What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
(and remember, you can always e-mail me if you love or loathe anything you're about to read)...


   Friday, July 11, 2008

   ALAS, POOR BLOG

I love a good Letter to the Editor and this week, my friend James Ip wrote:

Scottie - why don't you blog anymore? I checked your site and the last thing was from the fall?...

Sigh. True, so true. What started out as a slight Christmas break became a full-fledged shutdown.

Not that I was lazy. Being the managing editor of fab was always more work than most people assumed a fluffy gay rag would need but, as rumours of a buyout from Xtra became louder and louder, the urge to write about my life or state of mind became quieter and quieter. I endured months of paranoia and aggravation until the hammer came down in February and who wants to read about all that? You, my kind readers, had already endured the entirety of 2005 (aka The Year George W. Bush Made Me Insane)!

In the end though, it kind of worked out. Well, if you can call getting fired along with virtually everyone at the magazine 'working out' but I'm now writing for three gay magazines, including the one that fired me. At the time, it felt a bit like being dumped and then asked for rebound sex but, in the sunshine of a Toronto summer, that water has flowed well past the bridge.

I wrote a massive piece on the first year of the new gay and lesbian radio station and was offered the 'daily roundup' blog on Xtra's website, where I get to put on my Jon Stewart hat and have a bit of fun with the news. That and the ever-addictive Facebook have stolen from this page, my first love, but I think it's time to see just how promiscuous I can be. Now that I'm out of work and freelancing, it's important to just keep writing, writing, writing (preferably for money) and I think this blog could function well as an ongoing 'progress report,' just to let everybody know what I'm up to.

It's a little scary to be living like a journalist without necessarily feeling like one but, in times of self-doubt, I turn to the lovely people who post videos like these on YouTube:


How Not to Start an Interview


Blind, not gay


Disastrous Holly Hunter interview

So yeah, underemployed or not, it looks like the world still needs me! So I'm getting back to work and you'll see more of it here (along with a website revamp, hopefully soon).

Coming up: the 10th annual Friends for Life Bike Rally! Yes, I'm back in the saddle and you'll hear more on that soon...

Labels: fab, George W Bush, homo-a-go-go, introspective, money - lack thereof, repair, working girl, writing

Amazing how Cusack can so charmingly deliver the final ego-deflater.

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at July 17, 2008

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: fab, introspective, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

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

Darrell

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

 

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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

Dating a married man seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d gone through a long rough patch of singles hell -— false starts and heartbreak I both suffered and inflicted. One-night-stands and 'friends with benefits' weren’t making me happy either. I craved something safe.

Jeff seemed ideal. A fantastic guy in an open relationship, he wanted to play around but remain emotionally faithful to his marriage. He and I had inventive sex and good conversation and it was all like the best parts of dating but without messy insecurities or jealousy. His lovely partner invited me for dinner at their place and was impressively relaxed about the whole business. To me, it all felt very open, liberal and 21st century, until Jeff told me one night that his partner wanted to start having someone on the side too. The very thought of this made him sick with jealousy. "But you’re the one who’s been sleeping around," I said. Not any more -— they decided to close their relationship to one other married couple. This monogamy-for-four was "safer," Jeff told me. But safer for whom, I thought, surprised at how hurt I felt.

Weeks later, I met Sean, who liked me as much as I liked his boyfriend. This time, I abandoned any delusions of polyamory and told myself it would just be about sex, nothing more. Simple and tidy. The couple came to my home one night, bringing along another friend (who Sean obviously wanted to sleep with) and everyone seemed clear-eyed on what the night had in store. But as things heated up between the four of us, Sean was all over his new friend and utterly ignoring his partner, who stormed out of the room. Suddenly, I was sitting on my living room sofa playing marriage counselor, listening to this guy pour out his every frustration with his partner’s poisonous neglect. "I hate him," he cried. So much for safety.

Studies suggest that anywhere from 50 to 75 percent of gay couples are or have been non-monogamous but I’ve found that, for me at least, the truly honest, above-board, jealousy-free open relationship is a theory that only works on paper, like communism or Ikea furniture. Polyamory might be inevitable but I’m going to stick to dating single men for a while. It’s just safer.

Managing editor Scott Dagostino changes names to protect the innocent.

[reprinted from issue 333 of fab]

Labels: fab, health, homo-a-go-go, introspective, oh l'amour, writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: fab, insanity, media, sports, Trawna

Tschye -- "Boyz Gone Wild."

