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)...


   Saturday, November 24, 2007

   ABYSS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: fab, introspective, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

I vowed to lose hope
To walk steady on clear ice
But I’ve slipped again

Labels: introspective, oh l'amour, writing

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

Figures.

Right when I seem to be hitting some weird low point of neurosis, my inner and outer romantic life dried up to a brittle husk, I find myself talking today to someone I've had a crush on for quite some time. He always flirts with me but then he's the sort who flirts with everyone so I don't take it too seriously.

Today, however, in the middle of our usual banter, I suddenly blurt out, "Hey, do you want to go out for dinner sometime next week?" I'm horrified. Where the hell did that come from? Worse yet, he says yes and sounds thrilled, immediately setting up a time.

So here I am, feeling rather empty with nothing to give, and I've got a dinner date in eight days with someone really delightful.

No pressure!

Labels: homo-a-go-go, introspective, oh l'amour, repair

That deadpan line from a Thrill Kill Kult song always made me laugh but "Sexplosion" is not what you'd call my weekend. It's a Saturday night and I'm staying in. I can't seem to muster up any desire to leave the house. This is not good.

It's strange because I did have a lot of fun last night. I went to Shane Percy's "Grapefruit" anniversary party at fly (80s pop, mixed crowd, zany drag shows -- what is not to love?) with Robert and Darcy. The latter was blue because he'd just broken up with his boyfriend and couldn't figure out why.
"Well, we broke up because you always got possessive and weird," I not-so-helpfully said.
"But I wasn't this time!" he whined, "I was trying a whole different tack!"
All this time and I still wonder: is he ridiculously adorable or adorably ridiculous?

So we danced together all night; me being guarded around him, fearing that we might end up sleeping together if not careful. Sex is the only thing that worked in our relationship (boy howdy) but I like to keep looking forward. Trouble is, I kept looking around the packed room at this wonderful crush of people -- tall, short, young, not-so-young, gorgeous, peculiar, you name it -- and feeling no pull toward any particular person whatsoever. Even the hot boys were just bland eye candy to me. I don't know what's going on.

I was waved over by Andrew, who I had a fling with once. He's brilliant and has that geeky-cute thing I love but way too young for me. Still, we were glad to see each other and I was chatting with Andrew until another young guy wearing similar chunky black glasses came over and stood beside him. I was introduced and said, "How do you know Andrew?" He gave me a bored look and said, "Uh....we're dating." His tone was enough to add the unspoken-but-obvious capper, "...idiot." It's moments like these when I really hate gay men. Does that make me homophobic? And if so, would I then get laid a lot more often? The answer to both questions is yes.

Later on, a really cute guy in jeans and a black T-shirt approached me and we danced for a bit. He said he liked my tattoo and he smelled really good. But I felt nothing. I couldn't think of anything to say that would intrigue him and didn't really want to anyway. A few years (hell, a few months) ago, I would have run off with him right then but last night? Nothing. Darcy walked me home, said he didn't want to come up and I was relieved.

I'm confused because my sex drive has vanished. It's not like I was ever a Love Machine exactly but I was happy with my Goldilocks status -- more slutty than a schoolmarm, more chaste than a porn star. Now, however, even the few times I have had sex in the last few months have been rather lacking on my part. Celibacy is fine, sometimes even restful, but having sex and being bad at it is an awful feeling. Not that I should ever admit that here on a blog. It's like the worst personal ad ever:

Clean-cut Irish guy seeks similar for feelings of apathy and occasional impotence. Likes thai food and long walks on the beach.

But so it goes. Was it the Baconator? At my nadir of paranoia, I start to fear I'm already turning into one of those fusty blank-faced old men you see walking their dogs at night. I've got the dog and yeah, I'm fusty but c'mon, I'm not even forty!

In rolling all this around in my head, I wrote a piece for the magazine about a couple of my dating travails this year (I'll post it later this week). I wrote it in hopes that people might look at their own search for love and think about what it is they want from it. Learn from my mistakes and all that. This here, however, is just me feeling confessional. It happens from time to time. I'm Catholic.

I'm a somewhat rare Catholic, however, in that I somehow grew up without much shame around sex. Whatever's going on with me right now is, at least, not rooted in that. At least I hope not. I've witnessed many an act of depravity (and occasionally joined in) without any judgments but I do admit I was rattled by a recent piece by Warren Ellis called "America Broke Sex" (rather horrifying and obviously NSFW so click if you dare):

This is how you know you're living in the future: when the pornography bears no earthly resemblance to sex as even the filthiest of us know it. You may as well be renting DVDs of aliens fucking. And America, as Martin Amis once said, is where they road-test the future.

