What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
(and remember, you can always e-mail me if you love or loathe anything you're about to read)...


   Tuesday, July 30, 2002

HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION

I suppose it might seem quite depressing to go on a weekend camping getaway dominated by thunderstorms but I found hiding out in a thankfully-waterproof tent a lot of fun. The light flashes, the sound of rain hammering the canvas and even the wind shifting the tent a bit made for lousy sleep but an exciting experience for someone who’s never camped outside before. Besides, it was only for one night, thank heaven, as we wisely opted for a hotel room the next evening (no gluttons for punishment here).

Sunday was spent at Six Flags Darien Lake, an amusement park I enjoyed but found distressingly similar to Paramount Canada’s Wonderland here in Toronto. The décor, the rides, the food…everything was nearly identical, aside from all the Warner Bros. characters (Superman, Bugs Bunny, etc.) in place of Paramount creations (Star Trek, Top Gun, etc.). Darcy just shrugged at this: “They’ve found a model that works and everyone copies it.” Doesn’t mean I have to admire them for it.

He’s right, however, when it comes down to the only thing that matters in such a place: the rollercoasters. While the Viper and the Mind Eraser (love that name) were a lot like Wonderland’s Wilde Beast and Skyrider, it was the Superman: Ride of Steel coaster that proved absolutely thrilling. When you suddenly feel 12 years old again, it’s hard to grumble about colourless conglomorates making the world a blander place. Hard, but thankfully not impossible.

Labels: friends, oh l'amour, travel, Trawna

ESCAPE!

I swear this will be my last post concerning World Youth Day but honestly, this evening they took up all of Queen's Park, most of University Avenue and a couple of television networks as they re-enacted the death of Jesus Christ. To the edification of thousands lining the sidewalks, some willing actor was 'bloodied' up, stripped down and hoisted up on the massive scarlet cross he'd just spent an hour or so lugging up Toronto's widest street (but I'm sure it was lighter than Christ's).

I'd give credit for this garish display if I thought for one second that it would remind those who run the Church of the lessons that Christ taught us. Whether you believe he was the Son of God, a prophet, an ordinary man or all of the above, Jesus Christ was put to death because he defended beggars and prostitutes while opposing intolerance, greed and power-mongering. I'm sorry but I don't see many current Church leaders following His example.

Fortunately, my Mr. Darcy has come to the rescue with a plan to go camping and ride rollercoasters at Darien Lake this weekend. This means we'll miss the Papal Mass but I'm sure a pricey DVD will be available at some point. Besides, we can't invite him along -- the Pope's hat would probably bar him from the best rides -- but I'm sure that once I'm dangling out of some contraption several storeys up, I'll be doing all the praying to God that He wants.

Labels: oh l'amour

IN THE MIDST OF THE HOLY

Strolling across Nathan Phillips Square after seeing Tara off, I found myself walking alongside three priests in plain black suits discussing their arrival in Toronto. One said he had just come from a press conference in Detroit concerning "the installation of the new bishop." I liked the word "installation," as if the Robo-Bishop 3000 is now operating. With the grim knowledge of exactly why the bishops are being reassigned these days, I listened in as the priest commented on how the new replacement "did very well" at a conference that "had more press than people" (and that's a distinction I loved). Even better, a homeless man then wandered into view with his palm outstretched, saying, "Please, Fathers, spare fifty cents?" The one closest to him waved him off with some sort of grunt. He did it again with a second panhandler a minute later. Of course it's not their job to tend to every homeless person who runs up to them but I couldn't help but frown at this.

Their conversation resumed when the third priest starting to enthuse about "the great restaurant" in the Sheraton. "I eat there whenever I'm in Toronto," he said and the others nodded in approval. And that's when the strange sense of deja vu I was experiencing sorted itself -- I'd heard all this before because I've spent time around Bay Street. These white men with wire-framed glasses and white hair discussing practical concerns with no music in their voices were no different from businessmen -- bankers for God. They had the same no-nonsense stride, the same air of entitlement, the same dark power suits. I'm sure I'm being unfair -- I don't know these men or anything about their lives -- but there are happy times in my life when I've briefly felt the presence of the divine, and this encounter was not one of them.