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

 

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Fearing that the models he hired wouldn't show up for fab's "holiday entertaining" photo shoot today, Paul wisely asked me, Matt and Nick the intern to come along as "background artists" (as Ricky Gervais calls them on Extras) or -- worst case scenario -- as models ourselves.

Which is exactly what happened. The two models didn't show, nor the third one Paul asked for just in case, nor the emergency fourth who was promised to arrive "in 20 minutes!!" (We won't be exactly leaping to use Velocci again!)

So I ended up sitting in a chair, getting made up (for the first time since doing high-school theatre) by the charming Gregory Graveline, who has not only worked his magic on Canadian Idol (gasp with me now!) but regularly charges $125 a face! I felt so exotic! He eased the bags under my eyes, assured me that I won't go bald as quickly as I think I will and left me looking ready to hold my own with the 20-year-old cute boys I'd brought with me.

If I'm sounding terribly vain by now, here comes the karma: first off, I may love my Chuck Taylor sneakers but no one else did. They had to go. I grumbled but Paul said I was "a meat-puppet" and would have to wear the shoes they gave me. Then I had to lose the tee I was wearing under my button-up shirt. Then I was moved to the back of the group, pretending to chat up Nick, and then it occurred to the photographer that everyone but me was wearing black and wouldn't it be great to have a more symmetrical look? A fine round of "you so ugly" jokes followed and I was soon sitting in the living room, while the shoot carried on without me.

So much for my modeling career!

But the host and cover subject made some gorgeous dark-chocolate almond brittle and insisted we all take some back with us and then I got an email from Rick Mercer mentioning that he liked the interview we did in September. Whew! My ego restored, I was able to get back to work. I will never be a supermodel but, even when I'm old and ugly (2009?), I'll still be clever (and I'll still have the almond brittle recipe)!

Labels: fab, homo-a-go-go, introspective, media, writing

I blame Darrell.

It's bad enough that his Whisky Prajer blog has been routinely wiser and wittier than mine, but now he's pointed out that November has apparently been designated National Blog Post Month. The idea is to commit yourself to blogging once a day, every day, for the entire month. Since this blog hasn't been updated since August (the poor wife abandoned by my infatuation with the sexy siren Facebook), this is a tall order.

It's not that blogging is hard or anything but I do find writing about my own life tricky. I worry about privacy. Not my own, of course -- I'm the king of Too Much Information -- but that of the friends whose personalities make up so much of my inner and outer concerns. I've been wrestling with this notion this week in regards to a fab piece I'm writing -- I can't discuss my life without dragging other people into it and that feels unfair somehow.

But why worry? I've always been too cautious and, besides, it's not like these people are dating a songwriter. I won't be performing mean-spirited yet incredibly catchy songs about my ex in concert halls for years to come, now will I? Thirty years on and people are still trying to figure out who the hell Carly Simon was so pissed at.

So yes, more blogging. I'll need to get over my fear of being accused of narcissism. This is funny because, hello, it's a blog. Narcissism is the point. Besides, Facebook didn't become a cultural juggernaut overnight because people are naturally shy. I never get when people are criticized for being narcissistic, as if their audience has no choice but to pay attention. You, dear reader, have every choice. I'll continue to ramble while you can read, ignore, agree with or mock any little scribble I put down. If I'm lucky, you'll even write back and start a conversation.

After all, it works for Darrell.

Labels: fab, friends, introspective, media, writing

It's good to see you back in the blogosphere. You've been missed.

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at November 06, 2007

 

Holy cow! You could have given your most faithful readers a little head's up, man!

So groovy to have you contributing to the blogosphere again!

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at November 12, 2007

 

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[also printed in issue 327 of fab]

Earlier this summer I went with a group of friends to the True Colors concert tour, organized by Cyndi Lauper and featuring Erasure, Debbie Harry and the Dresden Dolls. It aimed to entertain and inspire people to fight for gay rights and, for us, it succeeded wildly—-except in one case.

As the lead singer of Blondie and an actress in cult favourites like the original Hairspray, Debbie Harry is a pop icon, no question. But when she meandered out on stage in a black pantsuit and a short haircut that made her seem like a rockin’ Hillary Clinton, Debbie changed the whole tone of the show. As she tore through a set of unfamiliar and uninspired tracks from her upcoming album, Debbie made it clear that the other performers may have been there to celebrate us gays but she was there to have the gays celebrate her.

