).
I do up the stories and I submit them to the class and then they all go, "Oh yes, marvelous! Truly marvelous!" And I say, "Splendid" and then I ogle my classmates' breasts as best I can until class is over.
That's a joke.
Maybe this is why one of my pieces was referred to as 'sexist' a few weeks back by a classmate. Just because I talked about photographing Portuegese booty to send home to my buddies.
If someone photographed my ass on a beach, I wouldn't feel violated; I'd feel surprised. I would also feel sandy because beaches make me feel sandy.
Anyway, we're all getting along now and everyone tends to like everyone else. I try my best to aim for the gold star each week because I have a weird desire to be better than everyone else when it comes to creativity (which is missing the point of creativity).
I didn't ask permission, but here's one of the many 'postcard stories' that I have had to do. They call them a 'postcard story' because the body of the piece is supposed to be succinct enough to fit onto a postcard, if people still gave a shit about postcards. An easier distinction for a 'postcard story' would be '500 words'.
Anyway, let me rummage around the ol' documents folder to see what I can fi--a-ha! Here we go.
So, this was due the first week but I didn't know that because not everyone made it to the initial class e-mail list, so I learned about it in class and wrote it during our break. I didn't finish it  because I ran out of time.
The assignment was to write one portion of pure description, another of pure dialogue, and this was to be about a person who 'had a profound influence on your life in some way'.
I wrote about the guy who came to my door looking to take my recyclables while I was living in Bay Roberts last year:

He was on my porch then, suddenly. Taller than me by an apple or two, his hair was sparse on top of his head, like wheat that didn't have a good season.

His survival suit was as orange as the rest of them, unzipped to a point near the groin; a half-peeled banana. A plain shirt of some color or another was underneath. It was clingy with sweat and had whitened creases from earlier sweat.

His eyes darted to this and that. They were blue enough and soft enough and likely not terribly threatening to anyone. His teeth were yellowed, but not offensively so, and those jammed in his bottom jaw had gaps and spaces between them, as though they had no desire to get in line in the first place. His mouth was wide enough to fit at least one billiard ball and he was panting through it; longer, relaxed gasps of one who has been busy all day at who knows what. I could hear his breath as he exhaled, heavy but content, like a dog's. His tongue heaved within his gob, like the bosom of a dancing woman at a party. His hands were large enough for throttling. Thin, surfaced cracks eddied from cuticle to first knucle on each of his fingers. He wore large, untidy boots that would look appropriate on the feet of someone in military reserve.

His face might have been handsome if it were just a fraction more trustworthy. His jaw was squared and set and it framed his sun-worn face well. It jutted somewhat, as if to accept any challenging fists. As his eyes centered on me, I met his distracted gaze. He looked in need of aid, but you couldn't say for certain what sort.

"Is it alright if I go on with your bottles that you got there?"

It was.

"I goes around to all the different houses and I takes the bottles and brings 'em down to the depot and that. Get a bit for 'em. I talked to the town though and they said that I got to check with all the residents first though, and see if it's alright."

"Okay, yeah sure, that's no problem. The bags are just all out front there in front of the garbage box, and you can grab them whenever. That's fine with me."

"I just got to check with everyone, see? Never stole nothing in me life. No, I've never stole nothing."

There you go. 

Oh, by the way, I submitted my first larger piece like a blog post and did it in my usual line-by-line, no indentation blog format. 

They all hated it.

Dental Damned

Any pussy can live-Tweet a trip to the garage. Now, infiltration; bothering people. That takes something else. Call it: Entitlement. Or whatever word means 'entitlement' and 'desperation' in one.

I believe I mentioned the toothache, which has proved to be a dull throb for me and a dull topic of conversation for other people, since I can't seem to stop mentioning it.
We've all got problems. What's the big deal?
I guess I just like chewing without having to think about it. I'm not one for ginger chewing.
I also mentioned the dental conference, right?
"Come all ye dentists!" they exclaim. "Collect ye your tote bags and don your lanyards!"
I passed a guy on the street holding a bag with Crest on the side of it and figured I was on the right track.
I entered the Delta Hotel, where they still are as I type this, and quickly dug up a notepad (my book is missing). Hotels are all notepads. Then I kinda...wandered around and tried to look like I was just another guy in the lobby.
I saw them all, alright. Fat cat dentists throwing their heads back, guffawing with perfect crowns and impeccable molars. I envied their unhindered gums as I ogled all of the beautiful women who were milling about. Dental assistants, presumably. Not because they're women, mind you. More because dental assistants always seem to be attractive. Girls can be dentists, too. We all know that.
So, I sat in an armchair near some couches. A fellow with puffy hair sat across from me, a bored-looking gentleman with his name tag. Immediately beside me was a middle-aged woman who had a Padma Lakshmi smile, face and body. That's a great woman to share a smile, face and body with.

