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, May 11, 2009

   SAD BUT TRUE

Yes, with my tenure at the Xtra blog nearing its one-year anniversary, it's been a while since I wrote anything here on my own site but, in truth, life's okay these days -- I've little to process, ha ha.

But as Darcy and I begin dating in earnest yet again (third time's the charm!), my surprise and delight at it all is tempered just a little by the nagging, niggling worry that we're just each other's enabler. Drinking? No, worse!

Tonight was a case in point, with quotes as true as I can recall:

ACT ONE: The telephone

DARCY (on phone): Hey, I'm heading downtown. Have you eaten yet?
ME: No, I'm fighting this insane urge to walk down to the Burger King at the Eaton Centre.
DARCY (excitedly): To get the new Star Trek glasses???
SCOTT: Oh God. You're not going to talk me out of this.
DARCY: Why would I? Let's go!

ACT TWO: Crossing Yonge and Dundas

DARCY: They said you could pay $7.50 for all four glasses instead of $1.99 each but no store has all four. How can they advertise that?
SCOTT: Well, they want people to keep coming in and eating their crappy food every week.
DARCY: I don't like it.
SCOTT: We'll make them give us all four! I'll tell 'em it's a violation of Starfleet regulation 4702 dash 6-4-J stroke alpha...umm...subsection 12. Why, even an Orion slave trader would have...umm...better...
[DARCY looks on in open-mouthed horror]
SCOTT: Yeah, that's all I've got. Where's Dan Ackroyd when you need him?
DARCY: Well, you're doing the talking when we get there.

ACT THREE: At the counter

MANAGER (befuddled): All four? No, I'm sorry -- we only have these two.
SCOTT: Kirk and Uhura.
DARCY (opening backpack to reveal two "Nero" glasses): And these! I bought them up at Yonge and Eglinton!
SCOTT: Amazing -- that just leaves Spock.
DARCY: So it's The Search for Spock!
SCOTT (laughing): Yes, the Search for Spock!

ACT FOUR: At the plastic dinner table

SCOTT: I can't believe we travelled out of our way to have dinner at a Burger King. Still, these really are pretty -- hey, wait a minute...Uhura's glass has the USS Kelvin on the box.
DARCY: So?
SCOTT: Well, each character is paired up with their own ship, see? But Uhura never served on the Kelvin. She probably wasn't even born when it...oh God.
DARCY: What?
SCOTT: I'm Captain Sweatpants.

Labels: insanity, movies, oh l'amour

i love this blog. it's a good kind of enabling :)

-- Reply posted by  danielle at May 12, 2009

 

This is where I can say, "I'm so happy/concerned for you!"

-- Reply posted by  Whisky Prajer at May 13, 2009

 

Post a Comment

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

His heart, crushed again.
He dips his fingers in pulp.
And paints, like a child.

Labels: oh l'amour, repair, writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SO. You got to interview THEM, did you?

Bastard.

(Hee!)

Tr.

-- Reply posted by  Trev at June 27, 2006

 

Post a Comment

No, it's not another 1970's Irwin Allen disaster flick. There's no Steve McQueen or Paul Newman around to rescue me and this week has been one of those rare times when I wish Charleton Heston would show up, waving a gun around. Instead, I'm recovering in the aftermath of my first big project in my new 'adult job' -- the graphic design and editing of a Proposal for consulting services for a hospital in Tillsonburg, ON. I finished printing the 50-page books last night around 9:30 and the courier took all the copies away with him this morning to meet the 2 pm deadline.

If three days of non-stop pressure, computer glitches, late-night headaches and deadlines dropping like dominoes constitute an 'adult job' then get me back to the record store! Sure, as a writer, I've faced all the above (and, as a retail clerk, personal abuse besides) but never before have I worked with hundreds of thousands of dollars at stake. It's a very creepy feeling -- my first taste of why too many Bay Street types seem so soulless. Obviously, the real victors in the business world are the ones who can endure to the finish line without losing their humanity during the struggle. It's the difference between Steve Jobs and Bill Gates (and who do you think is winning?)