Warren's piece makes me nervous because he's describing a world where the need for sensation (the type I'm desperately feeling right now) has escalated to the point of monstrousness. Clive Barker saw that coming -- it's what drives Hellraiser -- and, as a fellow Catholic, he always joked that he saw sex as horrific as well as sacred.

Excitement lies in the tension between both states. But what if you feel neither? Where's the enthusiasm gone? I don't know what I want anymore, except at least that I know I don't want any donkey punching.

Labels: homo-a-go-go, introspective, repair, writing

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

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

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

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

So much for my modeling career!

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

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

I blame Darrell.

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

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

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

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

After all, it works for Darrell.

Labels: fab, friends, introspective, media, writing

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

At the risk of sounding like an incredibly lazy man, I love my sofa. It's a happy place, home to some of my favourite activities. Number one, of course, the occasional make-out session with a Gentleman Caller; number two, lovely evenings chatting with friends over tea; and number three, watching a movie with my little dog curled up beside me. These things are bliss.

On an evening a few months ago, I took a night off, flopped down on the sofa and put on a movie. At one point, there was a scene with a dog crying in distress and Tegan suddenly sat up in alarm, staring wide-eyed at the screen with her head cocked to one side, and she started to quiver. I'd never stopped to consider what effect the TV had on a dog before. I found Tegan's reactions fascinating and a bit sad as I rushed to grab the remote.

Thinking of that moment in what was an otherwise delightful evening, I am very grateful that Tegan has been asleep on my bed for the last couple hours. There's a video clip exploding around the 'net right now, a video of US soldiers in Iraq abusing a maimed dog. I watched it and immediately wished I hadn't. There's a reason the phrase 'curiosity killed the cat' was coined. At the moment, it seems especially ironic. I won't link to the clip but if you should stumble upon it, keep surfing. Please don't stop and watch the dog & soldiers video. You just don't need that in your head, trust me.

Now, of course, part of the presumed appeal of this video is that it shows American soldiers at their most cynical and cruel. "You see?" people will say, "Look how horrible the Americans are!" but as a devout bleeding-heart liberal, I think that's crap. For one thing, nothing could ever be worse than the Iraqi's hostage-beheading footage (still haven't seen any, knock wood) and, even as a dog lover, I find it again fascinating and sad that people are getting so worked up over a animal while many still shrug at the supposed inevitability of a fiasco that has cost the lives of tens of thousands of Iraqis and, yes, American soldiers.

I have great sympathy for what the troops are enduring, trying to beat the odds so heavily stacked against them from the start, and I can certainly understand the desire to take out their frustrations on some lesser creature. But as Mark Twain said, "Heaven goes by favour. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in." I'm not giving these soldiers a pass -- they disgust me -- but I will keep my blame squarely where it belongs: the war cheerleaders who put these men there through jingoism and lies, the kind of people Molly Ivins worked to stop, as it happens.

I've been thinking about Molly a lot this week as that "scorching case of cancer" finally took her from us. She was the kind of person who could probably watch that dog video and know exactly what to say -- something smart, angry, funny and compassionate, all at once. Tomorrow: some of my favourite Molly!

Labels: introspective, Middle East, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist, tributes, war - what is it good for?

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

I admit it -- I have a sick fascination with bigots. Most sane people just avoid them, for fear of being tainted, but I have this perverse desire to try and understand where that all that hatred and fear comes from. Most times, however, I just end up hating and fearing them. Is that a cycle? Am I a hater if I hate the hater?

I ask because liberal radio host Stephanie Miller received a letter from "Sock," a faithful Fox News viewer after she did a guest-spot. She apparently said something to tick him off, as the death-threat letter he sent her is full of words you certainly won't hear on TV (even Fox) and, oddly, his home phone number.

So she called him -- and I still can't decide if the conversation is horrifying or hilarious. Is it wrong to call up and harass a pathetic, bigoted old man because he mailed you a death threat? Or is it justice?

Labels: insanity, introspective, media

Since discovering the joys of YouTube, I've edited together a Doctor Who Pet Shop Boys video and slapped up a Daily Show clip of Jason Jones. Playing around with other people's videos just left me wanting to make my own, however, so I decided to bring along the camera on my last day working for the architects. Thursday, September 22 also happened to be the last day of summer, giving the whole thing a bittersweet quality, so I decided to jazz it up a little with some Shirley Bassey. Oh, enough explaining -- just watch!

Labels: introspective, MeTube, music, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist, working girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

Labels: family, introspective

I'm a lousy networker. I enjoy meeting new people but the second I suspect there might be something to gain by talking to them, I find myself shutting down in fear of being an opportunist. I back away whenever there's the feeling that I (or the other person) am 'after something' (much like picking people up in bars -- it's really only worked for me when the attraction is blindingly mutual).