I was working up the courage to utter, "Err, excuse me...are you a dentist?" but I just couldn't do it. When I was young I almost seemed to enjoy embarrassing myself in front of attractive women, but these days I have more shame.
"I'll bother the guy," I thought as I took a deep breath.
I was expecting the process to be really easy, but I was surprised at how shy I was once I got there. These were all dentists and who was I? Obviously, some guy who didn't brush properly. Now, here I was crashing their one opportunity a year to flirt and have sex with someone besides their wife.
"Can I ask you a personal question? Are you a dentist?" Yes, he was a dentist. "Well, I've got this toothache..."
I told him the whole thing and he got me to prod under my jaw and answer several questions.
The resulting diagnoses: My tooth is fucked, basically. Extraction or root canal. Hockey player or a guy wearing a barrel; those are my future choices.
He told me plainly, "A root canal will be $1000" I felt like saying that those would be Ontario prices (where he hailed from) and that everything is more expensive here. Just look at the price of broccoli, for Christ's sake.
Anyway, he told me about fluids and bacteria and was generally very nice about the whole thing, however  he wouldn't have me say 'Ahhhh!' He wouldn't go that far with it, but he certainly met me halfway.
So there you have it. You're never too old to bother professionals if you set your mind to it. That's lesson number one.
Number two: Get your teeth tended to while you have coverage, and brush out those sugar bugs.

This post brought to you by incisors everywhere. 

The Painful Tooth

I'd really love to fill you in on the wedding--the thrills and spills, the fisticuffs and which bridesmaids really had it "goin' on," but I'm too contrary.
I had a toothache begin yesterday and toothaches cause way more whining and misery than I thought.
Get this: my toothache started yesterday, which was also the beginning of the Newfoundland Dental Association's conference. Most dentists on the island are in attendance and none of them are near their chairs.
Sometimes, much like today, the irony surrounding my life just hurts.
Anyway, I've figured out that they're all down at the Delta, which is nearby.
I may drop by there and attempt to convince one of them to diagnose me in the elevator.
There are mirrors in elevators, after all. 

"I'm Gonna Haul Ass To Lollapalooza! (Here we go again)"

The grounds of Grant Park were the same this year as they were two years ago. There weren't enough garbage cans, but there never are for these concerts, are there? You can put out as many giant bins with event employees standing in front of them (to make sure the garbage really goes in the can), but your farmland or race track will still look like the smoking area of a high school afterward, with chip bag debris and prophylactic wrappers shuddering in the hot breeze.
And then come the sea gulls!
At Lollapalooza, young women dress in less-than-nothing--the sort of outfits that concerned fathers have nightmares about. The rest of us fellows love 'em, though (the scariest part), and I can't stress enough how lovely it was to have some more hot Chicargo days in which to admire all of these supple young vixens from days that have long since passed Peter and I by. 
Not Grant, though. He was getting dozens of "oohs" and "ahhs" wherever we went. I paid more attention this year and I noticed that the truth of the matter is this: People just don't tend to bring their toddlers to massive outdoor rock festivals. If you do find yourself bringing your toddler to a massive outdoor rock festival, I recommend ear protection, plenty of sun screen, and cool outfits for the kid so that you seem that much more hip. It worked for us.
Some buxom woman came by and she was just entranced by our little trooper. I was blown away. I kept thinking, "Jesus, she can't love kids this much, can she?" She more-or-less ignored us, apart from the occasional question, and picked and pawed and cooed at Grant, who was loving it.
If we're all being frank and beans here, we were loving it too because this woman had huge breasts in a bikini, and Grant kept squealing and reaching for her, and I continued to think, "He's going to catch that top with his hand and rip it off, and that's going to be incredible."

I tried my best to concentrate on general conversation with her friend while keeping the corner of my eye nice and peeled. I probably wasn't as discrete as I was trying to be.
Sadly, the best case scenario didn't happen, and they eventually moved on, leaving us to watch Metallica as bachelors, which was still just fine. It's the best way to listen to Metallica anyways, probably.
I saw a guy go into a Port-O-Potty with two women while several of us stood in line to pee. I turned to the guy behind me and said, "That was unexpected" as others jeered and complained that the guy had cut in line. That's missing the big picture, if you ask me.
One chick got tired of waiting for them ("What the fuck!?") and ripped the door open to discover that one of the girls was vomiting in there. Port-O-Potties are kinda like the garbage can; unmanageable.
If you have to stand guard while your buddy changes a diaper, I recommend going over by those trees where no one is. Y'know the ones, near the children's stage. We listened to a pre-teen band there who were surprisingly tight.
I almost lost my party at one point due to my being irresponsible. That was pretty unsettling. The sheer concentration of the populace really kinda pops out at you when you can't find the one and a half people that you're looking for. This is particularly the case if you have some refer with a guy from...Milwaukee? Minnesota? Somewhere with an 'M'. That was during Gogol Bordello, one of the few bands I have an album of.

I scanned the countless passers-by as I waited for Pete to materialize (he's level-headed and he has a good sense of direction. He'll show) and thought about losing your party at a place like this. It happens all the time; the 'wild' one of the group gets too fucked up on the mickey of Fireball he managed to sneak in, and suddenly he has disappeared. Everyone in the group pauses to buy a corndog, and when they turn away from the stand, the guy is gone, never to be seen again. These people then wake up in the park and wander there for weeks, only to emerge malnourished and fired from their jobs. Bad news, losing your party.
We managed to hang tough together, though, and I suppose we had a great time.
Grant found a stick he really liked and while Peter changed his diaper I really thought Grant was going to take his eye out with it. He also had some close calls with complete strangers, since he was waving it about, fascinated, while people surged closely by.
"Watch yer stick," Peter kept saying while I subtly suggested he should maybe wear his sunglasses while changing Grant for the time being. .
We saw a squirrel! That was neat. You see squirrels in parks, but in the midst of so many people it was kinda bizarre.
Peter said, "Fat squirrel eating hot dogs all weekend," and I wrote it down to put it in the blog later.
On our final evening the sun began to set on a very intense and cloudy sky. Pete maintained all day that there was supposed to be a fuck-tonne of rain that evening, likely cancelling the whole thing. I was skeptical all day, even when a massive downpour postponed all acts by an hour while I was napping. By the time I woke up, everything was dry again and the sky was cloudless. Despite this, I dragged us to a bunch of places for a rain poncho, since I was too stupid to pack my slicker.
I bought three.
I thought about them in my backpack as the sun descended on what would be our last night. The wind was humid and billowy, with the clouds thick and angry, like the eyebrows of someone who should be plucking more.  

