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)...


   Monday, November 06, 2006

   LESSONS LEARNED

Obviously, I've been turning cartwheels over this week's revelation that Ted Haggard, leader of the 30-million-member National Association of Evangelicals, bought crystal meth from the gay prostitute he's been visiting for three years. With the US midterm elections tomorrow, it's a political jackpot and the metaphorical culmination of everything I've been ranting about for years!

So why does it make me feel so sad?

Well, first off, I feel sorry for his wife and kids.
Mrs. Haggard must obviously be devastated and, as for the kids, it's hard enough on children when they learn that Dad lied to them about Santa Claus; what if Dad lied about everything he believed in and everything he taught you?

But I actually feel sorry for Ted Haggard.
Watching clips of the infamous interview (with his wife and kids in the car!!!), the troubling face-off with hectoring atheist Richard Dawkins or the truly-terrifying excerpt from Jesus Camp is all creepy enough, but reading transcripts of the prostitute detailing their time together in karmic 'Bill-Clinton-Starr-Report' fashion is totally gruesome.

Last year, Harpers did a lengthy profile on Haggard called Soldiers of Christ that I found profoundly unsettling; now it's also profoundly sad. The man is clearly a seething mass of frustrated contradictions:

The fact is, I am guilty of sexual immorality, and I take responsibility for the entire problem. I am a deceiver and a liar. There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I’ve been warring against it all of my adult life.

For extended periods of time, I would enjoy victory and rejoice in freedom. Then, from time to time, the dirt that I thought was gone would resurface, and I would find myself thinking thoughts and experiencing desires that were contrary to everything I believe and teach. Through the years, I’ve sought assistance in a variety of ways, with none of them proving to be effective in me. Then, because of pride, I began deceiving those I love the most because I didn’t want to hurt or disappoint them.

I don't hear the words of a 48-year-old right-wing Christian leader in this statement Haggard made on Sunday, I hear the unhappy rationalizations of a gay teenager. Maybe I'm projecting here but this statement sounds an awful lot like what I was writing in my diary at 17. I wish someone could've taken Ted aside and said, "You're not repulsive and dark -- you're a homo!"

I even began to feel sorry for his followers. I can't imagine how confusing this must be for them. When Bill Clinton admitted to having sex with "that woman," I felt disappointed in him and frustrated by his lack of control. But when you get right down to it, Clinton wasn't part of a massive political movement blaming all the evils of society on young Jewish interns, was he? That kind of disconnect between Haggard's private actions and public rabble-rousing is the sticking point here and, unfortunately, where my sympathies end.

You see, I'd like to think to something good could come from this, that perhaps the evangelical movement will understand that splitting the world into 'us' versus 'them' never works because there's no distinction. 'They' are 'us' and 'us' are 'they.' I'd like to think that this incident may help evangelicals understand that homosexual is less important than the way people channel them. I want them to see that allowing a self-hating gay man to hide by marrying a woman and having five children will ultimately ruin all of their lives. I'd like them to accept that allowing such a person to be honest, to find and live peacefully with another man, would be far more beneficial to society than the sad freakshow we've had to witness this week. I would like to think that but the odds are unlikely when the conclusions are already drawn. Mollie at GetReligion quotes from an e-mail she received, comparing openly-gay Anglican bishop Gene Robinson to Ted Haggard:

A pastor is married for years, has children, runs a successful church, advances in his denomination/sector of Christianity, and then “finds himself” and abandons wife and children for a live-in situation with another man. His reward? Consecration as a bishop in the Protestant Episcopal Church of America and wide-ranging media praise
...
Another pastor apparently is married for years, has children, builds and runs a a successful church, advances in his denomination/sector of Christianity, fights temptation and loses, stays with his family, and when the dam breaks, is crucified in the press as his reward.

This to me is an insane comparison. Gene Robinson divorced his wife three years before he got involved with his current partner. He and his wife are still friends because he was honest with his family and his community through the whole 'coming out' process. However one might feel about Robinson's status as a bishop, anyone who can't see a difference between the way he's dealt with his sexuality and the way Haggard has is either intellectually or spiritually bankrupt. On that note, Canada's own poster boy for nepotism David Frum (creator of the hit catchphrase "Axis of Evil") then chimed on along similar lines:

Consider the hypothetical case of two men. Both are inclined toward homosexuality. Both from time to time hire the services of male prostitutes. Both have occasionally succumbed to drug abuse.

