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 28, 2007

   THERE'S POWER IN A UNION

Today was the International Day of Solidarity with the Writers Guild of America, STILL on strike in an attempt to gain an adequate cut of the money that studios are poised to make from Internet downloads and streaming of content the writers create. To put it in perspective, the last time Hollywood writers went on strike was in 1988. The resulting deal had nothing about the yet-to-come DVD format that ended up making billions for the studios. In the current strike, the writers are asking that the 0.3% they now get from DVD sales of their work be increased to 0.6% -- and the studios ARE REFUSING.

So yes, a day of solidarity -- with protests in Canada, England, Ireland, Australia, Germany and France. I decided to go down this morning to add another body. This isn't just about Hollywood. I've seen in recent years how journalists are paid less because of a new belief that any blogger can do what they do; meanwhile, the bloggers are expected to write for free because they're not 'real' journalists. It's a tidy little scheme they've got going but hopefully one with a short shelf life.

Walking in circles in the cold, I thought of Toronto's own Joe Shuster, the co-creator of Superman who was poor and going blind in a nursing home while DC Comics was making billions from his character. Lex Luthor himself couldn't have been as evil as those guys.

But as we marched in formation this morning, chanting slogans coined by the unstoppable Denis McGrath, I turned around to see David Cronenberg walking along with us:



Now THAT'S a surreal morning. He was warm and very friendly, patiently indulging me this fanboy photo. "I'm a writer too," Cronenberg said, "This affects all of us." Exactly.

Labels: politics, repair, Trawna, writing

One of the many joys of living in Toronto (assuming you've got the cash for it) is the plethora of singers and bands who make it a stop in their world tours. (Bruce Springsteen may have added a Hamilton date this week but he's still in the minority.)

So I was pleased last night to go see Australian pop singer Ben Lee play at the Mod Club. At the age of 29, he's a pop veteran, having released his first album with his early band Noise Addict when he was 15. My old friend Josh introduced me to his music back when we were flatmates and Lee was a teen grunge boy, his songs sounding like Liz Phair and namedropping the Pixies whenever possible.

These days, Lee's lightened up considerably, going for a heartfelt Jack Johnson kind of vibe. There's nothing new here, just a classic guitar-pop sound, and his 2005 album, Awake is the New Sleep, is one of my favourites -- stuffed with catchy hooks, charming lyrics and quirky instrumentation. Through the magic of YouTube, here's the boy at work last night:


Ben Lee - 'Into the Dark' (live at the Mod Club, Toronto)

What I love about this is the way Lee's precociously cute sing-along smacks right up against Toronto's icy refusal to never, ever show enthusiasm. I've witnessed so many train wrecks in Toronto concert halls, the squirmy result of artists trying to force the jaded crowd to give back. My favourite examples:

-- Peter Gabriel, who tried to lead a Euro-football-stadium-style chant to an Air Canada Centre crowd that resolutely refused to get on its feet. Scowling at us, he proceeded to lie down on the stage, fold his fingers together over his chest and stay that way until the worried crowd got to its feet to see if he was alright. He then bounced up and resumed his demand for chanting.

-- Bruce Springsteen (only days after that at the same venue), who had to announce to Toronto that, "We are having a HOUSE PARTY! And the FIRST RULE of the house party is that you have to get up off your ASS! You're not that old! GET UP!" This from a 53-year-old man who'd been racing back and forth across the stage, even up on a piano, for the last two hours. Shameful.

-- Chumbawamba, who did their punk-pop left-wing-anarchy thing with a full horn section and numerous costume changes to a Warehouse crowd that sullenly stood waiting for That One Song. When the band finally began, "We'll be singing..." the crowd gave up the screams and applause it'd been withholding for the last hour.

-- Mr. Bungle, who perhaps unwisely denied the Opera House audience the manic carnival heavy-metal of their first album in favour of the atmospheric prog-rock of their second. The crowd just stood there through song after song and the passive-aggressive battle between the band and its own fans peaked when singer Mike Patton announced, "Fuck it -- let's give you what you want," and launched into a pitch-perfect rendition of "Working For the Weekend" by Loverboy. The crowd roared with delight, while I looked around, feeling like Kevin McCarthy in Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Couldn't anyone see how cruelly we were being mocked? During the cheesy guitar solo, Patton raised his fist in the air and screamed, "Canadian ROCK!"

By the end of his show, Ben Lee was standing on a Mod Club bartop, strumming his guitar and encouraging the crowd to sing along to his up-with-people anthem, "We're All In This Together." Half the crowd (mostly men) resisted entirely, creating an awkward vibe, though I'm not quite ready to condemn them like Peter Gabriel just yet.

I love "We're All In This Together" but, well, it is a bit TOO cute and worse yet, it's become inescapable after being licensed for a Telus commercial. Yuck. Licensing music for commercials has become the only way for a lot of bands to get heard nowadays and Lee himself jokes in another song, "They don't play me on the radio." Instead, he's shopped himself out to Hollywood, his music the kind of happy light-rock perfect for TV show endings or upbeat movie trailers (like this ad for Heroes airing in Australia).

So it's not entirely inappropriate that Lee has become loathed by hard rockers and Pitchfork critics but, hey, sometimes a feel-good record should make you, you know, feel good. As he puts it:

I think people like to hear a songwriter that reflects the realness of being a human being and at the end of the day, I leave my audience hopefully with the fact that it's worth it. And just to keep giving some hope.

See? That's the kind of statement that just makes you want to slap him.
But secretly? I kinda like it.

Labels: Australia, music, Trawna, tributes

Yikes! That makes me worry a little about the Spice Girls concert in February...

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at November 28, 2007

 

I wasn't there, but I heard stories about Duran Duran being booed off stage in Toronto when they opened for David Bowie's Glass Spider Tour. That was still during the biggest years of their career!

-- Reply posted by  hot tea at November 28, 2007

 

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The words "sexy" and "Canadian Broadcasting Corporation" aren't often used together but that's what I'm hearing at the media launch for the CBC's "winter season" beginning in January, with a batch of new shows hoping to follow The Tudors' lead in sexing up our public broadcaster.

I'm led in by women from the CBC's PR firm Media Profile. There's over a dozen attractive women in headsets, like some power-lesbian secret service, leading journalists into a large, white-draped room. I sit in the second row, behind Due South star Paul Gross. He looks better now than he did as the hot Mountie, the bastard. We watch a slick montage of trailers for 12 new shows, including MVP, a hockey soap opera clearly modeled on the saucy UK hit Footballers' Wives.

Writing for fab, I'm viewing all this with a Queer Eye, like some pink filter. I'm forced to ignore the creators of gritty drama The Border and even the very cute David Kopp, star of the new comedy jPod. No gay office mate, David? I must move on, though I do have to stop and chat with Nicholas Campbell, Canadian TV veteran (if not icon). "You mean I have to play a gay character to be in your magazine?" he asks. Pretty much, I tell him, unless you want to come out, right here. He laughs.

I go looking for the very gay Chris Hyndman and Steven Sabados, stars of their own new daytime talk show. The former Designer Guys are thrilled. "This really is a step up for us," Hyndman says, "We feel like The Jeffersons!" Any pressure from their new masters to tone down the gay? None, says Sabados: "They keep saying, 'Just be yourself.'" Hyndman laughs, "As if they’re going to hire me and ask me to play it straight! They’re going down the wrong street!" The Steven and Chris Show will have the occasional celebrity guest -— who’s topping their wish list? "Pamela Anderson!" they announce in unison.

