Babies Babies Everywhere, So Let's All Have A Drink

My favourite season is the day that winter ends.
This year, that day was yesterday.
To celebrate, I put on a shirt with long sleeves and went for a walk.
Tried to discover where women sunbathe in this stink town.
You can cross the mall off of the list.
They're not there.

All advertising is false.

I have a note in my book that says:
"Talk about the babies, fuckhead."
So, I suppose I should do that.
This is how I communicate with myself, by the way.
I sometimes forget that newcomers may be reading these posts.
People who have never seen my friends, their vaginas, or the babies who've come out of them.
Victoria Mary Elizabeth Shandera was born the day I moved to Halifax.
She has Robert's mouth and Christa's gender.
She can sort of hold up her head on her own at this point.
She's keen to acheive, just like her daddy.
She will do well in school, and she'll probably never use hard drugs.

Rowan Adventure Turpin/Russell was born New Year's Eve last year.
From a legal drinking age standpoint (which will one day be important to Rowan, I'm sure) it's the worst birthday possible.
Much like Victoria, Rowan looks like a little baby.
I tell her about my girl problems sometimes, after her mom leaves the room
("And don't even get me started on your mother...").
I think about discussing with 15-year old Rowan what a pain in the ass baby Rowan was.
Though strange, it's an oddly exciting prospect.
It is also...humbling?
Not humbling.
It's a concept with so many potentials.
Who will I be by then?
More importantly, who will she be?
How many ex-wives will I have?
To dwell on their future is to dwell on my own.
They are a new perspective for me.
A new avenue for clarity and self-discovery.
These are the first since-birth friends I've ever had.
Before them, the closest candidates were their parents.
They are important.
...
See?
It is different when they're yours.

And let's not forget about the biological niece on the way.
I forget all of the time.
Sure, this is the sort of thing that should resonate with me.
But I tend to forget things that aren't right in front of me-
"My eye appointment was supposed to be two months ago!"-
A new generation of Warford, I can't help but wonder how her nose will turn out.
I'm just waiting for the day I can sneak her booze during some family wedding
(My fourth, for example).
Promising her I won't tell her father, I'll mention and laugh about it with Brian immediately.
Yes, there are a lot of new lies on the horizon.
Brian has an uncanny knack for turning something general into something that is him.
So he should find this easy enough. 

The Baby and the Bath Water

Hi hi.

Alright, well, I'm gonna go again.
No, really though.
Tonight's not the night.
But I know I missed a couple of days this past week.
On the bright side, it's sort of because I've been around other humans.
Including an entire cafe full of people while I was too stoned to be in a new breakfast place.
That was Saturday. 
With the baby divocree.
I'll explain her later.
Friday, I did comedy for a bunch of people who save birds and foxes.
Then I rushed across town to the marina to do a show for some Navy boys.
They claimed they were Navy boys, anyway.
Sort of looked like engineers to me.
And some of them even looked like girls.
I interrupted myself during a bit to tell a woman that she was sexy.
Then I made fun of some grad student university guy in one of my favourite ad-libs ever
(For those keeping track).
Luckily for my narcissism, I taped it.
If Peter can escape that baby of his for a bit, I might get him to help me upload the clip.

I'd just put her in the tub.
You want to make sure the baby doesn't fall over the stairs, you put her in the tub.
She won't be able to get out of there.
I've never actually tried this, but it works for Tarantulas.

Oh!
I was published in The Coast on Thursday.
That's something new for you to read, and it takes less effort from me.

