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

 

Post a Comment

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

 

Post a Comment

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

 

Post a Comment

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

 

Post a Comment

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

 

Post a Comment

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

 

Post a Comment

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

 

Post a Comment

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

 

Post a Comment

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 too heart-pounding, true, but still welcome. I've been spending time with friends and reading a lot. It's all very low-key but very, very soothing.

But these causes I care about, the huge problems I fear, are still rolling forward and I, personally, am just not doing anything to help. I feel stagnant and useless. It's not that I have some kind of hero complex or anything -- the problems in this world will only be solved by group action, not by me, but how does going to work everyday and yammering on about it all on a blog change anything? This has been my mood since Christmas.

Ah, but here's the turning point, where I shake off the maudlin self-pity that has crept in yet again. I forgot about inspiration. I forgot that there are people I admire who are doing what I'm not -- or just trying -- and being a conduit for their ideas is always the next best thing to having ideas of my own. If I can't be a faucet, I'll be a bucket and either way the water will get there (ladies and gentlemen, please welcome that metaphor, straight from my ass!)

So, while I mull over what the bishop's next move is, here are the people who've given me the kick in the backside I needed this month:

-- Joel Achenbach, whose new "Achenblog" on the Washington Post site (you may have to register to read it) is as smart and witty as I want mine to be. Plus, he shares my pain:

Not sure I love blogging. Have had numerous moments of blogger neurosis...Also there is my concern, which first surfaced yesterday, that this blog isn’t really about anything, is scatterbrained, and like many blogs is just an exercise in unrestrained egomania. That bothers me. My motto is: Egomania In Moderation.

-- Darrell Reimer, who makes me jealous by running TWO blogs: the thoughtful and assured "Whiskey Prajer" reflections and the advice-for-fathers column "Stay Home, Daddy-O" which makes me jealous by being about something! When he hadn't read anything from me in three weeks, he called me long-distance to see if anything was wrong. That's the mark of a fine man and a good friend, so go read him and leave me to my jealousy!

-- Nat Hentoff, the fine jazz writer and free-speech advocate, caught me right when I was questioning the point of my lone-Canadian anti-Bush watch:

Whenever I speak at a school, or at any gathering, I bring the late Supreme Court justice William O. Douglas into the conversation. As a defender of constitutional liberty, he was the direct opposite of Alberto Gonzales. The Constitution and the Bill of Rights, Douglas once wrote to a group of young lawyers, are not self-executing. He warned: "As nightfall does not come at once, neither does oppression. In both instances, there is a twilight when everything remains unchanged. And it is in such twilight that we all must be most aware of change in the air—-however slight-—lest we become unwitting victims of the darkness."

Hentoff has said that "the best way to lose your freedom is to stop paying attention to those trying to take it away from you." Fair enough, Nat -- I'm on board.

-- Mary Walsh, who carried the same theme forward but, of course, funnier and with that great Newfoundland accent. On Rick Mercer's Jan 17 "Monday Report", she admitted that she misses her stint on "This Hour Has 22 Minutes" mainly for "the outlet." Now, Mary wailed, she can only rant at friends and "no one will invite me to a dinner party anymore!" (Oh Mary, I'm so there with you!) Mercer -- the imp -- then asked, "So Mary, what do you think of George Bush?" and she hollered, "Oh, he is driving me MAD...and that numbnuts Rumsfeld -- anyone else would've lost his job by now!"
Isn't she perfect? I want Mary Walsh to adopt me!

-- and finally, Dr. James Dobson, director of (sigh) Focus on the Family, who issued a "gay alert" against the evil of Spongebob Squarepants. How I wish I were kidding.

It all started when the We Are Family Foundation -- created after the Sept. 11 attacks to teach children about multiculturalism -- announced an unprecedented collaboration between various children's TV creators -- a video sent to elementary schools featuring dozens of currently-popular cartoon characters promoting the idea of tolerating differences and challenging bullies.

On that note, here comes the family-focused Dobson, who insisted that the use of the disco chestnut "We Are Family" made this an "insidious pro-homosexual video" (since, as Gore Vidal might say, all gays love disco music, except the ones who don't). Also, there's the inclusion of the ever-cheerful Spongebob Squarepants, who was once spotted holding the hand of his sidekick Patrick Starfish and subsequently outed by Dr. Dobson.

The media has had a field day with the story this week -- not since Dan Quayle criticized the fictional pregnancy of Murphy Brown has there been such a ridiculous cultural critique. Unable to stand the teasing, the good doctor's people issued a fussy disclaimer on the FOTF website:

From the outset, let's be clear that this issue is not about objections to any specific cartoon characters. Instead, Dr. Dobson is concerned that these popular animated personalities are being exploited by an organization that's determined to promote the acceptance of homosexuality among our nation's youth.

Oh, I see, he's not obsessed with gays, he's "concerned that these popular animated personalities are being exploited" (by such a "determined" group -- grrr!). Who cries for Clifford, the Big Red Dog? Who mourns Dora the Explorer? Sure, I could go on all day making fun of this loon but it's only because I'm so angry at him. This is not about children being exposed to depictions of homosexuality (which I forbid), or even discussing the lives of homosexuals (which I advocate) -- for Dobson, it's about not tolerating the mere existance of homosexuals. This sickens me (and hopefully Christians who still remember Matthew 22:36-40).

I try to understand the hysteria. It's really a problem of vocabulary. When homosexuals hear the word 'tolerance', they think, "freedom from being beaten and hated by bigots" and when Dr. Dobson and his ilk hear the word 'tolerance', they think "liberals anally raping your children." And how do we bridge that gap?

Here's an idea: we leave it up to the fine folks at the United Church of Christ, who weighed in on this sadly-topical issue by cleverly...well...exploiting a popular animated personality. In the funniest set of photos I've seen all week, the UCC has invited Spongebob Squarepants into their church:

Jesus wouldn't turn away SpongeBob Squarepants, and neither does the United Church of Christ. Rev. John H. Thomas, general minister and president of the UCC, gave warm welcome to SpongeBob yesterday -- as well to Barney, Big Bird, Clifford, the long-banished Tinky-Winky, and anyone else who had "experienced the Christian message as a harsh word of judgment rather than Jesus' offering of grace."

Ladies and gentlemen, THAT'S how it's done: fighting crazed stupidity with beautiful silliness. I was already proud of the United Church for their clever-but-banned 'bouncer' TV ad campaign and their bemused reaction to Dobson's hatemongering is inspired.

And it reminds me why I do this. When I look around and see a world so grim, so irrational, so (yes) intolerant, I feel swamped and helpless and impotent. But then I remember that this same world is filled with funny, sensible, decent people trying to make it sane, fair and fun. That's a good fight and, while I strive for a more concrete role in it, this tiny, meaningless blog will continue to champion the reasonable and mock the hateful.

Now tell me what you think...

Labels: Canada, George W Bush, religion, Trawna

I'm back in Toronto after the holiday family visit, still reeling from the news of Sunday's horrifying tsunami disaster. My brother has a friend staying in Thailand and we've yet to hear from him. With all the damage to infrastructure, there's no grounds for panic just yet but we're obviously concerned. Not much else I can say about the situation directly, of course, but there's excellent coverage at World Changing.

I'm debating whether to send a bit of money to Doctors Without Borders or the Red Cross (both are fine organizations and rated highly by the American Institute for Philanthropy). The Red Cross is powerful and more efficient but Doctors Without Borders have a great track record for getting help to more remote areas (like Myanmar in this case). Either way, even my paltry sum will do some good.

All eyes are on George Bush once again as he's decided to stay at his ranch in Texas. According to the Washington Post,

White House spokesman Trent Duffy said the president was confident he could monitor events effectively without returning to Washington or making public statements in Crawford, where he spent part of the day clearing brush and bicycling. Explaining the about-face, a White House official said: "The president wanted to be fully briefed on our efforts. He didn't want to make a symbolic statement about 'We feel your pain'...Some foreign policy specialists said Bush's actions and words both communicated a lack of urgency about an event that will loom as large in the collective memories of several countries as the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks do in the United States.

Exactly. What I personally found galling this weekend was the abysmal news coverage, especially from CNN. When we first heard about the tragedy on the phone Sunday morning, we flipped on the news network to find the middle of a one-hour special on People magazine's celebrity year in review (too valuable to pre-empt, apparently). We flipped to CNN Headline News, which yammered for five minutes about sports news before we flipped again to CBC Newsworld, where we found a live feed from the BBC. In a soothing, authoritative British accent, a silver-haired anchorman explained exactly which regions were affected and how badly. A computer animation simulated where the quake had occurred and how the ripple effect had created the devastating waves. We didn't feel better but we felt the slight calm of being better informed.

A glutton for punishment, I gave CNN another chance yesterday. They were interviewing a geologist and I leaned forward to hear him discuss...Hawaii? A hypothetical earthquake off the coast of Hawaii that could possibly devastate California? Was I hearing this correctly? Yes, said the headline reading, "COULD IT HAPPEN HERE?" No Thailand news here because, yes America, it's all about YOU. I suppose it could've been worse: Jeff tells me that the reporter on Fox News could only talk about how bad the smell was.

So today, turn off the TV, stay on the Internet for real news and please click those 'donate' buttons.

Labels: George W Bush, Trawna

I'm not very good with the charity. I don't give to a church (they do know all their stuff is made of gold, right?), I don't give money to people on the street (they always seem to have better shoes than I do) and I'm not currently giving to the United Way (though I have before and will again -- they're a fine group).

But I had to do something so I decided to contribute to the company food drive. According to the Daily Bread Food Bank, these are the most needed items:

* canned fish or meat
* mac and cheese
* rice
* canned stew
* hearty soup
* powdered or canned milk
* baby food and formula
* pasta and sauce
* canned fruit and vegetables
* canned beans
* peanut butter
* cheese spread

So I went to the Loblaws at College and Yonge Wednesday night. "Right downtown?" a friend asked, "wouldn't it have been cheaper to go to No Frills or something?" The thought had occurred to me but the Loblaws a) would definitely have everything, b) is closer to my home for less walking, and c) has Air Miles points! It's a win all around!

I quickly discovered though that the shopping experience is different for the poor. Everything I was buying was packaged drably and shelved awkwardly. I had to get down on my hands and knees to get at the beef stew down on the lowest shelf. Wanting something a bit more fun for kids, I picked up a can of Pokémon pasta in a can, but realized that I was giving some poor mother an edible advertisement for pricey Japanese toys -- literally, a recipe for disaster.

What surprised me most was how expensive all this 'food for the poor' was. Even something as low-grade as Cheez Whiz is $5 a jar (and don't get me started on baby formula)! I can afford to feed myself just fine but shopping for a family seems wildly prohibitive -- 'how do they do it?' I thought.

