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

I have a really bad food sensitivity to garlic--something which is in nearly everything. Trust me--I feel your pain.

-- Reply posted by  The Guy in DKNY at November 29, 2007

 

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

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

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

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

Managing editor Scott Dagostino changes names to protect the innocent.

[reprinted from issue 333 of fab]

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

Normally, I'm in awe of San Francisco Gate columnist Mark Morford, who twice-weekly dispenses his unique blend of fiery sarcasm and Yoga wisdom, but this man who steadily and sharply rails against the worst excesses of American culture has gone too far this time -- he's picking on Wendy's:

The burger is this: two sickeningly brownish-gray, chemical-blasted 1/4-pound beeflike patties, intersliced with two slabs of neon-orange cheeselike substance, slathered with mayonnaise, all topped with the big kicker: six (yes, six) strips of bacon. Oh my, yes. It's like a giant middle finger to your heart.

This product's name? The "Baconator." You know, like "Terminator," only for, uh, a huge stack of cow/pig meat that celebrates your impending coronary/impotence/cancer with every bite. Genius.

Morford is stunned at the way "this insidious concoction is simply startling in its shameless toxicity" and wonders how people could possibly be stupid enough to eat such garbage.

Let me just wash down this last bite with some Coke and I'll answer that question. It's not stupidity that fools people into eating the Baconator, it's courage. It's the stubborn willfulness of saying, "Hey, I know exactly what a terrible idea this is but I'm gonna go for it anyway!" It's why people smoke or skydive or drive too fast or listen to Meatloaf's Bat Out of Hell II. It's the thrill of knowing you did it and SURVIVED.

Once you've eaten a Baconator, you will actually feel the sensation of your intestines shutting down for two hours but you will also feel the blood rushing through your veins. You'll feel ALIVE.

Labels: America, health, insanity

I think I just threw up in my mouth a little...

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

 

I love the last sentence: You'll feel ALIVE... lol

It's absolutely true that many people are desperately trying to do something extraordinary or revolutionary so they can feel alive, or even prove their very existence in history.

Other than that, it's still just temptation to cross the line, to challenge oneself, to stimulate the senses and to feel satisfied. It's just human nature.

I'll stay away from the scary Baconator but I won't even bother trying to stop people from feasting on it.

Wingo

-- Reply posted by  Anonymous at November 17, 2007

 

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This evening, I discovered my New Favourite Thing Ever!
"You say that every week," says one friend of mine.
He's right.
Fine -- it's This Week's New Favourite Thing Ever:

The Midwest Teen Sex Show

Oh get your minds out of the gutter -- it's a PG-rated video podcast put together by Illinois' own Garth (the director), Britney ("just a smalltown girl, livin' in a lonely"...hey wait, that's Journey) and Nikol, "former expert practitioner of teen promiscuity, [now] a Midwestern mother of three"). They're trying to raise the bar on getting sensible sexual health information to teens while lowering the bar on tasteful sketch comedy. Pure gold!

MY sex education in high school merely consisted of a small, mustached little man hesitantly pointing a stick at an illustrated cutaway of the human torso on an overhead projector while mumbling, then a cheery black woman from the Board of Health who rolled a condom over a banana. That's about it. Thanks to that, I'm in my thirties and still think that doing it up the butt means I'm a virgin.

Yeah, okay, these midwest kids are funnier.
And they're hitting all the right topics, including:
Abstinence
The Older Boyfriend (creepy but necessary)
Birth Control
The First Time
and my obvious personal favourite:
Homosexuality in High School

Labels: America, evolution, health, homo-a-go-go, silliness

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, I think I've nearly kicked that flu (and not a moment too soon)!

I note with much amusement that, a mere day after I posted that video clip of Alec Baldwin on 30 Rock, I received this e-mail from the fine folks at YouTube:

Dear Member:
This is to notify you that we have removed or disabled access to the following material as a result of a third-party notification by NBC Universal...

Apparently, I am stealing the network's property. I suppose it's an honest mistake -- I thought was helping them out by drawing public attention to their charming little TV show, rather than the press they normally get as a massive free-speech-suppressing media subsidiary of a toxic-waste-dumping, weapons manufacturer and arms dealer. My bad.

Fine then, don't watch their crappy show. See if I care.

Labels: health, Orwell says hi, TV

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

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

So yeah, I think the flu shot works.

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

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

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

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



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





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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, okay then.

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

LAND OF A THOUSAND WORDS

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

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

IT CAN'T COME QUICKLY ENOUGH

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I'm just a crazy liberal that way!

Much love,
Darrell

LIGHTS

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

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

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

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

LOVERS IN THE BACKSEAT

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

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

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

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME

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

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

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

KISS YOU OFF

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

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

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

COMFORTABLY NUMB

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

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

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

RETURN TO OZ

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

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

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

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

THE OTHER SIDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

MIGHT TELL YOU TONIGHT

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

EVERYBODY WANTS THE SAME THING

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

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

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

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

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

TAKE YOUR MAMA

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

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

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

FILTHY GORGEOUS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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SMOKING MAD

I've always had great sympathy for smokers. Some may read that as 'pity' and maybe so but I genuinely regret seeing anyone treated as second-class citizens or as cancer-spreading health threats. I've said and still say that people have every right to smoke.

Having said all that, I'm astonished at how smug I now feel over the new smoking ban in bars. I'm thrilled. Working the pub last night was a joy -- my chest didn't tighten, my eyes didn't burn, my clothes didn't smell. I had no idea I was so miserable until my conditions were so suddenly improved. It's fantastic.

Still, I harboured some compassion for the singer in the rock band, for instance, who told me of her fears of playing to smaller crowds. "At the Horseshoe," she said, "everybody's got a cigarette in their hand." And she's right, though I wonder how everyone can frame health debates solely in terms of money. During last summer's SARS drama, no one ever really discussed how to treat the sick or increase prevention but instead focused only on how the disease was hurting the economy.

Still, we all need to make money -- why else would I be working evenings anyway? I was concerned for about a minute -- that's when somebody walked up to the door with a cigarette in his mouth, blew smoke in my face and began a whiny tirade about the forces of fascism that oppress him by insisting that he go outside.

That's when it hit me -- in the three years I've worked at that pub, I've had over a dozen chest colds and/or bronchial infections, each one lasting at least ten days. Ten days of staying up all night coughing up green phlegm, ten days of feeling like I've got a black baseball of filth lodged in my chest, ten days of pain when I speak or breathe in sharply or lie down. Ten days every three months or so and I never complained to smokers about it the way they whined at me last night about this "fascist" ban.

So I'm done. Done with the sympathy. I'm tired of being poisoned, tired of being told that I shouldn't work in a club if I "can't handle" the smoke, as if it's an endurance test. People have every right to smoke. And they can do it outside.

Labels: health

BEST. WEEKEND. EVER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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