Be Gentile

I'm sick of people assuming that I'm Jewish.
We're finally talking about it.
I understand how people reach the conclusion.
Funny.
Big nose.
Seems as though I'm accustomed to persecution.
Curly hairs all over my body.
I get it.
Reliable diamond dealer.
I understand that the parallels are many.
All coincidences.
I'm not Jewish.
Not even a little bit.
I don't know what a tallit is.
I still have my foreskin.
Don't be so quick to assume, as people have been in the past few years.
It's the assumption that bothers me.
How in-your-face people get about it.
"Are you Jewish?"
"Shalom would say 'yes', shalom would say 'no'."
Though I'm not a part of their faith, I'm accountable for their stereotypes.
And that's fucked.
Now that I'm about to rocketship to Toronto, I'm more conscious of these allegations than ever.
Because it's a place where everything is "none of your business," except for your "background."
"What's your background?"
Whatever the fuck that means.
Such a rude question.
Some dick you just met at a party asking you what colour your parents' semen and eggs are.
In case there are any matches.
Because then we can talk about foods we both like to eat, I guess.
"Fish and Brewis!"
When people ask my background, I'm going to give trick answers.
The only one I have in mind so far is to give my dancing background instead of my historical one.
Which I'm stealing from a favourite Simpson's scene that I can't show you.
I'll transcribe it at the bottom, but it's not going to be the same as seeing it.
Really, I'm worried that rat comics in the rat race will think I cultivated this look on purpose.
That I might be exploiting Judaism in order to land a Comedy Now!
And that bothers me the most.
Because why would anyone purposefully want to look like this?
Potential imaginary benefits aside.
My hair just grows this way.
I'd be happy to sport a crew cut just for a little variety to my head.
But that's just not possible.
I know I look like Billy Crystal when I wear a baseball cap.
It's not my choice.
I want to look normal.

Not to say you look abnormal, Jewish people.

Kent Brockman: Things aren't as happy as they used to be down here at the unemployment office. Joblessness is no longer just for philosophy majors; useful people are starting to feel the pinch. 

Barney Gumble:  I haven't been able to find a job in six years. 

Kent: Uh huh. And what training do you have?

Barney: Five years of modern dance, six years of tap. 

Your Place or Pete's Room?

The fact that I can't set up Google Analytics is exactly why Google will never hire me.
There are other reasons, too.
I have nothing to mention. There's no point in pretending.
Sure, I could just stiff the lot of ya and write nothing.
But I might as well at least say whatever it is that I'm saying.

Don't tell an audience what hotel you're staying in and the hotel's room number.
Especially not if you give your co-worker's room number by mistake rather than your own.
I didn't get any unsolicited visitors (luckily, neither did Pete Zedlacher).
But I did have to politely turn down some woman in Sydney.
Who was...presented to me by her friends.
"We've brought you so-and-so. Do you approve?"
That's basically what happened.
I didn't approve.
Luckily I had to leave at 7 a.m. the next morning.
So, I really clung to that long enough to get out of there.
Honesty is funny sometimes, sure.
But honesty can also be the worst policy.

This unplugged version of this song has been stuck in my head for about a week.
Certain hits just make you roll your eyes after enough time has passed by.
It's funny how fickle we can be.
Really, when you sit and listen, it just sounds lovely.
No matter how much time you've spent not paying attention to it.
 

It's the Name of the Town

Drunk in Membertou.
Member...
Two.
You guys keep your pants on until tomorrow.

Shore. Leave.

Bet all of your kids' college fund on black.
It's Friday.

I thought that I had written this post already. In my brain.
I haven't though.
That's happening now.
I have to go to Membertou tomorrow.
I don't know where it is, and I'm not entirely sure how to say it.
My roommate's mother is here right now and my roommate is not.
Though I suppose there's no real reason to feel this way, it makes me sad.
Maybe not sad.
Maybe something more irritated than sad.
Now Kyle has just returned home from an oral exam which means he hopes to get high.
He's probably more sad than I am.

I did some jokes in Bedford last night.
Once a fevered dream, this is something I do regularly these days.
After this, myself, Marc Sauve (rube) and Brian Aylward headed to Roe-Day-Ohs.
Only a few people milled about in the dank.
One table was full of drunk units.
Including some round-faced tart who immediately began speaking to me once we got there.
Fortunately, I couldn't understand what she was saying.
I'm assuming it was nothing interesting since she was wasted.
She told me that she was from the southern shore.
Since I'm in Nova Scotia, I assume that she meant the southern shore of this province.
In my home province, people from the southern shore sound really funny.
So, I'm not sure whether or not to chalk her up to coincidence.
Because she sounded retarded.
It may have been the booze, but she spoke as though she'd just been kicked in the head by a mule.
And the kick hit something important in the brain.
Of course, I may just be saying that because I don't like her.
You wouldn't either.
She sidled up to Marc and I at the bar.
After asking the bartender where to find some hot guys she turned to me and said:
"Cause you're not cutting it, buddy."
After a moment or two, I excused myself from Marc, saying:
"I don't want to be near this woman anymore."
Because I had no reply.
I'm so bad with bullies, sometimes.
I likely would have kept it inside my head even if something came to mind.
Her male friends looked stupid to the point of dangerous, and they were pretty pissy-eyed themselves.
Regardless, it's still depressing when I can't think of a retort to such an easy target.
"You're no prize yourself, slut!"
Even that would do in a pinch.
I understand why it is that women may find 'slut' to sound rather jarring.
Be that as it may, I find it to be an incredibly funny word.
Something about the sound of it tickles me.
Probably  because I've never been called one (to my face).
Aylward recently pointed out to me that comics are those who got tired of being bullied.
I like that idea.
It doesn't resonate well, though, since Brian was a jock in school who had sex with lots of women.
But we all have our checkered pasts.