Stupidly, I spent my weekend reviewing the software, cleaning house and working at the bookstore. The lack of rest has left me feeling a bit dead inside today but a morning of gentle praise from everyone concerned with the Proposal is keeping me afloat. They all freely acknowledge that I was thrown into the fire on this one but came through it barely singed. It's nice of them to say, especially for the first time out.

Sadly, the real victim here is Darcy, who was forced to babysit my dog last night. I arrived at his place from work at 11 pm(!!) and was greeted with a sour expression. "Oh no," I said, "where'd she poop?" "She didn't," he said, "She was just Puppy of Destruction!" Sigh. We were already disappointed that I wasn't able to come for dinner and watch "Lost" (it's our Wednesday 'thing') and 'the Little Miss' didn't help. Between this and her crapping all through Janet's house a couple Sundays ago, I'm running out of babysitters!

Uh-oh -- it's true: office stress, Proposal meetings, babysitters...I'm an adult!

Labels: oh l'amour

Yes, like that insufferable relative with the wallet full of baby photos, here I am with pictures of Tegan! James took photos of the little creature Darcy calls "Poo Eater" (with good reason -- shudder). Appalled, I just sing it to the jazzy tune of Outkast's "Love Hater" ("Poo Eater...Poo Eater...Eater of Poo!") and shake my head. She's growing out of it, thankfully, but overall she's still a complete trial.

She monopolizes my attention, shits on my floor, eats my houseplants, keeps me from staying out late and has generally ruined my life. But look at that face -- I'm powerless before the little pooper!

Labels: friends, oh l'amour, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

Hello and Happy New Year!

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

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

Excuse number one:
NEW ADVENTURES IN POOP

This is the big one.

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

True to form, I rode down to the pound with a determination to refuse. I don't make a lot of money. I'm not home many nights. How can I care for a dog when everything's so chaotic in my life right now? I had over a dozen concrete reasons why I should not take this puppy and every one of them evaporated like mist when I looked into her tiny brown eyes. She scrambled into my arms, licked my face with mad zeal, then leaned back against my chest and calmly looked around the room at everyone else. She was home and I knew then I'd never let go of her.

So began an absolutely insane month of sleepness nights, ridiculous spending and a complete change in lifestyle. For one thing, I have been brutally, unwillingly transformed into a Morning Person -- standing on the front lawn at seven in the morning, waiting for the puppy to pee.

I let her sleep in my bed at first, though she yelped and squealed in her sleep as if suffering from puppy nightmares. I did everything I could to ease her separation anxiety while busily acclimatizing her to other people, dogs, children, cars -- anything to build her confidence (though now I worry that I've done my job too well!). The previous owner had named the dog 'Asia' which suggested either an eastern land mass or a pole-dancing porn star. I decided on 'Tegan', an old Celtic name I liked and (yes I admit it) the name of a 'Doctor Who' character -- a bossy Australian woman who famously described herself as "a mouth on legs!" Seemed appropriate.

There's a new book called "Marley and Me" that's on the NYT bestsellers list. The author spent 13 years with "the worst dog ever" and his story is apparently hilarious. I believe I may one day write the sequel. As a terrier, Tegan is a willful little creature, constantly testing the limits of my authority. She tugs on the leash, jumps up on the off-limits furniture and only obeys commands the second or third time I say them. It's a constant struggle for me to stay firm with her, since she knows she's almost cute enough to get away with it!

The worst moment occurred right after her first obediance class. She was stubborn but smart enough to grasp the introductory commands and she behaved beautifully on the walk home. She trotted along beside me and stopped and sat at each crosswalk. I beamed with pride as we got home and I removed her leash. I hung my coat on the stand and turned around to see Tegan standing on the armrest of the sofa (where she's not allowed to go), her head up proud and happy as she hosed my sofa with pee.