One of them marries, raises a family, preaches Christian principles, and tries generally to encourage people to lead stable lives.

The other publicly reveals his homosexuality, vilifies traditional moral principles, and urges the legalization of drugs and prostitution.
...
If a religious leader has a personal inclination toward homosexuality - and nonetheless can look past his own inclination to defend the institution of marriage and to affirm its benefits for the raising of children - why should he likewise not be honored for his intellectual firmness and moral integrity?

Where's the "intellectual firmness" in Haggard hiring a prostitute and buying crystal meth? Where's the "moral integrity" in doing so while denying people the right to marry? And lying to your own wife and children? And I love the way the argument is framed as either 'stay in the closet for the children' or 'wallow in drugs and prostitutes' -- because no middle ground is possible, right? I can't believe that Frum would try to peddle this kind of crap, but then I read this take from The Christian Post:

While Haggard has only partially admitted guilt, the situation in its entirety is a stark reminder of man’s sinfulness and a dark exposure of how deeply the sin of homosexuality has taken root in the American society. If the accusations are indeed true, now would be the time for the Evangelical community look within its own walls and battle against the culture of sin that looms before the Church of Christ.

Yes, I'd like to think something good could come from the sad story of Ted Haggard but it seems a lot of other lessons have been learned, all of them wrong and none of them helpful.

Labels: America, family, homo-a-go-go, politics, religion, repair

I once watched a nine-year-old boy stab a hooker to death.

No, not really but virtually -- an unlucky digital prostitute in Grand Theft Auto who wandered by the wrong carjacking. "That's kinda cruel, isn't it?" I said to the kid but he just laughed and shrugged, clearly capable of distinguishing between his fantasy killing spree and the real world. I asked his dad about it and he seemed fine so I figure it's none of my business.

Being so tolerant of virtual crime-wave murder means, however, that I can't get too worked up about the upcoming series of fundamentalist video games based on the disturbingly-popular Left Behind series. I'd be a hypocrite if I were bothered more by the notion of Christian "Tribulation Forces" using "physical and spiritual warfare: using the power of prayer to strengthen your troops in combat and wield modern military weaponry throughout the game world." All I can say is wow, it's hard out there for a pimp!

Labels: family, religion

I'm just coming off a four-day weekend spent mostly in the park with my dog. I should be happier but my job's getting me down, the newspapers more so, my dad's talking divorce again and I'm worried about a friend in the hospital. What's weirder, I feel ungrateful for being blue, like I won't allow myself to be happy as long as someone else isn't. I try to knock it down -- worrying about other people may be a sign of caring but does nothing to truly help them and I can't help anyone if I'm wallowing in maudlin navel-gazing. (Except for this blog, of course -- this is vital reading!)

I hate the feeling of helplessness, the whims of moods. I celebrate the happiness that flits by and endure the despair that lingers too long but what's always confounded me is that grey area in between -- the foggy melancholy that makes one useless.

How odd then to find myself soothed this morning by Paul Simon of all people. His new album is called "Surprise" and it's just that -- a really lovely collection of wistful songs layered over spooky electronia flourishes from Brian Eno. It's the strangest collaboration in years between two men I couldn't imagine standing in an elevator together, let alone composing music, but it works gloriously. "Wartime Prayers" is one of the saddest songs I've heard yet Eno gives it a glimmer. "Once Upon a Time There Was an Ocean" is hopeful yet sinister, while "Father and Daughter" is sublimely sentimental.

I sometimes think I was born too late -- I'd have made a great Boomer. I listened to Simon & Garfunkel when I was younger and basked in songs like "The Sound of Silence" and "The Only Living Boy in New York." So beautiful. It's a real delight then to find that, forty years later, Simon still has his knack for songs that feel hopeful, melancholy, loving and resentful all at once.