(The second photo was taken while it was nice outside.)
As the vibe turned ominous and the headliners began, I thought about what a disaster it would be if rain dumped itself in buckets on us--not to mention lightning. All of those people running and shouting for their friends, splashing up footsteps as they try to get to shelter. The fragility of the situation kinda hit me then, as I thought of these 100,000 people all gathered here and what they would look like plopped into the middle of the November Rain music video. Such a small thing like a downpour/hail storm or a well-placed explosive can turn a massive group on its head so quickly. It instills awe when you think about it, among it.
We were fine though as we listened to Florence & The Machine. (Flo got all of the camera-time, by the way. I have no idea what The Machine looks like.)

The storm came later, when we were safe in the hotel. 40mph winds with rain and hail. The television interrupted itself to tell us this. We watched twigs of lightning flicker and belch all over the city's skyline as it pelted down. I wondered where the homeless dudes went while this was going on, as a children would wonder of bees.

By the way, I saw one girl wearing a t-shirt that said "FESTIVAL ADDICT".
I'm no expert on them myself, but I know that festival addicts don't wear shirts that say 'festival addict'. Instead, they wear a lot of face paint with a lot of bangles, or a full-length shark costume. 

Price Cut

All we humans have vulnerabilities. Rich or poor, white or black (or some other colour), beautiful or single, we all have them, many of which go unmentioned. However, I think you'll all agree that we share the most vulnerable human quality of all:
Our eyeballs. No matter what else happens, we can all agree that without our eyes, we're fucked.
I like that.

Okay, so I'm currently in a motel room that looks like it would be shared by two long-distance bus drivers having an affair, but let's go back a few days and pretend this is still fresh in my head.

Started (but not finished) Sunday, August 2nd:

I'm on the Lollapalooza grounds, better known as Grant Park. I have taken my shirt off. If you close your eyes at your desk, you could almost swear you were here with me, couldn't you?
You're not, though, so let me tell you what you're missing. I just finished watching Death From Above 1979, a band I was cheated out of seeing in 2006 because I was too busy watching some guy I'd never met try to open a bottle of wine, minus a corkscrew, by smashing it on a curb.
There was a blimp, but I don't know where it went. A plane keeps flying overhead, trailing a banner that's telling me to use Trojan condoms when I have sex with people I shouldn't be having sex with (the true use of condoms). It'll take more than an aircraft to convince me of that, though--like having sex while wearing a bread bag. Remember: the official condom of Tragic Hero is Durex Sheik. When things get out of hand with a stripper, it's Durex.
Lollapalooza, at ground level, is a crop circle of 20-somethings enjoying music, Ecstasy, sexual promiscuity, or a combination of all three (speaking of condoms...). I'm enjoying music because I can't score drugs in a foreign country and I'm not allowed to have sex with other people.
This is just as well because even if I could tryst away with one of these supple young things (they're all around me, by the way. There are beautiful young women dressed in hardly anything in absolutely every direction I look at all times during the entire festival. If only I had a pigeon's cone of vision), I couldn't because I keep forgetting that I have a retarded haircut.
The reason for this is because I know that Kirk Bussey (soon-to-be best man) sees the humor in a barber's college. That's the only reason. Well, that and I needed a haircut.
See, Peter, Grant and I were walking along some street, and since we were walking at Grant's pace, I had time to notice this shopfront: 

                            Walk-ins welcome! 

                 All haircuts $8 and performed by students. 

Now, some of you know that I cinch up the wallet strap on the ol' trouser belt sometimes, whatever that means, but this wasn't a cost-effectiveness thing. I got a haircut here the following day for the two reasons I just mentioned, and those reasons alone. I needed a haircut. I knew that Bussey would find it funny if I got my hair cut at a barber's college. 

