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)...


   Friday, November 23, 2007

   IT'S CALLED RAMBLINGS FOR A REASON

Okay, this NaBloPoMo stuff really sucks. A blog entry a day, every day? Really?
Who, aside from truly awesome people like Andy Towle, Digby or Denis McGrath can pull that off? I met the latter at the CBC press gig the other day and he admitted that he just tosses that stuff off. "Bastard!" I said. You make it look so easy! Sure, he said, but no one reads it. Oh please, I said, I write for fab magazine.

I'm back from the fab 13th anniversary party. Only two of the five DJs scheduled actually performed because -- on this cold, slushy, nasty night -- the event was sparsely attended. By 2am, I was on the dancefloor with the lovely Richelle, Brad and the aptly-named Andrew Awesome and no one else. Tragic! People will grumble, they'll blame Paul, they'll blame me, but whatever. I had a few free drinks, danced with my friends and we all later went to Woody's and closed the joint. Good times!

I'm impressed with my typing here. I'm so drunk -- and stupidly compelled to continue my blogging duties. Why? I've got nothing to say right now (I'm certainly not going to talk about what went on at the pub) and I should just go to sleep.

I shouldn't drink. I take in the liquid and become liquid. Soft, flowing. My neighbours are still up. Young kids, like 20, making noise. I want to flow under their door like water and join them. Yes, I know what that sounds like but please, they're 20 and have a lot to learn. I just want the company.

Does drinking make me feel lonely? Or just strip away the pretense that I'm not?
Wow, I'm gonna regret writing this in the morning. Shut up!

Thank god for my dog. She's curled up in a little ball at the foot of my bed. She just went out for a pee and didn't like the snow. Me neither. I've got to be up at 9. God help me. It's time to curl up with puppy -- g'night!

Labels: fab, introspective, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

Here's your coffee, sir (glad you had a good time)!

Darrell

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at November 23, 2007

 

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One of the happier perks of working at fab is being invited to press screenings the week before a movie opens -- though it helps if the movie is good. I've recently seen Ghost Rider and 300 but it was last night's film that really intrigued me enough to write about it.

Judging from the trailer, Year of the Dog looks like an adorable romantic comedy for nerdy people who love their pets:



Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your own tastes, Year of the Dog is much odder, darker and richer than that. The film is surprisingly bleak for a Hollywood film, examining grief, loneliness, materialism, altruism and disappointment in a way you don't often see in American movies. It's like a Friends episode directed by Ingmar Bergman. I found it strange, disjointed and badly paced, yet utterly charming and sensitive.

I laughed a lot -- surprisingly, when you consider the anguish of the film's opening sequence. I knew going in that Peggy's dog would die but I didn't expect the movie to deal with it head-on, in a frank and simple way. Her pain is direct and very real, and Molly Shannon plays it perfectly throughout. As a rocketing-to-middle-age man with a dog of my own, I identified way too hard with her character here, and it was all I could do to keep from flooding with tears and hopelessly embarrassing myself. I hugged Tegan for about half-an-hour when I got home so, if you go, bring a hankie.

It gets better from there, though. Year of the Dog is really an actors' movie. Everyone here is given a broad-brushstroke sitcom character but given time to colour in all that space with little defining moments. Peggy's boss, for instance, is written as a creepy sad-sack loser yet Josh Pais fleshes him out so well before our eyes that he becomes oddly endearing, even when he's still a jerk. Same with the great John C. Reilly as the neighbour and the delightful-yet-somehow-creepy Regina King as the best friend. Laura Dern, of course, once again proves she can do anything, but David Lynch fans already knew that.

My "someday-I'm-gonna-marry-that-boy" Peter Sarsgaard plays the love interest but, again, the movie paints a darker picture underneath all the cutesy stuff. His asexual nerdiness is clearly the result of some damage, and the movie hints at things sad and possibly horrible. I was surprised, upset and impressed all at once.