But why would she try harder? We gay men have always been loyal to our divas. Too loyal. Martha Wash and Crystal Waters played Toronto Pride this year. Straight people have pretty much forgotten who these women are, but not us. We love them so much, we ignore the fact that neither singer has done anything new or interesting in nearly two decades. Just like Gloria Gaynor, recently quoted saying she loves gay people and wants to "lead them to Jesus." Okay, just as long as she sings "I Will Survive" on the stairway to heaven.

Madonna is, of course, the gold standard of gay pop diva. The Advocate magazine named her the biggest gay icon of all time and her pioneering efforts to include us have made her a hero to two generations of gay men, even the ones who say, "Judy who? Barbra what?" But we must remember that our relationship with Madonna is symbiotic. She was created and maintained by the talents and hard work of many gay men—-producers, stylists, musicians, dancers. Like Cher, she is a bionic woman—-super-strong, made of plastic and built by us. Our talents, our money, our loyalty. Cyndi Lauper understands this. Her tour helped raise money for gay rights advocacy because, as religious and political authorities fight to undermine our lives, she wants to repay her gay fans with a bit more help than Christina Aguilera telling us we’re beautiful.

But what do I know? Personally, I’ve always loved Kylie. She makes the kind of campy disco records the boys love and merrily refers to her stylist William Baker as her "gay husband." She’s built up so much good will, she could cook and eat the little gay boy on Ugly Betty and I’d still line up to buy her next album.

Labels: fab, homo-a-go-go, music, tributes

Agreed--Kylie seems far less cynical and industry-driven in her relationship with gay men than the likes of Madonna.

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at August 23, 2007

 

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: fab, movies, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

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

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

 

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

T.

-- Reply posted by  Trev at April 04, 2007

 

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Now any longtime reader knows that I'm quite hard on the Christian churches
--
can't
imagine
why
--
but I'm always strive to be fair, which is why I was so thrilled by two stories today.

First, I chatted on the phone today with Rev. Shawn Sanford Beck, an Anglican priest in Saskatoon who will have his ministry license revoked at the end of this month. Rev. Beck believed that denying gay couples the rite of marriage was "theologically problematic and fundamentally unjust." The bishop ordered him to recant and Beck has refused.

This afternoon, Beck explained to me how this stance was completely consistent with the work that he's done in Saskatoon's poor and Aboriginal communities. He still has a teaching job and his wife works with the food bank so, he says, they'll continue to "live simply" and get by. He was low-key and laid-back throughout the conversation. I told him how honoured I was by his support. I'm not sure I could be that brave in supporting a minority I have no connection with -- what a fantastic person.

But bravery can come from numbers and the second story today comes from the 30-million members of National Association of Evangelicals. Having recently weathered the loss of their hypocrite leader, the NAE have apparently reexamined their stance on a number of issues. Today, they publicly condemned the US government's use of torture while recently reaffirming a commitment to addressing the global warming issue, or what they sweetly call "creation care" -- this is a trend that began last fall but the NAE's involvement marks a big step forward.

Amusingly, the right-wing leaders of the other Christian groups are now freaking out over such disobedience, with a letter to the NAE warning that the global warming debate will "shift the emphasis away from...sexual abstinence and morality," leading (oh, of course) to mass abortions and infanticide. Jerry Falwell even calls the climate discussion "a tool of Satan" used by his usual laundry list of "liberal politicians, radical environmentalists, liberal clergy, Hollywood and pseudo-scientists."

No mention of gay men and lesbians, which is odd since we were (oh, of course) responsible for 9/11. I guess even sodomites can't be responsible for every disaster but what do I know? I'm working for the Jews.

Labels: fab, homo-a-go-go, politics, religion, repair

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

Despite once knowing a guy who insisted that government-sponsored flu shots were part of a grand science experiment on the public, I've faithfully taken one for the last few years. That guy was too paranoid -- even for me -- and I knew that the government's motives were more mercenary: the cost of flu shots is far less than the cost of nursing a public epidemic. Even with doubts as to their efficacy, I always got the shot.

This year, however, a packed work schedule combined with an apathetic 'oh, what's the worst that could happen' mentality and I skipped the shot. One week into the new year and I have been destroyed -- brought low by the worst thing I've had in years.

So yeah, I think the flu shot works.

This past week has been a nightmare of phlegm, no sleep, body pain, cough syrup, diarrea and...oh why go on? We've all been there.