The next morning found Toronto buried under snow, doused in freezing rain. I couldn't have picked a worse morning to trudge to the subway with four big bags of cans. I felt simultaneously heroic and irritated beyond belief. No one had shoveled any sidewalks by this point so the walking was slow and slippery and no one -- no one! -- made any effort to give me the right of way. They were probably wondering what kind of fool does his grocery shopping at 8 in the morning under freezing rain but I was angry with them nonetheless. "What's wrong with you people!" I wanted to scream, "Don't you see how heavy this is? It's food for the homeless! The homeless!!"

Yeah, charity...not really my thing. But I'll see what I can do.

Labels: Trawna

Toronto is currently losing its collective mind over the bizarre spike in high school stabbings -- three this month. What's especially sad is that, after Columbine, we're just glad they stuck to knives.

This is why I get a rueful laugh over a school in Texas that took action against their own troublesome influence: an 18-year-old honor student at Trinity Christian Academy was a varsity athlete, won a number of citizenship awards, participated in the school theater, was a yearbook editor, and helped younger students with Bible study.

Oh yeah, and he started a website for closeted gay teens to talk with one another, leading to his expulsion for "immoral behavior and supporting an immoral cause."

The student said:
The site to me meant a great deal, as it had probably saved my life; it gave me people who were going through the same thing and we could talk. I could finally come out of my shell. So I created a free service that would give teens an outlet; stray away from drugs, suicide, alcoholism, etc.

The school's policy says:
As a community of Christian families we also believe the Bible provides insight to help us discern God's desire for our conduct. Therefore we demand high biblical standards of behavior from our students both academically and socially. Our families are asked to embrace these standards of conduct by signing a covenant with the school when students are admitted. Within this framework of biblical standards and academic rigor, an atmosphere of enhanced learning, character development, and love are allowed to flourish.

And there's just no room for compromise, is there?

Labels: religion, Trawna

...for the Yanks, anyway, but we're doing a little luncheon here at work for our many American colleagues who can't make it home. This morning I realized that we're exactly one month away from Christmas and had a slight panic attack so I turned things around by focusing on the holiday at hand, even if it isn't technically mine.

I was watching Woody Allen's "Manhattan" a couple weeks ago (what a beautifully-shot love letter to New York -- I swoon) and I enjoyed his "Why is life worth living?" list near the end. It got me thinking about my own list and US Thanksgiving is as good a day as any to jot some of it down (in no particular order):

-- Aretha Franklin, even the later stuff
-- time in a café with two friends and a good argument
-- watching a film that hits that sweet spot between intelligence and fun (they're rarer than one would think)
-- the Toronto skyline, especially at night
-- 90 minutes in the Niagara Butterfly conservatory
-- Shakespeare veterans (Olivier, Jacobi, Gielgud, Dench, Bloom, McKellen, even Branagh)
-- Dogs, especially terriers (cheers to Bruce McCullough!)
-- Gore Vidal essays and Thai food (both being sweet, savoury and salty all at once)
-- strange comparisons
-- "Memphis Soul Stew" from King Curtis' "Live at the Filmore"
-- those wonderful minutes after my niece first runs to hug me and before she starts barking demands at me (I love that pushy little creature!)
-- a fluffy bacon-and-cheddar omelette
-- finding a pharmacologist who's as dumb as a box of hair (actually, that's from Karen on "Will & Grace" but it's too good a line to pass by)
-- cute geeky guys (rarer than smart popcorn films, twice as great)
-- the emotional sweep of Tchaikovsky, who also gets me through Christmas every year
-- my friends and loved ones (too obvious to say yet not said enough)
-- replies to this blog from friends old and new (hint hint)
-- the "Every Sperm is Sacred" number from Monty Python's "The Meaning of Life"
-- making lists, apparently

See, now I'm just getting ridiculous so it's time to quit. Remember this list next time I'm grousing about something horrible (like the JFK video game!) and go make a list of your own, already!

Labels: family, friends, holidays, introspective, movies, music, Trawna

HALFWAY HOME

This past Friday, Nova Scotia became the sixth province in Canada to legalize same-sex marriage. This comes less than two weeks after Manitoba did the same. This leaves five provinces and one territory still in the twentieth (if not nineteenth) century.

Of course, that's just geography. The fine folks at ReligiousTolerance.org point out that, population-wise, things are rosy:

Assuming that same-sex couples are evenly distributed across Canada, 82.3% of them can marry after 2004-SEP-24 without having to leave their province or territory of residence. In fact, many gays and lesbians gravitate towards the larger cities like Halifax, Montreal, Toronto, Winnipeg and Vancouver where same-sex marriage is already allowed. So the actual percentage of gays, lesbians, and bisexuals in committed same-sex relationships who are now able to marry in their own province or territory is probably somewhat higher.

As always, though, it's the homos in rural areas who still have a rough road ahead so the work isn't over yet. The funny thing about the same-sex marriage debate for me is that I'm still not completely sold on a system that bestows benefits on married people and leaves out singles. Trying to visit someone in the hospital, for instance, and being kept out because you're not "family" bothers me immensely and I don't see how gay weddings will change that beyond a lucky few.

But progress comes in inches and gay marriage is merely that -- though you wouldn't know it from the overblown rhetoric of those opposed. A same-sex marriage bill in Spain (a friendly home to the far more subversive filmmaker and provocateur Pedro Almodovar) led to this pronouncement:

"[Same-sex marriage] would impose on society a virus, something false, which will have negative consequences for social life," [Catholic bishop] Juan Antonio Martinez Camino said.

I'm confused -- I thought rampant promiscuity was supposed to have negative consequences for social life (like actual viruses) -- but here's the part that I loved most:

Socialist Prime Minister Jose Luis Rodriguez Zapatero took office in April, intending to remove what he called the Church's undeniable advantages...The changes have distressed and outraged the Church, whose influence on Spaniards has declined precipitously since the death in 1975 of the dictator General Francisco Franco. His regime was closely linked to the Church.

Ah, yes, the glory days with Generalíssimo Franco, who famously said, "Our regime is based on bayonets and blood, not on hypocritical elections," and proved it by having nearly 20,000 political prisoners put to death over his 36-year reign. Good times!

And people wonder why I'm so hard on the Church. I'm a fair guy, though, so I'll make the Pope and his gang an offer: I'll shut up when they shut up.

Labels: Canada, Trawna

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

Why am I still single? Well, Noel Cowan is already taken, for one. He's the co-director of the Toronto International Film Festival and former programmer of the 'Midnight Madness' portion of the fest. He counts 'The Towering Inferno' as one of his all-time favourites

According to the bio in today's Star, he and his partner Nathan have bought a house in Cabbagetown and look forward to renovating and spending time with their dog.

I hate them.

Labels: oh l'amour, Trawna

DISTURBING QUOTES OF THE DAY

Joseph Schumpteter in 1919, describing the Roman Empire with an odd relevance to today:

"There was no corner of the known world where some interest was not alleged to be in danger or under actual attack. If the interests were not Roman, they were those of Rome's allies; and if Rome had no allies, the allies would be invented. When it was utterly impossible to contrive such an interest -- why, then it was the national honor that had been insulted. The fight was always invested with an aura of legality. Rome was always being attacked by evil-minded neighbours...The whole world was pervaded by a host of enemies, it was manifestly Rome's duty to guard against their indubitably aggressive designs."

Richard Ouzounian, interviewing 'mercurial' actor Nick Nolte in today's Toronto Star:

"Looking at his unruly, matted hair, it's hard to believe that this was the same man who actually appeared in ads for Clairol's 'Summer Blonde' 35 years ago."

And this personally-upsetting verse from jazz-kid Jamie Cullum's otherwise-delightful "Twentysomething" album:

"After years of expensive education
A car full of books and anticipation
I'm an expert on Shakespeare and that's a hell of a lot
But the world don't need scholars as much as I thought."

Labels: Trawna

GREAT WORD OF MOUTH ADVERTISING

The Catholic News Service has already reviewed "A Dirty Shame," the upcoming new film from legendary filthmeister John Waters, starring -- I love this -- Tracey Ullman, Chris Isaak and Johnny "Jackass" Knoxville.

The Catholic group denounced the comedy as full of "almost non-stop rough, crude and profane language, full frontal nudity, sexual imagery, obscene gestures, scatological humor, casual portrayal and descriptions of deviant sexual practices, a glorification of freewheeling sex and some sacrilegious imagery."

Asked for his reaction, John Waters said, "I don't know if I can get a better review than that."

In an amusing interview, Chris Isaak said, "When I read the script, I said 'John, I'm only in 20 pages, and there's already masturbation, group sex, nude dancing.' I said, 'Is this gonna be tastefully done?' He said 'No.'"

And the final punchline to this little tale? Waters' sleazy little movie is one of the Gala evening premieres at this year's Toronto International Film Festival. I love my country!

Labels: Trawna

WHAT A WAY TO START THE DAY

Everyone here's a bit freaked out by the hostage situation at Union Station this morning. A man shot a woman in the TD Centre food court then fled from police into the station, where he took a hostage. The gunman was described as "agitated and moving erratically" which made me wonder how he differed from anyone else at Union Station on a Tuesday morning.

The standoff lasted about half an hour until a police sniper shot him in the head. The hostage is fine but there's no word yet on the first victim in hospital.

Ugh. Toronto has always felt so safe for a city of three million so it's especially unnerving when something like this happens.

Not to mention coming on the heels of a bizarre home invasion yesterday, in which a 15-year-old boy crashed into a family's home in broad daylight with a gun. He pistol-whipped their 16-year-old daughter before stealing their Sony Playstation video game console. He attacked an entire family for a video game console. If it wasn't so ugly, it'd make a terrific commercial.

Fortunately, events like these are still few but less far between so, while I'm personally not pushing any panic buttons just yet, there's still a feeling of unease that's going to take a long period of calm and safety to erase. Is that possible?

Labels: Trawna

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A FORTNIGHT MAKES

The events of Wednesday, July 28th were -- quite frankly -- too distressing to write about (this, of course, means they were the only things worth writing about, but hey...) so I've obviously steered clear of my usual ramblings here.

I'm just so tired of whining all the time.