And finally there's the ending I obviously won't discuss, but one that left me pondering whether Peggy has found herself or destroyed her life altogether. The ending is a real Rorschach test. Together with the film's unforgivably-adorable music score, it's like watching a sitcom version of Kate Chopin's The Awakening.

Year of the Dog is a movie that claims achieving any kind of happiness is virtually impossible, yet unabashedly celebrates whatever crazy lengths people will go to try. I still can't decide if I want to hug it, or swat it with a rolled-up newspaper.

Labels: fab, movies, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

My friend, it might be time for you to finally check out Lassie, Come Home. Plenty of us speculate re: the possible "damage" Timmy suffered before the traumatic adventure of the title.

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at March 19, 2007

 

Oh darlin', go see Old Yeller. It'll cure what ails you for sure. Or better yet, CUJO, the ultimate boy / Mom / cuddly dog story.....

T.

-- Reply posted by  Trev at April 04, 2007

 

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At the risk of sounding like an incredibly lazy man, I love my sofa. It's a happy place, home to some of my favourite activities. Number one, of course, the occasional make-out session with a Gentleman Caller; number two, lovely evenings chatting with friends over tea; and number three, watching a movie with my little dog curled up beside me. These things are bliss.

On an evening a few months ago, I took a night off, flopped down on the sofa and put on a movie. At one point, there was a scene with a dog crying in distress and Tegan suddenly sat up in alarm, staring wide-eyed at the screen with her head cocked to one side, and she started to quiver. I'd never stopped to consider what effect the TV had on a dog before. I found Tegan's reactions fascinating and a bit sad as I rushed to grab the remote.

Thinking of that moment in what was an otherwise delightful evening, I am very grateful that Tegan has been asleep on my bed for the last couple hours. There's a video clip exploding around the 'net right now, a video of US soldiers in Iraq abusing a maimed dog. I watched it and immediately wished I hadn't. There's a reason the phrase 'curiosity killed the cat' was coined. At the moment, it seems especially ironic. I won't link to the clip but if you should stumble upon it, keep surfing. Please don't stop and watch the dog & soldiers video. You just don't need that in your head, trust me.

Now, of course, part of the presumed appeal of this video is that it shows American soldiers at their most cynical and cruel. "You see?" people will say, "Look how horrible the Americans are!" but as a devout bleeding-heart liberal, I think that's crap. For one thing, nothing could ever be worse than the Iraqi's hostage-beheading footage (still haven't seen any, knock wood) and, even as a dog lover, I find it again fascinating and sad that people are getting so worked up over a animal while many still shrug at the supposed inevitability of a fiasco that has cost the lives of tens of thousands of Iraqis and, yes, American soldiers.

I have great sympathy for what the troops are enduring, trying to beat the odds so heavily stacked against them from the start, and I can certainly understand the desire to take out their frustrations on some lesser creature. But as Mark Twain said, "Heaven goes by favour. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in." I'm not giving these soldiers a pass -- they disgust me -- but I will keep my blame squarely where it belongs: the war cheerleaders who put these men there through jingoism and lies, the kind of people Molly Ivins worked to stop, as it happens.

I've been thinking about Molly a lot this week as that "scorching case of cancer" finally took her from us. She was the kind of person who could probably watch that dog video and know exactly what to say -- something smart, angry, funny and compassionate, all at once. Tomorrow: some of my favourite Molly!

Labels: introspective, Middle East, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist, tributes, war - what is it good for?

Since discovering the joys of YouTube, I've edited together a Doctor Who Pet Shop Boys video and slapped up a Daily Show clip of Jason Jones. Playing around with other people's videos just left me wanting to make my own, however, so I decided to bring along the camera on my last day working for the architects. Thursday, September 22 also happened to be the last day of summer, giving the whole thing a bittersweet quality, so I decided to jazz it up a little with some Shirley Bassey. Oh, enough explaining -- just watch!

Labels: introspective, MeTube, music, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist, working girl

That was fantastic!

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at October 12, 2006

 

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This is my final two weeks as a human being. On September 25th, I will start work at fab magazine as an editor -- a move that will hopefully boost my career while apparently reducing my humanity. Yes, I will be a Professional Homosexual. That's the term people use when you're "too gay," when you're a gay man with a gay job, living in a gay neighbourhood with a dog that might be a lesbian.