If there's any bright spot, it's that my cover story on New York photographer Joe Oppedisano was already put to bed before I was, and I've certainly been able to catch up with what's on TV. I've been watching Dexter and The L Word and Nip/Tuck -- all them fascinating, clever and taboo-busting in various ways -- but I confess it's the sitcoms that have really helped me through this flu.

First up, I was able to track down 30 Rock, the new show from former Saturday Night Live headwriter Tina Fey, who also wrote the witty movie Mean Girls. As a parody of her former workplace, I expected her new show to be more snide but instead, it's like soda pop, sweet and fizzy like its adorable 50s-pop credits. The best thing about the show is that it's providing a solid showcase for the man-who-can-do-anything, Alec Baldwin. If Fey's aiming to be a 21st-century Mary Tyler Moore, Baldwin is playing Ed Asner and Ted Knight at once.

Of course, it also reminds me of the days when Fey and Baldwin first met -- he's always been great hosting SNL and this National Public Radio parody still makes me laugh out loud:



Meanwhile, there's the aforementioned How I Met Your Mother, a show that seems like a standard Friends clone until you realize that, with each week, it's getting smarter, funnier and stranger -- like this bit with the gang worried for Robin's little sister, followed by the now-nearly...wait for it...legendary "Slap Bet" episode where she reveals her dark Canadian secret:





Of course, if that's all just too silly for the rest of you, there's always the intense 24, a show I've long avoided, out of a belief that its politics and mine wouldn't get along. From what I'd heard, the show's hero was way too fond of using torture as a quick-and-simple way to foil terrorist plots (by that logic, the horrors of Abu Gharib should've ended the War on Terror by now) and the show is absolutely beloved by right-wingers. Last summer, the Heritage Foundation hired Rush Limbaugh to host a panel discussion called "24 and America's Image in Fighting Terrorism: Fact, Fiction, or Does it Matter?" "Does it matter?" What the hell kind of question is that? Oh wait...next week's seminar is "The Enemy at Home: The Cultural Left and Its Responsibility for 9/11." Never mind.

At any rate, all this had me avoiding a TV show that people have talked about for years, one that then won the big Emmy awards this year -- Best Drama, Best Actor. Meanwhile, in his Entertainment Weekly column, Stephen King echoed my misgivings about the show's "gleeful" use of torture while still calling it "the best thing on TV" so when the first four episodes started floating around the Internet this week -- in advance of this weekend's two-night, Sunday-Monday premiere -- the curiosity finally got to me:



Hours later, I can see exactly both why I resisted the show and why so many people love it. The opening episode hinges in part on whether or not the nice Muslim family down the suburban California street are terrorists. That's the kind of paranoic race-baiting that makes my teeth clench. Meanwhile, an innocent Muslim leader is unfairly detained (okay, some balance, I guess) but wait -- he uncovers part of the terrorist plot while in custody. You see? Locking him up was a good thing!

Yes, the underlying biases in 24 are unsettlingly fascist if you stop to ponder them but the reality is that the show never stops moving long enough to let you. I've never seen anything so relentless -- not on TV, not on film. Kiefer Sutherland is indeed terrific and the plot grabbed me in, held me there and then, at the end of episode four, threw out a truly-jaw-dropping climax to an hour that was already the most harrowing thing I'd seen on TV since the infamous car-jacking on Six Feet Under. Yep, I'm forced to admit it -- I'm hooked, dammit. I was already watching too much TV as it is!

Labels: Canada, fab, health, Orwell says hi, silliness, TV, writing

I can't help feeling somewhat responsible for this new addiction of yours - tacitly responsible, mind you. Beth & I devoured Season 1 of 24 when it appeared at our local video rental joint (yes, that would be "Brock Buster" - no kidding). We'd figured we could watch one episode a night, and fill out a pleasant month of our dwindling summer. Wrong! Four episodes into our first night of watching, my wife turned to me and said, "This must be what crack cocaine feels like."

Season One's political commentary was a clean fleece compared to what 24's writers are playing with now. As usual, John Doyle's take on it was probably the healthiest: the show is about office politics, and the rampant paranoia in the workplace.

Anyhow, I gave it up after Season 2 for the same reason I "quit" Battlestar Galactica: it's relentlessly grim, and it's never gonna end until you turn it off and leave it off.

Well, okay then.

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at January 12, 2007

 

I never get flu shots, and I've not had the flu in...well, years. Go figure.

