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)...


   Thursday, August 28, 2003

QUEER HAIR FOR THE STRAIGHT (ACTING) GUY

Don't ask me why I did it. I don't even know myself. I've always skirted the danger of dullness (successfully?) in order to remain solid and dependable so what's with suddenly bleaching my hair blond? Not totally, of course -- I could never be so radical -- but last night I had my hairdresser streak out my hair. The funny part is that I'm more shocked by my sudden change in hair style than everyone else is -- they find it vaguely attractive while wondering what drove me to it. This summer's just been such a letdown, really, that I guess I needed to do something, anything, to grab some beach-surfer vibe from it. If it has to be merely my hair, so be it.

STILL MORE BLACKOUT

Here's a little CBC story on the sensible hopes of environmentalists that we the public won't rev up our power levels back to overload now that the immediate electricity shortage has eased. I for one have been lobbying to keep the lights low in the store but my road is starting to shift uphill...

Meanwhile, everyone continues to ask why, why, WHY this horror happened, which I find hilarious. Ontario energy critics warned years ago that rampant deregulation with no accountability was a terrible idea -- look what happened in California this past decade. Instead, Mike Harris and his greedy Tory half-wits gave control over our power lines to profit-hungry private enterprise and the same old story happened all over again.

Brilliant journalist Greg Palast outlined a lot of this in his essay, "California Reamin': Deregulation and the Power Pirates," contained in his book, The Best Democracy Money Can Buy. It's fair and balanced, so check it out.

THE PEOPLE IN MY NEIGHBOURHOOD

I wandered by the Buskerfest going on in my neighbourhood this evening and witnessed a pair of Calgary comics named Eric and Derek who call themselves Hot Nuts and Popcorn. They were wearing underwear and bound together by a massive amount of Saran Wrap -- the kind of thing you tend to notice on the street. They asked someone from the crowd to time their Houdini-esque escape, wriggling free in under ninety seconds in a very funny but vaguely arousing bit of physical comedy. I loved how the crowd took it all in stride and applauded wildly.

As the duo wrapped up (no pun intended), I ran into Linda the librarian who was pleased to see me. I haven't been to the library in quite a while, so Linda insisted I let her buy me a beer and we ended up chatting for about an hour at one of the outdoor patio tables on Front Street. I pick on Toronto a lot but evenings like this remind me why I stay here.

Labels: Trawna

JUDGMENT DAY

I saw a movie on television the other night called The Rapture, one I'd heard about for some time but had never seen at the video store. Mimi Rogers plays a bored woman looking for meaning in her life, starting with group sex and leading to Christian fundamentalism. Such a wild pendulum swing is made totally plausible by Rogers' terrific performance and by the way the film deals matter-of-factly with issues of faith, identity and sexuality. I was waiting for it to either bolster my own opinions or challenge them, but it did neither -- the plot going in directions I had to really work with. It's an amazing movie that made me think about my own experiences and direction, the way a great film often can.

What struck me immediately is how it pinpointed my fear of judgment. The idea of a fundamentalist Judgment Day is horrifying to me (and no doubt to all the people it keeps in line, as well). I can't believe in a god who so coldly picks his favourites and punishes his disappointments, but doesn't nature do that all the time? Life is routinely generous with some, cruel to others, and a Judgment Day scenario is just one way, as Jung put it, "to light a candle of meaning in the darkness of mere being." The eerie question "The Rapture" poses is, 'What if they're right?'

I don't know what I'd do, frankly, but I do know that judgment -- or, more accurately, avoiding judgment -- is what drives me. I judge the people around me about half as harshly as I judge myself, and that's about half as much as I used to, years ago. Why has all this bank-loan-credit-rating business been so painful to me? Because of the frustration that my financial struggles, my attempts to make things right from mistakes made over a decade ago, can be so quickly and easily judged and dismissed by people unknown. Why am I not pouring my energies into finding a better job instead of grinding away in the two that I have? Because of that fear I get in job interviews when the people behind the desk skim over my resume and say, "Wow, you've done a little of everything, haven't you?" and I know they don't mean it as a compliment. Why am I not spending what little free time I have working on a novel or something of value? Because of the doubt that it would mean anything to someone, that it would be glanced at and tossed to one side, unread.

This fear of judgment is paralyzing yet so obviously ridiculous because, while you the reader may be saying, "Jesus man, just shut up and do it anyway!", it's the voice in my own head that says it loudest of all. It's a strange kind of safety -- no one can judge me because I'm too busy doing it myself.