A couple weeks later, however, I've had both time to decompress and -- surprisingly -- enjoy a major transformation. So, in short, we've got some catching up to do:

(the very long) TOPIC #1: THE UNAWARE SCORPION

My mother knew I was wanting to visit the fine city of Boston at some point so, taking the lead as she's want to do, she talked me into taking a road trip with her. With our birthdays only four days apart, a long weekend of sightseeing and clam chowdah seemed ideal for both of us, so I was cautiously optimistic (I frequently wish I could approach the world with less caution and more optimism but Jane Jacobs titled her new book "Dark Age Ahead" so there you go). I began to look forward to it, to joke about staying long enough to pick up the accent and legitimately yell, "Mah!! Why'd you pahk the cah so fah!"

My friends were surprised. I'd gone without speaking to my mother for much of the nineties after I'd had most of my possessions stolen by a drug dealer she owed money to (as a way of discovering your parent's drug abuse problem, I don't recommend it).

As I approached and passed my thirty mark, however, I've become more understanding of the kind of stresses my mother must have been under -- especially as a young single parent of two, which I've no experience with -- and I've tried to forgive. I saw this road trip as a fun way for us to bond as adults, to show her life on my turf for once, and to paint over painful old memories with friendly new ones.

Idiot.

Right from the start, there were warning signs, notably a refusal to look into hotels or any sort of itinery. "Let's just get in the car and hit the road!" she'd say, making me feel like Jack Kerouac's guidance counsellor. She couldn't seem to understand why I didn't seem more excited by the possibility of sleeping in the car. "It's a car" was all I could say.

We crossed the border on the new Toronto-Rochester ferry, a massive vessel with a smooth two-hour ride, spacious seating and tables, two big-screen-TV-rooms for movies, a small duty-free shop, a bar and a cafeteria counter. Even getting the car in and out wasn't much of a fuss. Highly recommended.

Everything was lovely until we reached the border and Mom started chatting up the border guards, who looked at her with deep suspicion. In retrospect, Boston was obviously the problem. It just so happened that our trip coincided with the Democratic National Convention (those with long political memories will recall how the 1968 gathering in Chicago ended in riots). The guard asked her why we were going to Boston and Mom airily said, "Oh, we're just going to drive around up the coast for a while." This was all true, of course, but way too vague for the guy in black and he told us to drive over to the side checkpoint.

Mom was confused. "What's the big deal?" she said, "I never get pulled over."
"These guys are paranoid right now," I said, "You think you can charm with your dumb blonde routine but it doesn't work on them." We were made to sit in a long, drab waiting room with black-clad, billy-club-toting officers milling around behind service counters with plexiglass windows. We sat next to a Muslim woman grimly watching her husband and teenage son in the parking lot pulling everything out of their car for one of the guards. "They let everyone through but us," she announced to us, "I don't know why."
"Well, I've got a theory," I said, "but I think you already know what it is."
She looked me in the eye and nodded, "Wrong colour."

My mother was finally called up in front of the counter and asked all the usual questions. My passport and her ID had already been taken from us. I heard the guard ask her about previous convictions.
"There was some narcotics stuff about fifteen years ago," she said.
"Well, that alone would keep you out of the country," the guard said, "but what happened in 2001?"
She looked at him blankly and I began to despair. "I don't know," she finally said.
"You don't know?" the guard said, presumably wondering how someone could forget a criminal conviction from three years ago, "There was a probation?"
"Oh," my mother sighed, realization settling in, "yes, yes there was something I was pardoned for."
Her voice was getting quieter but I'd lost interest in listening further, anyway. The last thing I heard was her pointing out to the guard that today was indeed her birthday and the guard agreeing that, yes, this did suck. Would this, I wondered, be considered sad or pathetic?

She came over and slumped into the chair beside me and said, "They're not letting us in."
"I figured," I said, teeth clenched, "but why?"
"Something stupid," she replied. She let out a long sigh and said, "The past always comes back to haunt you."
"What?" I said, feeling simultaneously sorry for her and irritated by her secrecy, like a dentist struggling to pull a tooth. She finally explained that, back in 2000, a 'booster' friend of hers had been caught shoplifting and she tried to take the rap for him.
"What did he steal?" I asked.
"Oh, just a couple of steaks."
"Steaks?"
"Filet mignon."
"Why?"
"He wanted to throw a party for me, to celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Well, it was the night before I went into rehab."
"Again?"
"Yes."
In my struggle to comprehend this whole new angle I'd never heard before, I stumbled into this particular story's 'money line':
"So...they're not letting us into the country because you shoplifted meat?"
"Well, I didn't shoplift it."
I could feel the veins in my head throb.

In my eternal spirit of turning lemons into lemonade, I tried to think of reframing our trip along Canadian lines. It's Pride Weekend in Montreal, I thought -- I've done it before but at least I know it'll be fun. I'm sure she'll enjoy it. I was thinking all this while Mom was getting, yes, fingerprinted in anticipation of her later application for a guest visa -- the one that takes over six months and denied a friend of mine from having one of his parents attend his wedding. Mom showed me the form that let her know she could be considered for a brief visit following the payment of $250 US and -- my favourite bit -- an additional $70 US for the fingerprinting fee. I tend to think of America the way I do China: love the people, loathe their governments.

On the up side, we were escorted back to the ferry and didn't have to pay for the return trip -- score! Things were predictably tense so I suggested we take in the movie, "Down with Love." Such camp silliness seemed like the ideal low-thought diversion but Mom was out of her seat within fifteen minutes. "I'm going back to the duty-free," she said, "I'm going to get that perfume I saw. It's my birthday and I deserve a treat."
"Can't argue with that," I said to her back.

I felt terrible for her, for this awful thing to happen on her birthday, for the guilt I presumed she must be feeling, for the way she constantly steps on the mines she's laid before. But I also felt that horrible impotent rage, the helplessness that comes from everything you want snatched from you through no fault of your own. I really wanted to see Boston and Montreal didn't feel like much of a consolation prize.

At Canadian Customs, I grit my teeth at the process repeating itself. The Canadian guards were understandably curious as to why the Americans rejected us and made us drive over to the side and wait. The Canadian guards lacked all the paramilitary accoutrements of their US counterparts but seemed to make up for it by an increase in swagger and condescension.

We were given cards to fill out, listing what we had purchased at the duty free. "Well," I said to my mother with the guards right by us, "there's the two bottles of liquor we purchased, one allowed for each of us." This was my only attempt at a joke -- both bottles were for her. "And the perfume--" She suddenly waved her hand over the form, shaking her head quickly.
"What are you doing?" I hissed, but she shushed me as loudly as she dared.
I glared at her and handed her the form as we were led to a bench beside the car. We sat in silence while two guards searched through it, until we were finally asked to walk over to a small room.

Inside, we gave the bottles to a man in his sixties who clearly disliked the computer screen he tapped information into. He explained that, because we never actually entered the other country, we had to pay duty on the bottles. Standard Ontario tax mark-up would add another $20 dollars to what we'd already paid. Even I jumped at that one, announcing, "That'll make each bottle cost over $40!" The man just shrugged in a vaguely sympathetic way and I was irritated at feeling myself growing sorry for my mother once more.

The man began to look up info on the second bottle but had obvious difficulty. "Are you having fun learning your job?" my mother said. My eyes widened in horror as I fought to keep a poker face at that one. My man turned to her and said, "Are you being facetious with me, sir?" in a tone that brought the temperature down several degrees. "No, no," she stammered, and went on to explain how much she hated computers and respected anyone who could deal with them. I could see him soften and it was, on the whole, a very nice save but a save nevertheless. He eventually decided to only charge for one bottle for liquor, explaining that -- like a traffic cop -- he had a certain amount of leeway he could exercise. We were both geniunely grateful and I shook his hand, saying, "Thank you for being the first human being we've encountered this afternoon."

In an effort to salvage the day, I offered to take Mom out for dinner. After all, I said, "I've got a pocket full of Yankee money and it's still your birthday." The whole time, however, I was fully conscious of my desire to suppress my bad feelings and make nice, and I felt cowardly, phony and irritated by myself. I especially noticed it as we pulled into the parking lot while Mom was explaining that, even with the duty paid on the one bottle, she'd still saved about seven or eight dollars. "Yeah, because that's the happy ending I was waiting for," I sniped with a more venomous tone than I'd expected. She didn't notice.

It all came to a head over dinner. As she prattled on as though nothing had happened, I jumped in and said, "Just explain to me the perfume thing."
"What do you mean?"
"After not being allowed into the US, after that horrible scene with the customs guards, you still decide to smuggle something -- why?"
"You saw those charges -- I would've had to pay forty or fifty bucks!"
"And did it never occur to you how it would feel -- after having our vacation ruined -- to sit and watch them tear apart the car while knowing that you'd hidden something?"
She just looked at me with a blank expression.
"Did it not occur to you what an extra level of stress that would add to an already horrible day?" In the middle of a restaurant, I was approaching a courtroom-drama volume.
"What do you want me to say? I did what I had to do. I'm tired of apologizing for the past."
"I don't care about the past!" I snapped, "I care about the present! I want you to stop! Just stop!"
Again, she just looked at me, only now with shining, wet eyes. Once again, I was the monster who just doesn't understand her pain. She told me that it was clear I was still very angry towards me and that, for both our sakes, I would have to "let go of that anger." She's completely right, of course, but once again, as always, it's me who does the work.

I went to see my friend James that night, knowing that there was no way I could carry on with this trip yet knowing that calling it off would do permanent damage to an already corroded relationship. He was appalled on my behalf, thankfully, and wisely pointed out that it is possible to love one's parents while staying far, far, safely away from them.

I thought later about that old parable of the scorpion and the frog:
The scorpion wanted to cross a river but couldn't swim. He asked a frog that was sitting nearby if he would take him across the river on his back. The frog refused and said, "I mustn't, because you will sting me."
The scorpion replied, "It would be foolish for me to sting you because then we would both drown."
The frog saw the logic in the scorpion's words, and agreed to carry him across, but when they were halfway across the river, the scorpion stung the frog. The stunned frog asked, "Why did you sting me? Now we will both die!"
The scorpion replied, "I'm a scorpion...it's in my nature."

Fair enough, I suppose, but what do you with someone who doesn't know they're a scorpion? One who never connects past actions with present consequences? Do you hate them? Help them and be stung? Or simply hide from them?

My mother and I have talked since then -- simple, meaningless chatter. I wait for more, demand more in fact, but know I won't get it. I don't know what the next step will be but one won't be coming for some time. I've bigger things to concern myself with...

TOPIC #2: PUTTING DOWN ROOTS

Now with no vacation and a pocketful of vacation money, I decided to take care of me for once. For months now, I've lived in an unfinished apartment, hedging my bets on the possible vacancy of a cheaper unit in the building. I like my apartment -- it's cheap, it's cozy, it's conveniently located, and I've put a lot of love and work into making it a comfortable place to be. Or at least, just the living room and bathroom -- the bedroom's an unfinished disaster, waiting on a decision from me to leave or stay.