Part of why I rarely watch any American dramas are because of the way that they condone things like torture. I'm hooked on Alias right now, because Space has been playing them in syndication (it's now at the end of season four--and that show is also like crack), but I find myself constantly asking a number of questions about it--like the acceptability of torture (which they have often employed), black ops groups, assassination, and American unilateralism in sovereign countries. Add to that, the underlying story-arcs deal with terrifying technologies that our heroes take from the bad guys and turn over to the US government week in and week out--where the government just kindly places them into storage and doesn't develop them for their own nefarious purposes. While I can suspend my disbelief about the whole Rambaldi mystery, I can't quite accept America's altruism so readily, and yet that seems to be an underlying message--that America is the world's policeman, and they only have everyone's best interests at heart, which we all know is not the case.

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at January 12, 2007

 

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Three days away and I've barely started my Christmas shopping -- oh, the stress! I've been obviously quiet on the blogging front these past few weeks as most of my energy has been going into the magazine. But it's been fantastic. The new issue features a lengthy piece on gay activists in Iran and a little wrap-up on this year's 'outing' spree in the press. Meanwhile, I had a lovely series of interviews with New York-based photographer Joe Oppedisano. He was surprisingly open and friendly, just a incredibly-cool guy, and I can't wait for the piece to be printed.

Yes, after a tumultuous year (I changed jobs twice!), I've had a great autumn, full of friends, writing, my little dog and watching America start to wake up from its six-year nightmare. Life feels a little better for me and hopefully all of you, your friends, your family.

In A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens wrote:
"It is a fair, even-handed, noble adjustment of things, that while there is infection in disease and sorrow, there is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good-humour."

With that in mind, happy holidays from me and the gang at -- oh dear -- Star Wars:



I could only make it about three minutes in -- it's a brilliant car wreck! Have a wonderful holiday and I'll check back in before the New Year...

Labels: fab, holidays, homo-a-go-go, Middle East, writing

Where did you find that? I can't believe I made it through the whole video!

-- Reply posted by  carguyto at January 03, 2007

 

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

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

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

LAND OF A THOUSAND WORDS

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

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

IT CAN'T COME QUICKLY ENOUGH

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm just a crazy liberal that way!

Much love,
Darrell

LIGHTS

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

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

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

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

LOVERS IN THE BACKSEAT

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

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

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

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME

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

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

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

KISS YOU OFF

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

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

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

COMFORTABLY NUMB

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

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

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

RETURN TO OZ

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

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

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

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

THE OTHER SIDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

MIGHT TELL YOU TONIGHT

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

EVERYBODY WANTS THE SAME THING

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

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

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

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

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

TAKE YOUR MAMA

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

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

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

FILTHY GORGEOUS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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Brendan and Dale here are two of the people I met last weekend at the gay science fiction convention. I went in on Saturday afternoon to attend some panels and find people to interview for my fab article. I was already behind the deadline but you can't write about fans without actually going to their gathering, I insisted. Still, the pressure was on -- I had to talk about sci-fi all day long with all sorts of different people!

Fortunately, this trauma was eased by the late-night charity event in which Brendan and a beautiful straight boy named Nick were among the volunteers feeding people cheesecake for donations to Casey House. Handsome Dale was a writer in Ottawa and we instantly bonded over friendly shop talk before a gentle debate over which one of us Brendan was flirting with more. "Oh please," I said, "He's a 21-year-old from San Francisco -- he's flirting with everybody!" And I was right, though I soon changed my tune by the time Brendan was sitting in my lap and challenging Dale to a Goldschlager shot contest -- Canada vs. the USA!

Do you understand the punishment I had to endure here? I mean, I had planned to leave hours before but, next thing I knew, I had to referee a drinking match with our country's honour at stake! One of the perks of age is that a tendency for indirectness is eventually burned away. I put my arm around Brendan and said, "Dale has a room down the hall -- let's go." The terms of an international alcoholic sports event preclude any further breach of confidentiality, I'm afraid, but I can tell you that Canada won.

I spent the next day with the two of them -- torturous, I know -- and the big geek convention turned out to be as magical and fantastic as it pretended to be. Brendan, meanwhile, revealed the perfect 'newbie' viewpoint for my article so we had an in-depth interview that evening after Dale had caught his train home. He was adorable, articulate and thoughtful. As my friend James likes to say, I fell right in love!

So, in the end, I'm left with a weekend that fired on all cylinders, two lovely new e-mail correspondents, and an article that I couldn't be happier with. It was a difficult road to walk but I've got my feet up on the desk in perfect gloating!