I think I've only felt that kind of angry despair twice before in my life: when my house was robbed in 1990 and when George W. Bush was re-elected in 2004. It's a kind of blinding white light, a cold heat that tears through you. It was all I could do to keep from snapping her neck like a twig. Instead, I screamed, mashed her face into the puddle, snapped the leash on her and whisked her out onto the front lawn, where she calmly resumed the last of her emptying. She then got lavish praise and a cookie, even though I wanted her dead.

Even the standard housebreaking has been a painfully slow and irritating process. Nothing is more aggravating than someone breaking my 'don't crap in my living room' rule (guests, be told!) and she's done it often and enthusiastically. I'm SO glad I don't have carpeting. Adjusting to the 'poop and scoop' routine was difficult -- nothing in life can quite prepare one for the ghastly sight of poop steaming in the winter air (steaming!). Even that nightmare was quickly eclipsed by a treat experiment with peanut butter that led to two days of diarrea, a horror I shall not describe now or ever. Yes, I've been in the trenches...and they're filled with poop.

Fortunately, it hasn't all been urine and death wishes. Despite it all, I love the dog completely and totally. She's a fantastic little thing -- happy, friendly with strangers, relatively quiet, whip-smart and always ready to play. Just watching her curled up on her chair, gnawing on a chew toy, makes me smile. It's a paradox but once I understood that I have to be totally firm with her at all times (alpha-dog!), we've had a more relaxed and harmonious relationship.

Now if only I could still bring the dog to work (more on that coming up). I hate leaving her in a crate all day but she's adjusted well by becoming nocturnal(!) -- once we spent lazy evenings on the sofa with a book or movie, now I get home after a long day and she's there with tug rope in mouth, jumping up and down, silently squealing, "Let's PLAAAAAY!!! For nine hours!!" My every last nerve is worked but I still wouldn't want it any other way.

Excuse number two:
MAD ABOUT THE BOY

They say third time's the charm, right? That's why Darcy and I are back together.

Again.

I love him. He loves me. We're utterly wrong for one another. Sigh.

James once suggested that some part of me must love "the drama" of it all. Oh no. Build-ups of unnecessary drama are what's kept us apart on a semi-regular basis. Ultimately, though, he makes me happy more often than not and most of our time apart after breaking up has been spent pining for one another. Life's too short for that so I'm willing to hang on and see what happens. At the end of the day, he makes me laugh and I like that a lot.

One thing I have learned is that the longer I spend with him, the more I see that his issues that have often upset me to the point of walking out are usually just
a) unfortunate echoes from his past that I can understand once we talk about it
b) misunderstandings due to our very different operating styles
c) random bits of idiocy that I can freely ignore
And if Darcy had a blog, I'm sure he'd be writing the same thing (only with less 'Doctor Who' and more NASCAR).

He's moped in the past that I never write about him on this blog (apparently not realizing that I've been protecting him from myself!) and seems dismayed that he's not the most important thing in my life. I don't know what to say about that. How do you juggle your many interests and obligations to career, friends, family while simultaneously letting your loved ones know how very much smaller and emptier your life would be without them? Maybe that's why Valentine's Day was created -- one day to stop and say all that out loud. I like to think I've never been shy with my affections to Darcy but sometimes it's as though he just doesn't believe me. And I can't tell if that's a), b) or c).

Excuse number three:
POUNDING THE PAVEMENT

Working at CORE Feature Animation was the best job I ever had. Not answering the phones and whatnot -- that was crap -- but the environment, the people, the puppies roaming free, the whole 'let's put on a show' making-a-movie vibe, it was all fantastic. A Disney-lawyer-approved confidentiality agreement kept me from discussing most of it but now I can freely plug away: Walt Disney's The Wild is the first feature-length animated movie made entirely in Canada and, though the plot was handily ripped off for Dreamworks' "Madagascar" last year, CORE's work looks a thousand times better. Though the movie is aimed squarely at kids and lacks the emotional resonance of the superior Pixar films, there are shots in this movie that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and an occasional line that made me laugh out loud. It opens April 14th and everyone should take their favourite kids to see it.