Ultimately, however, I knew that -- for better or worse -- money is and never has been my defining concern. After a day and a half or moping around the city in bookstores and cafes, trying to cheer up, I clenched my jaw and headed off to drop a couple hundred bucks at Canadian Tire and Ikea. I spent most of my holiday weekend painting and putting together furniture.

Obviously, I also dropped a chunk of cash on DVDs -- a box set of "Star Trek: Deep Space Nine." Smirk if you will but, along with a handful of "Next Generation" episodes and two or three of the movies, "Deep Space Nine" is the only "Star Trek" that matters. Besides, it was my birthday and I deserved a treat.

A week later, my apartment is still woefully junky -- there's still a lot of work to do -- but my bedroom now has bookcases and an office set-up, a comfortable bed and vibrant brick-red walls. It's a happy place and I've decided to stay.

TOPIC #3: WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?

It came out of nowhere on a Monday -- a mention of a possible job in the company my friend Jeff works for.
Tuesday morning, I delivered a new resume and met with the woman in charge.
Wednesday morning, I'd been asked back for a second interview with the human resources department.
Thursday morning, they were calling my references.
Thursday afternoon, I'd been hired.
Friday morning, I was training with the outgoing employee.
Friday afternoon, I remembered to give the record store and the pub a week's notice, since I have to start the new job next Monday.
Each of these nights, I was working at the pub until three in the morning. My head's still spinning.

Now, back on earth, I must admit it's a gamble. It's a one-year contract doing one of those office monkey sort of jobs -- nothing glamourous, don't you worry -- but the environment is great, the people friendly and talented, the pay exactly what I'm making now but with half the hours. It's a win all around and I still can't believe my good fortune.

But maybe that's what a lot of this is about: good luck vs. bad luck. I feel lucky but shouldn't because it's important to remember that no one's hiring me out of charity. I've earned this job because I'm a good guy with a quick mind and people recognize that. If I'm going to continue being stung by scorpions, it'll be because people know that, despite everything, I'm the guy who still wants to help them across the river and it's time to start.

Two weeks later, things are suddenly better.

Labels: Canada, family, friends, introspective, Trawna, working girl

NO MORE 'I LOVE YOUs' IN TORONTO

I went with Neeraj to the Air Canada Centre this evening to see fifty-ish icons Sting and Annie Lennox. Neeraj and I are both big fans of Annie and considered Sting a bonus -- "Maybe I'll come out of this a Sting fan," said Neeraj.

I enjoyed both performers but was struck by the change in their voices -- neither seemed capable of hitting the high falsettoes that seemed effortless in the eighties (especially Sting who no longer screams but growls about that red light in "Roxanne"), but both have more power and a pleasing roughness to their voices now. This was a change after noticing in previous concerts how little Bruce Springsteen and Michael Stipe's voices have changed.

Annie Lennox may have lost her girlish high pitch but her belting is possibly even stronger now than in her Eurythmics hey-day (and "Missionary Man" rocked). She dutifully covered all of her biggest songs but wasn't much for bantering between songs, other than a quick jab at her record company and a reminder that she played here last summer during the SARS scare -- "I didn't abandon you, Toronto!"

In response, the Toronto crowd was the usual Toronto crowd -- polite to a fault -- but, as the audience mysteriously leapt to its feet with wild applause for her encore, I realized that Annie Lennox is the ideal Toronto performer -- she's soulful and passionate yet chilly and remote and her songs attempt to reconcile that disparity, just as this city seems to.

After all that, Sting unfortunately seemed a bit too ordinary (yes, I know, "blander than Annie Lennox" borders on cruel) but his band was terrific and his stage featured the most beautiful video-projection backgrounds I've seen. It's not to knock the guy (he's already had Max Headroom, for God's sake, ask, "Do you ever get tired of being so...Sting?") but it's just that -- with his world-music dabblings and raspy-voiced-soul -- he comes off as Peter Gabriel without the pain, shiny happy shaman.

I did feel a bit sorry for him at the end of a fabulous rendition of his Quentin Crisp tribute, "Englishman in New York": he tried to get the audience to wave and chant "Be yourself, no matter what they say" and that darned Toronto crowd just sat there.

Maybe it was the message they didn't get, rather than the messenger.

Labels: Bruce Springsteen, Trawna

SWEET RELIEF

I've worked the last six nights in a row, with two more yet to go, so I'm fairly wiped but feeling happier and more hopeful than I have in a long while.
Three big reasons why:

1) Pride in Toronto was big, splashy and far too crowded, yet everything went smoothly enough and -- with the federal election the next day -- the million people attending were more energized and feisty than ever. It was great to see.

2) I took in a matinee of "Fahrenheit 9/11" on Saturday and it was all I hoped it would be -- a fast, funny, devastating swipe at possibly the most hateful US presidential administration ever. The sequence with the wounded veterans made me cry with rage, remembering those scary, sad wretches from my childhood who'd just made it back from Vietnam. The movie honours the bravery of these courageous people while condemning the venal, greedy men who have betrayed their trust. Thanks to the dialogue this film helps continue, more and more people agree that we cannot allow this to continue.

3) The Canadian federal election ended perfectly, not with the near-terrifying spectre of Stephen Harper as Prime Minister but with Paul Martin leading a chastened Liberal party. A Liberal minority government seems like the perfect thing for Canada right now. People voted thoughtfully and strategically for a humane liberal agenda but against an arrogant Liberal monopoly as we've been so often stuck with.

Factor in the repair (finally!) of the air conditioning at the store and I'm feeling downright perky this week -- especially with having tomorrow off.

Happy Canada Day, everyone!

Labels: Canada, Stephen Harper, Trawna

A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM THE FILES...

With Pride Week in full gear in Toronto, you may not hear much from me this week, chained as I am to the front door of Woody's. Till then, last year's take on the subject holds up quite well...

June 26, 2003:
"HAPPY PRIDE!!!!!!!!!!!!".....UGH

Yes, Gay Christmas is fast approaching and I....don't especially care. Not that I have a problem with it (thank you, Jerry Seinfeld), nor am I some 'self-hating homophobe' (ie. someone who doesn't immediately subscribe to the 'gay-good-straight-bad' school of politics), but I just think I'm too old, frankly.

Like Christmas, Gay Pride is for kids. It's for those fresh-out-of-the-closet newbies from 9 to 90 (and if you think there's no gay 9-year-olds out there, you've clearly never seen the kid on that "Who's the Boss?" sitcom -- he writes for "The Advocate" now and we ALL saw that coming). When I moved to Toronto in 1992, with everything but my closet door, Pride Day was the best thing ever -- an incredible street party where the ordinary people made me feel fascinating and the fascinating people made me feel ordinary. As they say, I Was Not Alone. Pride Day has been all about first times -- I remember the first time I attended the parade, the first guy I picked up at an afterparty, the first all-morning brunch with friends, and the first day spent holding hands with my boyfriend amidst the hundreds of thousands of others. It's been beautiful, and it's been done.

Now, and for the last two years, I've been working on Pride Day at Gay Ground Zero. The pub gets thousands of people streaming through its doors all weekend long and the inside is always filled to capacity. The energy is electric, exciting and, sadly, exhausing. I've nothing left. All week long, customers have been squealing "Happy Pride!!!!" at me and, in some sensitive cases, catching me in my plastic smile. "Aren't you excited?" they ask. "Do you work retail?" I ask back and, when they answer yes, I say, "Then today is December 21." I can see the light coming on in their eyes as they get it.

I'm a massive grouch, of course -- I will enjoy seeing the city erupt with gayness all weekend, as I always have, and no work-stress will ever take away that pleasure. But, as BB King says, the thrill is gone, gone away from me. I leave it for the next generation, those high-schoolers and graduates who'll come downtown on Sunday with their eyes wide open.

Labels: Trawna

PACKED!
a day of greed, helicopters, revenge and karaoke

People I see occasionally (that being most of my friends...oy) will ask, "So what have you been up to lately?" and I'm forced to admit that the answer is work, work, work, and little of it rewarding in any spiritual, practical or financial sense. Actually, I usually just say, "Oh not much."

Today, however, I could change all that, as I packed a week or two worth of events into one evening. To start with, I had to leave work early at 3 pm so I could take the street car down to the Bathurst ferry docks. Universal Home Video had decided to hold its fourth-quarter product announcement party (translation: telling us what to flog at Christmastime) at the Island airport and, with my boss and DVD buyer Stan on vacation, he'd asked me to attend in his place.

After a ridiculously short ferry ride (the 'fixed-link' controversy is being held over this?), I arrived at the ridiculously tiny airport and was greeted by people in army camouflage pants and black T-shirts reading "TEU". Under the Universal/Alliance Atlantis logos on the back was their full designation, "Tactical Entertainment Unit." Uh-oh.

Surrounded by young media people aiming at glamour, I was led into a fenced-in area and offered drinks until the helicopers arrived. Seriously. Against the beautiful west-side view of the Toronto skyline, four helicopters came roaring in towards us and I hoped I wouldn't hear "Ride of the Valkyries" as they did. The wind whipped at us as the copters landed and smoke bombs and tiny explosions marked the entrance of two men in suits being rushed towards our gates by a group of TEU officers with rifles, presumably protecting them from those Warner Brothers bastards.

The two men gave a short welcome speech and then led the way into a large aircraft hanger filled with round dinner tables. A stage was set up in the corner with a podium and a projection screen, flanked by regular television sets. At the other end was a line-up of heated buffet trays with a group of waiters behind them and, above us, hung an array of movie posters for current and upcoming releases.

This was all very impressive. Then the guy in charge delivered the opening news that Vivendi Universal's merger with arms-dealing General Electric has gone through, forming NBC Universal (owners of Telemundo!). This new merger, he explained, will allow for an exciting new era in television-on-DVD programming, beginning with...(was that a drum roll?)..."The Apprentice" on August 24th, that irritating reality show that inflicted Donald Trump on us yet again. Among the DVD's many attributes, I was told, will be its "breakthrough packaging" design -- a sound chip that says -- he stopped and pointed at the crowd who yelled happily -- "You're fired!" I began to feel somewhat deflated.

The next 45-minutes consisted of movie trailers, PowerPoint marketing plans and terrible military-themed puns from the guy in charge. Most alarming was the wild applause in response to the news that "Shrek 2" has grossed up to $350 million dollars and that such successes for the company will lead to "what we all want more of...CASH!"