That's reason enough.
"That's okay, but you really shouldn't be getting your haircut by students right before your wedding." This was Andie after I had showed her my new do, and that hadn't even crossed my mind before then. Hadn't even dawned on me.
Anyway, clang the bell over the door.
I walked in and some lady sent me over to sit with the other fellows, who were all black gentlemen dressed as though they'd just finished a pick-up game of basketball at the Y. (That isn't race bullshit; that's really how they were dressed.)
It had that barbershop energy that you see on TV, y'know? Hairdressers concentrating on their conversation with the other dressers more than on what they're cutting, pausing every now and then to throw back their head and cackle at a joke someone made, lolling their shears about as they did so. I had a good feeling about it.
I'll be honest, I felt like I was in good hands. Students or no students, this was Chicago. These people would have seen far more afros than Bernice working over at First Choice Haircutters in the mall. This was my presumption going in, and that is some race bullshit.
However, they paired me with Tommy, who looked very Irish, white and if I might say so, nervous. He said that he'd seen lots of hair like mine, though, and so I figured this would be okay.
He started snipping sporadically while I learned from him that he was from Wisconsin, his cousin owned a barbershop around the corner, and that he would start working there so long as he didn't puncture anything of mine today. Then I learned that he checked out Eminem last year at Lollapalooza, that there isn't much to do in Wisconsin, and that they drink a lot there. Then I learned that you can smoke pot there and the cops don't really bother you and that's good because it's Wisconsin. Then I learned that he liked football and hockey kinda, and he caught a ball game every now and then. Then I learned that everyone at the school was real nice and the instructors were supportive. By this point I was beginning to realize that I didn't really need to learn anything more about Tommy, no offense to him.
Though it was blurry because I receive haircuts without my glasses, it seemed as though Tommy's progress up to this point had been...cautious. There still appeared to be lots of rogue hair left on my head relative to the amount of forced conversation we had already had. To make matters worse, Tommy would stop cutting during conversation to gesture, which was time he was spending not cutting my hair.
He called over an instructor to help him set a 'guide' on the sides of my hair after beginning one with the bangs, which were finally done (too short). He later called over the instructor again to check his work on the right side of my head, at which time he was encouraged to do the left side. All-in-all he asked for assistance approximately five times, sometimes stepping to the side to allow the instructor to "take over for a second." By the end of the process I was legitimately learning methodologies for performing a haircut. I now have a general idea how to do it, and I intend to offer cuts to anyone who wants them for a fee of $8.
I didn't mind that it took an hour and a half. I shit on him a little here, but Tommy was a nice guy and whatever. Besides, some people like to make sure they're doing well as they go along. I'm like that myself. The fly in the Barbicide didn't come until the end of the process, when a different instructor was called over to see the finished product. That guy wetted me down and insisted on having a pick brought to him. "You gotta pick that out. If you've got it, you may as well use it, right?" Where was this guy during my time in high school I wondered as Tommy feebly told him that he didn't have a pick in his bag. Tommy was missing a couple of combs when asked to produce them, which was more uncomfortable than it should've been. When he'd meekly offer, "Oh, I left my flat comb home," I had this fucked up sensation like I was disappointing the teacher as well. Like, if Tommy didn't bring his, I should have at least had one on me.
The experienced guy began picking my hair out, suggesting I do this all of the time, and do I use product? There was a palmade at the counter I should look at, and I thought to myself, "Y'know what? I will buy the pomade. Fuck it." Otherwise, I responded where I was supposed to, thinking the whole time that I hated the way it looked as he teased it, and that I couldn't wait to leave there and tousle my hair around, like a 6-year old just out of church. I do this after every haircut, by the way, immediately after leaving a salon.
Anyway, as he was doing this, I noticed that the entire back of my hair dome was still...there. Come to think of it, I couldn't recall Tommy working on the back at all, and wasn't that the exact same length that the back had been when I came in? Wasn't that supposed to be included? Had I been fucking up afros since university, and in actuality they were supposed to look like two separate haircuts on the same head? Shouldn't the instructor be picking up on the fact that this haircut was only half done? Who was it that was lacking a sense of style here, exactly? In the end, it looked as though the front of my hair had been done by a professional landscaper on the Friday afternoon before a long weekend, the sides had been mowed by a neighborhood kid with a strong work ethic, and the back had been done by another neighborhood kid who was only mowing the lawn in the first place because he needed enough money to take a girl to the matinee where he hoped to get a handjob, and it was close to showtime.
Afterward, I found myself looking in shopfront windows and elevator mirrors, asking, "Wouldn't the instructor have said something? I mean, is this a totally shit haircut, or not?"
According to most of the people I've asked, it is.
Luckily, I have a pomade that will hold it in place no matter how windy it gets.

As the band played, I watched the Trojan plane bank sharply and I thought, "How ironic would it be if this plane crashed on us while watching a band called 'Death From Above'".

Blogging You Down with Details

I was just thinking a bunch of negative thoughts about the waitress working in this hotel lobby--"Why isn't she asking what I want? Why is she only paying attention to these rich people?" Then she brought me a to-go cup because she remembered that I left midway-through my tea last time. Then she called me 'hun'. I find that sexually degrading, but it's still a nice sentiment, isn't it?
See how quickly and shitty you become when you just think about yourself?

I don't know how much material Hemmingway wrote, but I'm going to read all of it.
You hear that, Hemmingway family!? I'm coming for your trunks in the attic! I'm coming for all the scraps and loose leafs.

I need to write more regularly, you're right. There are fewer readers than ever and I can feel that. I haven't been checking the blog's stats because I'm back to never checking those, but I can feel it. Makes sense, really. Why should you all give a shit if I don't give a shit? It's the same reason I'm not on billboards right now, causing jams in the traffic. 