And the oddest suprise of all is that, by allowing myself to wallow in several moods at once, each one's clamour for attention eases and I can focus. Be strong. Bring a gift to the hospital. Walk my dog. Call my dad. Invite a friend over for dinner as planned. Life goes on. Thanks again, Paul.

Labels: family, introspective

Fess up, Scott: the real reason you're depressed is the regular TV season has come to a close, leaving us with a long, hot summer of flaccid reruns!

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at May 24, 2006

 

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My father and I don't have a lot in common. We tend to tiptoe around each other, confused as to where the other is coming from, but there's two people who've brought us closer together. One is my niece, Syrena -- we're both so enamoured with her, she's almost all we talk about -- and the other is George W. Bush, for reasons opposite.

For my dad, Bush's plan to open the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge to oil development was the final straw. It horrified him. He's outdoorsy, you know. He goes on fishing trips and reads National Geographic. He was appalled by the notion of ruining protected land.

But yesterday, the Republican House -- battered by their election losses on Tuesday -- finally faced the fact that most Americans agree with my dad and acted accordingly:

Twenty-five Republicans, led by Rep. Charles Bass of New Hampshire, signed a letter asking GOP leaders to strike the Alaskan drilling provision from the broader $54 billion budget cut bill.

“Rather then reversing decades of protection for this publicly held land, focusing greater attention on renewable energy sources, alternate fuels, and more efficient systems and appliances would yield more net energy savings than could come from ANWR and would have a higher benefit on the nation’s long-term economic leadership and security,” they said.

See? I can agree with Republicans once in a while. This was a pet project of Bush's and now it's dead in the water. The Dagostino family is a lot happier today.

Labels: family, George W Bush

...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

After the dismal experience of "The Polar Express" (did I mention that I hated it?), I was able to turn things around with a delightful 'cartoon marathon' yesterday. Darcy and I (still friendly, by the way) went to see his beloved "Spongebob Squarepants" which was more fun than it has any right to be -- neatly bypassing the logic centres of the brain for giddy surrealistic joy. I don't think I've laughed harder than after Spongebob's loyal doofus pal Patrick gets his pants pulled down in front of the girl he's got a crush on. "Did you see my underwear?" he frets. "No," she replies, looking awkward. Patrick pauses and says, "Would you like to?" That's gold, my friends.

Next up, "The Incredibles," a sixth home run from the wizards at Pixar but, as it turns out, a somewhat disturbing one. In Pixar's last movie, "Finding Nemo," we watched a father (okay, a fish but still a father!) struggling with the reality that the world is a scary place for children, torn between wanting to overprotect his son and needing to allow him to grow. As much as I dislike the ubiquitous description "post-9/11", it applies in this case -- "Finding Nemo" felt like a balm for all that burning anxiety.

In addition to being action-packed and very witty, "The Incredibles" carries forward the theme that a family united with confidence, humour and love can weather any storm -- heartwarming in the best sense -- but, unlike "Nemo," makes no attempt to ease "post-9/11" anxieties. At one point, the superhero mom (Holly Hunter, national treasure!) cautions her gifted kids against overconfidence, warning, "Remember the bad guys you used to watch on Saturday mornings? Well, these guys are not like those guys. They won't exercise restraint because you're children. They will kill you if they get the chance."

Whoa.

After being so wildly irked by the lobotomizing sugar-coating in "The Polar Express," this stark warning in "The Incredibles" made my head snap back. Have we truly come to this point where young children need to be educated about human evil so bluntly? They're not stupid, they see the news, they no doubt feel it already. But it seems so sad to me, like an end of an era or a regrettable return to that 1950's "duck and cover" lunacy. Is there a middle ground?

"Nemo" suggested that parents have to risk a looser hold on their children; "The Incredibles" goes one further by educating kids about danger. There's a brilliant bit when the young son gleefully discovers that he can punch the bigger guards but his smirk becomes shock when the guard hits him back and hard. The warning is clear: you can fight bad guys who are stronger than you but you'll lose if you don't have your family to back you up.

What's even more impressive about "The Incredibles" is that my argument stems from a mere couple of scenes, when there are many other ideas in the movie inspiring debates on their own. Scroll down to "More Mail" on David Edelstein's movie blog on Slate and you'll find that the movie has inspired a rowdy debate on educational approaches -- not bad for a cartoon!