"We just want them to be themselves," CBC programming head Kirstine Layfield later tells me. (Did they rehearse?) But I point out that the CBC's gayest show, the British sci-fi drama Torchwood, has been airing with no promotion, buried in the Friday-at-9 time slot that MVP will occupy in January. Layfield insists they’re happy with Torchwood's half-million viewers and that limited funds for ads should be spent on Canadian shows. "We try to reflect Canadians back to themselves and diversity is obviously part of that," she says, "but we want to be natural about it."

The bubbly Natalie Brown has dubbed her single-girl show Sophie a "conflamady" (conflict-drama-comedy) and agrees that including a gay character felt natural: "Really, who doesn't have a gay best friend? Why would Sophie not? I do. It's not a cliché, it's true." My Gay Agenda satisfied, I'm ultimately forced to agree with Brown when she says, "After watching all those trailers, I have to say -- CBC is looking kind of sexy."

Labels: Canada, fab, homo-a-go-go, Trawna, TV

Look out, everybody -- here comes an Old Man Rant!
Years ago, I found this great little lamp in Chinatown. It's a little brown cube with rice paper sides and even a scented oil warmer up top (adorable!). It appears in that first 'day in the life' video I made:


Thursday, September 22, 2006

A few months ago, tragedy struck. The halogen bulb burned out and those are tricky to replace. I went to Canadian Tire, showed them the old bulb and left with a recommended replacement -- one that instantly popped and burned out when I plugged it in. I went back, got no further advice from them and began trying a couple bulb variations but with no luck.

I began to think the lamp itself might be the problem so, earlier this week, I brought it to Dudley's Hardware in my neighbourhood. Frank, I'm told, does small appliance repair. He explained to me that the wiring in the lamp is fine but the voltage of the bulbs I'd been recommended was too low. Since this little store doesn't carry such bulbs, I went back to Canadian Tire. I had questions about some other things too but, for the first time in a while, I found the staff there even less help than usual. Everyone just kept passing me off to someone else who didn't know either -- my favourite being the girl who directed me to an empty counter. "Just wait around here," she said. "He'll come back." When I got home, the new bulbs didn't work either.

In desperation, I decided to schlep out to Gerrard Square, where there's a Home Depot. I loathe Wal-Mart and its big-box ilk but here I found someone who instantly took an interest in my wiring problem, hooking my lamp cord up to an electrical reader and testing the bulbs. Everything worked fine, just not together, and he too was stumped. Another Home Depot employee came over to see if he could figure it out. In the end, nothing was solved but it still felt great just to have people at least try to help. And during my time spent in the store, I could see a much more interesting and varied collection of things for the home than at CT. I hate having to lose a perfectly good prejudice but Home Depot won me over.

Monday, I'm going to Paul Wolf industrial lighting supply. They're my last hope. In the meantime, however, I'll remember that Frank at Dudley's looked at my lamp the same day, gave me solid advice and didn't even charge me a nickel. I certainly know where I'll go next time.

Labels: money - lack thereof, repair, technology, Trawna, tributes

Oh, I completely felt for u for the C.T. comments. I shop there all the time due to their weekly sales and wide variety of choices. However, their staff are just so little trained. They always point me into a totally wrong direction when I asked to find something. Furthermore, sometimes they're just too exhausted or too rude to even talk to me. They told me to wait there and just left to finish their work, leaving me standing there waiting like a fool.

Since then, whenever I shop at C.T., I depend on my own senses and observation and it worked better than their staff most of the time. ;-P I could be more familiar with the shelves and location of products at the downtown and Queensway store than some staff there... lol

Good luck, Scott!

Wingo

-- Reply posted by  Anonymous at November 19, 2007

 

I generally prefer Home Hardware to Ca-knucklehead Tire, partly out of convenience (got one in the village) but also because they're usually smaller stores with a staff that's geared to help in any way they can. After all, they're competing against the big Home Cheap-os and all their ilk.

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

 

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I thought my 15 minutes were up after my slew of media appearances (okay, three) concerning Harry Potter's gay wizard but hooray for Jiri Tlusty, the horny hockey player. Some gossip blog got a hold of nude photos the 19-year-old Maple Leaf had sent to a girl on the Internet and the ever-classy Toronto Sun gleefully made a spectacle of them today.

The news station AM 640 called up fab for a comment but editor Paul hates doing these things and suggested that host John Downs talk to me, "the resident pontificator." Ouch! Truth hurts. Soon, the AM640 website read:

Wednesday, November 14 2007
Scott Dagostino - FAB Magazine Managing Editor
Leafs winger Jiri Tlusty is the center of a whirlwind of controversy after being spotted online both nude, and mock-making out with a boy [though not at the same time]. John detects an undercurrent of homophobia running through the coverage of the story, and who better than Scott to comment on that?

Who indeed. Sweet of them to write that.
But my latest radio stint was difficult because the host and I were in total agreement. As with the "gay Dumbledore" saga, there's little to this story and we both thought the media's treatment of Tlusty today was ridiculous at best, cruel at worst. Chumminess doesn't make for gripping radio debate and I find that, when I'm out of my element like this (I prefer asking the questions), I basically fall into two modes: earnest or wisecracking. At my best, I do both but today I didn't get as many quips in as I would have liked. I was just too annoyed that this kid was forced to apologize. As the host said, 'apologize for what?' He has every right to kiss any buddy he wants, send any photo to any girl he wants.

His only crime, I said (if you can even call it that) is indiscretion. Tlusty didn't understand that, as an NHL hockey player, he's now a celebrity. He's now, like Bowie said, there where things are hollow. How could a 19-year-old from the Czech Republic understand North America's deep sexual hypocrisy, its double standard of both hyping and condemning sex, and its bizarre demand that anyone famous should be a role model to children? The poor guy was just partying and trying to get laid like any other 19-year-old.

As for the "gay" angle, bitch please! Trying to out this guy is the silliest thing I've seen in a while. I've made out with women -- that doesn't make me straight. I maintained on air, as I have in the past, that the gay rights movement has never been just for gay people. Sure, we want to be free to live our lives as we want without being attacked for it, but it's also about freeing straight guys from the homophobia that shackles them too. Two friends can't be physically affectionate with each other or (god forbid) say anything with real feeling for fear of seeming gay. It's a trap that European guys like Tlusty have mostly avoided. Hell, have you ever seen Czech Republic porn? These guys have cheerful sex with other beautiful guys, then take the money home to their girlfriends. Tlusty's drunken tongue play with his buddy is as hetero as it gets over there.

Thanks to the moral guardians of the Sun, Tlusty now says, "I have learned a valuable lesson." He did learn a lesson, but not one with any value in it.

Labels: fab, insanity, media, sports, Trawna

Tschye -- "Boyz Gone Wild."

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at November 15, 2007

 

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It'd be so much easier on everyone if Brian Mulroney would just keep his trap shut. A good deal of the Canadian public thinks he's as dirty as, well, Jean Cretien but many others are agnostic on the subject. Whatever crimes Mulroney may or may not have committed, they're long in the past and might as well stay buried.

But no -- he's so consumed with his legacy, he keeps coming out of hiding to tell us what we should be writing in the history books. It reminds me of his little tirade two years ago, after Peter C. Newman released his tell-all book. Mulroney fumed:

"By the time history is done looking at this, and you look at my achievements as opposed to others, certainly no one will be in Sir John A.'s league -- but my nose will be a little ahead of most in terms of achievements."

Sure, Brian, but most of us believe it's because your nose keeps growing. Tonight, as the RCMP has announced its reopening another your-tax-dollars-at-work investigation, Mulroney appeared at a speaking engagement in Toronto tonight, met by throngs of reporters eager for scandal.