I threw a woman's cardigan in the garbage. Not my finest hour, I'll admit, but I'm smiling at it in spite of myself. I wandered around the Chicargo Fairmont where we're staying--I wander in hotels. You never know when you might happen upon a buffet that no one's paying attention to, or an attractive oil conference delegate by their lonesome. I wander in hotels. You should, too.
You shouldn't do the following, though. I saw a cardigan draped over one of those easels they use for holding the sign outside of the ballroom's entrance (it's cheaper than hiring a person to do it). It may have been expensive, I don't know. There are a lot of expensive-looking people in this lobby, so the odds are somewhat good. It doesn't matter. I took it.
Now, me taking a woman's cardigan isn't totally out of the blue. Cardigans are sort of like pens; they come and go. There are people out there wearing cardigans I have misplaced, I'm sure of it. Here's the weird part, though: it wasn't my style. I had no intention of wearing it because it was gaudy and I may wear women's cardigans, but I don't wear gaudy women's cardigans. Even I only need so much attention. I took it because I didn't want the person to find it again. There was a satisfaction in knowing that. Perhaps Americans still make me feel a little uppity. I mean, they're nice. I have American friends and I know there are hundreds of thousands of Americans who are good people. It's still really easy to hate them, though--especially the white ones, fat and successful; laughing; having the best day of their lives, complaining. Putting their flags on everything (everything), like they couldn't be more proud. I can't believe how many times I've seen the 'no guns' sign down here. This is a 'no smoking' sign, but the cigarette's replaced with a gun. Any place that needs a sign telling you not to bring your firearms into a zoo is a fucked up place at its core.
Anyway, whatever the reason, I took the cardigan, put it in my shopping bag. I walked down the lavish ballroom steps and dropped it into the garbage bin attached to the janitor cart once I reached the bottom. It felt great.
I wasn't planning to share this with anyone, not even Andie. However, this only happened an hour ago and I'm already telling you. I don't really care how the act makes me look. I'm sure I've done worse. You have too, haven't you? We've all done something worse than that, haven't we? (I appreciate that a couple of you are saying "No, Paul" and you mean it.) I guess I just figure that I need a little more honesty coming out of me. We all do, and I'm right about that one.
I didn't throw a woman's cardigan in a trash bin because it may have belonged to an American. I did it because I miss Sarah. Sometimes that feeling makes me angry at alive people. Later, I told her about it in my book that I have, and the intention was that the deed wasn't going to go beyond those pages.
Yeah, I have a book. It's black and I write in it and tell her what needs to be said ("And your legs. Baby, your legs were phenomenal") when I need to say it.  I scribble in it and try my best to tell myself that I'm not just writing to me, and that no matter what her manifestation may now be (even if that's just ash), it's important for my well-being to maintain our dialogue. It was the strongest part of us.
When a year has passed I will read back on what I have written before beginning a new year, and so it will go. It's important for the writer and the bricklayer alike to express their grief. However, there must always be a time and a place; that's a responsibility of the mourner, once enough time has passed at least. The brick layer can take a few weeks off, but he can't blubber and sob once he's back laying bricks. Salt corrodes and construction guys find crying men incredibly uncomfortable (or so I have read). The writer, on the other hand, can express their strongest emotions as they're working, often to the benifit of their craft (I feel like a dick using that word). However, there still has to be a time and a place, right? I mean, there's gotta be.
...
...
This was all her idea, y'know, as I gesture around. She thought I should start a blog, though she never did say why, exactly. Perhaps she thought I needed an outlet. Perhaps she thought I needed attention. Perhaps she just thought it would be good.
I can't remember the day I came up with the blog's name, but I remember once, not long after starting it, when she said, "You are the tragic hero." I think that at the time she meant it in an 'unlucky in love' sort of way. I probably meant it that way when I began using it. Yet I'm white and laughing and complaining, so who am I to say who's unlucky? Who were we to say?
I'm going to publish this book of poetry. I'm going to compile the words and figure out a cover and set it all up for the printing press in some sort of file format they require that I probably haven't even heard of yet (layout will be the hardest part). Then I'll pay to print it, just like all the other writers without a deal, and I'll distribute it and maybe sign a copy or two. I'll do all of this because I want to do it and it's important to want to do things and it's even more important to do them, and it's wise to express your grief. Then, I'll go back to my black book and I'll try to keep my black thoughts in there going forward. Because there's a time and a place, and this blog was meant to be funny. It was meant to be a haven for all of the thoughts that no one else seemed to be having. No one except her, of course.
If I want to be a writer and a comedian (and I can at least say with certainty that I don't want to be anything else), I'll have to promote myself. I've always hated doing that. I hate the idea even now and I hate the need for social media more than anything else in this business, these days. No matter how much I want people to pay attention to me, I don't want it like this. Cause now everyone's a comedian, and what we do is no longer special in the same way. Now we need fan pages more than we need fans. Now it's a popularity contest among all of the kids who came last in popularity contests. I'd kill to do it in the eighties, when it was still a special thing at a performer's level. But kill who? This is the reality I'm in.
The blog must always be at the heart of these aspirations because, as my soon-to-be-wife pointed out once, it's my life's work. I'd never thought of it that way before. If you turn your back on something like that, you're a necktie. You're a nothin', in my books.
However, perhaps if I'm going to rebrand myself, I should rebrand the space as well. Maybe change the name. Would it matter, really? It's hard to think of what I would change it to, exactly, but maybe I should make that move anyway. Besides, I'm hardly unlucky in love these days, am I? And no matter how the rest of my life goes, the fact will always remain that the tragic hero, in the end, was her.

I know. I could go fish the cardigan out of the bin and hang it back on the easel. It was a fresh, empty garbage bag. However, I'm not sure the owner would still want it. I mean, who wants a gaudy cardigan? Probably why she left it on the easel in the first place.

I, Grant, You

Ah, big cities! Where fireworks happen and you don't even know why.

So, I'm in Chicargo once again and I could swear they've added floors since I was last here. What a towering, tower-filled place.

I'm sitting across from the giant head as people walk by. I turned down a guy looking to buy soup because I gave the last of my cash to a guy selling me his R&B CD. That was cool because I don't have a lot of black friends, so it felt good to help out my new pal Seven40Seven, but then his two homies wanted me to buy their CDs, too. Had to turn them down also. 