Labels: religion

MY GLASS HOUSE IS SO COMFORTABLE

Mikey doesn't like me. He's the twenty-year-old punk kid at the record store with the wild hair and the patch of hair hanging off his chin. He's liked by everyone at the store but not respected by anyone at the store, because he just does so little work. As Gabe the manager jokes, "There's lazy, and then there's Mike D."

For a long time, I just shrugged at this. "He's a twenty-year-old punk kid," I'd say, "He'll grow out of it." Soon, however, we hired A.J. and -- just recently -- Adam, two other guys in their very-early twenties, and discovered that they are really good at what they do. They're the perfect record store employees and Mike D ends up looking like, well, Mike D. He just continues to do as little as possible while clowning around to stay on our ever-shrinking good sides.

I began to realize that Mike D really bothers me that way because I'm reminded of how little work I ended up doing in my office job days, when I was left with no responsibilities, no supervision, no human contact and no reason to care. Despite being very well-liked around the office, my contract was never renewed because, frankly, there was very little for me to do and it was very obvious that I'd stopped looking for more. I had allowed myself to become useless and I cringe to think back on that.

Some time ago, unwittingly at first, I started picking on Mike D. While everyone else disparaged his lack of work ethic behind his back, I started openly making fun of him whenever his clowning interfered with my own work, which is often. Tough love, or just some passive-aggressive revenge? Perhaps a bit of both. I just figure that, if he can't develop a work ethic in our store (hardly a sweatshop), he'll be eaten alive in 'the real world.'

Of course, that just begs the question why I'm not devoting such energy to fixing my own life but, wow, look at the time! We'll do this again soon...

WHAT A LITTLE MOONLIGHT CAN DO

With the blazing heat this week, I decided to cut through the Eaton Centre to get to work. Normally, I'd rather claw my way through a Peruvian jungle than spend much time in that mall but, on this particular morning, all the major florescent lighting was turned off and the stores were all gently lit by regular bulbs and signage. Suddenly, the mall felt relaxing, a pleasing place to stroll through. I stopped for a coffee and some muffins, chatted with the counter guy about the blackout and enjoyed how mellow I felt.

The whole downtown's been like that this week. While some have resisted Ernie Eves' directive to cut business power usage in half, most of us are finding that less lighting -- especially less tube lighting -- has been pleasant, softer on the eyes and the nerves. I've always been somewhat of an electricity Nazi -- never having more than two lights on in my home at any given time -- and it feels strange to be proven right this past week, both in the worst-case sense with the blackout and in the best sense, with this more-comfortable work week. "Let's have another blackout!" he enthused, to a completely-silent audience...

THE SNIDE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

If you haven't checked out The Onion lately...well that's sad. You should; it's funny. Probably my favourite feature -- aside from this week's headline, "Blackout Survivors Tell Stories Of Harrowing Inconvenience" -- is the regular column, What Do You Think? Here, the same six people on the street weigh in on the hot-button topics of the day, like the Canadian prescription drug ban and gay bishop Gene Robinson. That blank expression on the older lady's face still breaks me every Wednesday.

Labels: Canada

BACK TO ABNORMAL

After skipping work last night, I showed up at the pub tonight fifteen minutes early and was greeted by fellow doormen Rob and Lloyd and my boss Earl. All three looked at their watches with mock horror and rubbing of eyes as I walked up. "Yeah, yeah," I said. "We should have a power outage every day!" squealed Lloyd. "Is it really you?" asked Earl, as he reached out to touch my arm. Okay, I'm never early. I get it.

The bar ran smoothly tonight -- our blackout evacuation plans unnecessary -- though I was bored silly guarding the bathroom from unwanted drinks and weirdos. Nothing out of the ordinary tonight; my only problem was another appearance by one of our regulars, the self-absorbed geek who whines about his dull life to anyone who'll listen and many who don't. (Jeez, I think to myself, just get a blog already like I do!) Self-pity is hard enough to take here, but plain toxic in person. Worse yet, any advice I try to give goes unheeded since I can barely get a word in. I've learned to just nod and say "wow" at occasional intervals. A typical exchange will go something like this:

HIM: "I had to wait 35 minutes for a bus from Eglington yesterday. It was horrible."
ME: "Yeah, a lot of people were stranded downtown altogether. They couldn't get out at all."
HIM: "After about twenty minutes of waiting, I couldn't believe there weren't more buses. It was horrible."
ME: (nodding) "Wow."