This is obviously a problem I need to work on. The majority of meetings in this city have some business or sexual subtext to them, it seems, and few of them occur on a perfectly level playing field. Get over it, I say to myself.

With that in mind, I went to the fourth birthday party for Rabble.ca, a left-wing Canadian "newsmagazine for the rest of us." I'd hoped to meet like-minded newsy people but, as it's been a while, I forgot how cliquey like-minded newsy people can be. Everyone in the room seemed smart and friendly but were joined in impenetrable groups of three or four. I've had an easier time meeting people in gay bars, I thought, and cursed myself for not begging a friend to come with me.

That said, I had a great time with the performers Rabble lined up, especially spoken-word artist Motion (I was surprised at how much I enjoyed her coffee-house rhythms). Even better was award-winning poet Dionne Brand reading this terrific excerpt from her new book, "What We All Long For" -- a celebration of Toronto. That's right, I just used "celebration" and "Toronto" in the same sentence (you'll just have to deal).

Later in the evening, I went up and said hello and told her of the conversation I'd had earlier that day with a pair of co-workers who were complaining about the city. They're finding the people chilly and inaccessible. I told them how Robertson Davies once quipped that Toronto is like "a rich fat girl" who doesn't know how to be pretty. They laughed and I said that I planned to stay here and care for her "until she loves me back." The one girl looked at me as if I had three noses and said, "Well good luck with that."

Ms. Brand laughed and told me to keep at it. I thought of Victor Laszlo in "Casablanca": "Welcome back to the fight, this time I know our side will win."

Labels: Canada, introspective, Trawna

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

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

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

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

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

Working for a computer animation studio these last couple months has been a great experience (though I'm unable to discuss any of it -- curse that confidentiality agreement!) and it's certainly given me an appreciation for the efforts of the animators and the art of CGI in general.

With that in mind, my friend Jeff and I went to see "The Polar Express" last night and not just the regular version in theatres now but the Imax 3-D edition down at the Paramount. We were enthralled right from the start and the entrance of the train itself is both spectacular and haunting. Much has been written about the film's new "performance capture" technology that creates a sort-of middle-ground between computer animation and real footage of actors. The human characters in the film are the most life-like to date, the rest of the animation is at times breathtakingly beautiful and the Imax 3-D creates a near-unbelievable level of depth for a thrilling experience.

So why did I hate this film with the fury of a thousand white-hot suns?

I loathed this movie. I couldn't wait for it to end. I felt claustrophobic in the giant Imax theatre and all but fled at the first end credit. Once safely outside, Jeff and I laughed out loud at how incredibly appalled I was at this movie. It's bizarre how I just can't stress enough how much I hated "The Polar Express."

I don't think I've ever seen a film so utterly lacking in soul. It's not just that the almost-but-not-quite human characters look stiff and a bit creepy (especially in the eyes) but that the movie takes what is apparently a charming little storybook (I'll have to check it out now) and pads, pads, pads it to 90 minutes with one formulaic "thrill-ride" sequence after another. The first 'train-as-rollercoaster' sequence is a genuine thrill but the fourth is just tedious.

Then, amazingly, they finally reach the North Pole and the movie gets worse -- every Christmas cliché grimly trotted out with no warmth or joy. Then there's the overbearing soundtrack that rips off Danny Elfman's "Edward Scissorhands" score (he should sue!) and cranks it up to 11 to make us 'feel the magic' at all the right moments -- absolutely dreadful. Worst of all was the heavy thump of the film's moral -- that the smart, investigative kid who Doubts is saved from "Losing the Magic" of Santa Claus by being ordered to Believe (and yes, you can hear every capital letter). I like smart kids who doubt and ask questions and I hate seeing that quality squeezed out of them by syrup like this.

As an adult watching movies aimed at kids, one normally has one of two reactions. One film will recapture a bit of your childhood, making you feel like ten years old again (I think of "Pirates of the Caribbean" or "Pee Wee's Big Adventure"); another film will grimly remind you that you're not ten year old and never will be again (sigh -- "Star Wars: Episode I"). Judging from the manipulative treacle on display here, I am very thankful for that.

I hated having to keep asking myself, "Am I just a old grouch?" but no, dammit, I'm not. Last year, I was shocked to find myself getting teary during parts of "Finding Nemo" (tell no one) -- a film with genuine wit and warmth, a story of faith and family, and a theme that resonates without giving us a moral bludgeoning. Even the "Shrek" films have moments of real sweetness.

"The Polar Express" is the kind of movie that makes you want to tell a total stranger to run and see it for its incredible visuals, while you tell another stranger to avoid it at all costs for its dispiriting absence of humanity.

Labels: friends, holidays, introspective, movies, technology

LEFT AT THE ALTAR

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A FORTNIGHT MAKES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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