People who say these things are usually gays who wish they weren't (because they're still gay), or straight people who have issues with us (because they're probably gay), or Christianists who feel we're taking over and then panic (because they're totally gay):

...another Amazon fan has caught the Internet behemoth promoting "Gay & Lesbian" programming for downloads..."Nestled nicely between 'Educational & Learning' and 'Kids & Family' is 'Gay and Lesbian,'" Luffman told WND. "They allow you to expand on this section of selections to include many more genres but curiously 'Gay & Lesbian' is among the smallest of offerings in the long list. Given this, why the effort to promote G&L in the short list?"

...the short list includes "Action & Adventure" with 77 choices, "Animation & Cartoons" with 35, "Reality TV" with 51 and others, including "G&L" with 3 choices and "Classic TV" with 5. In the expanded list, but unpromoted in the short list, are "Documentaries" with 110 offerings, "International" with 13, "Mystery" with 38 and even "Westerns' with 14.

I like the "nestled nicely" bit -- given the pattern of E-G-K, my da Vinci Code tells me that the Amazon conspirators are using the arcane system of alphabetical order to brainwash America. Kudos to WorldNetDaily for unveiling the secret threat posed by 3 whole films!

I tease these loons, even though they and I are oddly united in our struggle -- I too oppose this unseemly "Gay and Lesbian" category. Get rid of it, I say! I want gay "Action & Adventure," gay "Animation & Cartoons," gay "Reality TV," gay "Documentaries," gay "Mysteries" and yes, gay "Westerns" (must Brokeback Mountain and Red River be the only ones?). Not EVERY movie has to be gay, just -- oh I don't know -- 10% of them. Because I believe that dropping that G&L category will better reflect reality, while the Christianists believe that dropping it will alter reality. Hey guys, let me know how that works out for you.

In the meantime, I'll be spending my gay dollars at the Internet bohemoth that supports me and my category (there's your conspiracy, dumbass)...

Labels: fab, homo-a-go-go, insanity, religion, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

Congratulations on the new job, and on becoming a Professional Homosexual! I expect more good things from you out of fab.

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at September 13, 2006

 

Well, what did you expect when you named her "Tegan"?

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at September 13, 2006

 

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My friend Trevor is a big fan of Katherine Hepburn, who famously offered her secret for happiness: "Don't complain, don't explain." A wise lady, certainly wiser than I, who -- as anyone who's read this blog knows -- both complains and explains at great length. It's been definitely better than the Job-worthy stance of silent teeth-clenched endurance I used to adopt, yet clearly leaves much to be desired.

My friend Robert called me a pessimist this week. That label makes me feel, well, hopeless (rather counterproductive, that). Despite a near-complete lack of evidence otherwise, however, I must disagree with him. To me, a pessimist is someone who automatically thinks that, no matter what we do, things will turn out horribly, even when they appear to be going well. I'm actually the opposite -- I believe that, with some good will, communication and effort, things can and will get better, though our present seems bent on making that growth as difficult as possible. It seems to be our perverse gift to allow things to become as fucked up as possible before, at the darkest moment, we collectively band together, rise up and achieve the impossible. It's been this way all throughout history and it's one of the most magical yet most infuriating attributes of humanity. Why can't we go to the dentist before we need the root canal?

My friend Tara's never been like that -- always meeting her frustrating circumstances head on -- so imagine my delight when she announced her engagement this week. I already knew, as her boyfriend e-mailed me a couple months back to tell me his plans and ask me what I thought. Easy answer -- I was thrilled and very proud of him. Tara's last boyfriend had been a class-A cretin so it's been beyond wonderful to see someone as cool as Jay not only recognize just what a fantastic person Tara is but also make his own plans to marry her. She sounded giddy, even as she explained that "yes Scott, you are a pessimist." I tend to play by the rules of other people, which drives her crazy when she sees me twisting myself in knots over the concerns of other people. "But what kind of asshole would I become if I stopped caring about that?" I asked. She just shakes her head, astonished that I would believe in the possibility. She and Jay want me to investigate becoming some kind of deacon or justice of the peace over the next year or two. "We want YOU to marry us," she says. I think she's kidding, then I think she's insane, then I think that this is the loveliest thing anyone has ever said to me.