Wow, I thought, they're not even pretending to care about art anymore. I mean, no amount of clever marketing campaigns will excuse "Van Helsing" from being a godawful movie. And, while I welcomed the confirmation of a December 14th release of the fancy 4-disc version of Best Picture "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King", the goodwill was drowned out by gushing tributes to the huge sales potential of movies like "The Terminal," "The Chronicles of Riddick" and "Thunderbirds" -- none of which have opened in theatres yet. I guess I'm just a crank to think that people should like the films before owning them.

I consoled myself by sitting with a lovely group of women from the Universal marketing team and we all enjoyed the truly amazing food from a catering outfit called "On the Move". As we all talked shop, one of the ladies admitted that they too hated the bilingual packaging of their products but insisted that it was necessary without knowing exactly why. I offered my theory of "DVD-customer-as-book-customer" (the parallels are scary!) and they were genuinely interested, which was nice.

By dessert, it was 6:30 pm and just about time for a helicopter ride. As corporate bribes go, this was pretty damn cool. I got to sit in the front seat beside the pilot, with the clear plastic under my feet, as we lifted up and headed past the CN Tower. The view was fantastic, even through yesterday's awful smog, and I asked the pilot if he still enjoyed it. "Every time," he said with a grin, "it's awesome!" As we circled back around Rosedale towards Jarvis and Bloor, I pointed and said, "I can legitimately say I can see my house from here!" The pilot shook his head. The flight back in just over the water was a bit tense (what if we crash?) but we landed gently about ten minutes after we'd left.

One of our own head office people (part of a table I'd quietly avoided) came up to ask me how the trip was and I gushed a little before moving into the requisite small talk. I took a deeper breath and said, "So...is this sort of winding down, then?" and he said, "Pretty much" -- my cue to flee!

My haste, you see, was encouraged by an offer from the very-cute Felipe, an acquaintance of mine who'd dropped by the store earlier that day to ask if I'd take his extra ticket to see British singer/songwriter Dido at the Hummingbird Centre. I called Filipe at quarter after seven to ask if he'd found someone else but no, so I met up with him at the door. He waved off any attempt on my part to pay for even some of the ticket price so I insisted on at least buying him a drink. He graciously accepted a vodka cooler and the Hummingbird's bars feature champagne by the glass so who could pass that up?

I thanked Filipe one more time as we walked through the marble lobby and he said, "Well, it's no big deal..." "Oh, I don't know," I said, "I'm strolling through a concert hall on a summer evening with a glass of champagne and a handsome man at my side -- this is about as good as it gets." He actually blushed at such smarm -- how cute is that?

The concert itself was great -- Dido on CD is mellow and vaguely electronic but the live show was surprisingly energetic, the lighting was fantastic and the girl herself was very funny. She introduced "See you when you're 40" as a song about a particular person which "you should never do as a songwriter -- it's such an abuse of power," she said before shrugging and telling us how she did it anyway. When the song ended, she warned the audience that, see, if anyone upsets Dido, she'll "write a really mellow song about you. That's about as angry as I get."

The concert wrapped up about quarter to eleven, just in time to join the entire record store gang at the Horseshoe Tavern on Queen, where our Tony was playing with his band, Fight Like Gentlemen. Filipe wanted to see Ruby but decided to head home. I tried to talk him out of it but, after an evening in his debt, felt I was in no position to badger.

In the space of a few hours, I'd gone from a glass of wine at the industry party to a glass of champagne at the concert hall to a bottle of Amsterdam Brown at the rock joint. I was pleased at how everything had worked out, even though the others were more drunk. Tony's band played a short set and were thankfully very fun and very loud, with a bit of a 60's power-pop thing going on.

Our lovely blonde Penny was rightly convinced that the Horseshoe bouncer wanted to remove her for being too drunk so we decided to move the party over to Milwaukee's where the gang goes every Tuesday night for "Extreme Karaoke." I never get to join them since I almost always work the door at my pub every Tuesday so I was happy to head over.

By now, it was about 12:30 am and the karaoke guy seemed a bit put-off by our gang pouring in. "Where were you guys at 11?" he grumped. Our security guard 'limeys' Dean and Brooke sang "A Day in the Life" together (Dean, I'm told, only sings Beatles songs) and I got to holler through Chris Isaak's "Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing" in honour of our archeology student Sarah, leaving us last night for a summer placement on a dig in Egypt. Again, how cool is that?

I danced with Penny during one song, which greatly amused Alex and AJ, as she was very drunk by now and grinding all over me. I grinded back, pretending to be some hipster bisexual, but (sigh) such is not to be. The poor girl got no reaction from me and, hey, I was trying. By this point, it was clearly time to go so I dumped myself into a cab and rode home, wishing that Filipe wanted me as a boyfriend or that I wanted Penny as a girlfriend or that I simply get more days like this one.

Labels: friends, movies, music, oh l'amour, travel, Trawna, working girl

DON'T GET AROUND MUCH ANYMORE

Yes, I was quite stupid to let my driver's license lapse. Let's establish that right now. In my own defense, all I can say is that, once I moved to Toronto in 1992, I found a city with (formerly) great transit, (still) horrific prices for parking and Ministry of Transportation offices that were as inaccessible as they were aggressive in demanding money from me. The driver's license didn't seem so necessary.

A decade later and not much has changed (except for the declining transit). I, however, have decided -- especially after the aggravation that was Los Angeles this time last year -- that not having a licence is a bigger problem. I don't particularly like to drive and don't even plan to drive but I hate not having the option to drive. So, off I go to endure the new 'graduated licence' program, in which getting a new card will take a couple of years, many tests and no doubt several fees.

I'm ready for that, or I thought I was until I went to the DriveTest website. The rules can only be described as byzantine and the list of locations was depressing. I'm going to need a car to get to the office where I can ask to drive! Crossing my fingers; wish me luck...

Labels: Trawna

B O W I E

Yes, after postposting his December 12th show in Toronto due to a flu, David Bowie performed at the ACC this past Thursday and I've been walking on air ever since. What an incredible performer -- so loose, so confident and surprisingly funny and engaging. Bowie's always seemed a bit inpenetrable in videos and interviews but, in person, he was warm, dynamic and -- oh yeah -- he frigging rocked.

It wasn't just the five(!) songs from his legendary "Ziggy Stardust" album, nor the pumped-up versions of newer material like "Hallo Spaceboy" or "I'm Afraid of Americans," but Bowie himself, squeezing every bit of theatre out of his body, his bandmates, his stage and lighting. It was a fantastic show.

What also impressed me was his acceptance of his own age. In looking at him on stage, you can see he obviously has a personal trainer and probably has had some work done to tighten up his face, but the vitality in his performance isn't something one can fake. He made frequent jokes about starting out "140 years ago" and offhandly mentioned that he's 57 before launching into his latest single, "Never Get Old."

It made me think of seeing Bruce Springsteen and Peter Gabriel last winter and I note that the rock stars I admire the most are in their fifties and supposedly "past their prime". According to whom?

Labels: Bruce Springsteen, Trawna

NOT GOING DOWN WITHOUT A FIGHT

I'm still a bit rattled from the horrifying collapse of the Uptown theatre this morning. Famous Players' decision to shut down the 83-year-old theatre earlier this year had been sad enough but now, because of Priestly's sloppy demolition practices, one person has died and almost twenty have been hospitalized after the building caved in on itself.

I realize that, in this age of Silver City megaplexes and DVD home theatre, a giant old theatre is a money pit for a company like FP but I was still disappointed -- especially when the company tried to blame the closure on the need to install wheelchair-accessible ramps and elevators. Making their cost-cutting moves seem like the fault of the disabled was grotesque and now, someone is dead because the powers-that-be felt Toronto needed yet another condo.

Environmentalists always warn that, when you mess with nature, it has a way of coming back to bite you on the ass. For Famous Players, perhaps that maxim applies to historical buildings as well.

Labels: Trawna

IF IT'S MONDAY, NOVEMBER 10th, STOP READING THIS

Go vote.
Now.
Unless you're not in Toronto, then do what you like.
But if you ARE in Toronto?
VOTE!
Stop looking at this screen! I'm really quite serious!

OK, that's enough nagging. Let's move on...

Labels: Trawna

SIGNS, SIGNS, EVERYWHERE SIGNS

Now that Toronto has finally scraped Mel Lastman out of City Hall, we've got five new mayoral candidates to choose from this coming Monday. What's so handy about this election is the ease in deciding -- for once, you can actually get a sense of the candidate from his or her campaign poster:

"Tom Jakobek gets the job done"
What job? Shifty back-room deals for fat cats? Those get done.

"John Nunziata -- Standing up for Toronto"
Another gorgeously vague slogan. Was "sitting down for Toronto" taken? And, if elected, would any of these five NOT stand up for the city? I can see it now: "John Tory -- Taking a pass on Toronto" or "Barbara Hall -- Preferring Oakville"

"John Tory -- A man of action for a city that needs it"
Gee thanks for depressing us, John. After eight years of Tory...I guess I should say conservative...'fat-cutting', there's not much left for this town. Only trouble is, these were John's PALS.

Barbara Hall has a series of posters, each with a single, abstract concept like "Ideas" or "Experience." As fuzzy and indistinct as the candidate herself!

David Miller too has a series of different slogans, though his are longer:
"Looks like a mayor. Thinks like a mayor. Talks like a neighbour." Also, "Extraordinary vision. Extraordinary leadership. Extraordinary hair." Punchy, smart and funny. Too good to be true?

I'll base my decision on more than just posters, of course, but I have to say that David Miller has my vote pretty well locked up. I like what I see and what I hear, as opposed to what little I've seen and heard from my once-beloved Barbara Hall. She looked great up against Mel but, when she decided not to run against him last time -- giving him even more years to destroy this city -- I lost a lot of faith.

So brush that hair, David, and start talking like a neighbour, 'cause I'll be at the ballot box on Monday.

Labels: Trawna

MEET THE NEW BOSS...SAME AS THE OLD BOSS...

I hope everyone in Ontario has had a chance to vote today -- the polls close at 8, I believe, and we cannot, cannot, cannot allow these Tory lunatics another chance to destroy Toronto. Under the one-two punch of the provincial PC party and mayor Mel Lastman, this city has been crippled. In the last few years, the downtown core has been a dreadful place to live and work, and that has got to change.

My only fear is that I don't see much in Liberal leader Dalton McGuinty that leads me to believe anything will improve. He's been maddeningly vague about his policies -- the way good Liberals always have been -- so I don't feel entirely safe about his apparently-imminent victory. At least he'll do less harm, mind you. I don't want to sound like those people in the States who allowed George Bush to take over because they saw "no difference" between him and Al Gore. Didn't these people have eyes and ears?

I do understand what they were getting at, though -- the concern that, like the Who song says, "we don't get fooled again." Dalton will have to work a little harder at convincing us that better times are ahead with him in charge.

