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 26, 2007

   YUMMY, YUMMY, YUMMY, I'VE GOT HATE IN MY TUMMY

Did you laugh at that headline? I hope so, 'cause it's all I've got.
I've been sick for two days now with a, shall we say, delicate stomach.
On Saturday, after the Ben Lee concert, I went to a party that involved lovely people, freeflowing wine, a couple tequila shots and some gorgeous pan-fried garlic butter shrimp.

Too bad I was violently ill mere hours later. How embarrassing. It just hasn't been my party weekend, has it?

It's easy to blame the tequila but, after two days of gut pain, I think the shrimp is a more likely suspect. When I think of the (thankfully) few times I've been sick like that (notably that horrible incident in LA just before Josh's wedding), shrimp was often involved. I think I may have to give it up.

I had dinner with Ed tonight, still in town before he heads back to Wales next weekend, and even though I ate a careful chicken sandwich, I felt pained and nauseous immediately afterward and had to cut our time out short. This really sucks.

Why must something so delicious be so deadly???

Labels: friends, health

This will be a hopelessly vague post but, believe it or not, sometimes I am actually concerned about my privacy. So no details but I'm writing to remind myself in the future how and why last night went so horribly wrong:

Trust your own instincts.
That voice in the back of your head knows what it's talking about.

At a party last night, I made a couple wonky choices, trying to "read" the room, and somehow became a really dreadful person. There's lots of thing I could blame it on but none of them stand up to much scrutiny. No, I got to see aspects of myself that I usually either beat down with a stick or run away from, screaming.

I shudder at my behaviour and hope that the host will forgive me.

I'm going to see Ben Lee in concert tonight -- he's got a lyric I like:
"I had to learn to sin successfully." It reminded me of one of my all-time favourite pieces of advice from Mark Twain:

Now then, I propose to inoculate for Sin. Suppose that every time you commit a transgression, a crime of any kind, you lay up in your heart a memory of the shame you felt when your Sin found you out, and so make it a perpetual reminder and perpetual protection against your ever committing that particular Sin again. That is to say, inoculate yourself forever against that particular Sin. Now what must be the result? Why this -- logically and infallibly: that the more crimes you commit (and forever amen) the richer you become, morally; and when you have committed all the trespasses, all the crimes that are known to the calendar of Sin, there you stand, white as an angel, pure as the driven Snow (protected forever from further Sin), the sky-kissing monument of moral perfection.

It's an argument that really makes me, though secretly, I hope Twain was right.

Labels: friends, introspective, repair

Blade Runner needs no explanation. It just is. All of the best. There is nothing like it. To be part of a real masterpiece which changed the world's thinking. It's awesome.

Far be it from me to argue with Rutger Hauer but just a little explanation is in order: I went with a few friends to see Blade Runner: The Final Cut tonight. It's the third time the film's been released in theatres but the first release that director Ridley Scott has had complete control over. And Hauer's still right.


Blade Runner: The Final Cut trailer

What amazed me about watching this movie again (since 1994 and 1982) is seeing how Ridley Scott removed everything that didn't work before (bad narration, awkward edits, a clumsy ending) and polished what remained into a dark diamond. This is a slow, despairing, elegant piece of future noir that's even more relevant now. Most movies set in the future end up looking silly when the time comes (welcome to the year 2000!) but this film's Los Angeles in 2019 is both increasingly implausible and increasingly unsettling. The details are wrong (no offworld colonies yet) but the overall dystopia feels disturbingly probable.

And the lead actors are so gorgeously understated: Harrison Ford is cynical to the point of brutality, Sean Young is cool and aloof but desperately sad, and Rutger Hauer is one of film's all-time great villains -- terrifying yet sympathetic. Watching the film again, you really see how he is the real hero here: trying to answer the question of existence in a mere four-year life span while the deadened and soulless human characters fail to match his vitality, curiosity or faith. I was going to post a YouTube clip of his big speech here but how can I? It's too good not to be seen in the context of the film (see for yourself when a splashy DVD set comes out Dec. 18).

What was especially nice about going to this screening was that I went with my friends Danielle and Josh and, in a surprise move, an old friend of mine from university named Glynis. I hadn't seen her in nearly 15 years but she'd seen me making plans on Facebook to see Blade Runner, her favourite movie ever, and asked if she could tag along. I loved that, especially in regards to a movie about a high-technology culture of emotional cripples. Here instead is technology bringing people together. I was impressed by Glynis taking the risk in asking to join us and it was great to see her again.