There. Now I can bitch. Disney worked with CORE because Michael Eisner -- who was to Disney what George W. Bush is to America -- totally alienated the creative talent at Pixar. Disney needed new engines for its machine -- hence CORE -- but their board of directors finally got wise and voted Eisner out, leaving the new CEO free to renegotiate with Pixar and woo them back.

What does all that have to do with me? I means that CORE Feature Animation then had no new features to animate and, with virtually everyone's contract up, we were all sadly shown the door. It was especially difficult after the New Year, as groups of people left on a weekly basis and I slowly became part of a skeleton crew. The part that really chafed was that I had only just started to work on press releases, a company overview and actual PR writing but, as I've endured from previous jobs (I'm looking at you, Britnell family!), the rug was pulled out from under me right when I thought I was getting somewhere.

As always though, I bounced back fairly quickly. The only perk of being near the bottom in the Grand Scheme of Things is that you don't have far to fall (some people I worked with had to give up their condos and whatnot -- ouch). After more fruitless searching than I'd have liked, my friend Trevor recommended me for a receptionist gig at an architecture firm and, after four(!!) interviews, I was hired -- same kind of job, same Spadina neighbourhood, slightly better pay.

It's been a stressful transition. Coming off of the rough-and-tumble pace of a film studio, the calm, polite, professional environment of a small architecture film has been...well...eerie. Stan, my old boss at the record store, chimed in with one of his usually-brilliant analogies: "You're like one of those kids who's been raised by wolves and now you've been cleaned up, set at the dinner table and you don't know which fork to use. You'll be fine!" Thanks, Stan! (I think)

Excuse number four:
MISCELLANEOUS THINGS -- LITERALLY

So aside from the dog, the boyfriend, the new job, what could be keeping me away from my blog writing? Writing where I get paid. After a few years away, I'm back in the warm busom of fab magazine after the new editor called me out of the blue and asked if I could be persuaded to take on the dreaded "Misc. Things" column.

Every two weeks, fab reaches into its box of odd products sent to us by corporations hungry for press and we find a gay community personality to try it out. The nice thing about it (aside from the adorable little paycheck) is that I don't have to plug anything that's crap -- if the product sucks, we say so -- and that I get to interview interesting, offbeat people. In the last three months, the column has featured
-- a martini lounge bartender testing a 'smoothie' blender
-- an Ontario tourism lobbyist testing an online spa booking service
-- a 'sexological bodyworker' testing an oil-based lubricant
-- "Enza Supermodel" testing a fabric refresher
-- a pair of drag kings testing Nivea Aftershave Balm for Men
-- a sleep-deprived writer/actor testing an ergonomic pillow

It's been mostly fun and has happily allowed me to build up the kind of writer-editor relationship I've longed for. Steven trusts my ideas, throws new ones back at me, tells me when my work is junk and praises me when it's clicking. It's a terrific back-and-forth thing we've got going and it's leading to bigger, non-product-shilling pieces (like the Catholic priest one -- more on that later). fab is often dismissed as a pointless little gay rag but it's MY pointless little gay rag, dammit! Let's see what this baby can do...

Excuse number zero:
KEEPING UP WITH THE JAMESES

And there you have it -- over 2000 words that I could've typed in four: I'm a lazy ass. But really, I've only written about 700 words for each month which is nothing, right? Now that I'm in back in a groove, I've got to get back at this -- not only have I lost my two fans but Darrell has nearly given up on me, Josh is concerned that I let the death of Don Knotts pass without comment (Janet had dinner with him a few years ago and says he was one of the sweetest people she'd met) and James simply went off and started his own blog! Dainty Bastard looks great and thrillingly captures my friend's wild, brilliant and slightly terrifying personality. He's raised the bar (Dainty Bastard, indeed!) so it looks like I'm back on the job!