Labels: George W Bush, Trawna

DOWN (LOW) BUT NOT OUT

To the shock of pretty-well no one, the UN announced this week that the governments of the world aren't doing much to hold back the spread of AIDS. It seems that all the promises made two years back at the previous summit haven't been met. That's what I call a slow news week, and another depressing reminder that the powers-that-be just don't care about the real problems facing us.

For example, our current mayoral race has all three major candidates vowing to be tougher on crime than their opponents. John Tory, for one, practically has the theme from 'Cops' on his radio ads. Too bad there's so little crime in Toronto for them to get tough about. As far as I can see, wandering psychotic homeless people are this city's real problem but they're harder to fit into a soundbite.

I digress. The AIDS item was what struck me today, especially in combination with this article in the Washington Post about the female partners of black men unwittingly contracting HIV from them. Anyone familiar with the plight of 'crack babies' knows that the press just loves the 'innocent victim' story but, whatever their motives, it's good to see this issue being discussed. It's a sad fact that some 'straight' black men are having unprotected sex with other men 'on the down-low', contracting the HIV virus and passing it on to their unsuspecting wives and girlfriends. This stirs up all our anxieties around race, class, sexuality and disease but the bottom line is that these women suffer a horrifying betrayal from men too afraid to stand up to their homophobic peers.

You want to get tough on crime, John Tory? Start advocating that black men accept the gay brothers in their ranks and you'll do a lot more to prevent some real, ongoing crimes, rather than punishing the occasional B & E. Oh right, too difficult, too tricky. Forget I mentioned it, though the wives won't.

Labels: Trawna

BEST. WEEKEND. EVER.

Here's my ten-point plan for the best weekend in months:

1. Work the dull-but-not-horrible 10 pm - 2 am shift at the pub, but no others. This ensures that only Friday night is taken up, yet money for bills will still be forthcoming.

2. Sleep in very late on Saturday morning, then stay in bed all afternoon reading a collection of Thomas Friedman essays.

3. Grab the collection of tickets to various movies at this year's Toronto International Film Festival that a well-connected friend generously gave you out of the blue. Chat with a movie-loving married couple from Philadelphia in the soothing Isabel Bader theatre while waiting for the lights to go down for "Emile," a lovely Canadian film starring Ian McKellen, Deborah Kara Unger, and the scenery of Victoria, BC. Delight in McKellen himself sitting three rows directly in front of you throughout, and the entire cast answering questions after the film.

4. Walk briskly over to Yonge Street, grabbing a cup of yogurt and a banana on the way, to get in line for your second movie of the day. Laugh with another couple at the titles of that theatre's screenings: while those with tickets for "Bright Future" can go right in, those of us there for "Sexual Dependency" have to wait. Thrill to the movie itself -- a picked-from-the-book-at-random gamble that pays off in spades with a challenging, sexy, harrowing film experience. Watch the young first-time director from Bolivia score a distribution deal with Alliance Atlantis on the spot. Grab a cup of tea and take a long stroll home on a pleasant summer night, going to bed before 1 am to prepare for a long Sunday.

5. Get up early, grab your yoga mat and head to King's College Circle at U of T, where actor Woody Harrelson hosts a massive outdoor yoga class at 10 am. Obey the instructors from Downward Dog yoga studio for ninety minutes of meditation, stretching and balancing. Realize at one point that the sun is so much hotter than the weather channel predicted but that you're enjoying the cool breeze on your back too much to care about the inevitable sunburn.

6. Race home for the fastest shower/shave ever so you're not too late to meet your friend Gil for a great lunch at the Green Mango. Thank Gil for inviting you to "Lost in Translation," the film with arguably the most buzz at this year's fest. Run into a friend from university whom you haven't seen in over a decade -- he invites you into his spot in line. Remember how you once had a useless crush on him and smile at how he remembers you fondly. Save seats down in front for him, his wife and her friend to return the spot-in-line favour.

7. Thoroughly enjoy the movie -- a melancholy, funny romance that features Bill Murray's best work since "Rushmore." Head over to the Indigo bookstore with Gil afterward to natter about the movie over juice and a sandwich.

8. Walk a mere flight upward in the Manulife centre to the Varsity theatre for your fourth film in two days -- a British, realist take on "Fight Club" called "The Principles of Lust." Feel the movie's lost main character hit a little too close to home and note that every film you've seen this weekend is in some way about the need to connect with others. Ponder how little it successfully happens in these films and less so in your own life. Wonder how you'll resolve that, while loving at how film can so often and so neatly provide a focusing lens in such a way.

9. Arrive late at the Opera House with the ticket you purchased weeks ago to see the Dandy Warhols in concert. Grumble about the lousy sound and amateurish effort by the band until you find your colleague at the record store and discover that he feels the same way. Enthuse at how both you and Thom are proven wrong once the band starts to find its footing and raise your fists in the air when the band starts to seriously rock. Marvel at how the setlist features less hit singles and songs from the new album -- which you're really enjoying -- and more of their earlier prog-rock album material which you haven't heard. This makes you love them even more. Thank Thom's bandmate and friend Kyle who buys you a beer for no reason at all and leap up and down like an idiot to "Bohemian Like You," a frickin' great song.

10. Get home late, ready for work the next morning, and spend some time applying soothing aloe vera lotion to your sun-burned body as you consider that these past two days have soothed your soul as well.

Labels: bookworm, Canada, friends, health, introspective, money - lack thereof, movies, music, Trawna, working girl

THE PEOPLE IN MY NEIGHBOURHOOD

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

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

Labels: Trawna

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

Well, wasn't that something?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OVERHEATED

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

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

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

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

Labels: Trawna

THOSE SATANIC MAJESTIES

The Ticketmaster outlet at the record store has been swamped these last couple days with last-minute pick-ups and purchases for the Rolling Stones' big SARS-a-thon tomorrow. It was bad enough when tickets first went on sale, with line-ups out the door and around the block, but this last flurry has made me happy I decided not to head out to Downsview Park tomorrow. Call me a snob, but I don't want to be fenced in with 800,000 of the people we've had in the store yesterday and today.

It's the drunks, mostly. For weekday afternoons in Toronto, there's been a lot of them. Two of them today had Laura so nervous, she called me over to the Ticketmaster counter just to stand there with her. To help her out, I asked the crowd if they'd move back and line up against the wall a little (so they wouldn't be such a free-flowing mob, frankly). "Sorry to be such a Nazi," I joked. "What's wrong with Nazis?," the one drunk hollered, "I like Nazis!" When his female companion suddenly decided she didn't want to pay for both tickets, she started hitting him in the stomach and finally slammed the money on the counter and marched off, ranting. "That's just her native heritage coming out," he said, and Laura and I took yet another simultaneous step backward.

Meanwhile, we had scalpers in our doorway, more ugly tie-die shirts with Stones lips on them than I've ever seen, and if people were this impatient in a mere ticket line-up, I can't imagine what they'll be like waiting in a massive line in the hot sun for a porta-potty. So no, I won't be going to the big event tomorrow.

Besides, Justin bloody Timberlake is performing there -- 'nuff said.

Labels: Trawna

I KNEW PIERRE TRUDEAU, AND YOU, MADAM...

Just what are you supposed to think when a viable alternative to the conservative politics of "big-L-certainly-not-small-L" Liberal Paul Martin comes along and it's spearheaded by...Sheila Copps? Today's Toronto Star outlined her policy challenge to Martin's in-the-bag Liberal leadership bid and it's great -- progressive initiatives for more affordable housing and municipal infrastructure, and aims to eliminate child poverty and provide international goodwill measures to "build bridges to the world," rather than Martin's proposal to cooperate with the ludicrous and costly U.S. missle defense program.

So far, so good, but the big problem isn't Copps' leaning to the left or even the inevitability of Paul Martin's win -- Copps herself is the issue. I suspect she's hoping that Liberal voters have forgotten about that crazy time when she promised to resign if the GST wasn't scrapped. Remember how she didn't quit when the GST predictably wasn't removed, then quit after everyone screamed for her head, and then immediately ran for re-election and won because there was little competition? Boy, those were wacky times! Say what you like about how fair or unfair all that was, but the fact remains that, to the average Canadian, Sheila has less credibility than an Amway salesman.

This is particularly unfortunate for me, since I agree with most of her policies, and ironic in that everyone still picks her apart on her past record while ignoring how the unstoppable Paul Martin is our new Mulroney-lite. Perhaps no one notices this comparison because Sheila's too busy likening herself to Trudeau?

Labels: Canada, Trawna

I READ THE NEWS TODAY...oh boy...

Forgive me for being yet another whiny, hopelessly naive bleeding-heart liberal but I just can't join in with the big celebration over the killing of Saddam Hussein's sons. "GAME OVER FOR SONS" read the Toronto Sun headline, over the duo's photos on those creepy CIA playing cards. Yes, these two were brutal thugs; no, the world will not miss their presence; but honestly, do we have to jump for joy over the fact that they were shot and killed? It's tasteless and creepy.

But then, what do I know? I'm the guy who felt sad when I read that Jeffrey Dahmer had been bludgeoned to death against a prison urinal. Yes, his long catalogue of repulsive murders made him more than deserving of such a fate, but he was still someone's little boy at one point, you know? Even the hyped "Butcher of Baghdad" is no doubt shedding a tear this week over the death of his children and I find no pleasure in that.

Of course, it's what I get for reading the revenge-obsessed mainstream press anyway -- this latest horror in New York has me wondering just how much random nastiness the poor Big Apple can take. Let me know when violence has been prevented from happening -- then, I'll break out the party trays.

Labels: Trawna

"HAPPY PRIDE!!!!!!!!!!!!".....UGH

Yes, Gay Christmas is fast approaching and I....don't especially care. Not that I have a problem with it (thank you, Jerry Seinfeld), nor am I some 'self-hating homophobe' (ie. someone who doesn't immediately subscribe to the 'gay-good-straight-bad' school of politics), but I just think I'm too old, frankly.

Like Christmas, Gay Pride is for kids. It's for those fresh-out-of-the-closet newbies from 9 to 90 (and if you think there's no gay 9-year-olds out there, you've clearly never seen the kid on that "Who's the Boss?" sitcom -- he writes for "The Advocate" now and we ALL saw that coming). When I moved to Toronto in 1992, with everything but my closet door, Pride Day was the best thing ever -- an incredible street party where the ordinary people made me feel fascinating and the fascinating people made me feel ordinary. As they say, I Was Not Alone. Pride Day has been all about first times -- I remember the first time I attended the parade, the first guy I picked up at an afterparty, the first all-morning brunch with friends, and the first day spent holding hands with my boyfriend amidst the hundreds of thousands of others. It's been beautiful, and it's been done.