I don't give a shit if you're offended by 'homies'. Relax.
That guy may have just wanted to buy wine. I'm not sure he actually wanted soup.

I'm doing pretty well as the weekend's gay dad, and Grant is still alive after a day and a bit. Fussy, though. He's like royalty, this guy. First he's hot, then he's thirsty, then he wants to be carried, then he wants to walk, then he wants to walk balance-beam along the curb, then he's hungry (again), then he wants to leave 7-Eleven because a drunk man is speaking to him in the middle of the afternoon. Actually, the last one was understandable. I sorta wanted to get out of there myself.

They love those car horns around here. Oh, how they honk.

If one car waits for pedestrians to finish crossing the street (legally, by the way), the vehicle behind will start beeping their horn and then the car behind that will beep and so on.

It's a continuous convoy of first one motorist going, "What the fuck!?" before being joined by the others around them, "Yeah, he's right. What the fuck?! Just run them over!"

Those countdowns that they have at traffic lights? In Chicargo, those are considered fair warning. 

What a racket.

Otherwise it's nice to be back though, among the skyscrapers and their fountains.

My knees are really itchy and I have no idea why.

I'd love to fill you in on our trip, but I guess there hasn't been a whole lot to it so far. I believe I mentioned the scary fellow in the 7-Eleven.

We all got up early today and had some hotel fruit before heading out to get our Lollapalooza tickets. We walked, seemingly inches at a time, to the ticket kiosk before learning that they wouldn't be open for many hours.

So, we went shopping.

I bought some tight, constricting underwear that I can't wait to take off. We found an adorable headband for Grant while he wailed and tried to escape us.

Then it was nap time, which he and I tackled with gusto while Peter tried his best to get drunk. When we woke up we got our wristbands and then we went to the pizza place where they stuff the pizza...in the pizza? Y'know what I mean? The crust is on the outside. Think torte, but it's pizza. It was a tad gross, to be honest. It also took 45 minutes to prepare, during which time we ate an appetizer and ignored each other for a bit.

Grant ate exactly as much food as I did, to the point where I was feeling physically uncomfortable watching him finish his ice cream.

Oh! They're mosquitoes! That's what's making my knees itchy. So much time at home lately that I forgot there are still places where insects survive.

Alright, I'm gonna head back to the hotel, and I'll make sure to avoid eye contact with anyone who looks like they're out of hope or full of it along the way.

Oh, the giant head? I guess it's a sculpture. You know those styrofoam heads they have in stores that you can put hats on (or eyeliner)?

It's like that, but it seems to be about 20 feet tall.

People don't even seem to notice it, that's the fucked up thing. What's a sculptor gotta do? I'm amazed by people who could be so blasé about such an engrossing environment. In Bay Roberts people will talk about an intersection's new stop sign.

Ah, big cities.

Wake Up and Spread the Ashes

I'd like to get up every day at 10. That's a goal I'll really have to concentrate on.
Don't envy me; free time doesn't mean much if you feel trapped within it. I don't feel that way, exactly, but I don't not feel that way either.
Lately, I've been sleeping late (Easter break late; second week of the divorce late). Time to stop that, probably. It's true that I thrive at night, like the titmouse or the python, but I need some structure. These are wild animals, after all.
The day just feels too distant when sleep goes this long. Reality is just too seperate for a sober mind when sleep goes this late. Also, there's something else to it: You start to feel at odds with the day (that is, daytime), like you're rebelling against it. And I'm not sure I want to do that, at least not yet. Sleeping this late every day is kinda like wearing jogging pants to a wine & cheese.
Besides, it's not like I'm on the night shift. I'm not some goddamned security guard, too moral for his own good.
It's nice to remind myself that I haven't had any major head injuries yet. It's nice to reflect sometimes.

I keep telling myself that I have all of these original thoughts of mine, clogging up my airways, but then I spot the loud Asian fellow on the phone near the window and I notice the massive scar running down the side of his skull and face.
Whatever. I wish I'd stolen this granola bar instead of paying for it.

So, Peter and I are going to Chicargo. I should mention it before I myself kinda forget.
It's a tad surreal.
We went to Chircargo in 2013 for Lollapalooza as a way for everyone to get to know my future fiance (and as a means of seeing The Postal Service, of course).
This time it's two men and a baby and a pill bottle of Sarah's ashes to spread around. I think that's why we're going.
I can't help but wonder what she'd think of this. I imagine that she would tell us not to bother, and if we told her we were going to bother anyway, I think she'd tell us to spread them near some place that served food she liked. "Spread them near the place where I got that veggie burrito" sounds plausible. She didn't eat any veggie burritos down there that I can remember, but that's hardly worth mentioning.
I still try hard to place her before me; to make her real.
I try to recall conversations we've had and that's already impossible, so instead I just try to physically put her in the room as I write or bathe, and try my best to make-believe. I used to be great at it when I was a kid and none of this was relevant. Sometimes it works.
Perhaps I'll be able to conjure her in Chicargo, sipping a beer and looking distracted because she's as bored as I am.
That's really what we thrived on; cynicism and sheer boredom.
I was always great at pinpointing when she didn't want to be in a social situation she was in. Once she got a mother-in-law this became even easier, but I had the inherent ability from our earliest days. I can still spot it in pictures.
We're taking Grant with us just to make sure that neither of us get drunk or have sex with a woman.
I asked Peter why/how he chose Grant for the trip. The inquirey was eating at me for days beforehand. I mean, they're both under three, but there is two of them. They're both equally entitled while being completely unaware of what they're going to experience, so how do you choose? Eenie meanie miney--how in the fuck do you spell this? Eenie meanie minie moe. There.
We're taking Grant because he's named after Grant Park, where Lollapalooza is held, which I already knew.
Makes sense as much as this could ever make sense. 