Labels: Canada, Doctor Who, fab, friends, George W Bush, oh l'amour, Tegan the Jack Russell Terrorist

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

Why am I still single? Well, Noel Cowan is already taken, for one. He's the co-director of the Toronto International Film Festival and former programmer of the 'Midnight Madness' portion of the fest. He counts 'The Towering Inferno' as one of his all-time favourites

According to the bio in today's Star, he and his partner Nathan have bought a house in Cabbagetown and look forward to renovating and spending time with their dog.

I hate them.

Labels: oh l'amour, Trawna

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

PACKED!
a day of greed, helicopters, revenge and karaoke

People I see occasionally (that being most of my friends...oy) will ask, "So what have you been up to lately?" and I'm forced to admit that the answer is work, work, work, and little of it rewarding in any spiritual, practical or financial sense. Actually, I usually just say, "Oh not much."

Today, however, I could change all that, as I packed a week or two worth of events into one evening. To start with, I had to leave work early at 3 pm so I could take the street car down to the Bathurst ferry docks. Universal Home Video had decided to hold its fourth-quarter product announcement party (translation: telling us what to flog at Christmastime) at the Island airport and, with my boss and DVD buyer Stan on vacation, he'd asked me to attend in his place.

After a ridiculously short ferry ride (the 'fixed-link' controversy is being held over this?), I arrived at the ridiculously tiny airport and was greeted by people in army camouflage pants and black T-shirts reading "TEU". Under the Universal/Alliance Atlantis logos on the back was their full designation, "Tactical Entertainment Unit." Uh-oh.

Surrounded by young media people aiming at glamour, I was led into a fenced-in area and offered drinks until the helicopers arrived. Seriously. Against the beautiful west-side view of the Toronto skyline, four helicopters came roaring in towards us and I hoped I wouldn't hear "Ride of the Valkyries" as they did. The wind whipped at us as the copters landed and smoke bombs and tiny explosions marked the entrance of two men in suits being rushed towards our gates by a group of TEU officers with rifles, presumably protecting them from those Warner Brothers bastards.

The two men gave a short welcome speech and then led the way into a large aircraft hanger filled with round dinner tables. A stage was set up in the corner with a podium and a projection screen, flanked by regular television sets. At the other end was a line-up of heated buffet trays with a group of waiters behind them and, above us, hung an array of movie posters for current and upcoming releases.

This was all very impressive. Then the guy in charge delivered the opening news that Vivendi Universal's merger with arms-dealing General Electric has gone through, forming NBC Universal (owners of Telemundo!). This new merger, he explained, will allow for an exciting new era in television-on-DVD programming, beginning with...(was that a drum roll?)..."The Apprentice" on August 24th, that irritating reality show that inflicted Donald Trump on us yet again. Among the DVD's many attributes, I was told, will be its "breakthrough packaging" design -- a sound chip that says -- he stopped and pointed at the crowd who yelled happily -- "You're fired!" I began to feel somewhat deflated.

The next 45-minutes consisted of movie trailers, PowerPoint marketing plans and terrible military-themed puns from the guy in charge. Most alarming was the wild applause in response to the news that "Shrek 2" has grossed up to $350 million dollars and that such successes for the company will lead to "what we all want more of...CASH!"

Wow, I thought, they're not even pretending to care about art anymore. I mean, no amount of clever marketing campaigns will excuse "Van Helsing" from being a godawful movie. And, while I welcomed the confirmation of a December 14th release of the fancy 4-disc version of Best Picture "Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King", the goodwill was drowned out by gushing tributes to the huge sales potential of movies like "The Terminal," "The Chronicles of Riddick" and "Thunderbirds" -- none of which have opened in theatres yet. I guess I'm just a crank to think that people should like the films before owning them.

I consoled myself by sitting with a lovely group of women from the Universal marketing team and we all enjoyed the truly amazing food from a catering outfit called "On the Move". As we all talked shop, one of the ladies admitted that they too hated the bilingual packaging of their products but insisted that it was necessary without knowing exactly why. I offered my theory of "DVD-customer-as-book-customer" (the parallels are scary!) and they were genuinely interested, which was nice.