After nearly an hour of this tonight, I actually slipped out the second door after 2 a.m. so I could punch out and slink away like a coward, which I am. Everyone else at the pub avoids this guy outright and they ask me why I don't just tell him to piss off, but I can't. He's just this side of harmless, only wanting someone to listen. And don't we all? I suppose the difference is communication: I write my blog partly to capture and express what I'm thinking or feeling right now but also in hopes that people will respond with thoughts and feelings of their own. Many have, which makes me happy, but talking to this guy depresses me. He has no interest in my opinion -- only my agreement -- so the lack of fairness in the conversation gets hard to take. Plus, believe it or not, I am trying to do a job there.

THE NIGHT THE LIGHTS WENT OUT IN TORONTO, NEW YORK, CLEVELAND, etc.

Well, wasn't that something?

Nothing's better for the soul than an occasional reminder of how fragile our little existences can be, and I'm proud of how well our beleagured city dealt with its latest crisis. People were spontaneously walking out into street intersections and directing traffic -- you gotta love that. If you're curious what I saw during the blackout (and why else would you be reading this if you weren't?), here's a rough timeline:

4 pm
After five hours at the store, I headed over to the sub shop on Dundas for a late lunch. The counter guy put my sandwich in the microwave to heat it up a bit and -- no word of a lie -- the power went out when he pressed the microwave button. He looked like a deer in the (lack of?) headlights. "You seem to have blown a fuse," I finally said. "No, no," he stammered, "It's the whole store! Why the whole store?" I poked my head out the door to see his neighbours doing the same and another customer came in and told us the street traffic lights were out. "I just got a call from a friend at Yonge and Eglington who says the power's out up there, too," she said. Figuring the record store would be dark, I scarfed down my sub and headed back.

5 pm
Feeling pretty smug in that my tasks require no computer or electrical devices, I was brought down to earth by the near-total lack of light in the store. The emergency lights just weren't bright enough to work by and we all decided to go home. The entire black-polo-shirted staff of World's Biggest Bookstore were lined up at the ice cream truck so I joined them. The sidewalks were crammed with people, motorists were all grid-locked in around us and one guy got out of his car and started screaming at the truck in front of him. It occured to me that these were the two main ways to handle a crisis: relax and get some ice cream, or break down and start ranting. Chocolate soft serve has never tasted better.

6 pm
Stood around with Stan on Yonge and Richmond, trying to hail a cab for Gabe, the assistant manager. At nearly six months pregnant, she was in no condition to walk home to Queen and Roncesvalles. I suggested she go over to the Sheraton and rest in the lobby while the staff (hopefully) helped her get a taxi, but Stan insisted that one would have to come along. Many did, but the ones that weren't full already out-and-out refused to stop. I ran over to one Chinese driver, stuck in traffic, and he started wailing that the boss had insisted he get the cab back to the garage. "I have problem! I have problem!" he yelled with his hands in the air. I agreed with him and looked elsewhere, running out into the street to plead with drivers to at least radio their offices. One guy simply drove away from me but, with the roads clogged, I easily jogged up beside him, matching his speed. "I have a pregnant woman in thirty-degree heat for over half an hour now! She can't take this!," I yelled, "Can't you radio for another cab down here?" "It doesn't matter," he yelled back (with two Indian women cowering in the back seat from me, the crazy man), "The dispatcher won't answer!" Nice. Stan finally told me that he'd walk Gabe down to Front Street -- between the Royal York hotel and Union Station, there would have to be at least one empty taxi. Right?

7 pm
After filling the big Brita filter in the fridge with water (just in case) and cracking open every window in the apartment, I flopped down on the bed and wondered if I'd be at the pub later. I called, but there was no answer. I called my boss at home, but there was no answer. I called my worry-prone father to let him know that everything was fine but he seemed puzzled over why I'd bothered. I explained what I'd just been through with Gabe and the entire story. I paused at one point and he said, "Is anything wrong?" "What do you mean?" I asked. "Is anything wrong?" he repeated. "I just told you what's wrong!" I said. "Oh, it'll be fine," he said, as if I were panicking. I still never get my dad -- he always seems to think there's some terrible problem going on but stays totally unperturbed when an actual problem arrives. Maybe the constant worrying keeps him cool in a crisis, I don't know. Meanwhile, I kept calling the pub -- no answer.