I'll admit I've been unduly resentful of the Catholic kids clogging our streets the last couple of days (walking through the downtown core has been a nightmare!) but World Youth Day is pushing my buttons (did I mention the nuns?). I've long been quite ambivalent about Gay Pride Day because so many aspects of it grate on me -- the impatient crowds, the commercial interests, the groupthink conformity that descends on otherwise thoughtful people. WYD features all this, but replaces Pride's carnival sexuality with exuberant righteousness, making it that much more creepy. Getting closer to home, I passed a group of twentysomethings with a Brazilian flag who began loudly singing, "We are the champions," and I felt myself shudder. Who are the champions? Brazilians? Catholics? Youth? And who have they defeated?

Labels: Trawna

QUEEN OF THIS SUMMER HOTEL

Busily preparing the house for the imminent arrival of my friend Tara from Hamilton, who'll be staying with me this evening. I'm not used to guests -- I bought a sofa-bed a couple years ago for exactly this purpose but tonight's the first time it will be used (as a bed, anyway). I imagine I'll be sleeping on it -- it's a safer bet than getting poor Tara out here for a possibly uncomfortable night's sleep. If anyone's going to be a guinea pig, it should be me. In the meantime, I've got to put my laundry away so I don't look like a complete and utter slob (still trying to find that happy medium between sloth and neat-freak) and get off to meet her at the bus station. It's been too long and I'm really looking forward to seeing her again.

Labels: friends

STORMY WEATHER

A prescription for rainy day blues:

1. A comfortable sofa or really big chair.
2. A thick book -- either an absorbing novel or, in this particular case, Andrew Solomon's fascinating 'atlas of depression', "The Noonday Demon."
3. A large window with a view of the rain and lightning.
4. A pot of tea, kept warm on the stove (hot chocolate is great, too; not sure about coffee).
5. "Queen of Soul," the 4-CD set of Aretha Franklin's Atlantic recordings.

Now, you could go with the majestic Billie Holliday (a day like this needs her version of "Stormy Weather"), but I felt the combo of rain, Billie and a big book on depression might be too big a downer. Conversely, Ella Fitzgerald seemed too upbeat (she's essential for any summer dinner or patio party). Aretha's voice matches this kind of weather -- rich melancholy punctuated by fiery outbursts. The woman is a damn legend!

Hope the rain stops before I have to go to work tonight but, thanks to my five-point plan, I don't mind being stuck indoors till then.

"YOU'VE GOT PORN!"

I'm certainly no prude, but it's true that I may be one of the few men who has no porn on his computer. Call me old-fashioned but, despite my love for both, I like to keep sex and computers quite far from each other and the things I have tried haven't changed my opinion.

Imagine my confusion, then, as I keep getting the most ridiculous sexual spam e-mail. I once received a solicitation from a bestiality web site, one of the few things in recent years that's actually shocked me. I don't go to these sites -- how do these people get my address? I mean, here's what just turned up in my mailbox:

"ENLARGEMENT BREAKTHROUGH! A man endowed with a 7-8" hammer is simply better equipped than a man with a 5-6" hammer. Would you rather have more than enough to get the job done or fall short. It's totally up to you. Our Methods are guaranteed to increase your size by 1-3". Come in here and see how."

Now maybe I'm just insulted that someone out there thinks I need this, but honestly, why am I getting this stuff?

A CHEER FOR THE POPE

Also from last night's party: in a room full of creative and silly people, one has to watch conversation segues. We were talking about the imminent World Youth Day, I explained my nun phobia and one guy enthused about how much gay sex it will provide Toronto this weekend ("Catholics are so lucky," he said, "They can do whatever they want, as long as they confess the next day!" I replied, "Yes, but don't forget the unbelievable guilt in between!" The Catholics present nodded in empathy). Somehow, we had segued into this topic after discussing the merits of the Kirsten Dunst cheerleader movie "Bring It On" (a brilliant guilty pleasure). Of course, then, we were soon devising World Youth Day cheers, picturing a squad of girls squealing, "He is the Pope / He's got the hat / He's got the boys / He is all that!" Now that I'd go to see!