Taking For Granted

I stole a get well card recently.
I really don't know what that says about me as a person.
I shoplift from time to time.
I have no idea why.
That's four sentences in a row that begin with 'I.'
I really like myself.
If you do something that you haven't the permission to do in Newfoundland, a Newfoundlander might say:
"You likes yaself!"
That's dialect for you. That's free.
Shoplifted items are also free.
That's not why I do it, though.
You might assume that to be the reason for my felonies, since I'm impoverished.
"A round of loaves of bread for me and my vagrant buddies!"
But that's not it.
Generally I take things of very little value, in an effort to avoid prosecution.
I also don't steal for any sort of thrill, like not sanitizing my hands after using a public washroom.
It's almost the opposite of that; I feel trememndously calm in the process.
Like asking out women, I only do it when I know I'll get away with it.
Knowing that I'm going to get away with it is likely the reason I do it.

The card is for an old friend and crush, Shiela Last Name.
Someone fucked up her vacation in Mexico when they beat the shit out of her and left her in an eleveator.
The resort staff failed to list that in the "all-inclusive" part.
It's an enlightening thing to learn about.
I read about shitty things on a daily basis and I think, "That's a shame."
But I don't really mean that.
No one generally means it.
Sure, it's too bad, but what do you care?
You have your own life, your own challenges, your own vacations to plan and budget for.
Which is okay.
That preoccupation is no one's fault.
Then something like this happens.
Suddenly, the CBC is posting updates on a name you used to read off of a nametag.
Shiela and I haven't really spoken since I left Banff.
I'm having trouble saying whatever it is that I'm trying to say right now.
Every disaster is happening to someone you know, cosmically speaking.
You just can't steal cards for 'em all.

For what it's worth (absolutely nothing), this post is for her.
And all of the bones in her face.

Troubleshoot Yourself

It's not often that Sarah Turpin can make me feel anything besides overwhelming confidence.
It's the same reason that pretty girls always have a fat, gross friend.
The exception to this rule occured on the day she was over my shoulder while I was interneting (porno).
And she exclaimed, "You still type w-w-w?!"

I don't know how to fix your computer, alright?
I have no idea.
I only began using torrents (porno) last month.
When my iPod syncs, I have no idea what is truly happening to it or my computer.
I find it tricky using Twitter.
Look at the blog's layout, for Christ's sakes.
Does this look like the blog of a guy who chews code?
Obviously not.
"Paul will know what to do with your laptop.
We'll wait until Paul comes home."
"Is he good with computers?"
"'Is he good with computers?!'
Look at him!
Glasses. Small frame. Plays video games.
Paul knows computers, okay?
In fact, if he says that he doesn't know computers, I elect that we choose not to believe him."
Windows doesn't care if I look the part.
It takes more than that.
And before you ask, I'm not great at reciting algebra formulas either.

Most Unwelcome OR The Cheese Stands Alone

I lost a block of cheese last night.
Midnight snack, I swedge off some cheese.
I know it's not a word. That's not important.
I get up this morning, go to get some cheese.
Cheese isn't in the fridge.
Isn't in the freezer, oven, microwave...
Eventually, I find it next to the tin foil, in the tin foil drawer.
This is what my life is like. Every day is like this.