8 pm
Feeling that impotent desire to help without any real means of doing so, I decided to see if my neighbours had enough candles. I'm quite fond of the odd candlelight dinner or reading on the sofa with lots of warm light, so I keep a couple boxes of the ones from Ikea on hand. I went door-to-door around my floor and a couple others and was dismayed at how my neighbours first thought I was trying to sell them the candles. "No, no," I kept insisting, "I just want to make sure you have some if you need them." They seemed to find that peculiar, which disappointed me, but many were grateful. I went down to the courtyard last, where a large group of people were sitting out in the fading sunlight. "I hear you're the Candle Man," one neighbour said and, though I cringed at the thought of that nickname sticking with me, it felt good to be helping out, even in this tiny way.

9 pm
After making an "executive decision" to stay home, I waited for the pub's inevitable "where the hell are you?" call, but nothing came. I put batteries in the radio and listened to the news station for a while, laughing out loud at Mayor Mel's usual idiocy. On the subject of water conservation, he reminded the listeners not to water their lawns or wash their cars for a while -- clearly, the two priorities at the top of any ordinary person's to-do list during a nation-wide power shortage. "And don't use candles!" he blurted out. I obviously leaned forward at that point. "We have to preserve our resources right now," he continued. "Candles? A resource?" I thought. Lastman instead recommended going out to the hardware stores for battery-powered flashlights because "a kid could knock over a candle and start a fire." If Mel wasn't so busy washing his car, I figured, he'd have noticed that the hardware stores -- and everything else -- were all closed. Meanwhile, Michael Coren was busily downplaying his callers' terrorist-attack theories with tact and good sense. I hate it when he makes me like him.

10 pm
Basked in the candlelight inside and the remarkable darkness outside my window -- even with the bank towers lit up with their own generators, the dark city felt gothic. I turned to the jazz station, made some tuna sandwiches and resumed reading the third Harry Potter book. I was actually enjoying myself until the jazz station abruptly went to static. I literally didn't like the sound of that. There was a knock on the door and I opened it to see a wide-eyed young black woman and her small boy. "They said at the office you might have some spare candles?" she said very hesitantly. I glanced back at my living room, lit like the Police's "Wrapped Around Your Finger" video. "Of course!" I announced and handed her a few, feeling most magnanimous. This was the ego equivalent of deep-tissue massage and I enjoyed it, guilt-free like frozen yogurt. After a while, I climbed up the stairs to the roof-deck, astonished by the black city spread out before me and by the amount of traffic still out there. I wouldn't be out driving in that even if I were being paid.

11 pm
Called Gabe to see if she got home in one piece but got a machine. Called Stan to see if he got Gabe home in one piece and he explained how that nightmare had continued. No taxi at Union Station was taking anyone, except for one guy who was demanding $100 for each ride. "That prick!" Stan snarled. He finally walked her over to the Co-op Cab garage at King and Spadina. "King and Spadina!" I said, "She could've nearly walked home!" "I know!" he hollered, "It was awful!" But she did make it home -- like my roommate, who slammed the door shut behind him and began huffing about the three-hour trip home on a crowded bus. "From Mississauga?" I said, "In three hours? You were lucky, I'm afraid to say." He began the typical "how-could-the-powers-that-be-allow-this-to-happen?" rant. "There's too many people and too many cars," he declared, pausing to make fun of all the candles in the apartment. "What would you prefer?" I asked, and told him about the mayor's "out-out-brief-candle" babble. Jerry listened, then went to take a shower, which I found mind-boggling after a discussion of conservation. Feeling wide-awake and frankly a bit trapped, I decided to check out the dark streets. "Is that a good idea?" Jerry asked, "Aren't you afraid of being mugged by looters or some trans-gendered persons?" I'm convinced he either says this stuff to piss me off or he's insane. Probably both.