Also, the tiny fashion-designer Edna Mode is clearly modelled after legendary Hollywood outfitter Edith Head and is easily the year's most brilliant comic creation -- she's a complete delight. After grousing about "The Polar Express," it feels good to enthusiastically, unreservedly recommend "The Incredibles" (and maybe even "Spongebob" too)!

Labels: family, friends, movies

I went to visit my family in Hamilton this weekend and my dad and I watched HBO's "Real Time with Bill Maher" (love that satellite dish!) My dad likes Maher because, well, he's a bit of an asshole but one of the few TV pundits who values common sense over left-wing-right-wing dogma. He's mean, he's funny, he's usually right.

As a long-time critic of Bush's obvious faults, Maher was clearly bewildered by the results of the election, notably the exit polls citing moral values as the chief issue among Bush voters. "The election is over," Maher announced, "and all I can say is, 'Praise Jesus!'...Tuesday, George Bush was elected president of the United States. You know what they say? The first time is always the sweetest."

In conversation with his guests, he was clearly as irritated as I was by the assertion that atheists or non-Christians have no morals or values:

Am I not entitled to the opinion that science should have precedence over faith? That rationality should have precedence over belief in Jesus? That the Constitution is more important than the Bible, at least as far as running a government goes?...When we talk about values, I think of rationality in solving problems. That's something I value. Fairness, kindness, generosity, tolerance. That's different.

Let's be honest - this electorate has switched because that Christian right has taken over the Republican Party. They started it in the '80s with Reagan and Pat Robertson. And like a parasite on a host, they now own it...But when we have an election in the middle of a war and an existential fight about terrorism, and we’re fighting about boys kissing, I’m sorry, there is a big problem in this country.

Yes, Bill Maher became my hero last weekend and wrapped up his show and season with this:

So, Democrats - Democrats and liberals - stop saying you're going to move because Bush won. Real liberals should be pledging to stay because Bush won. Trust me, you can't get away from Bush by moving to France. Because that's where we're invading next.

Labels: family, George W Bush, religion, tributes, TV

TEACH YOUR CHILDREN WELL

Irish 'bad-boy' actor Colin Farrell (who you think would be getting tired of that label by now -- we are) has once again shocked people in an interview by admitting that he's used heroin in the past:

In a candid interview with GQ magazine, he says, "I've smoked it a couple of times, but I knew where I was going. For some reason it seemed pretty f**king nice at the time." But drug prevention workers have blasted Farrell for acting irresponsibly in the knowledge his young fans look up to him. Peter Stoker of the National Drug Prevention Alliance says, "He should not be bragging about taking heroin. Farrell is a role model for children. If he thinks it is so cool he should go to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting and see the harsh reality."

Well, that's sensible enough and...wait. Did Stoker actually say, "Farrell is a role model for children"? Is that what I read? "Farrell is a role model for children"? Whose children? Is someone looking at his son and thinking, "He's too dull -- he needs more booze, more swearing, a bit of heroin and a fling with Britney Spears."

Oh, wait, that's my dad. Never mind.

Labels: family, insanity, media

LEFT AT THE ALTAR

I'm now officially a bastard. I called up my cousin Kim last night and told her that I will not be coming to her wedding next weekend.

It's not as though I don't have an excuse -- my friend Danielle is inviting a gang of people up to her cottage next weekend to celebrate her Josh's 30th birthday. Josh is a great guy, he's turning 30, he's frightened. How can I not go?

Besides, as shocking as it may be to say it aloud, I really hate weddings. As much as I want to be there to celebrate the love lives of my friends and family, nothing -- nothing -- makes you feel more single and alone than attending a wedding. It's a spiteful attitude -- loneliness is my fault, not theirs -- but attending several weddings in a year takes it toll.

I talked to Kim on the phone last night and she was OK about it. I mean, the truth is that we've barely said five words to each other in ten years, so it's not as though I'll be missed. It's more to do with the rest of the family seeing it as a slight. I ignored the advice of my sister, who told me I should lie and say I have to work or something. "She'll guilt you into it!" Paula warned.