My friend Darrell will have to advise me -- he's a novelist and preacher's son who grapples with all the big questions and no one I know has done a better job of explaining himself. He had an 'episode' of depression these past couple weeks but, even then, put it into words both wise and wonderful, as he tends to do. I called him up 'round bedtime, we ended up talking too long yet never long enough, and I think we both came out of it feeling better. Untrusting soul that I am, of course, I had to ensure it by kicking my ass over to the post office that day and mailing him a couple mix CDs for him and his daughters. That's right -- bribery -- it works! Of course, by saying so, now I'll have to hurry and mail Tara that DVD I mentioned!

What does all this add up to? I haven't a clue. As I said to Robert, it's not that I'm panicked or in despair, it's just I look around and see everyone struggling -- longer, harder, quieter than I've ever seen before. By any standard -- economic, cultural, environmental, political -- the world feels full of shit these days. It'll reach a crisis point and then, like the brave, brilliant creatures we are, we'll find a way to turn it around, to start fixing, to start healing. But why wait til then? As Mahatma Gandhi said, "Almost everything you will do is meaningless, but it is still important you do it."

When the opportunity to adopt a puppy appeared in front of me late last year, I had every logical reason to say no. I wasn't being a pessimist, it was sheer fact -- I have little time, little money and little support to properly care for such a needy little creature. Her rabies shots and flea treatment this week alone have bankrupted me till next Thursday. But I couldn't say no -- she'd been abandoned twice already at the age of four months and I knew, even at the spur of the moment, that this dog represented the future. It's why people have kids, isn't it? You can't give in to despair because you've got an opportunity to care for something outside of yourself, to put a little happiness into the world. Maybe I personally can't always pull it off the way I'd like but my dog does it beautifully -- she loves and is loved by strangers in the subway, people on the street. I taught her to walk on a leash; she's teaching me to run without one. A little dog and a few good friends are all I've ever needed -- my little flickers of hope.

Labels: friends, introspective, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

"Pessimist"?! Sounds like someone's not wearing their Armour of God PJs!

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at August 27, 2006

 

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Uh-oh, it's that time again -- time for me in wallow in baby pictures!



I brought Tegan over to James' one afternoon and they had a wrestle:



Such antics leave her finally exhausted, ready to join my famous Saturday Afternoon Sofa Snooze:




Meanwhile, my friend Neeraj was so inspired by my adoptee that he went and found Rosie -- a bigger, happier, cuter dog. Look at this bitch!



Rosie and Tegan have played together and my heart could almost break from the cuteness. The snarky little Jack Russell has made me insane this past year but I feel like she's been around forever:

Labels: friends, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

Why does that last shot make me so suspicious? Let me count the ways: hardwood bookshelves, neatly stacked journals (can't make out the title, but I'm thinking Scientific American), artfully hung drapery, a globe straddled by Copernican-sphere bookends .... and no life-size Boba Fett cut-out to be seen anywhere?! Methinks the mutt is looking out a friend's window, thinking fondly of that Jar-Jar Binks chew-toy he's left behind at your apartment!

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at August 11, 2006

 

A man can mature, can't he?

Glad to have you back! :)

-- Reply posted by  Scott at August 11, 2006

 

That isn't a baby, it's a dog.

-- Reply posted by  Anonymous at August 16, 2006

 

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Working at Canada's busiest gay bar for three years taught me to truly marvel at the wide diversity of gay people, to truly love my friends and freedom here in Toronto, and to truly hate Pride Day!