Midnight
The downtown was deliciously eerie. On Richmond Street, the only light came from the sweep of car headlights or the extra-strange red glow from their tail-lights as they passed. The giant, classic Sam the Record Man sign was dark, the entire Eaton Centre black. With so much "light pollution" gone, you could see the stars in the sky. It's been a long time for me and they were beautiful, especially the bright orange dot of Mars, so visible for the first time in 60,000 years. I snapped photos of the downtown -- not knowing if any would turn out -- because the sight of the abandoned streetcars was too peculiar not to try and capture. I walked over to "the ghetto" where, as always, gay people were making their own fun: a near-campfire on a streetcorner, making out in the street and a group of people dancing in the parking lot across from my pub to a portable CD player. As I stood in front of the pub, I was surprised by a hello-tap on the back from the-boy-I-have-a-crush-on, the latest in an apparently-endless line of guys younger than me and not terribly interested in me. This is not a good pattern but I can't seem to help who I so-very-occasionally fall for. Fortunately, he's one of those preferred guys who is in his early twenties but thinks like someone in his early thirties (unlike me, concerned that I'm the exact opposite). We chatted with Miss Jackee Baker and Amanda Roberts, the two drag queens who were supposed to perform at the pub that night, before moving on.

1 am
The two of us continued on our stroll and he asked me for advice regarding a crush of his own. It's the classic story: boy meets boy, boy likes boy, boy likes some other boy, so first boy keeps his mouth shut. In my too-many years of dating, however, I've learned to relax about these things. I liked being his shoulder to lean on and there will always be someone else coming along later -- maybe even someone my own age. Meanwhile, it's strangely comforting to know that, even as the Premier declares a state of emergency in Ontario, some things in life never change. I walked home and smiled at the big condo tower next door, just a few of its dozens of black windows lit by tiny flickers of candlelight.

2 am
Laid on top of my sheets, trying to get to sleep in a heat I am just not used to (except for that AC fiasco at the store, but I wasn't trying to sleep then). Didn't realize just how spoiled I've been by central heating and cooling, nor by how much happier I am under my blankie.

This afternoon
Back to normal? Sort of. Stan, Gabe and I sat in the dark store with the doors locked from ten till noon -- well, okay, 10:30, since I was late after trying to get my fish-tank pump working again in my home's restored power. "It was either be late," I told my bosses, "or have my fish die choking on their own excrement." I got no argument, only jealousy that my building was back on-line but not much else.

So I've got the day off -- a healthy chunk of it spent detailing all this -- and I plan to go home, make some iced tea, keep the AC off (okay, maybe just really low), avoid using much water and get back to that Harry Potter book. Let's hope the pub's open tonight so I don't go broke. In the meantime, drop me a line and let me know how your evening went.

Labels: bookworm, family, friends, insanity, oh l'amour, Trawna, working girl

NOW I KNOW WHO POLISHES THE MARBLE

Following on from my Vatican rant on August 1, I see that the Ontario Consultants on Religious Tolerance have some fine essays on the gay marriage debate. What really surprised me, though, is their history lesson on another social debate the Catholic Church took the wrong side on: slavery! It's a fascinating read but here's the money quote, straight from the 1866 Vatican:

"Slavery itself...is not at all contrary to the natural and divine law...The purchaser [of the slave] should carefully examine whether the slave who is put up for sale has been justly or unjustly deprived of his liberty, and that the vendor should do nothing which might endanger the life, virtue, or Catholic faith of the slave."

WHO SAYS CLASS IS DEAD?


The New York Post's gossip columnist Cindy Adams quotes Ann Coulter, the blonde right-wing-harpie-du-jour, weighing in on Arnold Schwarzenegger's run for office:

"I've seen photos of Arnold naked. Trust me, it's true what they say about steroids. Matt Drudge has them. I think he'll release them just before the election."

I still don't know what to make of California's political circus freakshow but Ann makes me feel sorry for the Terminator, which is just plain wrong.

FROM THE RANDOM PLUG DEPT.

Just like his films, David Lynch's website leaves you wondering whether he's one of the coolest people on earth or a complete nut-job (especially the Flash animation of him jumping). And I need that "Eraserhead" DVD for Christmas, everyone.

GO GET 'EM, AL

My favourite latest bizarre lawsuit comes from the Fox News network. They're trying to block comedian Al Franken's snarky new book, "Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them: A Fair and Balanced Look at the Right," by claiming they own the phrase"fair and balanced." God knows Fox News needs that self-description, since you wouldn't know it from watching.

THAT WAS WAY HARSH

The air conditioning works at the store and we all feel much better. I don't take back a single comment from Tuesday, of course, but I do wish I could be more sanguine about such things. Stan likes to quote John Huston at me: "There, there, save your tears for something that matters." I simply play the same game and quote Mae West, when asked how she stayed so young: "Honey, you got to find out what ages you and send that bitch away."