Watching the video, I'm amused at how son Ben -- who so easily overflows with gush upon meeting any D-list celebrity -- becomes a deer in the headlights when the reporters ask about his dad, then he makes a nervous giggle. Was it too difficult to toss the reporters a "My father is a great man" cliché?

But the speech by Mulroney Sr. is the most telling. I was inclined, mostly out of disinterest, to give him the benefit of the doubt. In a world where Bush and Cheney's lies, larceny and torture are met with shrugs, I can't get too worked up over Mulroney's petty grifting. But then I watched this footage of him announcing:

"I want to tell you here tonight that I, Martin Brian Mulroney, 18th prime minister of Canada, will be there before the royal commission with bells on, because I have done nothing wrong and have absolutely nothing to hide."

And there it was. My doubts vanishing in the rush of déja vu:


Nixon: "I am not a crook"

Uh-oh.

Labels: Canada, media, politics, Trawna

The shopping carts are cartoon yellow
Isn't yellow a frill?
Almost everything in it is blue
Bluewater fish, blue corn chips, 2% milk

Even this little kid is blue
He's whining in the cookie aisle
Running his fingers along the packages
As though they were lovers

His father marches over, steaming
He's from India, accent still thick
"We cannot afford cookies!" he shouts
He makes 'cookies' sound like something ugly

The boy is dragged away, crying
I push my cart past the security guard
His eyes follow me, his hand resting on a billy club
Has he ever used it? In the produce aisle?

I see a red-and-yellow tube on the shelf
It's bacon-and-tomato-flavoured mayonnaise
Mayonnaise with bacon and tomato already inside!
The 21st century is everything I hoped it would be

Labels: insanity, Orwell says hi, Trawna

I finally put my profile on John Amaechi to bed yesterday, by the way. I'm disappointed to see that the Advocate beat me to him by a week but Amaechi's PR person told me that they'd set up a deal with ESPN in advance. I'll have to settle for landing the first Canadian gay Toronto bi-weekly newsprint magazine interview.

I spent half an hour on the phone with him last Thursday and he was every bit as kind, intelligent and elegant as he'd come across in his book. And it's been really delightful to see the sports world support him, especially after Tim "I hate gay people" Hardaway sprayed venom everywhere.

Now we'll just have to see if a pro sports player can come out during his career. It's like that morbid joke that floated around the premiere of Philadelphia and Tom Hanks' Oscar win: everyone cries for the dying AIDS patient, but it's the ones who live they can't stand.

Which makes for an unplanned-yet-effortless segue into mentioning the piece I did in the current issue on a new plastic surgery treatment for people with HIV-related facial wasting. The foundation director I interviewed read it and said she was thrilled with how "kind and complimentary" the piece was. I was pleased but surprised, since I thought the tone was just matter-of-fact. I guess I'm just a big softy!

Labels: Canada, fab, health, homo-a-go-go, sports, Trawna, writing

I fear YouTube is making me soft.

For a man who calls himself a writer, there's been precious little writing lately! While I love my new job, I also worry that most of my energy has been going into improving the work of others rather than my own. I get home and there's nothing left. Plus, like I said, making these little YouTube clips has been great fun, a terrific distraction. It had to stop. So I decided to hold a little TV party here, showing you the stuff I've loved lately, before I hunker down and start working on the next article.

First up, I was blue for a day because a perfect storm of work, schedule and money conflicts kept me from catching the Pet Shop Boys' visit to Toronto last week. Having seen them twice now soothed the sting, but along comes a YouTuber named uccbob who apparently recorded the entire show in little 2:57 bursts. Shame about the sound but hey, look at that stage set...



The link I'd posted to a Six Feet Under promo a couple years back is long gone, so coming across it again feels like a little present. It's the only ad not included on the DVDs but, more importantly, it's a cool blast of Nina Simone...



This of course left me wanting more, and this one's a tiny gem...



I adored Stephen Colbert's brilliant visual aid explaining the media's coverage of Republican political scandals (Josh Marshall has been keeping a list of indictments and wow, it's even bigger than I thought!)...



Pixieish singer Lily Allen's new ode to London is utterly delightful and completely depressing at the same time -- just like the city itself...



There are smarter, funnier comics than fratboy Dane Cook but do they fight monkeys? I didn't think so...



I think everyone on Earth has now seen Matt dancing everywhere on it but, in case you haven't, give the guy a cheer...



I'll never travel that much, sadly, but my name is well-known in New York City, thanks to the D'Agostino supermarket chain. Move closer!



In a follow-up to my last post, here's Russell T. Davies talking about Torchwood -- I love that a guy writing a sci-fi show is so set on telling stories about ordinary people. I find his enthusiasm endearing and infectious...



And finally, my own little creation. I actually got an e-mail from someone who loved my Doctor Who video and asked me to make more! Flattered, I began thinking of a stream of Who videos I could craft but reason thankfully kicked in. While I would've absolutely adored and exhausted all this YouTube video editing stuff when I was a repressed and dorky teen, these days, I do have a life (okay, sort of). I just don't have the time.

So I decided to take everything I love about Doctor Who -- the character, the show, the institution -- and cram it all into one clip. Whether you love it, laugh at it or don't have a clue, consider this a tribute, a warning or a primer. I called it 43 years, 10 Doctors, 5-and-a-half minutes and it does what it says on the tin:



That's it! I'm spent! No more TV!
Well, except for Heroes, which Josh tells me I should be watching.
Oh, and Dexter, which looks nastily funny.
Oh, and Lost Of course.

Sigh.

Stephen King says that people are always asking him where he gets his ideas. I want to know how he writes 1400-word novels every month and still finds time to write essays on Veronica Mars!

Labels: Doctor Who, England, MeTube, music, Pet Shop Boys, Trawna, tributes, TV, writing

Wow, where did two weeks go? Oh yeah, the new job as fab magazine's Number 2. In a word, awesome. I'm so happy. In a perfect world of better luck and smarter choices, this is the job I would have had after Glad Day books a decade ago but who cares? I'm thrilled and very busy working to advance the Dreaded Gay Agenda.

I only half-joke because this is the secret issue I have with my magazine in particular and a good chunk of homo-dom in general -- it's all a bit silly, no? Skim through an issue of fab and it's all parties and dancing and sex and art and music and joking and costumes and sex (yeah, I know, twice). But so what? I've read Maxim magazine, I've watched NASCAR, I've listened to 'bitches'n'hos' gangsta rap -- 'straight culture' is plenty ridiculous too.

The difference, however, is that heterosexuality never has to justify its existence. Oh sure, that Gay Agenda notion is thrown around by people who find it less funny than I -- people who think that the human race is dying off because Vermont lets men marry one another. In reality, however, the world has been, is and will be 90% heterosexual. If I have to justify the content of fab magazine to myself, it's because I have to justify myself to the rest of the world. Why? Paris Hilton doesn't have to. But then, she's not a fag.

LAND OF A THOUSAND WORDS

Yeah, it's hard not to sound snide but I've been bristling all week over the gay witchhunt spawned by Florida Congressman Mark Foley's gruesome e-mail exchanges with the teenage boy pages on Capitol Hill. The media's calling it Foley-gate; I'm calling it Where-the-hell-have-you-been?-gate (April, people!). The pleasure I'd take from the imminent and long-deserved collapse of the Republican party is quashed by the disgust and sadness I feel over this whole mess.