I see my bereavement councellor tomorrow. Yeah, I'm still going to him. I think a physical attraction is finally beginning to manifest there.
He works, though I'm not sure that he 'heals' much of anything, really. Who heals someone in a situation like this? That's why humanity allowed whiskey to continue; for its healing properties. Not that I've ever been one to hold my medicines.
I like the guy because he listens when I talk, and he remembers everything. He reminds me of shit that I've forgotten myself, and he writes nothing down. Of course this is going to impress me. Also, he seems intrigued by me and that's the only reason I ever wanted to go to a therapist of some kind; to intrigue them.
Sometimes he provides an insight that I kinda like. Sometimes he provides an insight that I know she would like. He described me as somewhat of a mourning gay widow, and that really hit a nail for me (us). That's likely the only thing I'll ever share that he has said.
Most of it I can't recall by the time I'm scheduling my next appointment.

She hated The Postal Service, by the way.
But what did she know?

Washing Off the Film

I have to do my Downhome article, so I don't really have time to talk. I just had to pop on here and mention the brown-shoed haircut behind me. I think he's a director. I've never been to LA, but this must be how directors talk. Speak. Yammer.
This guy's not doing another project unless he loves the script and some day I might have to hope that that's me and that's my script and isn't that depressing? He's dressed like he's being confirmed today.
Some people have just gotta make such a bunch of fuckin' noise. No matter that the rest of us are trying to have conversations in the space (I'm trying to have a conversation with a whole readership), he's just gotta be heard and he doesn't even know he's gotta be heard. He thinks he's speaking at a normal volume, even though he sounds like the kids in grade seven.
Some people just need to let everybody know, y'know? They don't need to let everybody know anything in particular, but they've gotta let everybody know.
Not me, though.

Lookit me! Lookit the blog I have! Pay attention to me! I'm over here!

Put On The Red Light

Eight years of doing this blog, approximately. Eight years, 1100 posts and at least 10 hoodies, and I'm actually losing followers. I'm down from 20 to 19.
Must be doing something right, or several things incorrectly.

I'm sitting on a circular tube filled with air and I don't want to talk about it.

Anyway, where were we? Ah yes! Amsterdam.

Visit the tawdry Red Light District, whispered of in parlors around the world. Behold the alluring sex workers as they beckon you to keep them warm for 15 minutes, for approximately 50 euro. Cheat on your wife or loved one with these unforgettable sirens as they glow azure in the sheen of their red lights. 