Meanwhile, other friends Victor and Trevor were literally just down the street, going to see Breakfast With Scot. I was able to make it to the theatre in time to join them and this Canadian indie comedy was a total delight:


Breakfast With Scot trailer

Though the film's plot is predictable as can be, the witty script, engaging actors and surprising lack of sentimental button-pushing thrilled the group of us. Plus it's just so great to see a film set in Toronto, about Toronto and filled with people you could mistake for your neighbours. And I love a film that recognizes that trying to avoid gay stereotypes doesn't mean making the gay characters bland, inoffensive and indistinguishable from other guys. We are different, just not as much as everyone seems to think. Breakfast With Scot got that and I was really pleased.

After seeing one film that questions our very ability to hold onto what makes us human, it's great to see another that champions all the little things that let us.

Labels: back in the day, Canada, friends, homo-a-go-go, movies

Just got back from TV night at James' place. Very few of us, it seems, are willing to go to a movie by ourselves, so why is television always such a solitary activity? Single people flop down in front of the tube after a long workday and even families, with precious few shows geared to all ages, tend to have separate TV sets in the home.

It's too bad because watching TV with friends is always more fun. Last night, I was talking to my landlady in the hall when Brad and his friend came bursting out of his apartment, begging her to tell them she was able to tape Heroes. It was adorable. I still have fond memories of watching Melrose Place in my university common room with about 16 girls, all of us yelling at the screen. And, of course, the old Sunday night tradition of turning out all the lights and watching The X-Files with my old flatmate Josh. Nattering about the show during the commercials was half the fun.

It's been nice to keep the trend going as best I can. James and Daniel have been inviting me over on Tuesdays to watch The Tudors and it's been great fun: Daniel points out all the historical inaccuracies while I make wisecracks about the dialogue and James makes catty comments about the actors. Plus, James is a great host -- tonight, he served up a fine chocolate cheesecake and poured me a glass of whiskey. He's awesome.

In a similar vein, I've been trying to make time to watch Dexter with Brian (he digs the creepy), Bionic Woman with Trevor (everyone loves women who kick ass) and, as always, Doctor Who with Robert and James. Then there's my Sunday mornings at the dog run with Janet -- while our beasts roam free, we natter about Reaper and whatever Bill Maher was digging into on Friday.

TV is just a good excuse to meet up with friends once a week. As much as I'm loving Friday Night Lights, it'd be more fun to watch it with someone else. Of course, then again, it's made me cry once or twice and no one needs to see that.

I just wish someone else was loving Life as much as I do? Who can I trade theories with about who the real killer is?

Labels: friends, TV

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

I`ve been strolling the streets of Montreal, new and Old, this morning and it`s felt like slipping on an old favourite pair of shoes. Last time I was here was twice in 2000 -- a free weekend jaunt in November, courtesy of my friend Gord`s frequent flier miles (Tintin isn`t his favourite character for nothing) and just before that in the summer, when Bryce and I came here for Pride right before we broke up.

It was strange to walk through Old Montreal with hazy memories of that happier yet sadder time. I felt very wistful, especially since I was by myself. It was around noon and the rest of my gang had either eaten already or were still sleeping. Wild weekends like these play havoc with everyone`s schedules and I`ve already been told off for my lack of a mobile phone. This trip has been the first time in my life when I wished I`d had one.

Yesterday was a day of crazy culture shock, one extreme to another.
We woke up in a forest.
We biked down twisty forest paths and along the mighty St. Lawrence River.
We ate lunch in the bleachers of a park baseball diamond.
We arrived with great fanfare as we biked down the streets of downtown Montreal.
We danced and drunk beer at a drag bar as Montreal Pride revved into gear.
We met up with friends and stayed out as late as our exhausted bodies would let us.
It was a long, wild day.

The only downside was arriving at the UQAM residence that's hosting us. Imagine rooms like the driest of musty libraries, made hot enough to do bikram yoga in. The ceiling fans spin uselessly and there's no breeze through the window. The girl in the room next to me slept with her door propped wide open with a chair all night, the florescent light burning into her room. I wasn't prepared to try that but a rocky night of lying on top of the blankets in a puddle of my own sweat might make me a convert tonight! I'm not sure I'll survive another night of that.

But who knows? Maybe I won't have to go back. I've got friends from Toronto in town (I'm running off to meet Robert, for one, right now) and there's a club crawl planned as a stag party for Rob and Greg, getting married in three weeks. Can I muster the energy for all this? How could I not?