Plus, it ties into an e-mail I got from my old friend Darrell, responding to the "Jesus Camp" post below. Darrell has always provided a thoughtful and eloquent counterpoint to my 'Christian-bashing' (like that time I passed legislation to stop them from teaching, or marrying, or joining the army). With all honesty, I say that his own blog is far more interesting and well-rounded than mine but, before you rightfully click on over to it, stay with me for a while as I think it's past time I answered his honest, wise and pertinent thoughts. He's had me mulling for a long while so it's only fair I try to get it all out. Let's go:

IT CAN'T COME QUICKLY ENOUGH

Re: the questions you raise on your post - I'm thinking you know the answers to most of them already, which makes them rhetorical. I'll raise one of my own, which we touched on in an earlier e-mail exchange: what are the chances the North American Gay Community (a term I use without irony), given its singular and revolutionary experience in the last half-century, will promote a sexual paradigm of trust, respect, sensitivity and safety - a commonly recognized "manifesto" for humanity at large?

This ploy might seem cagey of me, but I think it touches on surprisingly common ground. The religious impulse and the sexual impulse are not that far removed (I still blush to recall a Pentecostal meeting I once attended). I do, in fact, grind my teeth when I see footage of this woman and her vile little camp. But turning tables: if some evangelical had the fortitude for it, he could walk into a bath house with a video camera and put together a documentary designed to get His People similarly "put off".

I'm the quiet guy in the corner who considers sex a sacrament, as well as marriage, and thinks the two work best when they're purposely housed beneath the same roof. To my mind, the bath house is not a physically or spiritually (I don't separate the two) healthy environment in which to experience the sacrament. I believe a human being actually needs to recover from (as a for instance) group sex.

Furthermore, it would sadden me if either of my daughters' coming-of-age experience included some time in a bath house.

But the human spirit is a resilient thing. It can survive a Warrior For The Lord boot camp; it can survive extended exposure in a bath house. But I'd say in both cases, there is more than a little "figuring it all out" required when the tenure is up.

My question to you is this: what purpose does this video serve on your blog? My guess is that most of your readers don't need convincing of the malign intentions of Evangelicals and Republicans, just as most of their number don't need convincing of the unhealthy lifestyle of the Gay Community. I'd propose that the truths which both camps need to face lie in a very uncomfortable spot between the two extremes. If we can't be the first ones (sorry - I'm gay now) to take tentative steps in that direction, I don't see much hope for progress.

But I'm just a crazy liberal that way!

Much love,
Darrell

LIGHTS

So snarky, this talk-back from that brainy Mennonite. I'd slap him but he'd just go and turn the other cheek so where's the fun in that? Seriously though, much love to Darrell in return for standing up to my ranting. Contrary to popular belief, I don't blog just to force my own opinions on people, I'm aiming at a dialogue here (for years now, I've been hoping some irritated American will write me and explain exactly WHY the Bush Republicans must remain in power -- just ONE good reason, please! -- but, alas, only silence).

Let me move along through Darrell's questions with each paragraph. First, he asks:

what are the chances the North American Gay Community...will promote a sexual paradigm of trust, respect, sensitivity and safety - a commonly recognized "manifesto" for humanity at large?

Hmmm. I'd say the chances are not bloody likely. No, I'm just kidding. Half-kidding. See, don't ask me -- I'm a misanthrope. The problem with gay people is that they're people -- they carry forth the same trust, respect, sensitivity and safety as their heterosexual friends and family, no more and no less. And, watching the evening news, I'd say hopefully no less whatsoever.

LOVERS IN THE BACKSEAT

But I'm being snide. It's unattractive. More importantly, I'm dodging the real thrust of Darrell's question which is, why do gay men have cheap, anonymous, unhealthy, promiscuous sex more often than straight people do? Sorry, my homo brothers, it IS a legitimate question but -- ah! not so fast, my straight pals -- not THAT legitimate -- I've been on craigslist lately and I also know that gays did not (as rumoured) invent the sexual revolution, we just happily rode on its coattails. No, as always, the truth is somewhere in the middle so let's talk promiscuity.

I'll get the self-blame out of the way first -- it's easy 'cause it's flimsy. We're men. We're pigs. One of the big 'Mars vs. Venus' differences I always hear about men and women is that, when it comes to sex, men want quantity over quality; women, vice-versa. That seems generally true to me. Take the ladies out of the equation and guys will happily have sex in gas station washrooms. Women only do that in movies and even then only with Brad Pitt. So yeah, there's just a lot more of it with gay guys. Variety is the spice of life and we want the whole rack. In one bowl. Now. A little self-control wouldn't be such a bad thing once in a while, fellas.

But here's where -- having cheaply attempted to exonerate slutty men based on weak theories of biology -- I now return to the more fun side of the blame game and point my finger at religion. Whether it's Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism or what-have-you, religion has always served as a handy check on sexuality. Every horny adolescent has been stopped dead in his tracks by a lecture on how God watches everything (eeeeeeverything) a person does, that He thinks sex before marriage is sinful, that He finds your masturbation horrifying, that He absolutely hates those faggots, and that He created AIDS as a punishment for all of it. Personally, I think this makes God sound like a miserable and sadistic bastard but that's just me.

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME

What does all that have to do with gay men not keeping it in their pants? Plenty! We get the worst of it. From the moment somebody thinks that we're gay (always before we do), we're told that our very feelings are disgusting, that it's impossible for men to feel love for one another, that every wildly-depraved sexual act possible (or impossible) is only performed by gay men, that we'll inevitably contract AIDS and deservedly die and that, because we just didn't learn our lesson from all this, we'll go to hell and burn forever in a lake of fire. Hey, they're just trying to keep us from making the wrong "choice"!

Given that twelve-ton-loaded-against-us scenario, damned either and every way, it's no wonder most gay men reject religion altogether but the real dirty secret is that their internalized belief in it all never truly goes away. Imagine how those years of self-loathing, that fear of damnation, simmer away until you're just screaming for sex, drugs, something, to quiet the voices in your head telling you how sick and filthy and worthless you are.

The people who did this to you have a solution, of course -- just accept Jesus Christ as your personal saviour, give up your life of sin and live a celibate life! Wow! I could've had a V8! Of course, your heterosexual friends and family won't be joining you. They'll get married, raise children and have a healthy sex life. Everyone but you, because you're a filthy faggot. Hey, stop that crying! God loves you!

KISS YOU OFF

That's not a solution. So we're back to option B: if you're going to lead an unhappy, loveless, diseased life leading to the pits of hell, you might as well have fun on the way down. Gas station toilet sex, here we come, woooo-hoooo!

This leads us neatly into Darrell's next point about bathhouses and yeah, they're not actually spiritual places, are they? The first time I went, I envisioned a brave adventure deep into the heart of darkness. I was actually disappointed to discover, well, just another bar scene -- only with towels. There was a very fine room of weightlifting equipment and a truly gorgeous little hot tub that was literally better than sex. I left feeling a bit gutsier but with little desire to return.

But I've always been a little more...flexible in a couple. Years ago, on a dare, I went to a spa with my little blond boyfriend and we discovered certain accessories and equipment that we'd never have been able to try at home. We felt supremely naughty about it all and laughed over it long afterward. And, just this summer, I ran into someone I'd gone on a disastrous date with a couple years ago. Reunited, we danced at a club before he suggested going for a swim. "A swim?" I asked. This was downtown Toronto. What I didn't know was that the bathhouse down the street has a large outdoor pool. At 3 in the morning, we swam under the stars and soaked in a hot tub afterward as he told me his stories. I found it all very soothing.