My reasons why haven't changed much in three years but, free from the Woody's trap last year, I actually had a pretty good time. This year, I'll be trying to hit the streets with the new dog in tow which screams BAD IDEA but, hey, Tegan loves to lick half-naked people even more than I do. I'll lock her up the second I should need to (fingers crossed) but until then, I want it all -- my dog, my friends, my people.

The main point is that, Stephen Harper notwithstanding (get it?), life is pretty good for my tribe these days. We're here, we're queer, they're mostly used to it. We can get married to our partners and the cops take it seriously when thugs try to beat us up. There's still a lot of work to do -- I told a couple of people from Halifax that an old friend is thrilled to have moved out there last year but I saw their faces pale when I mentioned, "with his boyfriend." Should I not have mentioned that bit? No friggin' way.

So, even while a friend very sensibly avoids this town altogether this weekend, I'm possessed of a deep and abiding masochistic streak that invites me to say, 'this time it'll be different,' to hit the streets and bask in three days of a world turned upside down (boy, you turn me...inside out...round and round).

I'm even feeling a little nostalgic for Queer as Folk. I was subjected to it every Monday night at Woody's and the show's 'almost-but-not-quite' writing drove me nuts but, during my time there, I met a few of the actors and they all seemed like lovely, talented people who truly enjoyed doing the show. In the fourth season, the noisy opening credits were thankfully changed to something stylish, warm and humane -- honouring its actors and all those millions of queer folk watching. It's a decent little snapshot of our lives and it made me smile this morning.

Happy Pride!

Labels: Stephen Harper, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist, Trawna

I hate Pride as well, and I try to stay away. It's an event that once again reinforces the notion that if you are big and buff, then you are part of the elite.

-- Reply posted by  Brian FInch at July 11, 2006

 

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I discovered a couple of weeks ago that if I bring Tegan to 'doggie daycare' or just simply let her run around the park all afternoon on a Saturday, she would actually sleep through the night. Bravely or foolishly, I started letting her sleep on my bed on such evenings and the results were adorable -- she kneads the bedding with her paws for a minute, then curls between my knees in a little ball. Awe-inspiring cuteness.

The only downside is that, for reasons known only to her, God or science, Tegan wakes up exactly one half-hour before my alarm. Every day, like clockwork. I used to set it for 7:30 am -- being awakened by her whining to get out of her crate at 7 -- and now, with the new earlier job, I set it for 7 and she starts howling at 6:30. In short, I spend my mornings begging -- begging for just 30 minutes more sleep.

Today, woken by Tegan licking my face, I actually managed to get her to go back to sleep. She obediently lay back down and I thrilled to my success before nodding off. About twenty minutes later, I awoke from a violent nightmare involving the dog viciously tearing apart my sofa. I staggered out to the living room, feeling stressed and angry, but aside from a few tiny holes where she has indeed attacked my sofa, there was no damage at all.

I looked at the tiny dog, staring up at me from her food bowl and the truth hit me: she's telepathic. She'd sent me a mental warning to feed her or suffer the consequences. It's all so clear to me now.

Labels: Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

Or perhaps its all just payback for the name "Tegan". Did you learn nothing from your parents about bad naming habits?

-- Reply posted by  Don's Black Brother: Dionte at May 02, 2006

 

Didn't you mean to say, "Awwww-inspiring cuteness"?

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at May 02, 2006

 

Scotty, face it, the dog is just Linda Blair with fur. Regan? Tegan? Am I the only one making the connection here? Alright, but when she starts swivelling her head 360 degrees, don't say I didn't warn you....

-- Reply posted by  Trev at May 02, 2006

 

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James popped over last night, offering to buy me dinner. How can a boy say no? It's always great to see him and Tegan apparently agrees -- she was so excited to see him, she dribbled pee on my bedspread. The creaking sound you hear is my teeth clenching. As Janet says, "She's too old for excitement pee." Sigh.

After some food, a pint and much chat, I went home to work on a little plug for Felice Picano's reading next week (I interviewed him by phone on Monday and he was wonderfully fun, smart and chatty). James e-mailed a link to Bombay TV, a fantastic site that lets you put your own subtitles on clips from bad Indian television. Wackiness ensues.