Well, no. Those days are over. I'm a bastard, after all.

Labels: family, friends, introspective, oh l'amour

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

UH OH....I'M THE HAPPY ONE!

Strange week -- everything's going very well for me and lousy for everyone else.

My old friend Josh is suddenly back in town after immigration authorities in the States abruptly terminated his visa. After four years in California, he's no longer allowed in the US until at least the end of January. He's very upset for several reasons but I'm sure his pregnant wife Terri is the major one.

Tara's grandmother finally died this week. I say 'finally' because she'd been so very sick for so very long. Her decline's been hard on Tara but her passing is worse, for she was the only family member Tara could depend on.

My boss Stan is spending all his time visiting his father in the hospital. Stan's dad has suffered a major stroke, paralysing part of his throat and other areas, and enraging a once-proudly-self-sufficient guy.

My own father is still taking expensive medication for gout and both he and my step-mother are currently out-of-work. Josie's company was bought up by another and the staff predictably down-sized. Money is getting very tight with my dad unable to go back to work as soon as he'd like but we're determined to keep him home until he's healthy.

And as for me? It seems I've got the apartment and the money situation might be OK for paying first-and-last. I'm campaigning for a raise at the store and, despite coming down with a cold this weekend, my health seems fine. Meanwhile, I'm reading Michael Moore's new book, "Dude, Where's My Country?" and enjoying it immensely.

I feel like one of the criminals in "Intacto" who've stolen luck from ordinary people around them but that's A) too silly, and B) way too Catholic. I'm just going to relax in my good fortune while I try to help my friends and family with their lack thereof. Isn't that the whole point?

Labels: family, friends, introspective

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

DUMB, DUMBER, DUMBEST

Dumb:
During my trip home this weekend, I brought along a copy of "Die Another Day" to watch with my dad. We missed it in the theatres last fall -- it was gone in seven weeks (seven weeks!!) -- breaking a tradition dating back to 1987, in which we go to the latest James Bond movie opening around his birthday at the end of November. After watching this one, however, neither of us felt too disappointed in missing it in the theatre because the end was quite dopey. The first three-quarters of the movie are fantastic, with all the great cars, gorgeous women, beautiful locations and cool gizmos that have made Mr. Bond so famous. Why, then, can't anyone write an action movie ending anymore? My friend Tara arrived for dinner right when the movie began to devolve into ludicrous stunts, pointless explosions and endless fight scenes. Sitting beside her on the sofa, I could feel Tara's eyebrow poking me in the side of the head. Dad just shakes his head and says, as he has for the last couple films, "It's not the same without Connery."

Dumber:
Thought I'd check out some new TV show on Fox tonight called "Keen Eddie," with the likeable (and, let's face it, easy on the eyes) Mark Valley as an NYC cop transferred to Scotland Yard. Not a new premise by any means but I'm a big anglophile who can never resist that "Fish Called Wanda" American-in-London stuff. Too bad I had to turn it off within about ten minutes. It was just that stupid -- full of showy camera trickery and goofy overacting, even from the great Alexei "Who's that fat bastard?" Sayle. I was disappointed but the very words "new TV show on Fox" should've tipped me off. Worse yet was a commercial for their other new show, "Paradise Hotel," in which a group of "real" bimbos and pretty-boys screw around in some Caribbean resort. "Parental Discretion advised!" shrieked the announcer, and I couldn't aim the remote fast enough. I still don't get why everyone on "reality TV" seems like a walking cartoon to me, while the fictional characters on "Once and Again" or "Six Feet Under" are so compellingly ordinary.

Dumbest:
That would be me on Sunday night, when I popped over to Don and Amanda's -- they just got a place together and seem very happy. I brought over a few movies and we hung out and talked, until Don offered to light up a joint. I never smoke up, as it makes me quite stupid and, sure enough, I had virtually nothing to say for the rest of the night. Even dumber was realizing on the subway home that I was no longer carrying the DVDs I'd had on the connecting bus. Nothing irreplaceable but an annoying waste of money, nevertheless, and a clear reminder of why I avoid getting stoned. It makes me dumber than "Die Another Day" on the Fox network.