COMFORTABLY NUMB

But enough romanticism. I'm not trying to sell anyone on a bathhouse -- far from it. If you never go, dear reader, you're missing nothing and probably gaining. The problems with bathhouses are obvious -- they're geared towards quick, anonymous trysts between people too shy, too impatient or too creepy to chat someone up in a bar, and that sheer pace makes them breeding grounds for disease. But so is the Internet. And before bathhouses, it was public parks and toilets. None of it's right, you can argue, but it's happening (for reasons I'm saving for my Big Finale coming up). Bathhouses, at least, are controlled environments with attentive staff and bowls of condoms everywhere. The debate has been going on for two decades now and there's been no 'smoking gun' either way. Personally, I think the cons outweigh the pros but, in the end, bathhouses are simply venues -- what goes on within them is as friendly or as horrible as their patons' motives. Play or prey.

That's what leads from our bathhouse conversation into the bigger picture. After telling the good and the bad, there's still the ugly: I caught a relatively minor but wildly-unpleasant sexually-transmitted disease from a guy I went home with one night. No bathhouse was needed; this was a clean, comfortable condo that was home to a tall, blond, fun-loving guy I felt comfortable with. Until things got frisky and his games proved less open to negotiation than most. I put a halt to things but only long after the encounter had gone south. Finding out I'd contracted a disease from it was the cherry on the cake.

Now I can easily imagine some uncharitable type out there saying, "Well you see? Sex with a stranger? A homo? You were asking for it!" I can imagine it because he's in my head somewhere, actually. This is where I must be clear on this -- I didn't blame anyone during this. Not Republicans, not the Christian Churches, not gay advertising egging me on, not even the guy himself, really. It was my choice. I decided to go, I decided what I was comfortable with, I decided when to leave. No one controls me.

RETURN TO OZ

But there is one nagging thought in all that -- why did I let it go on so long? Why did I (why DO I) have so much trouble standing up for myself? Why is there always that inner voice that asks me, "Who cares what YOU want? A good person wouldn't be so selfish. Who do you think you are, anyway?"

Where does that voice come from? My parents? My teachers? Eight years of Catholic grade school? I feel we're getting warmer. My scientific curiosity about the world always quashed by people who insisted that the Bible must never be doubted, that the ones holding the Bible must never be doubted. The only person I could doubt was myself. And I did. And I do. Unlike them. They've got all the answers right there in that book.

But they've never been able to answer my questions and certainly not the ones in regards to sexuality. That's the crux of the problem here. Telling a gay teen to shut up and not be gay is not an answer. Telling him he's an abomination is not an answer. Telling him he's going to hell is not an answer. If that's all the Bible has to offer, then how can anyone be surprised when people reject it and seek answers elsewhere?

I got out when I was thirteen. Faced with the prospect of going to a Catholic high school, I snapped and told my parents I had to go to a public one. My first brave act of self-protection. One of my classmates called me a traitor. He meant it.

THE OTHER SIDE

Looking back on my religious upbringing, I don't think my childhood was a bad one -- I was a bit banged-up but not damaged. Nothing severe. Beaten by nuns but not molested by priests. As Bill Maher once joked, frankly I'm a little insulted. I can joke about it, inspect the dents in my psyche like it was a car fender, but I fear how much worse it's been for others, the ones who stayed.

To stick around, trying to reconcile two utterly conflicting worldviews, leads to a particular kind of soul-death. And I could never dream up a more apt, more grotesque example than this sad bastard Mark Foley, a man who devoted his career to crafting legislation for harsher penalties against paedophiles, while secretly trying to lure his teenage congressional pages into having sex with him. The news media is horrified at this bizarre double-life, this shocking self-destruction. Idiots. I remember what I was like at eighteen, screaming in my closet, and imagine what I'd be like if I stayed like that for the next twenty-five years. I'd be Mark Foley.

I imagine him spending his days working alongside Republican family-values conservatives like Marilyn Musgrave who -- in a time of war, torture, terror and lies -- says that gay marriage "is the most important issue that we face today." Foley wants to be one of these people, he always has been, but he goes home to an empty house, drinks a few glasses of alcohol and thinks of that beautiful 16-year-old page who smiled at him yesterday. I'd feel really sorry for him except that he's a grown man who chose to hide from these people and, well, those e-mails really are gross.

The real scandal, of course, is that Foley's right-wing buddies knew how pathetic and creepy he was but, as long as he stayed quiet about it, he was still useful to them ($100,000 useful!). They just ignored the chatter:

Mark Beck-Heyman told The Washington Post warnings were circulated to steer clear of Foley, R-Fla., after he began inviting pages to his office for ice cream in notes and e-mail.
...
"Mark Foley knew that he could get away with this type of behavior with male pages because he was a congressman," said Beck-Heyman. "But many people on Capitol Hill," including many Republican staff members, "have known for over 11 years about what was going on and chose to do nothing."

Well of course not, Mark -- Republicans couldn't possibly have devoted any attention to a possible sex scandal involving one of their own trying to molest teenage boys because they were all too busy with a certain sex scandal involving Bill Clinton and an adult intern. Maybe you heard something about it. While Al-Qaeda was growing like a malignant tumour in the Middle East, America's guardians were holding month-long hearings about the President's penis and quietly hushing any talk from the congressional pages about that creepy old guy from Florida being "overly-friendly." One can't let the safety of teenagers take precedence over a big juicy impeachment.

MIGHT TELL YOU TONIGHT

My point (yep, here we are!) is that all of this nastiness might have been avoided if Foley had been allowed to come out as gay a long, long time ago. He would have run for Congress with Florida's support and found himself a solid conservative 40-year-old banker (okay let's face it, a 30-year-old banker) and settled down, leaving the teenagers alone. They could be as friendly to him as their ambition allowed and he wouldn't care. He's a married man, after all. The opposite of this is what we see far, far too often -- closet cases trolling parks and toilets, bathhouses and chatrooms, looking for intimacy-free ways to get what they need so badly. Such encounters are fleeting and rarely fulfilling so they have to keep going, faster and with greater desperation until something terrible happens. The closet kills.

EVERYBODY WANTS THE SAME THING

Darrell talks about 'sex as sacrament.' I believe that too -- or at least I used to. Clive Barker wrote a lovely book called Sacrament that took that theme, celebrated it, shook it around, warped it and came out the other side into beauty. Such a wonderful guy. I've been lucky enough to have had that feeling of sinking into another person on every level -- physically, mentally, spiritually -- and frowned at the big city 'sex as handshake' model. I used to try and see their side when right-wingers railed about gay sexual excess. Big warehouse orgy parties ARE over-the-top and safe-sex is not practised nearly as much as it needs to be. Road to hell and all.

The gay marriage revolution seemed to be the compromise we needed. Homophobes would have to accept our relationships, while we gays 'settled down' into comfy pair-bonds just like them. Couples would all be united in suburbia together, waving over the fence and inviting each other over for barbeques. But, like the joke goes, a liberal is someone who thinks his opinion IS the compromise. Suddenly, the conservatives were no longer complaining about gay promiscuity; they were complaining that faggots dared to equate their relationships to their own. What nerve! Suddenly, the compromise I saw was instead the end of civilized society. Was I wrong? Should I doubt myself? Nope, because I realized that this wasn't about marriage, this wasn't about society, this wasn't about rights. This was merely the same old song: shut up, go away, who do you think you are, anyway?

Conservatives don't really care about the health of gay people or the well-being of society or the state of marriage -- they just want us gone. Or at least tucked away in silence like Mark Foley. They knew for years that he was a quiet, pathetic, predatory pervert and they liked him that way.

Well, sorry kids, but I thought we settled this argument years ago -- silence=death, remember? We're here, we're queer, get used to it. This is what frustrates Darrell as much as myself -- the louder and angrier the Christian Right gets, the louder and angrier the militant gay activists become, and vice versa. The crazier the right gets, the more frustrated I get; the more I spout off, the more threatened they feel (and they feel threatened by everything). In a time of jihad, the reasonable middle ground seems shakier than ever.