Labels: Canada, friends, health, holidays, introspective, sports, travel

Or is it the Queen's University campus library? I can't tell -- it all looks the same.

It's Day 3 of the Bike Rally and clearly the best one yet. We only did 52km this morning, a light day after the last two fairly grueling ones. After breakfast, the whole lot of us careened down a twisty road along the lake, with some utterly gorgeous scenery, and I'm pleased to say that I arrived at the Queen's campus in Kingston before 11am, just shy of two hours.

I've been thrilled with my progress on this thing. The first day was 117km and very hilly, especially right at the end when I had so little energy left. We arrived at the campground exhausted and setting up the tent became the most tiring part of the day! I'm concerned about my left knee -- it's been really hurting, a kind of dull arthritic ache. On Day 2, I eased up on my speed a bit and it seemed to help. I keep asking myself which it's going to be, boy: going faster or walking with a cane for the rest of my life? Then I go faster.

But there's great support here. A chiropractor named Michelle looked over my knee last night and says I'm merely straining the inner ligament on the inside of the kneecap. I should ice it in the evening and ease up on the speed on the hills. And tomorrow I plan to have a massage. It's weird to work so hard yet feel so pampered. They've been feeding us well -- the food is amazing considering that it's being mass-produced for over 300 people and the prep volunteers are working harder than the bike riders. It's like a massive film set, so much coordination.

Camping has been tricky. I am so not used to sleeping outside. Even with the gift of James A's spacious tent and firm air mattress, sleep has been rocky. Now that we've a bed for a night here at the university, I just had an afternoon nap and it's helped enormously! Also, the bugs. Taking down the tent this morning, it was covered in spiders. Daddy long legs, stuff like that. These days are doing wonders for my arachnophobia; now I just scoop them up with my hand and toss them to one side.

I do like the comraderie of the campground though: there are so many tents, it looks like a small frontier town, as if early Canada was settled by gays. "We claim this land for England...snap!" One guy said it looked like a refugee camp. I then called it the Gayza Strip and was roundly, rightfully booed. There's been some attempts at nighttime activities, like games of Twister and Bingo, but it seems that most of us are too tired by that point to take part.

At least at first. Some people get their second wind later at night and there was a little impromptu beach party last night 'round midnight. I'm feeling a bit sad about it, since last week's grueling two-day trip to Cannington left my body exhausted and my lips sunburned. The bottom one blistered and, while I'm healing up nice and quick, my scabby lip makes me feel like the Phantom of the Campground. All these lovely new people I'm meeting and I'm at my least attractive. Grrr. Oh well, looks like I'm saving it up for Montreal!

And I didn't bike hundreds of miles and plead for thousands of dollars so I could get laid in the woods (that would've been simply a perk) -- no, I did this for the cause and the biking. Yesterday was the longest day, 126km, and while I'd never try to pretend it was effortless (oh lord, it wasn't), I was thrilled with how steadily I clipped along. I'm not as fast as the 'Bike Nazis' but nowhere near slow either. I found a lovely fellow redhead named Brad who bikes at my Goldilocks pace so he and I and another couple of friends formed a little pack yesterday. We rode and talked all afternoon as the countryside whizzed by us. That was a much better day.

But now I've got to run -- we're going for dinner at Chez Piggy, which I'm told is wonderful and hey, it's my birthday! Being in Kingston far from my friends is not exactly how I'd prefer to spend it but we seem set to have some parties in the dorms tonight and I've been flooded with wonderful birthday greetings from friends using Facebook. Thanks to everyone! I haven't felt this alive in quite some time but I'm already missing my loved ones and yes, even that nutty little dog. More chatter to come on Friday, I imagine -- till then, Chez Piggy's got a margarita with my name on it...

Labels: friends, health, holidays, introspective, sports, travel

I never could get into MySpace -- too visually-messy, a lot of work setting-up for seemingly little reward, and virtually everyone on it was 15 years old. I happily accepted my decrepit elder status, until a bunch of people almost simultaneously started badgering me to sign onto Facebook.

Result! It's been great fun and very handy for keeping track of friends both near and far. The only downside is how it's eaten into my tiny, precious blogging time so now I'm setting up a newsreader for my blog to link it into my Facebook notes.

I barely even know what I just wrote.

Labels: friends, technology

Oh, to be in England with my unrequited love, Alistair Appleton. We could listen to Talking Heads together (see question 11), cook up a paella for dinner (courtesy of the hilarious hosts of Posh Nosh -- thanks to Gil for the intro!) and perhaps stay at one of the charming seaside inns.