Now, and for the last two years, I've been working on Pride Day at Gay Ground Zero. The pub gets thousands of people streaming through its doors all weekend long and the inside is always filled to capacity. The energy is electric, exciting and, sadly, exhausing. I've nothing left. All week long, customers have been squealing "Happy Pride!!!!" at me and, in some sensitive cases, catching me in my plastic smile. "Aren't you excited?" they ask. "Do you work retail?" I ask back and, when they answer yes, I say, "Then today is December 21." I can see the light coming on in their eyes as they get it.

I'm a massive grouch, of course -- I will enjoy seeing the city erupt with gayness all weekend, as I always have, and no work-stress will ever take away that pleasure. But, as BB King says, the thrill is gone, gone away from me. I leave it for the next generation, those high-schoolers and graduates who'll come downtown on Sunday with their eyes wide open.

Labels: Trawna

PLEASE REMAIN CALM

Cheers to Jim Coyle in the Toronto Star for his editorial today on Canada's new liberalism. Rather than the usual "what harm will this bring our society?" handwringing we've been seeing in regards to gay marriage and the (quasi) decriminalization of pot, Coyle says it's just examples of Canada "growing up." It seems to me we've decided to take our cues from Europe, rather than America, and that can only be a good thing.

That's all I saw of the Star today, however, since the arts section apparently featured stories on the new Harry Potter book and the break-up of Pamela Anderson and Kid Rock (hey, who saw that coming?). While everyone buzzes over this weekend's release of Harry's fifth book, I've only just started the second, putting me far behind the pack. Worse yet, it seems a main character dies in this one and I just know some nitwit's going to reveal who before I get around to reading it for myself. I still grumble about the aunt who walked in the main credits of "Jagged Edge" on TV one Sunday and exclaimed, "Oh, this is a great movie!!! Can you believe ______ did it?" I glared at her and said, "You're kidding, right?" and her mouth dropped open in shock that I hadn't seen the movie already. I'd best not tell her that I'm reading the Harry Potter series.

Labels: Trawna

OH BY THE WAY, I FAILED

I received a very funny e-mail from one of my university dormmates this evening. It seems Brad is a lawyer now and I react to that with equal parts admiration and self-esteem-implosion. Oh well, it's not all about me, though Brad's "challenge" is:

I will understand if you choose not to accept it. The challenge is this. In your next three journal/diary entries use both "gizmo" and "bimbo" is a discrete and otherwise undetectable manner. I understand that doing this may appear to compromise your integrity as an author. After all, it is Scott Dagostino who decides what to write and not some invisible, power hungry wiener from a city that is not Toronto. However, I think that it would be a marvelous demonstration of skill if you could accomplish this.

So, I ask my adoring fans (thanks again to you both) and my invisible, power-hungry wiener-pal Brad, how'm I doin'? I realize that using the words "bimbo" and "gizmo" right now, in this third entry this evening, is a colossal cheat, of course, but then I never had any integrity as an author anyway -- I'm a journalist, after all! Good night and thank you!

Labels: Trawna

DOUBLE OR NOTHING

Danielle and I went to see Down With Love this past Tuesday, which was fun and fluffy but too strange to recommend. Was it a loving homage to 1960's romantic comedies or a oddly synthetic parody of them? Or both? We were too busy fighting over who gets to claim Ewan McGregor as their future husband and marvelling at the $8.25 price tag for our "cheap Tuesday" movie.

See, there's a phrase people have got to stop using -- Tuesdays just aren't cheap anymore. When a woman who's still under the age of 30 says, "Whatever happened to '$2.50 Tuesdays'?", we have a problem. And it's not just the movies, either.

It's been over a decade since I moved to Toronto and I've realized that, in that time, movie tickets have more than doubled, the broccoli at the supermarket has gone from one dollar to two, my phone and cable bills have increased by well over 40% and my rent-controlled (controlled!) apartment costs, yes, more than double what I was first paying when I moved here.

Life in the big city, I suppose, until you ask yourself what you were making ten years ago. Is it now twice that? Probably not, I'm guessing. And will it be double ten years from now? Probably not, I speculate. We can safely bet, however, that our expenses will be. In the meantime, let's go catch a movie on "Horrifyingly Expensive Wednesday to Mondays."

Labels: friends, money - lack thereof, movies, Trawna

ONE DOOR CLOSES...

My roommate Jerry's been unhappy these last couple weeks because one of his friendships has soured. Hurtful comments have come from both sides and a rekindling doesn't appear likely. Nevertheless, he's been desperate to talk to this person again so he can achieve "closure." This strikes me as futile and a bit sad. "As painful as it is," I told him, "this person has said he doesn't want to talk anymore. That's closure." Jerry doesn't agree, and maybe I'm being too hard, but I've never understood that desire for a tidy ending. It seems to me that life is a series of endings, most of them untidy.

My stint at the record store, for instance -- which I'd hoped would be good for me -- appears to be winding down. While I love working in a retail environment, I'd forgotten about the penny-pinching soullessness that infects the industry. In response to the SARS hysteria driving away half the customers from downtown Toronto these last many weeks, the record chain's head office is threatening to fire the manager of our store for not meeting their imposed sales targets.

What's especially upsetting about this is that these sales targets are based on the fantastic job that this man has done for them. Having come in and nearly doubled their sales last year, he has been rewarded by the demand to produce the same gains this year or be fired. That lack of gratitude, of simple fairness, is appalling yet so common in retail circles. Every day is a study in human greed.

My boss is a wonderful guy -- knowledgeable, decisive, honest and funny -- and as this chain has no respect for him, what hope is there? Why stay on and work to make money for them when they care so little in return? If he's fired, I won't want to be there anymore but they'll barely notice if some lesser employee leaves OR stays. And where's the closure in that?

Labels: Trawna

PAUL MARTIN TURNS TO THE DARK SIDE

Today's ridiculous Toronto Sun headline (as opposed to any other day's ridiculous Toronto Sun headline) concerned the Canadian government's outrage at the World Health Organization for costing them tourist money. It read "SARS WAR" (oh, like the movie! Only the WHO is like the Empire? And the government is like the Rebel Alliance? That's, like, so clever!). OK, let's all have a big sigh on three. 1...2...3.

Meanwhile, what's left unreported is an actual Star Wars problem on the horizon: hoping to restore Canada's bootlickin' good reputation with our Elephant to the south, Paul Martin plans to reverse our country's longtime opposition to that ludicrous Missle Defense Shield program Ronald Reagan left lying around (the pros and cons of which are neatly outlined by Policy.ca).

Despite the increasing evidence that attacks on North America will come from chemical weapons, possible viral attacks or, oh I don't know, commandeered airplanes, the Bush government still believes that we need to spend billions upon billions of dollars on laser beams that will shoot down incoming nuclear missiles. This technology still hasn't been proven but Paul Martin, our designated next Prime Minister, is ready to sign on. Isn't this the part of the movie where Yoda shows up and gives him a good talking-to?

Labels: Canada, Trawna

GREETINGS FROM ORAN

After coming back from sunny California into the tail-end of an ice storm, and then enduring a week of typically erratic April-in-Toronto weather, I wasn't surprised to find myself with a dreadful cold this past week. Muscle pains, laryngitis, night sweats...ahh, spring! What did surprise me was the panic my occasional coughs created in strangers around me, but that's SARS for you.

Since the onset of my cold symptoms this past Monday, over 30 people (and yes, I've been counting) have flinched away from me and asked if my cold is actually SARS. I think most are kidding; some are not. Since the War on Iraq has done so much to erode my faith in the public's rationality, this hysteria over an over-hyped illness has really been the last straw.

Am I being callous? Oh, probably, but consider that the thirteen deaths everyone is freaking out over have happened in a city of three million and that ten of those thirteen victims were older than 70. What doesn't make the front page is that twice as many people die of pneumonia every year, hundreds more of the flu. Those are odds I can literally live with.

Now of course I'm not suggesting people not be concerned, or that doctors not quarantine anyone they feel they should, but I hate seeing stupidity and bigotry and the SARS scare has featured lots of both. People are avoiding Toronto in general, Chinatown in particular, and I was told today about a man at the farmer's market who, upon seeing an Asian woman behind the counter, slapped a mask over his nose and mouth until he left the building.

I had a personal view of this, too. Within thirty seconds of Gil's father meeting us at the Toronto airport to offer a lift home, a security guard strode up to us and barked, "Okay, move it along!" I saw genuine apprehension in his eyes and wondered just how badly terrorism fears were affecting airport staff. I'd never witnessed a guard be quite so snippy before. Then I realized that my Chinese friends were standing in front of one of the many bright-yellow posters with big red letters reading "SARS" and everything became clear.

With all that as context, I hope people will understand why I've growled at everyone backing away from me in fear this week. I don't expect pity when I'm sick -- not even compassion, really -- but I'd resent being treated like some plague-carrying leper even if I did have SARS. We already saw a lot of that kind of paranoid bigotry in the 80's with that other four-letter acronym. Am I making too big a leap there? Then stop behaving like it, people, and go wash your hands once or twice.

Labels: Trawna

WHO'S EVER FELT UP A WITCH, ANYWAY?

It's minus 22 this morning and, for a Toronto guy, that's about 15 degrees too cold. Everyone I encounter lately seems on the edge, running out of patience with this 'cold snap.' We've spent the last decade or so getting used to increasingly mild winters but now this hits and no one seems able to cope.

The worst part is Winnipeggers. They come to our city and smirk at our shivers. "This isn't cold," they say, "You people are babies!" They drone on about all the hardships of 'the Peg' while we wonder why they don't go straight back there, if they're so tough. I mean, I know Russians who don't yammer on like that and they're...well...Russian.

Oh wait, I was wrong -- here's the worst part: I'm leaving for St. John's Thursday morning. Why have three inches of snow, I thought to myself, when you have three feet? No, I'm going out there to help celebrate my grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary. Supposedly a happy time but all I could think was, who gets married in January? As I said to a friend yesterday, I'll be spending five days with my extended family in bone-chilling cold. And, at some point, I'll have to go outside! (Thank you, I'll be here all week. Try the veal.)

I spent a good chunk of my weekend shopping around for long underwear, both for my trip and my current evenings at the pub, where the lobby has been little help of late against the bitterness that comes in through the door. And that's just the customers! (Good night, folks, I just can't stop myself!) Everywhere I go, however, I find spring clothes and a few pieces of thermal gear in sizes XL and XXL. I love the fashion industry -- always looking ahead, rather than giving people what they need in the present. A clerk told me that one really has to buy all their winter clothes by November. "For the winter that lasts into March or April," I said. "Exactly," he replied and shrugged. Oy.