Labels: Canada, fab, friends, oh l'amour

My GAAAAWWDDD, they're GORGEOUS! In the words of J.K., they've got "cheekbones that could heal the sick".

SO. You got to interview THEM, did you?

Bastard.

(Hee!)

Tr.

-- Reply posted by  Trev at June 27, 2006

 

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Finally, it's done. A couple months ago, Steven the editor asked me if I'd be willing to do a piece for fab on gay fans and did I know anything about science fiction? I laughed out loud.

After weeks of research, nearly ten hours of interviews and six drafts, I'm not laughing any more. The article I thought would be a joy to write became a millstone around my neck. Sometimes being too close to a topic can be as big a burden as not knowing enough about it.

But it's done -- my first 4000-word piece (or 3000, once the butchers are through with it) and I'm thrilled. My only regret is that the article is too long to include the sidebar Steven and I wanted to do -- a humorous little stripe of "sci-fi's gayest moments." Thanks to the wonders of the Blog, however, here it is:


COMET DUST: Tiny but brilliant gay moments in sci-fi pop culture

Barbarella (1968)
The entire movie. Seriously.

Logan’s Run (1976)
Michael York’s teleporter brings potential dates right into his apartment – one of whom is a man. Later, Farrah Fawcett turns up at the “New You” laser plastic surgery clinic. Too camp!

Flash Gordon (1980)
A hunky blond hero, a fey villain in fabulous outfits and a soundtrack by Queen make this goofy sci-fi flick gayer than Queer as Folk.

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine – “Rejoined” (1995)
Okay, they weren’t lesbians but this was still the hottest girl-on-girl make-out since Bound.

Starship Troopers (1997)
Hunky Casper Van Dien accidentally kills a fellow soldier. His military punishment involves being stripped, chained and whipped. Straight geeks are suddenly watching gay S/M porn!

The Fifth Element (1997)
As always, no actual gay characters but it’s got the wildly queeny Chris Tucker, a dyed-blond Bruce Willis, a fight scene set to opera-funk and costume design by Jean-Paul Gaultier.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer – "Doppelgangland" (1999)
Willow sees the other-universe version of herself: “That’s me as a vampire? I’m so evil and skanky…and I think I’m kinda gay.”

Farscape – “Rhapsody in Blue” (1999)
Sure, astronaut John Crighton is straight and surrounded by sexy space chicks but a hot stud being bounced around a spaceship in his underwear certainly helped a show pick up new gay fans.

Smallville – most of it! (2001 – present)
In this version of Superman’s teen years, Clark Kent and Lex Luthor keep looking at each other like they’re about to make out at any moment. Rumour has it the producers had to tell the actors to knock it off but they were too late – straight girls love TV’s hottest gay couple!

X2: X-Men United (2003)
Ian McKellen’s sly villain Magneto almost kills Rogue, leaving her hair white. Reunited in the gay-subtext sequel, he purrs, “I love what you’ve done with your hair.” Ooh, snap!

Doctor Who – “Bad Wolf” (2005)
Searching for the Doctor, Captain Jack is captured and stripped naked by two female robots. Suddenly, he pulls a gun on them.
ROBOT: “That’s a Compact Laser Deluxe! Where did you get that?”
JACK: “You really don’t wanna know!” He shoots them and escapes.

Battlestar Galactica – “Lay Down Your Burdens, Part 2” (2006)
The shocking season finale: abruptly, it’s one year later…and Apollo is married and fat!
Nooooo!!

Labels: comic books, Doctor Who, fab

Thanks to your recent comment on my blog, I believe I'll add PREDATOR to your list: all that oiled-up muscle and not a woman in sight - until the titular character finally doffs the cloaking device and appears. Lo and behold, the face looks somewhat ... vaginal.

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at July 05, 2006

 

Regarding "Bad Wolf," the two robots were futuristic incarnations of the What Not To Wear bitch goddesses Trinny & Susannah--which scores double for gay points.

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

 

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Hello and Happy New Year!

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

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

Excuse number one:
NEW ADVENTURES IN POOP

This is the big one.

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

True to form, I rode down to the pound with a determination to refuse. I don't make a lot of money. I'm not home many nights. How can I care for a dog when everything's so chaotic in my life right now? I had over a dozen concrete reasons why I should not take this puppy and every one of them evaporated like mist when I looked into her tiny brown eyes. She scrambled into my arms, licked my face with mad zeal, then leaned back against my chest and calmly looked around the room at everyone else. She was home and I