Despite that aggravating store, I'm feeling pretty young this week -- the rent's paid, the bills are almost all caught up, the student loan's down to $240 and I even bought a couple CD's with money left over. Meanwhile, my computer's in the process of being repaired and I'm going to a friend's barbeque on Saturday. Life feels mellow indeed, and what summer ought to be, no?

OVERHEATED

I try not to bitch about my job(s). In Toronto, the sound of people complaining about their low-wage, high-aggravation, soul-numbing careers is the sound of breathing -- so constant as to be almost undetectable. Today, however, I must bitch. Feel free to tune out now, cause here I go!

The middle-aged Jewish brothers who own and run our little record store chain are so goddamned cheap. Yes, that's probably an anti-semitic slur but it's also the truth. What's worse is that their business is being run into the ground -- by both that very cheapness and by the one guy's son, a sterling example of why nepotism is usually a bad idea. As the chain's DVD buyer, he refuses to stock "expensive" items that sell while filling our stores with low-cost dreck that doesn't. Meanwhile, his inept attempts to haggle with the movie studios have left us with an embargo on Disney discs and a cash-on-delivery policy with Universal. This is no way to run a business, but I suppose I should applaud his father for being such a loving parent that he turns a blind eye to his son's costly stupidity.

This is all preamble, though -- the big issue is the heat. Despite being told over a year ago that the motor for the air conditioner in the Yonge Street store is too small, the brothers grim continue to pay repairmen to come in and patch it together with band-aids every few weeks. The working conditions over the last three days in that store have been unbearable and, unsurprisingly, the inspiration for this bitter rant. And I'm the one who loves the hot weather! Gabe, the assistant manager, is pregnant and actually vomited from the heat this afternoon. On the civic holiday yesterday, we worked all day in near 40-degree temperatures, making no money -- since no customers would stay no longer than two minutes -- and getting paid our regular, paltry amount. When we begged them to send the repairman, we were told that they couldn't because they'd have to pay him double for the holiday. Oh, the irony.

Call me a whiner if you must, but I loathe these guys with a hatred I haven't felt for a very long time, that sort of impotent rage the average helpless working stiff feels when his bosses lack all honour. When "Junior" the boy wonder called for Stan this afternoon, Gabe answered the phone. "How's it going, Gabe?" he asked. "It's hot," she snarled. "Whatever," he said, "Where's Stan?" Every day at this store is a lesson in how greedy, stupid, venal and cheap retail owners can be and that bottom of the barrel just keeps getting lower and lower.

Labels: Trawna

SPEAK OF THE DEVIL

Seems I've got religion on the brain this week -- maybe the huge failure of that new Jennifer Lopez/Ben Affleck movie has me believing in God again. No, after my comments on religion in film last week, and how we shouldn't judge a movie till we see it, comes a piece in the Guardian on Mel Gibson's new film about the death of Christ. Jewish leaders are apparently quite nervous that Mel's movie depicts their people as bloodthirsty Christ-killers and it's hard to chide their paranoia when he says things like this:

"It may [offend Jewish people]. It's not meant to. I think it's meant to just tell the truth... Anybody who transgresses has to look at their own part or look at their own culpability."

Uh oh. Once again, we must not judge Mel's movie until we've actually seen it but it's okay to be wary of it, right?

THE POPE TOTALLY HATES ME!

Wow, it looks like the Vatican gang have stopped polishing their gold cups and marble floors just long enough to go totally freakin' crazy -- I mean, how else to explain this?

I've been used to hearing the usual bleatings about how society will crumble into dust over my newly-granted right to marry someone I might actually love. Big deal. What surprises me now is the venom spewing from His Popeness:

Homosexual acts “close the sexual act to the gift of life. They do not proceed from a genuine affective and sexual complementarity. Under no circumstances can they be approved”...Those who would move from tolerance to the legitimization of specific rights for cohabiting homosexual persons need to be reminded that the approval or legalization of evil is something far different from the toleration of evil.

Well colour me thrilled. I've been crankly, snippy, sometimes even harsh, but to know that one of the largest religious organizations in the world says I'm evil -- that's time for excitement! Unfortunately, the only evil here is the next quote from this drivel:

Allowing children to be adopted by persons living in such unions would actually mean doing violence to these children.

I had a huge rant planned for that but I just can't do it -- it's too toxic and I've got a night off work for once. Just read that last bit one more time and ask yourself what a holy leader is supposed to be.