Swinging [From The] Bachelor Pad (Rafters)

or
toss me in the microwave,
i'm still good!

Last night, while cooking, I passed gas and didn't have to worry about ruining anyone's appetite but my own. This morning, while desecrating the bathroom, I left the door open and didn't run the tap to drown out the noise. I'm not wearing any pants right now.

Library Girl moved out yesterday (for the second time!) and I'm finding old habits returning faster than ever before. While I'll admit that most of the common benefits of residing in a bachelor pad are lost on me (intercourse with random females, a place to put my weights, Scarface posters), others I'm looking forward to taking full advantage of (re-watching Krystof Kieslowski's 10-hour Dekalog series without worrying about missing Gilmore Girls, turning a blind eye once again to my potential drinking problem, eating as many cookies as I want without the need to save one).

Back despite no popular demand.

The Pizza Corner
Polaroid Project

Future front cover to the debut album of The Expulsion, the only all-English country/folk/rock band that tours local elementary school gymnasiums to teach preadolescent children about the hardships experienced by the Acadiens in the 1700's through song.

Guess what arrived in the mail today?

or
alright alright alright

I have watched Dazed and Confused approximately sixty-five times, and I have been stoned for approximately sixty-four of those experiences. At this point, it almost seems unfathomable to watch this movie without being high; in fact, it's entirely possible that watching this movie actively releases THC into my bloodstream. But I do know this: I was not smoking pt the first time I watched Dazed and Confused. And I know this because I was drunk.

- Chuck Klosterman

How to make love to a woman.

Patriotic Posters

photo by Blandy Snorhal

Hopped up on the Giggle Water.

As one by one my friends leave alcohol behind for the world of nuts, mashed yeast and carrot juice, it falls upon yours truly to ensure that local ale producers remain able to meet their financial bottom line. In other words, I don't remember the above photograph being taken last evening.

Yesterday began with a mid-afternoon harbour cruise to Shelbyville to look for previously worn dress shirts that fulfill the rigid requirements of "Business Casual". Along with said shirt was found two previously worn slacks of varying shades of brown, a large 4-month day planner on which I can record my busy schedule with a marker, and a tie for which I may or may not have paid for.

As I tend to enjoy hosting parties during which I reveal things to my guests, the highlight of last night's pre-gig event was the opening of a sealed envelope containing my RCMP criminal background check. Luckily I assumed correctly that for something to show up on my permanent record would involve some process that would not be easily forgotten. So, while I would be lying to admit I have not behaved in ways that would cause a checkmark to be made in the box beside "There may or may not be a criminal record in existence", I have until this point in my life at least, firmly remained in the box indicating that "there are no Adult Criminal Convictions as disclosed by the National Police Information Centre computer search."

As for the show, the photo says it all. I was on a toot and obviously quite zozzled, being hopped up on the giggle water by the time I arrived. I was, if you don't mind my saying, putting on the ritz. Hip to the jive in my new bow-tie and previously worn dress shirt, I was a floor-flushing heeler. The crowd was mixed, with a face stretcher or two amongst the skirts, but that didn't matter since the Bank was closed months ago. All in all it was quite a copacetic time, perhaps a little too copacetic. Today, you can call me dewdropper, daddy-o.

I've always separated the men I know into two categories: those that can tuck their shirts into their pants without it looking odd and those that can't. Unfortunately, I've always counted myself firmly amongst the latter. That is, until today.

My recent admittance into the world of Government employment and its accompanying expectations of daily business dress has forced me to confront my tucking issues head on. As of last Monday that was that. Dress shirt could no longer be left untucked to blunt the effects that my pelvic region has on the opposite sex. The shape and firmness of my buttocks and all its accompanying connotations concerning sexual thrusting power are now on public display. My lack of a quality belt is painfully obvious.

But you know what? At roughly 2:45 this afternoon, after taking the big step of my first workplace defecation, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, shirt tucked in and all, and I'll admit that it did not make me want to tear my shirt out from my pants waist while sobbing. Today marks the successful completion of my first week on the job and great strides have indeed been made.

The battery arrived in the mail for my 1967 Polaroid Land Camera (Model 250) today. The above photograph proves numerous things:

a) If I dress like a 1960s FBI agent and take a photograph of myself with a 1960s Polaroid camera it can appear, at times, to be an authentic 1960s Polaroid of an FBI agent. That, or a modern day door-to-door Jehovah's Witness.

b) No matter how hard I try not to, I still blink for 96.7% of all photographs I appear in. Even those I take of myself. What this says about my hand-eye coordination I leave to you.

c) That being said, 96.7% of all photographs I take are of my self. I argue that this is out of necessity, not narcissism. Others don't agree.