Labels: Trawna

TALENT AND "TALENT"

Attended a birthday party/fundraiser for dancer/choreographer Lincoln Shand last night, raising funds for his independent company, Fluid Dance Works (there's a bio on Nicky Ray's old site). Lincoln set up the party as a talent night to showcase not only his own new work (clever boy!) but that of his friends. Oddly, for a room full of dancers, his was the only dance piece we saw that night. Despite his insistance that it wasn't quite finished, the performance dazzled everybody.

The other acts were comprised of a singer, a drag queen, a storyteller and a pair of stand-up comics. Or maybe three, since I wanted to offer more than my own meagre donation and decided to say a few words. I just did a little riff on dancing itself and PBS-style fundraising and the crowd really seemed to like it. It was a nice feeling to hold my own with the semi-pros. Afterwards, I received many compliments, which pleased me quite a bit, and a couple Seinfeld comparions, which didn't. I wasn't doing an impression or similar material and would be horrified if I came off as some copy. I like to think they just meant that, as one person said, I "seem natural" at it and equate that with Jerry Seinfeld, arguably today's archetypal stand-up comic. It's just that, compared to him, I'm Art Vandalay.

Still, glad to have succeeded in makin' 'em laugh and glad that Lincoln's party went so well. It's never too late to donate, by the way, so feel free to e-mail Lincoln for details on how you can help Fluid Dance Works this summer.

YOGA!

Just in from my Friday night yoga class, feeling wiped yet invigourated. Honestly, if you've ever entertained the notion of trying yoga, I can't recommend it highly enough. My muscle tone, cardio health and even peace of mind have all been greatly helped by my practice over the last couple years. I go twice a week, more often if I could -- I'm practically a zealot! Give it a go sometime.

WOMEN IN BLACK

I can hardly bear to leave the house during the day this past week. Not only has Toronto's legendary humid summer been extra nasty so far this year, but the streets are crawling with nuns. They're everywhere. As "World Youth Day" approaches, great (flocks? packs?gaggles?) of nuns roam our city streets, apparently impervious to the heat in their black robes. They scare me.

No reason they should, of course -- they seem jolly enough with each other, and surprisingly loud (you should hear them on a subway!). We've had The Flying Nun, The Singing Nun, Nuns on the Run, Nunsense and two whole Sister Acts. I'm sure it's just the penguin-robed principal of the Catholic School I attended as a kid -- the woman who beat my hands raw with a wooden ruler for minor infractions -- that's given me this strange phobia. Yes, that must be it.

I'll be much happier when the Pope and his loyal army of nuns have left our fair city after their World Youth Day next weekend, as will all the Jewish, Hindu, Islam and Buddhist youth who don't seem to count in this World. I want the Pope gone, the nuns gone, their wooden rulers gone and, if they can take this hellish heat with them as well, that would be a day truly worth celebrating.

DON'T BLAME GORE...

Sometimes it's hard to separate a compliment from an insult. A Salon review of social critic Joseph Epstein's new book "Snobbery: The American Version" quotes him referring to Gore Vidal as "the patrician trying to save a country so dreary as scarcely to be worth his efforts, though against his better judgment he continues to try."

Not having read the book yet, I assume that to be meant as a criticism but I enjoyed the line as a reminder of why I like Vidal so much. Of course he's a dreadful snob -- he truly believes that he knows more about American politics than almost anyone and that the country would benefit from him if it would only listen. If others don't think so, I don't see how a more humble presentation would help sway them. Painting Vidal's frustrated love for America as a snobbish disregard for it is just another sad example of attacking the messenger when you can't argue with his message.

FATHER'S DAY

Had a lengthy phone chat with my father this afternoon, following a much briefer one yesterday, and feel much better. While he still regrets that I felt forced to leave home at 19, thereby making life a lot more difficult for myself, he doesn't think that I've wasted my life or become a failure or anything of the stuff I was hearing earlier this week. While I can't picture him bragging about his gay pub bouncer/writer son at Italian-Catholic family gatherings, I'm relieved nevertheless that he's on my side.

The only sad part is that he has any regrets at all. Moving away from home when I did was a bone-headed thing to do but necessary at the time. I learned a lot and I'm not sorry I left. My staying at home would have been no guarantee of success, believe me. But he still thinks that and blames his wife for it on the rare occasions when he's not blaming himself. I find that very sad and tell him so, but he is who he is.

Since he'll never read this, I can safely say that I love my old man and that whatever flaws I might have would have been greater if not for his influence. Not directly, of course -- his frequent refrain, "I don't need anybody," makes him a hard guy to bond with -- but he's always tried to do the right thing under difficult circumstances. Even when I find myself frustrated with him for being such a martyr (when he thinks he's trying to be a saint), I still admire him deeply. Please don't say anything.

Labels: family

KICK ME WHEN I'M DOWN

Wasn't sure I wanted to mention the letter I received from the University of Toronto. I'd applied for an administrative job that I thought I was perfect for (a rare feeling for insecure little me) but, after a few weeks of silence, had given up hope on a reply. Checking the mailbox alongside my neighbour, I eagerly tore the letter open and read:

"Thank you very much for your application...We received a substantial number of applications and have selected a short list for interviews. While we will not be offering you an interview, we appreciate your interest in the program, and wish you the best in your endeavors."

The letter was addressed -- in three places -- to "Scott Gagostino." My neighbour was appalled but I could only crack a big smile and laugh at such a mean joke. I hope this doesn't sound maudlin because I'll be keeping the letter -- in a few years' time, when I'm somewhat financially secure and a bit happier, I'll be laughing my ass off at it.

Labels: Trawna

BASEBALL'S BEEN BERY, BERY GOOD TO ME

Spent my evening at the SkyDome watching the Blue Jays humiliate the Baltimore Orioles 7-1. I know, it's Baltimore so big deal, but it was fun. We were in the upper level, back from first base -- not the best seats but our noses weren't bleeding -- and surrounded by children. Oddly, that wasn't as awful as it might sound, since they made me laugh. Two kids were loudly rooting for the Jays with those creepy high-pitched little-boy-voices while two others were tepidly rooting for Baltimore ("You're gonna get us killed," one hissed to his noisier brother at one point, so I told him they'd be pretty safe with a Toronto crowd).

It was a genuine pleasure to see kids at the ballpark enjoying themselves, especially since -- when we first arrived -- two older kids were sitting behind us and heckling the game. "Can't get enough of this non...stop...action," one said, while the other whined, "If this was basketball, there'd be lots of music and running up and down the field." After about ten minutes of this, I was about to suggest they go look for some basketball but someone must have done it for me. I heard the first one mutter, "Oh, I forgot -- we're supposed to watch with rapt attention," and they both disappeared shortly. I silently gave him points for the "rapt attention" snark, though.

It's not hard to notice these days that baseball is in trouble. Sure, it was only a Wednesday night but there were fewer than 18,000 fans in a stadium that holds three times that and I felt the Jays' real emphasis on making the experience fun for kids. It's obvious that baseball has never truly recovered from that huge strike some years back -- during which we all realized that we didn't miss it all that much -- and it's starting to cut its losses and focus on grooming the next generation of fans. I wish the sport all the luck, as long as it doesn't start adding lots of music and running up and down the field.

Labels: Trawna

THE 24th CENTURY...TODAY!

It's hard to be a Star Trek fan (yes, I can admit that) because you inevitably come across information on something like the Official 3D Virtual Star Trek Convention. For $110 US, I could have the privilege of creating a computer-generated cartoon version of myself to represent me visually on screen as I chat online with other Star Trek fans and maybe, just maybe, some B-level celebrities:

"Vir-Con 2002 is proud to announce that Kate Mulgrew and Leonard Nimoy will be appearing via streaming video live from the stage at Creation’s convention in Las Vegas...and in our Vir-Con Virtual Grand Ballroom. With your Virtual Convention Pass or Pay-Per-Pass, you can be there too! Stay tuned– more celebrity announcements to come. Register today!"

So we now have the technology for Star Trek fans to attend their conventions without leaving their parents' basements. How will they ever decide which alien to appear as? And weren't the Borg supposed to be scary because they all had no personality and the same thoughts, all linked by computer? Me, I could never see myself in some creepy artificial environment without any human contact...and Vegas is so terribly hot, too! OK, I'll stop now -- it's all just too, too easy...