So, I wasn't going to mention it.
And I don't want everyone getting excited here.
Because it seems like a breaking point, I suppose.
And I haven't reached any sort of breaking point.
However, I do appreciate a good shortcut when I can use one.
Therefore, I made an account for Plenty of Fish.
Solely for the purpose of contacting women who interest me.
Of whom there are a whopping two.
Out of about a hundred or more.
Anyway, that's the motivation. 
Not so much for attracting the bass to my boat.
I wouldn't have brought this up because I want my exes to (continue to?) respect me.
But I had to bring it up.
Because I sent one message to one woman.
Minutes later, I get two messages back, both from the same user.
A man. 
"Yeah, I'll be around to chat, but not til later."
That's the first one (minus the spelling mistakes).
The second one goes on to explain that the guy meant to send the message to someone else.
But, since we're talking, would I care to masturbate with him.
I haven't responded yet.
I intend to decline.
It would be my fortune to receive the equivelant of a wrong number minutes after joining a dating service.
I never get to rebound, y'know?
Everyone else gets to rebound.
Everyone else wakes up in other people's beds.
In other people's pajamas.
Why can't I make some idiot choices, too?
A fellow comic met a Halifax woman on Plenty of Fish.
She ended up burning his cheek with a lit cigar.
Now it's my turn.

Among other mildly embarrassing news, my home has a mouse in it.
Or dozens of mice who all look the same (genetics).
I didn't particularly care at first.
He's not the only one who has had to squat somewhere during the winter months.
He has since lost the sense of fellowship I shared with him.
I've had to stay in other people's homes, sure.
But I never pooped near their garbage cans.
You just can't do that.
If I did do that, I'd understand if my hosts lured me onto a platofrm that released a strong metal bar that snapped my neck.
I want to catch him alive.
I do.
I fantasized about herding him into a shoebox in order to later release him in Shitty Dartmouth.
However, my landlord does not share my compassion.
Besides, I'm too much of a pansie to catch him alive, really.
And I'm not Wile E. enough.
I refer to the mouse as a 'he' because shes get pregnant.
Happens in high school all the time. 
I want he-mice.
Did you know that mice are the most adaptable mammal on the planet?
I figured it was Justin Timberlake (he can sing, he can dance, he can host SNL...)
I've been reading up on my new adversary.
Know your enemy, that sort of thing.
I consulted Sun Tzu on the topic.
But he just told me not to engage an elevated enemy.
The only other thing his scrolls offered were metaphors for starting a small business.

The Turning Seasons

Let me give you some insight into my mother's subtle dimentia:
She has this tole painting - in fact, she has dozens of them, but this one is special.
It has all four seasons depicted in a circular mosaic.
Each picture's section has the corresponding season written above it.
With me so far?
She rotates the painting 90 degrees each solstice.
So that the current season is at the top.
Turpin pointed it out to me.
Mom had my father fasten a hanging bracket thingy on all four sides of this thing.
That was a task that he had to do at some point.
Likely wondering all the while where he went wrong. 
She's a lovely woman and a fantastic mother.
But she possesses a set of standards that baffle and confuse me.

Blue Belles

The first dance I ever went to, I requested my date wear a specific dress.
Then I forgot to bring the blue suedes, and consequently had to wear my boots.
I was in grade two.
Leanne Badcock had a sparkly blue dress I really appreciated.
No one has a sexuality or figure in grade two, so I'm not sure why it mattered to me.
Though kids do have a favourite colour in grade two.
Mine was blue.
Leanne also wore the dress to a birthday party of mine.
(At the Jambowl. You bowled there).
During which I cut the cake, made a crumb, named her my girlfriend, and watched her run out of the building.
While crying.
I tried to play it cool.
"She'll be back.
She has to return the shoes."
If you're wondering why I chose Leanne, it's because Natalie was with Trevor.
That joke will make sense to about 16 people.
None of whom read this blog.
Knowing Leanne as an adult, I'm not sure it would have worked out anyway.
I asked Turpin for a reason for why we wouldn't work out (without specifying why I was asking).
She said, "Her voice."
Not a bad answer.

I only mention all of this as a way of explanation for all of my former lovers.
Who are reading this saying, "So that's why he made me wear that."

There's a lingerie store in Halifax that featured living models during Christmas.
Upon seeing this, my first instinct was to set up a lawn chair in front of them.
On the sidewalk, in front of the window.
Cover myself with a blanket, and stare at them with binoculars.
That's not true.
There were living models.
But everything else I only made up today.
It came to me after walking past the lingerie shop.
Thinking, "I wish those living models were still in there."