Then again, better not. I made this little video to show how frightening it can be:

Labels: England, friends, oh l'amour, silliness, TV

Love it or hate it, the TV show 24 sure has everyone talking. By coincidence, my friend Darrell, my 'Ottawa correspondent' Guy in DKNY and Vanity Fair's mighty James Wolcott all weighed in this week on 24 and the depressing 'torture is fun' debate we're all subjected to these days.

Darrell linked to an article in the New Yorker on the show's producer Joel Surnow, a self-described "right-wing nut job" who smugly decries the liberalism of Hollywood while he makes a fortune within it:

Surnow, for his part, revels in his minority status inside the left-leaning entertainment industry. "Conservatives are the new oppressed class," he joked in his office. "Isn't it bizarre that in Hollywood it's easier to come out as gay than as conservative?" His success with 24, he said, has protected him from the more righteous elements of the Hollywood establishment. "Right now, they have to be nice to me," he said. "But if the show tanks I'm sure they'll kill me." He spoke of his new conservative comedy show as an even bigger risk than 24. "I'll be front and center on the new show," he said, then joked, "I'm ruining my chances of ever working again in Hollywood."

I love the logic: if The 1/2 Hour News Hour fails, it's because the liberals can't handle his manly take on politics, not (not!) because his "Daily Show for conservatives" just isn't funny:



Wow, I never thought anything would make me wish for PJ O'Rourke but hey, torture is moral and Joel Surnow is oppressed -- clearly, we're living in Bizarro World:

Labels: comic books, friends, politics, TV

This one goes to Josh and Darcy, fans of the respective shows -- the logo made me laugh out loud!

Labels: friends, silliness, TV

No one is ever simple. Every person has at least two or three warring strands in their nature. For instance, the now-infamous Ted Haggard -- popular and respected religious leader by day, gay crystal-meth enthusiast by night. Reconciling such competing strands within ourselves is the work we all face in our lives.

For me, it's the split between my obsession with all the Very Big, Very Serious stuff of life (karma, life after death, the coming war with Iran -- you know, the usual) and my delight in tiny, inane, everyday absurdities (the kind of stuff that's clearly making Larry David both rich and insane). I never know if I'm taking things too seriously or not seriously enough. I believe my fondness for science fiction always stemmed from all that -- it's always about huge apocalyptic disasters threatening the lives of millions of people across the entire universe (oh the drama!), yet always perpetrated by sexy clones in red cocktail dresses or shrieking cyborg trashcans. It's the sublime and the ridiculous!

So, with all that said, can you imagine how much I enjoyed yesterday's terrorist attack on Boston? I say 'enjoyed' because these were the terrorists:

They're called Mooninites, evil creatures from our moon who proudly assert their "superiority" to humans (see horrifying footage of their cruelty here ,here and here). Yesterday in Boston, these monsters -- like the Martians of Orson Welles' War of the Worlds broadcast in 1938 -- brought a major American city to its knees!

Just like the Mel Gibson movie, there were Signs. Three weeks ago, the Mooninites scattered dozens of battery-powered light boards with images of themselves (in other words, bombs) throughout major American cities -- Boston, New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Atlanta, Seattle, Portland, Austin, San Francisco and Philadelphia. Most of the cities didn't notice the lights. In New York, police quietly removed about 40 of them, having received no complaints. In Seattle, the Public Works department removed a few without notifying police. But the vigilant Boston authorities mobilized in force, effectively shutting down the city core, while the local news media panicked the citizens. These actions prevented the hypothetical deaths of thousands of people.

With more awareness of the interplanetary threat, these attacks on Boston could have been prevented. As Paul Hellyer, Canada's former Minister of National Defense, told an audience at U of T in November 2005:

"The Bush Administration has finally agreed to let the military build a forward base on the moon, which will put them in a better position to keep track of the goings and comings of the visitors from space, and to shoot at them, if they so decide...The United States military are preparing weapons which could be used against the aliens, and they could get us into an intergalactic war without us ever having any warning."

The man's a loon, you think, but it was that same month that President Bush had claimed outer space for America. Did no one think the moon's evildoers would not retaliate? Oh, if only the world had heeded the professor's warning! Our only defense against a full-scale Mooninite invasion is this video game!