This was, of course, a terrible thing for James to do as it was quite late already. He made me this movie, which I had to respond to with this saucy movie, and soon we were up till two a.m. laughing on the phone and creating idiocy.

But don't just read me going on about it -- check out Bombay TV for yourself (just do it early)!

Labels: friends, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

Yes, like that insufferable relative with the wallet full of baby photos, here I am with pictures of Tegan! James took photos of the little creature Darcy calls "Poo Eater" (with good reason -- shudder). Appalled, I just sing it to the jazzy tune of Outkast's "Love Hater" ("Poo Eater...Poo Eater...Eater of Poo!") and shake my head. She's growing out of it, thankfully, but overall she's still a complete trial.

She monopolizes my attention, shits on my floor, eats my houseplants, keeps me from staying out late and has generally ruined my life. But look at that face -- I'm powerless before the little pooper!

Labels: friends, oh l'amour, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

Hello and Happy New Year!

Yeah, I know, nearly three months late, and a very long time since my last confession...er...posting. Where the hell have I been?

Well, to say I've been busy is, of course, the standard cop-out but truthfully, I haven't had this much on my plate in a very, very long time. Here's what been distracting me, one alibi at a time...

Excuse number one:
NEW ADVENTURES IN POOP

This is the big one.

On December 3rd, my boss called me at work and told me to get in a cab and meet her down at the Humane Society. "You have GOT to get down here NOW!" she said. While walking her dog near the pound, Janet had been approached by a man bringing in a four-month-old Jack Russell/Italian greyhound mix. His girlfriend had demanded this because the puppy had chewed up an antique doll ("Who leaves antique dolls lying around where a puppy can get them?" Janet and I later asked in disbelief). He was near tears and couldn't bring himself to go in, asking instead if Janet would take the dog, but she convinced him that the pound would give the puppy the best care and find the best home, then called me straight away. Janet had long been pushing for me to get a dog because anyone who knows me sees how much happier I am around them.

True to form, I rode down to the pound with a determination to refuse. I don't make a lot of money. I'm not home many nights. How can I care for a dog when everything's so chaotic in my life right now? I had over a dozen concrete reasons why I should not take this puppy and every one of them evaporated like mist when I looked into her tiny brown eyes. She scrambled into my arms, licked my face with mad zeal, then leaned back against my chest and calmly looked around the room at everyone else. She was home and I knew then I'd never let go of her.

So began an absolutely insane month of sleepness nights, ridiculous spending and a complete change in lifestyle. For one thing, I have been brutally, unwillingly transformed into a Morning Person -- standing on the front lawn at seven in the morning, waiting for the puppy to pee.

I let her sleep in my bed at first, though she yelped and squealed in her sleep as if suffering from puppy nightmares. I did everything I could to ease her separation anxiety while busily acclimatizing her to other people, dogs, children, cars -- anything to build her confidence (though now I worry that I've done my job too well!). The previous owner had named the dog 'Asia' which suggested either an eastern land mass or a pole-dancing porn star. I decided on 'Tegan', an old Celtic name I liked and (yes I admit it) the name of a 'Doctor Who' character -- a bossy Australian woman who famously described herself as "a mouth on legs!" Seemed appropriate.

There's a new book called "Marley and Me" that's on the NYT bestsellers list. The author spent 13 years with "the worst dog ever" and his story is apparently hilarious. I believe I may one day write the sequel. As a terrier, Tegan is a willful little creature, constantly testing the limits of my authority. She tugs on the leash, jumps up on the off-limits furniture and only obeys commands the second or third time I say them. It's a constant struggle for me to stay firm with her, since she knows she's almost cute enough to get away with it!

The worst moment occurred right after her first obediance class. She was stubborn but smart enough to grasp the introductory commands and she behaved beautifully on the walk home. She trotted along beside me and stopped and sat at each crosswalk. I beamed with pride as we got home and I removed her leash. I hung my coat on the stand and turned around to see Tegan standing on the armrest of the sofa (where she's not allowed to go), her head up proud and happy as she hosed my sofa with pee.