The number of times to best visit the Red Light District, for me, is as many times as there are days.
Mathematically, that looks like this, presuming we're solving x as 'number of red light district visits', and d as 'number of days in Amsterdam':
x ≥ d
So, that's solved. 
If I was some romantic Mr. Ripley type, just visiting Amsterdam for a sojourn of some kind, I'd take a wander through there at least once a day, I'm sure. 
And why not? I appreciate that no one likes a window shopper, but you just can't find these wares at home. 
I didn't mean to call the sex workers 'wares', but here we are. 
And there we were, hand-in-hand and dazzled, exploring these cobbled streets, bestrewn with their bridges. 
"Have we been down this one yet?" we'd ask one another about this alley or that avenue. 
"Fuck it, couldn't hurt look again," was the general response. 
Anyone looking for context who hasn't been there, there are about one or two hundred ladies on display, depending on the evening, distributed among several streets over a many-block radius. 
None of them are naked, but all of them are in lingere or underwear. I'd love to show you pictures, but the snappy snappy is very not allowed there, and they won't hesitate to bang on their windows to let you know this. 
There are bars and places that sell condoms shaped like little men and there are pizzeries, and the girls are among these usual distractions, pulling their curtains back as early as 7pm or so. 
All of them are beautiful (given your tastes, that is) and enticing. 
Were I ever there as a single man, I'd probably have partaken by now. Perhaps. It's also possible that I'd be too afraid to come knockin'.
For example, one larger black lady was very keen to speak with me, and I didn't do that. 
Now, if you linger they will sometimes pounce with beckonings, as I referred to earlier, but this was different. This woman wanted to get my attention. Me specifically. Paul Warford. 
She did it each time I walked by, which was more than once because we couldn't keep track of what streets we'd already been through. 
I may have approached her if I wasn't so high, but probably not. I assume it had something to do with my hair. I know I know, you Christians, assuming a black lady wants to talk with an afro'd guy is racist blah blah. I'm familiar with the lingo. I'd counter this by asking what other possible reason could there be for a Dutch prostitute wanting to have a conversation with me. I'm open to any suggested interpretations. 
We were too high, though. Way too high for such a street. Surely, there's a 'just high enough' to be for the red light district, but Andie and I seemed to have a tendency of overshooting that by a yard or two. 
It was usually my bright idea to stop by a coffee shop in the area just before getting started. 
This is all well and good if you just wish to ogle. Marijuana, as you likely don't need me to tell you, is great for ogling. 
It's when you have to start interacting that things can become complicated. 
Interactions like seeing what the prostitute wanted with me, for example. 
Or, asking the bald gentlemen how much the sex show is, and what it entails exactly. These questions can be very complicated if precaution isn't taken. 
While walking by one of the venues, the guy said (to no one in particular), "C'mon everyone. It's pussy time."
I loved it because he sounded as authentic as the women were (also explained in that earlier post), and I was tickled by that. It didn't sound dirty when he said it, despite what he said. Perhaps that's because he was right: it was pussy time. 
It's pussy time for him right now, at this minute while I write this. What a job. 
What a job it must be to see stoned tourists chicken out several times in one evening. I know that we did that because I have vague recollections of it happening. 
We had a tough time landing on one to drop into, first of all, since they all looked the same and we didn't discuss specifically what it was that we wanted to see or not see. I recommend doing this if traveling as a couple. Unless you avoid getting totally blasted because then you can just have that discussion whenever you want on the street. 
Not the case for us, though, so we took turns getting too nervous. Andie did try doing the talking once or twice, but then we started getting squirrelly on the price. 30 Euro each? That's like, fifty bucks. Do we want to spend that on something when we don't know what it is? 
Besides, call me old-fashioned, but some things, though novel, I may not want to see. Watching a woman try to hit me in the face using only her vagina and a ping pong ball might be memorable, but 50 bucks? Not even if we got to play actual ping pong afterward would I do that. And I love ping pong. 
Table tennis.
However, and again, this may be my age talking, but watching two oiled women give each other a massage etc. etc. may be worth the bother. 
Hardly matters when you're too high to go to the bathroom though, does it?
I can't remember if it was night one or night two, but I wanted to stop in to drink or smoke or both somewhere on the street, and we ended up in the backyard of this place. 
It was a bit cramped and very full inside, and that was a bit too much at the time, so we stayed out. 
However, some British asshole was properly pissed, and he was causing a real ruckus that appeared to be getting heated. 
So, I suggested we go back inside because we were only a table away and I was becoming frightened. 
While walking back through the bar, I accidentally walked into a man, bounced off of him, and stumbled into another man who ended up being a machine that dispensed small cans of Pringles. 
We weren't great at blending in, either of us. 
I believe I mentioned Andie's incognito in Amsterdam style, which she also wore in the district. 
We must've been something to see, this pale white duo of clearly frightened tourists who couldn't even go inside any of the naughty bit shows. She in a trench coat and he colliding with vending machines. Oh yes! We were a couple of pigeons, alright. 
However, we enjoyed the swans. 
What a bizarre area. I can't stress it enough. This swan is in front of one of the larger sex show establishments, and though you can't see it in the snap, there's a guy urinating within a specially-designed cylinder about three feet to my right. 

I eventually used one of the cylinders because when in Rome and you have to pee, or however that goes...
We saw a sadder sight the following evening out in the canal when Andie pointed out that, "Oh, it's a dead swan":

"The b'ys should really fish those out," I replied. 
"No wait, it's a bag." It's always a bag with us. 
On the third night, we had it all figured out. 
No joints! No joints just yet. Let's experience some debauchery while we're clear-headed enough to appreciate it, and then we can complicate what remains of the evening after that. 
Evening three we kept another important red light district tip in mind (and this is sort of a real one): dress up. 
You can't walk around a beautiful city while appreciating beautiful sex workers while wearing some ratty sweater you've been sweating in all day with stained jeans. Well, you can, but after two nights of that I realized that it just doesn't feel right. 
Put on a slinky dress. Put on a shirt you'd wear to the bar. Treat it like a bit of an event because if you have a stamped passport, it is. 
Third day we switched and I wore the coat. I felt queerly confident in it. I was ready to take the strip on by the third night:

I even asked the alluring waitress whether or not there were any comedy rooms in the city to jump on. I needed a couple of days before asking that. The (illusion) of comfort's gotta be there. 
We went to the same district restaurant two of the three nights. It may have been called Italia. Wait, lemme see if I can find it. 
Here it is! Caffe Italia! I recommend this place, and not just because of the alluring waitress. 
She was a real charmer, though. She served us both nights, and while paying I asked about the comedy room. 
I said, "Umm," and she replied, "Yes, tell me. Let me help you," and that was really sexy. I have no idea why. I suppose because she legitimately wanted to help us out, and I like it when people take care of me. She knew I had a question and she couldn't wait to hear it--that's really what it seemed like. Notice the wording of her response. I specifically wrote it down. 
When we were leaving I wanted to tell her that I thought she was very beautiful, but you don't need to go telling waitresses that; it weirds them out. Especially when you're with your fiance. 
Anyway, clear-eyed, where are we going?
I suggest the strip club because that's nice and straightforward, no ping pong balls, and you sort of decide what you want to spend. 
Unless you get drinks, of course, and then you're about 30 Euro in before you've even taken a seat. 
When in Rome, spend what the Romans spend. 
It was a great strip club, though, despite the lack of space, and Andie and I gave one girl a really admiring back rub (don't ask). 
On top of that, we made a friend while we were in there. 

This is Rob. Rob is divorced and British and that's about all we got from the conversation because he was hammered and he was from somewhere that has an accent you can really sink your teeth into. He may have said the north somewhere. 
So, there you go! Everyone got something they wanted. We didn't see the 'banana show', but we're not ashamed of that at all. 
We saw the Amsterdam that was tailored for us, and I suggest that someday you do the same.