Okay, okay, I'll stop. Yes, I found this whole thing hilarious from start to finish but it's not just me -- my friend Tara loves Aqua Teen Hunger Force, the cartoon that caused all this, though I still can't shake the belief that you really have to be high to enjoy it. Like the kids on YouTube, who've been all over this event (with coverage here and here). Best of all, not even the people who've been arrested have been able keep a straight face (typical Mooninite-enabling scum!) and, for me, one clip has summed up the whole thing with hilarious precision:



But, as I'm wont to do, let me put my Serious hat on for a minute and admit that, yes, this was an actual problem for Boston. People were frightened, lives were put on hold, ambulances were stuck in traffic. How could the marketers think that planting unknown electronic devices under bridges and roadways would not freak people out? How irresponsible can one be, especially in marketing a cartoon? They didn't take into account what's been distressingly referred to as "the post-9/11 mindset."

As Boston Mayor Thomas Merino said, "It is outrageous, in a post-9/11 world, that a company would use this type of marketing scheme." A lot of people would like to see these guerrilla-marketing pranksters behind bars. My sympathies obviously lie on the other side but I recognize the debate: in a culture still struggling between a necessary awareness of terrorist threats and a debilitating non-stop paranoia, should people be less sensitive or more sensitive?

Fox News commentator Michelle Malkin quoted Jason Smith, a reader who asked, "I wonder if someone is sitting back and simply studying the emergency response protocol and timing...trying to identify weak spots and gaps to exploit for a real attack?" Considering the news reports stating that, as of last night, the Boston authorities had only found 10 of 24 devices, let's certainly hope not. All that diverted Homeland Security money is not paying off. Lucky for us, it's just Jason watching too much 24. As one blogger at Crooks and Liars wrote, "These were Lite Brites -- children's toys that light up. The Mayor and the rest of the city government threw the city into a panic, when they could've solved the 'crisis' by talking to a ten-year-old." Old Beantown looks especially silly when one recalls the actual bombings in London subways in July 2005 -- the British didn't wet their pants, they just went back to work and down the pub while the police began the process of tracking down and arresting suspects.

My heroes in all this are a pair of Boston women. Jennifer Mason, 26, told KUTV News, "It's almost too easy to be a terrorist these days. You stick a box on a corner and you can shut down a city." Wanda Higgins, a 47-year-old nurse, left for work at Massachusetts General Hospital at 4 pm, after seeing the drama on TV: "I saw the bomb squad guys carrying a paper bag with their bare hands. I knew it couldn't be too serious." That, ladies and gentlemen, is how it's done. I hope that Boston has learned to heed the warning from the moon:

"We are the Mooninites and our culture is advanced beyond all that you can possibly comprehend with 100% of your brain."

Clearly, we're gonna need every scrap!

Labels: America, evolution, friends, introspective, Orwell says hi

But enough about Ted Haggard. Or Mark Foley. Or Ken Mehlman. Or Charlie Crist. Or any other of the seemingly-endless parade of right-wing anti-gay closet-cases (as comedian Bill Maher joked last week, if any more Republicans come out of the closet, they'll have to change their symbol from an elephant to a moth!).

I come not to bury cowards, but to praise Doogie, as actor Neil Patrick Harris came out on Friday. I phoned my friend Tara on Saturday to say hello and see if she'd heard. Before I could say a thing, she said, "Did you hear about Doogie?!" We're fans.

Long ago, Tara and I worked at a movie theatre in Hamilton with a boy named Darryl, of whom Tara was fond and I was...fonder. He was a fantastic guy -- funny and overly-confident but just decent enough to keep from being an outright jerk. It helped that we all thought he looked like Neil Patrick Harris' TV character so the name 'Doogie' stuck to him like glue. Doogie Howser MD was by means great TV but we liked Darryl and became fond of the show by extension (there's a soft spot even now -- Doogie was the first blogger, after all).

It helped that Harris was a wonderful kid actor and, by all accounts, a good guy. After the show ended, he got stuck in that image but, even so, he didn't go bad like the Diff'rent Strokes gang or the Coreys. He did a lot of theatre and later appeared in Starship Troopers, wearing a long black coat and looking like the leader of the Hitler Youth. There, I thought, is an actor desperate to get un-typecast!

Sure enough, he did it, by developing a Shatneresque sense of humour about himself. He first tweaked his image, playing the "white culture" expert in Undercover Brother ("I owe all of you a huge apology. I just watched this show...Roots? Maybe you've heard of it?"); he then destroyed his image, playing a horny, drugged-out asshole named Neil Patrick Harris in Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle ("Yeah, I've been craving burgers, too. Furburgers. Come on, dudes, let's pick up some trim at a strip club. The Doogie line always works on strippers!"). The producers of the sitcom How I Met Your Mother were looking for a Jack Black-type actor to play Barney, a disturbingly-cheerful womanizer, but they liked the 'White Castle' bit enough to audition Harris and he won them over. Barney's a jerk but Harris' dorky charm makes him funny and oddly endearing.