I think I've only felt that kind of angry despair twice before in my life: when my house was robbed in 1990 and when George W. Bush was re-elected in 2004. It's a kind of blinding white light, a cold heat that tears through you. It was all I could do to keep from snapping her neck like a twig. Instead, I screamed, mashed her face into the puddle, snapped the leash on her and whisked her out onto the front lawn, where she calmly resumed the last of her emptying. She then got lavish praise and a cookie, even though I wanted her dead.

Even the standard housebreaking has been a painfully slow and irritating process. Nothing is more aggravating than someone breaking my 'don't crap in my living room' rule (guests, be told!) and she's done it often and enthusiastically. I'm SO glad I don't have carpeting. Adjusting to the 'poop and scoop' routine was difficult -- nothing in life can quite prepare one for the ghastly sight of poop steaming in the winter air (steaming!). Even that nightmare was quickly eclipsed by a treat experiment with peanut butter that led to two days of diarrea, a horror I shall not describe now or ever. Yes, I've been in the trenches...and they're filled with poop.

Fortunately, it hasn't all been urine and death wishes. Despite it all, I love the dog completely and totally. She's a fantastic little thing -- happy, friendly with strangers, relatively quiet, whip-smart and always ready to play. Just watching her curled up on her chair, gnawing on a chew toy, makes me smile. It's a paradox but once I understood that I have to be totally firm with her at all times (alpha-dog!), we've had a more relaxed and harmonious relationship.

Now if only I could still bring the dog to work (more on that coming up). I hate leaving her in a crate all day but she's adjusted well by becoming nocturnal(!) -- once we spent lazy evenings on the sofa with a book or movie, now I get home after a long day and she's there with tug rope in mouth, jumping up and down, silently squealing, "Let's PLAAAAAY!!! For nine hours!!" My every last nerve is worked but I still wouldn't want it any other way.

Excuse number two:
MAD ABOUT THE BOY

They say third time's the charm, right? That's why Darcy and I are back together.

Again.

I love him. He loves me. We're utterly wrong for one another. Sigh.

James once suggested that some part of me must love "the drama" of it all. Oh no. Build-ups of unnecessary drama are what's kept us apart on a semi-regular basis. Ultimately, though, he makes me happy more often than not and most of our time apart after breaking up has been spent pining for one another. Life's too short for that so I'm willing to hang on and see what happens. At the end of the day, he makes me laugh and I like that a lot.

One thing I have learned is that the longer I spend with him, the more I see that his issues that have often upset me to the point of walking out are usually just
a) unfortunate echoes from his past that I can understand once we talk about it
b) misunderstandings due to our very different operating styles
c) random bits of idiocy that I can freely ignore
And if Darcy had a blog, I'm sure he'd be writing the same thing (only with less 'Doctor Who' and more NASCAR).

He's moped in the past that I never write about him on this blog (apparently not realizing that I've been protecting him from myself!) and seems dismayed that he's not the most important thing in my life. I don't know what to say about that. How do you juggle your many interests and obligations to career, friends, family while simultaneously letting your loved ones know how very much smaller and emptier your life would be without them? Maybe that's why Valentine's Day was created -- one day to stop and say all that out loud. I like to think I've never been shy with my affections to Darcy but sometimes it's as though he just doesn't believe me. And I can't tell if that's a), b) or c).

Excuse number three:
POUNDING THE PAVEMENT

Working at CORE Feature Animation was the best job I ever had. Not answering the phones and whatnot -- that was crap -- but the environment, the people, the puppies roaming free, the whole 'let's put on a show' making-a-movie vibe, it was all fantastic. A Disney-lawyer-approved confidentiality agreement kept me from discussing most of it but now I can freely plug away: Walt Disney's The Wild is the first feature-length animated movie made entirely in Canada and, though the plot was handily ripped off for Dreamworks' "Madagascar" last year, CORE's work looks a thousand times better. Though the movie is aimed squarely at kids and lacks the emotional resonance of the superior Pixar films, there are shots in this movie that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and an occasional line that made me laugh out loud. It opens April 14th and everyone should take their favourite kids to see it.