Labels: family, friends, movies, TV

RAMBLINGS, NOT RANTINGS

So why so miserable last week? Probably something to do with coming home at 3 in the morning on Thursday to find a scribbled note from my roommate informing me that he won't be able to pay the rent this month or possibly ever. Later seeing the Woody's memo to all door staff informing us that, in effect, we really suck at our jobs didn't help either. Throw in the impossible workload dumped on me at the store all this week and it's obvious that I've been a giant ball of stress.

Thank God for Dad and Josie, who gave me the run of their place on Saturday night. They had to go to an anniversary gathering for some friends but it left me free to make some food, watch horror movies on the satellite dish and sleep on fluffier pillows. Why, it was practically a spa day!

Meanwhile, I was free to mull over my horrible roommate history and, as I do, turn misery into silliness. Thus, I give you:
88 Lines About 4.4 Roommates

Labels: family, silliness, working girl

FLY ME TO THE MOON

Just got back from seeing Tony Bennett perform in the newly-refurbished Roy Thompson Hall. It's hard to convey in words the joy that radiates from this man -- he is warm and charming and thrilled to have spent a lifetime singing for people who love him in return. Listening to his stories and songs was pure pleasure. That the concert was a birthday gift for my father from Josie and me made it doubly so. The three of us had a wonderful night.

I'll go on about it a bit more later but it's off to bed -- after an early shift at the record store tomorrow, I'm off to Niagara Falls for a kitschy anniversary weekend with the boyfriend. It's been a year since that exciting weekend when I met Darcy and definitely, as he says, a "rocky" one but I'm still happy when I'm with him. Moreso when we can slip away from the city and be alone together.

Labels: family, introspective, music, oh l'amour

WHEN A STRANGER CALLS

Have you checked the parents? Being so busy, I hadn't called mine for a couple of weeks. One more thing for Captain Procrastinator here to get around to, I figured, even as my father was leaving me one of those plaintive answering machine messages of his ("Hey bud...[long pause]...it's your father...[longer pause]...just checking to see if you're alive...").

Meanwhile, I'd also neglected to deposit a paycheque at the bank. Using their ATM machines has led to bounced cheques on more than one occasion (I'm looking at you, TD Canada Trust!) so these days I insist on speaking to an actual teller. Due to my dallying, however, I'd missed a loan payment and, after waiting over a week, the bank decided to check their contact list and phone my father to ask about me. With that call (and my lack of the same), my dad was nearly convinced I was dead. Much reassuring ensued.

It's particularly bad timing on my part since this has been a rough day for him -- the Republican wins in last night's US midterm elections have my dad worried for the wildlife in Alaska, potential victims of our lust for oil. With no Democrat majority to hold him back any longer, Bush is looking northward and ready to drill. I'm as worried as my father is about this, even if I'm not phoning to tell him so.

Labels: family, George W Bush, introspective, money - lack thereof

FATHER'S DAY

Had a lengthy phone chat with my father this afternoon, following a much briefer one yesterday, and feel much better. While he still regrets that I felt forced to leave home at 19, thereby making life a lot more difficult for myself, he doesn't think that I've wasted my life or become a failure or anything of the stuff I was hearing earlier this week. While I can't picture him bragging about his gay pub bouncer/writer son at Italian-Catholic family gatherings, I'm relieved nevertheless that he's on my side.

The only sad part is that he has any regrets at all. Moving away from home when I did was a bone-headed thing to do but necessary at the time. I learned a lot and I'm not sorry I left. My staying at home would have been no guarantee of success, believe me. But he still thinks that and blames his wife for it on the rare occasions when he's not blaming himself. I find that very sad and tell him so, but he is who he is.

Since he'll never read this, I can safely say that I love my old man and that whatever flaws I might have would have been greater if not for his influence. Not directly, of course -- his frequent refrain, "I don't need anybody," makes him a hard guy to bond with -- but he's always tried to do the right thing under difficult circumstances. Even when I find myself frustrated with him for being such a martyr (when he thinks he's trying to be a saint), I still admire him deeply. Please don't say anything.

Labels: family