I've a sneaky feeling, however, that I'll be okay once I arrive at the Rock. I'm sure long underwear will still be around. Throw in a gay bar and an Internet cafe and I just might escape this weekend with my sanity intact.

Labels: Trawna

A TORONTO TRADITION: BITCHING ABOUT THE CABLE COMPANY

I didn't pay the cable bill last month because, hey, it's Christmas, but Rogers has decided to make me a New Year's resolution. After budgeting payments this Friday for both the telephone and cable bills, I was surprised to come home a few nights ago and find a note taped to my door informing me that someone from Rogers will come to my apartment tomorrow to "collect the full payment." I phoned up the cable monopoly and asked if that someone was named Rocco or Vinnie. I suggested paying $50 right away and the other half Friday. In the most bored tone I've heard since Ben Stein, the woman said, "The minimum payment is $57.61, sir." I laughed and asked how they arrived at such a precise number. "That is the minimum payment, sir," she replied.

I like dealing with the telephone company better. Ever since phone service was deregulated and companies like Sprint were allowed a slice of the pie, Bell has been little-girl sweet with me. They call just to see how I'm doing. They ask what they can do to serve me better. Rogers charges me an extra $8 a month for one channel I enjoy and 15 others I never ever glance at.

It's bizarre to me that our mail is taken care of by a fairly-well-run government company, while cable television is controlled by an entity straight out of Terry Gilliam's Brazil, and telephone service -- which I consider the most necessary of the three -- can be provided by virtually anyone with access to the wires. Doesn't seem fair. At any rate, I'll have to borrow a concrete drill -- it's the only way I'll be able to install the inevitable satellite dish.

Labels: Trawna

MIKE ELLIOTT, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: Trawna

THE MOUSE THAT ROARED

I hope there weren't too many Freedom-loving Americans on Church Street this evening, because they would have been rightly horrified by the behaviour I witnessed at the pub. In honour of our joint holiday weekend, American and Canadian flags were hung from the awning of the pub -- two Maple Leafs on either side, one Stars and Stripes right in front -- but a great number of people expressed disapproval, anger, even fear, at the US flag. "What is that doing up?" many would snap and, to me, "Columbus Day" seemed insufficient as an answer.

Obviously, North American relations are a bit tense right now, what with George Bush's attempts to drag us into World War III and all. Even Jean Chretien has openly challenged the American government for -- what? -- the first time ever? If Pierre Trudeau was right when he said that Canada's relationship with the US was like a mouse in bed with an elephant, tonight's reactions hint that we're getting a little tired of Dumbo hogging the covers.

But while I can understand how the old Red, White and Blue could annoy people, I can't share the opinion. I like Americans. I find them generally friendly and decidedly outspoken. If they like you, you'll definitely know it and, if they don't like you, you'll definitely know it -- a directness especially welcome in cool Toronto. Hating Americans is like hating the Chinese -- while their governments may be toxic, it's not necessarily the people's fault. Besides, didn't all the Americans vote for Gore, anyway? Let's focus our anger at the right people...

Labels: Canada, Trawna

LISTEN 'UP'

Having bought it days ago, I was finally able to sit down and settle back with the first album from Peter Gabriel in ten years. The suspense has been awful -- what if the new material is terrible? Or worse, dull? Well, I can at last say that 'Up' is not terrible, not dull, not even fine -- it's astonishing.

The new album is a collection of staggeringly inventive, rich soundscapes and easily the most ambitious production he's done. Each of the songs in turn are beautiful or spiky, uplifting or unsettling: "Growing Up" rivals his classic "Sledgehammer" for a muscular, grinding dance track, while "Darkness" takes the themes of "Digging in the Dirt" even deeper.

Also, Gabriel's singing voice is not only remarkably consistent with his classic 80's sound but occasionally evokes his earlier Genesis days as well. He has a unique quality of anguish in his singing, as if he's just within reach of everything he needs in his life but still has a bit to go. It's a voice of hope and pain, one that has inspired me for nearly twenty years.

I'm thrilled to hear an album that gets me so excited about music again (especially in such a robotic time) and more thrilled to know that he'll be doing a live show in Toronto this December. Check out www.petergabriel.com for info and song samples, or just do yourself a favour and get your own copy. Maybe I'll see you in Saturday's ticket line!

Labels: Trawna

A NEVER-ENDING STRUGGLE?

Too busy to blog.

It's sad but the twin jobs that are pulling me out of a financial swamp are also pushing me into quicksand. I'm working. All. The. Time. And I worry about the days I'm giving up as I do so. But I'm still pleased, as I'm watching someone I know prepare to leave Toronto and move back in with her parents, in order to save money and get out of debt. I could never do that and I'm thrilled that I haven't had to. I paid off three months of phone and cable bills today, along with a debt of $400 owed to someone else, and I then treated myself to a couple of cheap DVDs and comic books, so I wouldn't feel like a total adult!

The only comic book I still follow avidly is an X-Men spin-off formerly called Cable but recently renamed Soldier X -- a terrible title but one that deserves a look. Writer Danko Macan and artist Igor Kordey are both Croatian-born and have given the comic a gritty, real-world feel.

Its hero-from-the-future Nathan Summers fights mobsters, terrorists and spies throughout Europe and Central America -- trying to prevent the dystopian society he grew up in, 2000 years from now -- using his telekinetic powers and a sort-of future-Buddhism called Askani, which means 'outsider'.

In the current, third issue, Nathan is trying to save a mutant Russian girl from being horribly exploited, but her own father refuses to help, saying, "Maybe you can't understand this, friend Nathan. You are not Russian, you have hope. We don't. What's is...is, and that's all."

As Nathan writes to a friend, "And that, dear Irene, was what really made me angry.
'What is...is' is a credo of my faith. An Askani says those words to pardon the world before he starts changing it. To hear that holy phrase reduced to an excuse for despair...that I couldn't stand."

But later, he admits his doubts:
"And what do I do, the soldier who has outlived his war?
Does the world really need me? Does anyone?
What do I do?"

"The world needs hope, that much is certain. But it certainly does not need me.
For, what kind of message do I represent?
Inability to attain peace, with myself or the others? A never-ending struggle?
Those words do not spell hope.
Who, then, would want to believe in me --
-- when I could not.
When I would not."

And when I read those words this week, I felt happier knowing that someone understands how I'm feeling lately, that even a comic-book character like Nathan Summers can be the conduit (cable?) for the writer sharing his experience and connecting with mine. And then perhaps yours, and then perhaps all of us. I'd like to think such words could spell hope.

Labels: comic books, Trawna

"SUPPOSE THE EMPEROR HAS GONE MAD"

As the dreaded anniversary date approaches, conversations about the aftermath of September 11th, 2001 are everywhere. Most of them concern George Bush's plans for Iraq, so they end up being pointless and frustrating. A year ago, it seemed that the one good thing that could possibly come out of America's sorrow was a newfound concern about its role in world affairs. Now, however, it's back to sleep while the military takes care of the Bad Guys.

I was cheered today, however, by a New York Times poll that suggests that, while most Americans support the idea of military action against Iraq, they also want Bush to wait until the UN has exhausted other options first. This seems surprisingly sensible and I hope Bush remembers that he's there to serve his people, not the other way round.

Two Americans the President won't be listening to are Gore Vidal, who has published a small collection of biting essays entitled Perpetual War for Perpetual Peace: How We Got to Be So Hated, and Harper's editor Lewis Lapham, featured in yesterday's Toronto Star. Lapham's critique of this week's muddled plans to commemorate the anniversary can be found here or by checking out the Star's inevitable "9.11 and after" section.

Even better, both Vidal and Lapham are featured in the transcript of an April 2002 panel discussion entitled Understanding America's Terrorist Crisis. Once you scroll down past the rambling introduction, the discussion is dynamic, funny and vital. Please read that for now and I'll have more terrorism griping later.

Labels: George W Bush, Trawna

OK, I LIED...

I am posting more about World Youth Day, specifically the astonishing $30-million deficit for the organizers, despite the City of Toronto ponying up massive subsidies right at the start. Most of the shortfall, according to Canoe.ca, "came from a lack of registration payments. Organizers had expected 300,000 pilgrims to pay $240 each to register for the event, but they only received about 187,000 registrations." Not to mention the fact that crowd estimates hit the half-million mark. Skipping out on church payments doesn't seem like the Christian thing to do, does it?

The worst part is that there's talk underway to have citizens in Toronto or even Canada in general shell out even more in an attempt to match the necessary funds. A charity drive or a general appeal to Catholics is one thing but I humbly suggest that there's no damn way the WYD bunch should get another penny out of the government -- municipal, provincial or federal.

Perhaps now's a good time to let the Pope know that many of those gold chalices lying around Vatican City would fetch a pretty penny at Sotheby's. Maybe there'd even be some money left over to feed the poor or something. Don't say I didn't try to help.

Labels: Canada, religion, Trawna

WORLD-CLASS CITY

Those of us who live in Toronto tend to disparage it more than we should. There's so much standing in the way of Toronto being a truly great city that we tend to take what wonders it does have for granted. For instance, I spent a healthy chunk of this evening having a picnic on one of the islands and, as I stood on the deck of the ferry and watched the sailboats glide by, I was happily reminded of how fine a city this is. I looked up at the sunset soon after and saw only a reddish smear, thanks to the sickening smog hanging over us, and was sadly reminded of how much work needs to be done.

Labels: Trawna

DON'T PANIC (JUST YET)

Toronto is a very expensive city to live in, and that's never quite so apparent as when your income shrinks a bit. Two job interviews this week, both for low-paying retail outlets that I nevertheless feel ideally suited for. Again, I can't say I've ever felt perfect before but really, neither shop could have a better employee. Unfortunately, I'm not the only one who has to be sure of that, am I? But I've done all I can at this point and can only wait and worry, while continuing to spin the financial plates that wobble on the sticks I've placed around me. None have broken yet.

Incessantly listening to Coldplay's "Parachutes" album has helped my mood enormously, by the way. Looking forward to buying their new album due next month with all that disposable income I'll be earning...

Labels: Trawna

HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION

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

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

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

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

IN THE MIDST OF THE HOLY

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

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

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

Labels: Trawna

A CHEER FOR THE POPE

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

Labels: Trawna

KICK ME WHEN I'M DOWN

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

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

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

Labels: Trawna

BASEBALL'S BEEN BERY, BERY GOOD TO ME

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

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

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

Labels: Trawna

RADIO GA-GA

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

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

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

Labels: Trawna