I'm whittering on like a fan but here's the point: Neil Patrick Harris has paid his dues and has a solid career. He's only 33 and he's on his second hit TV show, making lots of money and playing a wildly-popular ladies' man. Actors, singers, athletes (anyone making money, really) are only allowed to come out after their careers have run dry, not right in the middle, so following some press speculation (you just can't trust those Canadians), his publicist issued the usual weird Hollywood non-denial: "Neil Patrick Harris is not of that persuasion."

I saw that in the paper last week and was disappointed. I prefer it when actors just avoid the question rather than lie -- kind of like how Ricky Martin was interesting when people wondered if he was gay, as opposed to how boring he became when he kept going on about the ladies in that completely hypothetical 'who are you kidding?' way. It's sad. In Harris' case, the denial was especially pointless, considering how people had been commenting for a while now on the guy he keeps being seen with around New York. I could understand why the publicist would try to suppress the story but it irritated me that, in 2006, a TV actor still can't say he's gay.

Happily, it seems that Harris was annoyed, too. Rather than start playing that fame game -- hiding his boyfriend, showing up at parties with random women, jumping on sofas and yelling about his lady love -- he silenced his handlers and simply issued the briefest, classiest statement possible:

The public eye has always been kind to me, and until recently I have been able to live a pretty normal life. Now it seems there is speculation and interest in my private life and relationships.

So, rather than ignore those who choose to publish their opinions without actually talking to me, I am happy to dispel any rumors or misconceptions and am quite proud to say that I am a very content gay man living my life to the fullest and feel most fortunate to be working with wonderful people in the business I love.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it's done. I can only hope the Republican party is paying attention. Bravo, Doog!

Labels: back in the day, evolution, friends, homo-a-go-go, movies, the 80s, tributes, TV

I'm lucky to have a small but diverse fanclub here as we ramble on, so I imagine many of you will have little interest in Philip Olivier. The rest, however, certainly might. Allow me to introduce you to the man who, as I said to Robert today, would be my husband in a perfect world. "No," said Robert, "In a perfect world, he'd be my husband."

While we armwrestle, I'll let the rest of you know that Mr. Olivier is a British soap opera actor, athlete and Doctor Who sidekick -- clearly a concerted plan to make me fall in love in him. Plus, he has the endearing habit of apparently leaving his clothes behind whenever he leaves the house. Last year, he posed for his own beefcake calendar and a gay magazine recently informed him that 70% of the buyers were men. "I've never known why gay men like me so much," he says, "but they've kept me working!"

More importantly, this straight man has hosted Pride parades in the UK and said, "I used to think my gay friends had a choice, but it isn't their choice. When you are gay it affects your whole life."

You see? A concerted plan! Now here he goes, dropping his pants again. Thanks, Phil!

Labels: comic books, Doctor Who, friends, homo-a-go-go, tributes, TV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: friends, introspective, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

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



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



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




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



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

Labels: friends, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

I had lunch with James this morning and we talked about personal issues and our sex lives and who knows what else over bacon and eggs, but he caught me blushing when I told him that I'd edited together a video -- my first YouTube entry (!) and possibly the geekiest video ever.

Back in May, the two biggest pop culture events for me were the near-simultaneous release of the new Pet Shop Boys album "Fundamental" and the "Doctor Who" episodes bringing back the Cybermen (I believe I may have casually mentioned both of them here before). It just so happened that both the idea of the Cybermen and the song "Integral" were inspired by mankind's mad rush for efficiency and order -- parables of dehumanization.

Which is really just a poncy way of saying that the song became fused in my head as a 'Cyberman Anthem' but now, thanks to the wonders of some editing software, I can show you what I mean. It's an evening of my life I won't get back and the nerdiest thing I've ever done but it was made with love -- and I hope the lawyers at Parlophone Records and the BBC will keep that in mind!

Labels: Doctor Who, friends, Pet Shop Boys

In lieu of actual content (I'll fill you in on what's been going on tomorrow), I thought I'd pass along another YouTube gem. James introduced me to 'Kelly,' the 'star' of this 'music' video that's made me abuse the ironic quotes like never before. It's four minutes of your life you'll never get back again (and watch out for naughty language!) yet you may, like me, somehow find yourself humming the tune days later and thinking...'shoes':

Labels: friends