But hey, I've got a little magazine now. It's silly and shallow and generally worthless but it's up against Newsweek and Fox News and billionaire Pat Robertson's 700 Club. Feels almost like a fair fight.

TAKE YOUR MAMA

My only real obstacle is that hoary old lie that 'the gays are coming for the children.' That's what all of this is about. Even the most violent homophobe could accept me if I'd just 'keep it to myself' (whatever that could mean) but they panic when they realize that the teenagers are listening. They think our tales of ribaldry are SO fascinating, SO intoxicating that entire high schools will go queer overnight. How flattering! Such a delightful notion but an utterly impossible one. Darrell can rest easy knowing that I'll never be able to lure his children into a bathhouse [attention crazy people: I am SO kidding! xo!]

You see, Mark Foley notwithstanding, we've never wanted the children -- at least not all of them. We could never turn their children gay (How? I was never turned straight) but, in the long run, we WILL take their children. We'll take the gay ones. The ones they teach to hate themselves, the ones they toss aside as worthless, the ones to whom they offer no hope. We'll take them in and give them the answers their parents never did.

Me, I'll be doing what I've always done -- listen to them, talk to them, rant at them and help them look at the bigger picture. I won't even have to work that hard -- they're coming out younger and younger now, with less and less damage. Many of them don't even like being called gay, even though they'll openly hold hands with their boyfriend in the street. Yes, I've worked hard to destroy society and replace it with this: young people happy in love. Read the paper lately? We need more of them, not less.

FILTHY GORGEOUS

I wrap up with one last anecdote, surprised at how chatty I'm being for someone who's never wanted to discuss his sex life on a blog. See? Repression! Look what it leads to...

A few years ago, I was madly, madly in love with that little blond boy who, well, just didn't feel the same. He did at first, I know that, but not after a year or so and I was too stupid or too in love (same thing?) to understand the change. I wanted to marry this boy -- sex as sacrament -- but there was one night too many lying in bed with a stranger who looked like him. No cheap one-night-stand could ever be as grim and soulless as this.

Finally facing reality, I broke up with him. I was 30 and convinced that my life was over. My love was gone, my youth was gone. Yeah, I know -- I was an idiot. But a dismally-unhappy one and I tried to make myself feel better by 'getting right back on the horse.' So I was at a dance club one night and found myself being eyed by someone really adorable. I felt hopeful again for the first time in weeks. We got to talking but, as it often happens, he had a boyfriend. I slinked away, only to soon find the boyfriend wanting to dance with me. In my lingering fog of heartbreak and disappointment, it never occurred to me that one of them would want me, let alone two, but I was invited back to their hotel room.

Now again, there's always risks. They could've turned out like a double-version of that horrible one-night-stand guy; they could've just been leading me on for kicks; they could've even robbed, beaten and left me for dead like Matthew Shepard. I only knew I had to try. We stayed up most of the night before I fell asleep tucked between them, arms and legs everywhere.

The next morning, we heard the cleaning women talking out in the hall. One of the guys sat up in a panic. "Did you put the 'do not disturb' on the door?" he blurted. "I thought you did!" said the other. He leapt out of the bed, down the hall and locked the door just as the cleaner was turning the handle. Hollering an apology through the door, he hopped back into bed and, a moment later, the three of us erupted with laughter, picturing the woman's face if she'd walked into the room. We chatted, we had breakfast and I went home.

It was a bright Sunday morning and I walked down Bay Street with a huge goofy grin on my face. I felt big. I felt brave, I felt funny, I felt sexy, I felt healed, I felt whole. Mournful thoughts of my ex-future-husband, like cobwebs in my head, were brushed away. I'd had a lovely night of trust, respect, sensitivity and safety far better then anything in the past year. This skanky little encounter in a bar had given me hope. It was fun and open and honest and it felt like a sacrament.

Labels: back in the day, evolution, fab, friends, health, homo-a-go-go, insanity, introspective, politics, religion, Trawna, writing

And somehow you manage to meet deadline, too! Thank you for this, Scott - it's quite an honour to have one's words given this sort of consideration. In the future, though, I'll keep my e-mails shorter and less provocative (the better to avoid carpal tunnel syndrome!)

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at October 06, 2006

 

I've been thinking a lot about this post (and not just because of the brilliant use of Scissor Sisters), but especially in terms of the belief of sex as sacrament. Like Scott, Clive Barker's Sacrament is one of my favourite books. But I've also deconstructed a lot of the false value that society has placed on the sexual act, mostly through the study of history and ancient religions. Traditionally, marriage was a property transaction between a thirty year-old man and the father of a fourteen year-old girl, and it was imperative that the woman have sexual fidelity in order to ensure that there was a proper line of inheritance. How this is exactly sacred I'm not sure, other than the religion built up justification for the social mores of the day. But looking back at ancient cultures that placed tremendous value on the sexual act for the very act itself, who didn't fill it with all kinds of artificial value judgements and who saw the beauty in it for what it was, I really think that perhaps we as a society need to recall that ethic and reclaim it for what it is. Casual sex is only really empty or damaging if we tell ourselves that the only "proper" way to have sex is within the confines of marriage. It doesn't have to be empty or damaging if we treat it for what it is, and honour it for what it is. Adding value judgements only serves to mystify the process and creates the very harm that it seeks to prevent.

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at October 10, 2006

 

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Oddly, the Globe and Mail expects people to pay to read Margaret Wente (winner of the prestigious Golden Clam award), but it takes all kinds, I guess. There are people who pay to be whipped and walked on with stiletto heels, too.

Here's the opener of today's column in which Margaret weighs in -- again -- on the International AIDS Conference here in Toronto:

The trouble with Africa

The big AIDS circus is winding up tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. If I have to hear Saint Stephen Lewis hectoring us with his apocalyptic rhetoric one more time, I think I'll choke. Please, sir, can't you take an Ativan? Nor will I miss the ritual denunciations of Stephen Harper. Is it really his duty to show up so that 20,000 people can boo and hiss him? Funnily enough, Jean Chrétien didn't show up at the AIDS-fest in Vancouver a decade ago, either.

And here's me clenching my teeth and writing the editor:

Margaret Wente’s second ill-informed dismissal of the International AIDS
conference (The Trouble With Africa - Aug. 17) attacks “Saint” Stephen
Lewis for “hectoring us with his apocalyptic rhetoric…” Mr. Lewis has
worked on a continent with nearly 25 million people infected with AIDS –
is that number not apocalyptic enough? Ms. Wente’s only contribution to
the discussion involves sealing Canada’s borders and offering women
“education and a reliable microbicide” (what “the big AIDS circus” already
suggested earlier this week).

From her comfortable chair, Wente mocks the “madcap protesters”
criticizing the “evil” Catholic Church who, she counters, “runs something
like a quarter of the AIDS clinics in Africa” where “there is widespread
ignorance about the disease and very little public education about it.”
Given the Church’s refusal to discuss condom usage, Ms. Wente’s clear
inability to put two and two together means that, with relief, I can go
back to ignoring her. She’s tired of Stephen Lewis’ saintliness; I’m
tired of her hatefulness.

Tomorrow: Margaret writes another love letter to her SUV!

Labels: Canada, Stephen Harper, Trawna

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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It's tough to find romance in Toronto, especially if you're this guy:

"Toronto Police have issued a warning about a pervert they believe is behind a series of increasingly strange sexual assaults. He comes up to his victims and introduces himself. He then offers to shake their hands. But when the unsuspecting ladies good naturedly offer him theirs, he refuses to let go. He then kisses the startled females on both cheeks, licks their necks, claims he's their boyfriend and then leaves hurling numerous obscenities at them."

Most of my relationships have played out like that. I think he just sounds lonely...can't imagine why:

"Police have been able to come up with a sketch of the bizarre brutalizer, who's said to be:

White, Possibly Greek, Portuguese or Italian, 60-70, 5'7", 170 lbs., Short, greying hair, Dark eyes, Thick European accent.

He wears a beret with a peak on the front."

Well, there's your problem, my slobbering friend! Berets are so Iraqi military, not at all fashionable these days. Try a raspberry one (I hear they work) -- that way, the Girl of Your Dreams will be able to spot you a mile away!
Hopefully.

Labels: insanity, Trawna

Yep, here I was, another liberal fag asking the usual questions like
"War, what is it good for?"
"Muslims, are they really so terrible?" and
"Nixon lied, Clinton got blown, but we can't impeach George Bush for torturing people?"
All the usual War-on-Terror-bad, freedom-and-not-killing-good except -- whoops -- police have foiled a massive terrorist plot right here in Toronto.

Well that'll learn me.

As usual, the Star's Rosie DiManno summed it with calm, even-handed diplomacy:

These accused wanted, if intelligence experts are correct (and they've been wrong before), to kill you.

Your children, your parents, your lovers, your neighbours.

Wouldn't matter, the colour of your skin, your mother tongue, the God that you pray to or if you pray at all. Wouldn't matter even if you happen to equate George W. Bush with Osama bin Laden.

The Jihad Generation — nothing alleged about it — makes no distinctions.

Come such a day, Toronto will look like London ... Madrid ... Bali ... New York City.

Blood streaming, mangled metal, severed limbs, inchoate rage and immeasurable grief.

Yeah okay, Rosie ... Rosie? ... Rosie!! We get it already!
Now cut it out -- you're getting drool on the table. Let's all turn the Hysteriameter down to about four, shall we? Don't you and Thomas Walkom run into each other in the Star cafeteria?

Now then, first things first -- huge thanks to the excellent men and women of the RCMP and CSIS who didn't spend their time and our tax money creating the biggest database of personal phonecalls ever or investigating producers of pornography. No, they actually focused on possible terror networks and patiently accumulated evidence against them, rather than simply invade some tangentally-related country.

It's called police work. Because it's done by police and it works.

US Secretary of State Condeleeza Rice was so impressed she made special mention of it. Given the company she keeps, she probably thought these were revolutionary techniques. Even so, I give her points for being classy and rational.

Not so to the people who, following the arrests, vandalized a mosque. It's Muslim, you see. And the terrorists who were arrested? Muslim. And the cab driver who screamed at me and drove away after I'd specifically called for a taxi to take my dog to the vet? Muslim! Why, it's all coming together -- they're evil and must be destroyed!

I kid, of course, though the dog part happened -- another cab driver explained that Muslims have a rule that they must immediately go and wash themselves seven times if a dog should happen to touch them. That's not a religion, I say, that's Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Nevertheless, I've learned to keep my beloved pet away from these people I share my sidewalks with -- it's just what you do in the big city.

That's part of a little thing we call liberal values but, when terrorists don't share them, the obvious thing to do is throw them all away and Canada's conservatives know exactly how to solve the problem:

I know there will be an outcry from the anti-war crowd, the NDP, CAIR, and all the other usual suspects, but the fact of the matter is we need to gut the center of this. We need to destroy the camps and mosques and imams where this poison is coming from before we have a hope of cleaing up our own back yards. And that means Afghanistan. Iraq. Iran. Maybe Indonesia and Pakistan. Line 'em up, we'll knock 'em down. We need to.

Oy. What kills me is the perfect-circle Dr. Strangelove logic on display here: "They've declared a Jihad! That's evil! We'll declare War!" I used to think Brazil was a comedy; now we're living in it.

Once again, there is a middle ground between these two approaches:



It's called police work. Because it's done by police and it works.

Labels: Canada, Middle East, Trawna

There is only ONE approach!! Praise be to the New Seekers!!
Hey, they're German! Huh!?!

-- Reply posted by  carguyto at June 06, 2006

 

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Dear Jack Layton,

Canada is now operating without a federal government. We can tell. I was opening a jar of pasta sauce when I felt the tremor run through my soul. Or maybe it was the garlic.

After grappling with the (sort of) ruling Liberals for months now, you and the NDP have jumped into bed with Stephen Harper's Tories to topple the government. Let me ask you Jack (may I call you Jack?), is this wise?

Stephen Harper behaves as though Canadians have just now realized that the Liberals have been in power too long and become shifty and arrogant, to which the public can only say, "Duh!" We know they're weasels -- that's why we handed them a minority government not even a year and a half ago. It was the voters' way of saying, "We completely dislike and distrust you but you're still a better choice than the other losers." I paraphrase, of course.

The thought of a Tory government back in power gives me hives, especially after Mike Harris gutted this province (who knew Common Sense cost $5.6 billion?) and as Stephen Harper continues his Ahab-worthy obsession with gay marriage. When you see him in Ottawa, Jack, does he talk about anything else? I know you mean well but how can you allow this guy anywhere near Sussex Drive? The way he carries on, I think he's desperate to redecorate.

But enough about Harper, let's talk about you. Both you and your lovely wife, Olivia, have been hard-working, popular fixtures in Toronto politics but you're not running for Mayor, you're running for Prime Minister. Despite your charming media-whore tendencies, the rest of the country still hasn't a clue who you are.

Worse yet, the few who do still hold a grudge from the last time your party ran the show in Ontario, fifteen years ago. A recent Rabble forum asked the still-pertinent question, "How did the NDP tick Ontarians off?" My guess is that it was Bob Rae's unique ability to piss off both big business AND unions. Personally, I think he was on to something, playing to the middle (am I right, Bill Clinton?) but Rae didn't end up with the 'Voted Most Popular' yearbook page. The NDP may have created Canada's healthcare system but it seems that, for the general public, they blew their chance fifteen years ago.

I know -- I don't get it either but then again, you're bringing down a government for the kind of financial grifting that most people assume goes on regardless of who's in power. Meanwhile, our friends to the south have a government that lies, steals, blunders, slanders, tortures and kills yet the American people seem confident indeed that it'll all work out. Politics is an unfair business.

Yes, Jack, you've got your work cut out for you and the shadow of Tommy Douglas is a long one indeed. But you've got me in your corner and, I suspect, millions of other Canadians who want smart, honest people in their government. Be that person, Jack, and let us know what we can do to help.

Labels: Canada, Stephen Harper, Trawna

Colour me astonished at Jack's inability to make an informed and articulate run up the middle - especially after the public spurning given him by Buzz Hargrove. Unions were turning from the NDP even before Bob Rae came along, something I think Rae recognized as he wrestled with the fiscal disaster of his first year in office. With the fairweather votes of the unions now completely discounted, you'd think this would be the time for the NDP to give their overall approach to policy a quick but total re-think. Alas, no. Perhaps Jack is appealing to his preacher father's divinity for a little supernatural help in his evangelism?

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at December 09, 2005

 

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My friend Jeff and I were let go from Sunrise Records this month. Given our love-hate relationship with the place, it wasn't a total upset. The only sticking point is that we'd actually quit over a year ago but the Powers That Be asked us to stay on once a week. Now it appears that the owner and his cronies have drafted a new plan called "Roadmap to Success" (not actual success, nor even a road to success, but a map to find the road). The plan involves "more consistency" with employees working throughout the week. "Could've asked," said Jeff. "What's more consistent than being here for three years?" I grumbed, but, like I said, lately neither Jeff nor I had been too fond of bailing water out of a sinking ship. Newer employees now tell me that at least half a dozen people have asked about us, with one demanding the head office phone number. I love that.

With my weekends now freed up, I popped in this Saturday to buy a book at This Ain't the Rosedale Library, the fine independent bookshop in my neighbourhood. "So how's the record business treating you?" asks Dan the co-owner. "Pretty badly," I laugh and repeat my story. I leave him my phone number for a book order and head out. Later that night, I get a call. Dan asks, "Would be willing to come in and work at the store?" It turns out that there's been too many hours split between too few employees lately and they need someone on Sundays and the odd evening. Flattered that Dan is asking me to come in based solely on his occasional conversations with me, I say yes and show up for work the very next day.

My friend James is thrilled. "This is so good for you!" he raves.
"I think it might be," I say, "It feels like a little grace note in my week. But it's weird though...and minimum wage! You don't think it's a step backwards?"
"No no no," says James, "This is great! You're perfect in bookstores and you get to work in the neighbourhood."
He's right. It's a chance to help out a place that needs me, make a little pocket money and get back to working in books after all this time. How cool is that?

Labels: friends, Trawna

Colour me somewhat green, pal. Definitely colour me somewhat green.

Hmm: password - "axmuho". A chili pepper cured over porkfat burned over a mesquite fire, if I'm not mistaken.

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at November 04, 2005

 

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I don't want to announce the End Times or anything but is anyone else finding it bizarre that we've had numerous hailstorms this week? Usually, Toronto gets one or two in late summer and that's it. I have no info to back that up, mind you, but that's what usually seems the case.

After the latest round of ice clattering on the cobblestones late this afternoon, I walked home in what appeared to be the eye of the storm. The sky was a bright, flat grey, giving everything the look of a slightly-overexposed photograph. In the slivers of space between the Bay Street buildings, the sky at the horizon line in two directions was nearly black. It was too bright for dusk, too dark for daylight and, when I did see the sun, it was a lump of haze blending into the grey. People seemed to be walking slower somehow.

It didn't help that my music player had shuffled its way into Angelo Badalamenti territory, playing "Sleep" (with vocals from Marianne Faithfull) and "Diane and Camilla" (from "Mulholland Drive"). Spooooky!

The wind picked up, whipping my long winter coat around me as I turned down Queen Street, and I grumbled about wearing a winter coat in freakin' May. Still, I have to admit that there was something about the eerie calm that was almost soothing.

Labels: Trawna

I'm a lousy networker. I enjoy meeting new people but the second I suspect there might be something to gain by talking to them, I find myself shutting down in fear of being an opportunist. I back away whenever there's the feeling that I (or the other person) am 'after something' (much like picking people up in bars -- it's really only worked for me when the attraction is blindingly mutual).

This is obviously a problem I need to work on. The majority of meetings in this city have some business or sexual subtext to them, it seems, and few of them occur on a perfectly level playing field. Get over it, I say to myself.

With that in mind, I went to the fourth birthday party for Rabble.ca, a left-wing Canadian "newsmagazine for the rest of us." I'd hoped to meet like-minded newsy people but, as it's been a while, I forgot how cliquey like-minded newsy people can be. Everyone in the room seemed smart and friendly but were joined in impenetrable groups of three or four. I've had an easier time meeting people in gay bars, I thought, and cursed myself for not begging a friend to come with me.

That said, I had a great time with the performers Rabble lined up, especially spoken-word artist Motion (I was surprised at how much I enjoyed her coffee-house rhythms). Even better was award-winning poet Dionne Brand reading this terrific excerpt from her new book, "What We All Long For" -- a celebration of Toronto. That's right, I just used "celebration" and "Toronto" in the same sentence (you'll just have to deal).

Later in the evening, I went up and said hello and told her of the conversation I'd had earlier that day with a pair of co-workers who were complaining about the city. They're finding the people chilly and inaccessible. I told them how Robertson Davies once quipped that Toronto is like "a rich fat girl" who doesn't know how to be pretty. They laughed and I said that I planned to stay here and care for her "until she loves me back." The one girl looked at me as if I had three noses and said, "Well good luck with that."

Ms. Brand laughed and told me to keep at it. I thought of Victor Laszlo in "Casablanca": "Welcome back to the fight, this time I know our side will win."

Labels: Canada, introspective, Trawna

Yikes, haven't posted in a week! I don't like the delay but I didn't feel there was anything exciting or amusing enough to pass along. I have to remember though, that this is a diary -- it's about me, that guy I'm too busy railing about politics about to discuss.

So what's been going on this week? Well, after my letter to the White House (why bitch about when you can bitch at?), I had what I've called my 'existential weekend' at home -- spending time with Jon Kabat-Zinn's mindfulness guide "Coming To Our Senses" and DVDs of the philosophy cartoon "Waking Life" and the Buddhist comedy "I ♥ Huckabees." I was delighted by the movies (though "Huckabees" seems to divide people into two camps; many seem to have really hated it!) and I'm still chugging along through Kabat-Zinn's thick book.

My friend Jason is back in Toronto after a couple of years in Vancouver and we've had long reunion chats. He's goaded me into reviving the (formerly) traditional Oscar gathering this Sunday (probably at Danielle's -- she's got cable!)

My sex life has been great; my love life's flatlined. Confused? Me too, but I've spent evenings lately with two different men, both of them delightful, both in love with other people. Being a stop-gap obviously has its perks but I don't think this'll be good for the ego if I go much longer. Oh, to have it all in one person...just a dream?

In the meantime, one of them has introduced me to a filmmaker friend who's taping a video project tomorrow that needed an Irishman. He was thrilled to meet me and said I'd be ideal -- why can't all men react like this when I'm introduced to them? (ha ha) So, tomorrow, I'm taking the afternoon off for a spot of acting.

This is the Toronto I work so hard to live in -- once in a while, it loves me back!

Labels: Trawna

I had the perverse thought of waiting until Saturday to write again, just so it would be exactly one month since my last posting. My blog has become A Cry For Help.

Fans of my ramblings -- both of you -- were surprised by my silence these last few weeks. How could a mouth this big be so silent? How could I, of all people, just shut the hell up? I could scarcely believe it myself but still there was nothing.

In short, it just all got too big. Huge. George Bush's unbelievable re-election. The depressingly-hysterical gay marriage debate. The pathetic near-bankruptcy of Toronto, my home. America's renewed love affair with the vague, creepily-euphamistic "moral values." The tsunami horror. And brave soldiers dying, dying, dying in this never-ending, mismanaged, unnecessary, goddamned war in Iraq. I felt overwhelmed.

I ranted, I pondered, I donated money but, oddly, I couldn't write. I just couldn't see any point to broadcasting my marginal opinions in the face of all this. And the weirdest part is that this wasn't part of another depressive episode -- while the Toronto weather in January has been a brutal yo-yo swing from 'damn-cold' to 'fuckin-cold', I've been, well, happy.

I joined a conversation with two work colleagues the other day about the tenure of Mel Lastman as Mayor of Toronto -- the "wilderness years," we agreed -- and I told them my concerns for David Miller, trying to clean up in the aftermath of that incompetent and corrupt reign of error. "But how much can we really worry about this stuff?" my friend asked, "You and I have our own problems to deal with."

But maybe that is the problem -- right now, I don't. My own life is, knock on wood, remarkably content at the moment. I love the company I'm working for and, for once in my life, it loves me back. I've been on a couple of dates -- nothing