There. Now I can bitch. Disney worked with CORE because Michael Eisner -- who was to Disney what George W. Bush is to America -- totally alienated the creative talent at Pixar. Disney needed new engines for its machine -- hence CORE -- but their board of directors finally got wise and voted Eisner out, leaving the new CEO free to renegotiate with Pixar and woo them back.

What does all that have to do with me? I means that CORE Feature Animation then had no new features to animate and, with virtually everyone's contract up, we were all sadly shown the door. It was especially difficult after the New Year, as groups of people left on a weekly basis and I slowly became part of a skeleton crew. The part that really chafed was that I had only just started to work on press releases, a company overview and actual PR writing but, as I've endured from previous jobs (I'm looking at you, Britnell family!), the rug was pulled out from under me right when I thought I was getting somewhere.

As always though, I bounced back fairly quickly. The only perk of being near the bottom in the Grand Scheme of Things is that you don't have far to fall (some people I worked with had to give up their condos and whatnot -- ouch). After more fruitless searching than I'd have liked, my friend Trevor recommended me for a receptionist gig at an architecture firm and, after four(!!) interviews, I was hired -- same kind of job, same Spadina neighbourhood, slightly better pay.

It's been a stressful transition. Coming off of the rough-and-tumble pace of a film studio, the calm, polite, professional environment of a small architecture film has been...well...eerie. Stan, my old boss at the record store, chimed in with one of his usually-brilliant analogies: "You're like one of those kids who's been raised by wolves and now you've been cleaned up, set at the dinner table and you don't know which fork to use. You'll be fine!" Thanks, Stan! (I think)

Excuse number four:
MISCELLANEOUS THINGS -- LITERALLY

So aside from the dog, the boyfriend, the new job, what could be keeping me away from my blog writing? Writing where I get paid. After a few years away, I'm back in the warm busom of fab magazine after the new editor called me out of the blue and asked if I could be persuaded to take on the dreaded "Misc. Things" column.

Every two weeks, fab reaches into its box of odd products sent to us by corporations hungry for press and we find a gay community personality to try it out. The nice thing about it (aside from the adorable little paycheck) is that I don't have to plug anything that's crap -- if the product sucks, we say so -- and that I get to interview interesting, offbeat people. In the last three months, the column has featured
-- a martini lounge bartender testing a 'smoothie' blender
-- an Ontario tourism lobbyist testing an online spa booking service
-- a 'sexological bodyworker' testing an oil-based lubricant
-- "Enza Supermodel" testing a fabric refresher
-- a pair of drag kings testing Nivea Aftershave Balm for Men
-- a sleep-deprived writer/actor testing an ergonomic pillow

It's been mostly fun and has happily allowed me to build up the kind of writer-editor relationship I've longed for. Steven trusts my ideas, throws new ones back at me, tells me when my work is junk and praises me when it's clicking. It's a terrific back-and-forth thing we've got going and it's leading to bigger, non-product-shilling pieces (like the Catholic priest one -- more on that later). fab is often dismissed as a pointless little gay rag but it's MY pointless little gay rag, dammit! Let's see what this baby can do...

Excuse number zero:
KEEPING UP WITH THE JAMESES

And there you have it -- over 2000 words that I could've typed in four: I'm a lazy ass. But really, I've only written about 700 words for each month which is nothing, right? Now that I'm in back in a groove, I've got to get back at this -- not only have I lost my two fans but Darrell has nearly given up on me, Josh is concerned that I let the death of Don Knotts pass without comment (Janet had dinner with him a few years ago and says he was one of the sweetest people she'd met) and James simply went off and started his own blog! Dainty Bastard looks great and thrillingly captures my friend's wild, brilliant and slightly terrifying personality. He's raised the bar (Dainty Bastard, indeed!) so it looks like I'm back on the job!

Labels: Canada, Doctor Who, fab, friends, George W Bush, oh l'amour, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist