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)...


   Wednesday, November 27, 2002

GOTCHA!

As Darcy and I discovered this past weekend, Niagara Falls is still one of the strangest places to spend time in – alternately pathetic and beautiful – but eating there takes a bit of work. Every restaurant is either a dive or a Burger King. I’m not usually that fussy about dinner but this place quickly turned me into a food critic.

Fortunately, we did get one solid meal at a decent steak and seafood place called Sparks, “courtesy” of the Howard Johnson’s we stayed at. I put courtesy in quotes because we soon discovered that the terrific $35-50 coupons we were given by the hotel to lure us in merely offset the gouging. Every entrée at the restaurant was over $25 and bacon and eggs at the Denny’s next door went for $15! One look at a menu and I instantly recalled the phrase “tourist trap” (the hotel and restaurants obviously being in cahoots). So take this sucker’s advice: if you’re going to Niagara Falls anytime soon, pack a picnic basket.

Labels: oh l'amour

FLY ME TO THE MOON

Just got back from seeing Tony Bennett perform in the newly-refurbished Roy Thompson Hall. It's hard to convey in words the joy that radiates from this man -- he is warm and charming and thrilled to have spent a lifetime singing for people who love him in return. Listening to his stories and songs was pure pleasure. That the concert was a birthday gift for my father from Josie and me made it doubly so. The three of us had a wonderful night.

I'll go on about it a bit more later but it's off to bed -- after an early shift at the record store tomorrow, I'm off to Niagara Falls for a kitschy anniversary weekend with the boyfriend. It's been a year since that exciting weekend when I met Darcy and definitely, as he says, a "rocky" one but I'm still happy when I'm with him. Moreso when we can slip away from the city and be alone together.

Labels: family, introspective, music, oh l'amour

BUT "INSIDE", IT'S SO DELIGHTFUL...

We've happily reached the end of Toronto's first snowfall weekend this winter but it was a bit of a slog, alright. True, Mayor Mel didn't have to call in the army this time to dig us out but I did find myself shovelling the sidewalk this afternoon, which I felt at least deserved a police investigation. Especially funny since, up until that point, I was enjoying being indoors and watching the snow fall outside my window. It's definitely a love-hate relationship.

I absolutely loathe winter but I must admit that I've enjoyed walking home in the snow the last two nights. Delicately navigating icy stretches of sidewalk gave me a smug feeling of superiority, knowing that -- unlike these people -- I had done some snow shovelling, making the city safer, tidier and even more in debt to me. Oddly, frozen sidewalks also make you aware of just how many dogs are out there -- all those yellow spots make the paths look like Twister mats with the other colours missing. I'd been teased at work for leaving with an umbrella ("It's only snow") but I defended myself: "It's a twenty-minute walk and I'll be drenched by the time I'm home," I said, "so if using an umbrella makes me a fussy queen, so be it!" I immediately realized that fussy queens tend to use phrases like "so be it." At least one person understood: "I was sick of the snow after four flakes!"

But that's too harsh -- somehow, it all seems worth it when you have all those little snowflakes swirling around you. Looking up, you can see them in the streetlights, reflecting the glow and making the air shimmer. It so happened that I was noticing this while listening to one of my favourite songs to stroll around the city with. It's a club tune called "Inside All The People" by Planet Funk that features a dreamy wash of synth, a smooth percolating beat and one little lyrical detail that I love -- a clubgoer who's "feeling kinda lonely / with a vodka and Coke." I like the specificity of that line but mostly the swirly vibe of the song that seems to match the dancing flakes of snow. Give me that song, a good pair of boots and my umbrella and I'll get through this winter just fine.

I'M AFRAID OF MY CEREAL

There's a scene in David Cronenberg's version of "The Fly" in which Geena Davis eats a piece of steak that's been passed through an experimental "matter transporter." She spits the meat out, however, because it tastes "wrong." Apparently, something gets lost in the translation when the machine beamed the beef from one point to another. Creepy foreshadowing ensues.

I thought of this scene during my breakfast this morning as I ate a bowl of Kellogg's "Red Berries Special K." This new cereal features slices of dehydrated strawberries but, while they look like strawberries and even taste like strawberries, there's something disturbingly synthetic about them. I've no reason to doubt the box when it shrieks "REAL strawberries" but, like that Cronenberg steak, something got lost in the trip from field to table.

THAT FIRE-PROOF BRA

During my downtown walks each day, I try to avoid giving too much attention to the relentless flashes of pixelboard displays, lightboxes, billboards, painted streetcars and every other possible venue for advertising. I would, after all, tune out a few dozen people shrieking at me at once, and all this visual display strikes me as no different.

Every so often, however, an ad does grab me – sometimes because it’s clever but usually because it’s bizarre – and there’s an ad in the Eaton Centre that made me stop. It features a dark-haired woman wearing a black bra with her arms folded and a defiant stare towards the viewer. The caption reads, “Burn my bra? Just try.”

Well, it’s obvious she means business but who is this directed towards? Is she protecting herself from horndogs trying to get her ya-yas out with a flamethrower? Or is her underwear in danger from middle-aged militant feminists trying to recapture their 1970’s bra-burning hey-day?

I’m guessing the message here is that she’s an independent woman of today who’s freely chosen to give the boys in the mall some eye-candy. She doesn’t need all that feminist bras-on-fire nonsense. Why would she? Modelling is the one field where it’s the men who get paid less. You go, girl!

WHEN A STRANGER CALLS

Have you checked the parents? Being so busy, I hadn't called mine for a couple of weeks. One more thing for Captain Procrastinator here to get around to, I figured, even as my father was leaving me one of those plaintive answering machine messages of his ("Hey bud...[long pause]...it's your father...[longer pause]...just checking to see if you're alive...").

Meanwhile, I'd also neglected to deposit a paycheque at the bank. Using their ATM machines has led to bounced cheques on more than one occasion (I'm looking at you, TD Canada Trust!) so these days I insist on speaking to an actual teller. Due to my dallying, however, I'd missed a loan payment and, after waiting over a week, the bank decided to check their contact list and phone my father to ask about me. With that call (and my lack of the same), my dad was nearly convinced I was dead. Much reassuring ensued.

It's particularly bad timing on my part since this has been a rough day for him -- the Republican wins in last night's US midterm elections have my dad worried for the wildlife in Alaska, potential victims of our lust for oil. With no Democrat majority to hold him back any longer, Bush is looking northward and ready to drill. I'm as worried as my father is about this, even if I'm not phoning to tell him so.

Labels: family, George W Bush, introspective, money - lack thereof

MIKE ELLIOTT, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU

One of the most frustrating things for any artist (aside from the lack of a regular paycheque) is the absence of feedback. If you're working alone on a novel, a painting, a monologue, a song or what-have-you, it's frustrating to be without colleagues egging you on. With that in mind, imagine how happy I was to discover that -- in the past two weeks of blog-silence here -- my little ramblings have actually been missed by a couple of people.

Particular thanks go out to my pal Mike Elliott, who actually described himself as "a fan." I was so pleased -- I've had encouragement, I've even had praise, but I've never had a fan. So, to Mike and everyone else, I hereby pledge that, while I might miss a day or two with my current (and insane) schedule, I will not let another two weeks lapse without writing. After all, I owe it to my fan!

Besides, it's quid pro quo, since Mike provides a valuable service for his gay friends by sending along the link to the Toronto Sun's "Sunshine Boy" page whenever there's a particularly exciting photo. I love the Sunshine Boy page because a) obviously, there is the rare bit of gorgeousness, but b) it reveals our lingering gender biases in a particularly hilarious way: the models clearly want to look all manly and natural while they simultaneously shave down and gloss up for the camera like cheesecake girls. Meanwhile, each photo is accompanied by a brief and often ludicrous bio that allows us to play "spot the gay man." Take today's model, for example:

"Warren, 27, is a single Virgo who enjoys cooking, running, martial arts, weight training, and making money. Currently a high school teacher, he seeks sexiness and fashion sense in a mate."

Ding! Ding! Ding! I think we have a winner -- not just for the gender-neutral language but for listing "fashion sense" as a requirement. Correct me if I'm wrong, straight guys, but would you really turn away a babe for wearing white after Labour Day? I didn't think so. I am, however, somewhat baffled by a man who lists making money as a hobby. Does he not enjoy the spending part? Give me a call, Warren, I'll be happy to help you out.

Until then, thanks again, Mike, and I'll see what I can do to make my site your # 2 choice!

Labels: Trawna