RADIO GA-GA

Been trying to listen to the radio off and on over the last week. I say 'trying' because I'm facing the fact that FM radio, as a pop format, is artistically dead. Radio introduced the younger me to new bands like Faith No More, Erasure, the Replacements and many more, often all on one station. Now we've got pop stations playing the same Sheryl Crow song every hour ("MIX 99.9" has a lie for a name); ghastly "lite-rock" stations playing mouldy ballads that we never enjoyed the first time round (does anyone wish to hear "Separate Lives" by Phil Collins EVER again?); dance music stations that alternate between melodically-challenged Euro-house thumping or misogynist, money-obsessed hip-hop (your bling-bling doesn't interest me); and poor Q-107 clinging to its archaic "Classic Rock!" format ("Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo": see "Separate Lives" above). Worst of all, there's some kind of strange pact that ensures that "Escape" by Enrique Iglesias gets played hourly on nearly ALL these stations. It's been horrible.

Maybe it's just a sad side-effect of getting older. Maybe I'm just old enough to recognize that, if Green Day seemed like a watered-down Ramones, then Sum 41 is a watered-down Green Day. Maybe I'm just becoming the cranky old man who refers to all new music as "noise". Not ready to accept that just yet, though. I know crap when I hear it and "Escape" is crap.

I'm happy to say, however, that I AM listening to the radio as I type this, listening to "Canada's Jazz Station," JAZZ-FM 91.1 in Toronto. I'd hate to give up pop but right now, Dizzy Gillespie sounds great.

Labels: Trawna

DISAPPOINTED

Tonight, my stepmother informed me that she and my father had a fight last week in which my father blamed her for the disappointing lives of my sister and I (neither of us are making wads of money at the moment). In his logic, we would have turned out just fine if our stepmother hadn't been meddling like that Scooby Doo gang -- a nice bit of projection, no? She defended herself, of course, but only on the charge of responsibility -- she loathes my sister and didn't exactly make like Roger Daltrey and proclaim that the kids are alright.

It's been hours and I still don't know how to feel about it all. There's anger, obviously, at being used as a stick to beat my stepmother with (figuratively, of course). There's guilt, since the whole point would be moot if I were the toast of the town. Mostly, there's intense disappointment. Is it the natural order of things for children to disappoint the expectations of their parents? And, if so, what happens when the parents disappoint the children?

Nothing new there, I'm afraid -- my expections were dashed long ago -- but it raises strange questions. While my childhood was certainly rocky, it was hardly a traumatic one and I'm not one of these Oprah guests who blames his failings on poor parenting. I always joked that, if I blamed my parents for my shortcomings, I'd logically have to thank them for my good points, but I won't. While my parents were obviously involved in my development, I did most of the heavy lifting from a young age onwards. I may not be the Jay Gatsby self-made man and my life's not fantastic these days but I'm generally happy with how I turned out. I wish my parents felt the same way but, instead, they seem to consider me a failure and blame themselves (or each other) for it. So one of these arguments is wrong, but which? How do know if (or when) you're a failure? And wouldn't it be harder to become a success when your loved ones are convinced you're worthless? And, if so, wouldn't that just be a convenient excuse for giving up? And can you know they feel this way and love them nevertheless?

My head hurts...I'm going to sleep...

TABOO TOPICS

Making chit-chat with a man at the bar this evening who brought up the "Queer as Folk" series, mentioning that it wouldn't be back until April 2003. "Hopefully they'll spend the next year writing better scripts," I said. The man then told me he works on the show. Oops.

I've learned, however, that when you put your foot in your mouth, it's best to just keep talking through the sole. I explained that my low opinion of QAF came directly from my appreciation for what little IS good about it -- I just want it to improve, starting with better writing. I was relieved as he soon admitted that, yes, the second season was "really rushed" and the scripts would arrive days before filming. "And it showed," I pronounced before changing the topic quickly.

As a friend explained a bit later, "Never say ANYTHING about 'Queer as Folk' -- good OR bad. People either love it or hate it and you'll just get in a stupid argument either way." Fair enough, though it makes me worry that, if mediocre TV shows have now joined religion and politics as subjects to avoid at dinner parties, what CAN you talk about in polite company these days?