By dessert, it was 6:30 pm and just about time for a helicopter ride. As corporate bribes go, this was pretty damn cool. I got to sit in the front seat beside the pilot, with the clear plastic under my feet, as we lifted up and headed past the CN Tower. The view was fantastic, even through yesterday's awful smog, and I asked the pilot if he still enjoyed it. "Every time," he said with a grin, "it's awesome!" As we circled back around Rosedale towards Jarvis and Bloor, I pointed and said, "I can legitimately say I can see my house from here!" The pilot shook his head. The flight back in just over the water was a bit tense (what if we crash?) but we landed gently about ten minutes after we'd left.

One of our own head office people (part of a table I'd quietly avoided) came up to ask me how the trip was and I gushed a little before moving into the requisite small talk. I took a deeper breath and said, "So...is this sort of winding down, then?" and he said, "Pretty much" -- my cue to flee!

My haste, you see, was encouraged by an offer from the very-cute Felipe, an acquaintance of mine who'd dropped by the store earlier that day to ask if I'd take his extra ticket to see British singer/songwriter Dido at the Hummingbird Centre. I called Filipe at quarter after seven to ask if he'd found someone else but no, so I met up with him at the door. He waved off any attempt on my part to pay for even some of the ticket price so I insisted on at least buying him a drink. He graciously accepted a vodka cooler and the Hummingbird's bars feature champagne by the glass so who could pass that up?

I thanked Filipe one more time as we walked through the marble lobby and he said, "Well, it's no big deal..." "Oh, I don't know," I said, "I'm strolling through a concert hall on a summer evening with a glass of champagne and a handsome man at my side -- this is about as good as it gets." He actually blushed at such smarm -- how cute is that?

The concert itself was great -- Dido on CD is mellow and vaguely electronic but the live show was surprisingly energetic, the lighting was fantastic and the girl herself was very funny. She introduced "See you when you're 40" as a song about a particular person which "you should never do as a songwriter -- it's such an abuse of power," she said before shrugging and telling us how she did it anyway. When the song ended, she warned the audience that, see, if anyone upsets Dido, she'll "write a really mellow song about you. That's about as angry as I get."

The concert wrapped up about quarter to eleven, just in time to join the entire record store gang at the Horseshoe Tavern on Queen, where our Tony was playing with his band, Fight Like Gentlemen. Filipe wanted to see Ruby but decided to head home. I tried to talk him out of it but, after an evening in his debt, felt I was in no position to badger.

In the space of a few hours, I'd gone from a glass of wine at the industry party to a glass of champagne at the concert hall to a bottle of Amsterdam Brown at the rock joint. I was pleased at how everything had worked out, even though the others were more drunk. Tony's band played a short set and were thankfully very fun and very loud, with a bit of a 60's power-pop thing going on.

Our lovely blonde Penny was rightly convinced that the Horseshoe bouncer wanted to remove her for being too drunk so we decided to move the party over to Milwaukee's where the gang goes every Tuesday night for "Extreme Karaoke." I never get to join them since I almost always work the door at my pub every Tuesday so I was happy to head over.

By now, it was about 12:30 am and the karaoke guy seemed a bit put-off by our gang pouring in. "Where were you guys at 11?" he grumped. Our security guard 'limeys' Dean and Brooke sang "A Day in the Life" together (Dean, I'm told, only sings Beatles songs) and I got to holler through Chris Isaak's "Baby Did A Bad, Bad Thing" in honour of our archeology student Sarah, leaving us last night for a summer placement on a dig in Egypt. Again, how cool is that?

I danced with Penny during one song, which greatly amused Alex and AJ, as she was very drunk by now and grinding all over me. I grinded back, pretending to be some hipster bisexual, but (sigh) such is not to be. The poor girl got no reaction from me and, hey, I was trying. By this point, it was clearly time to go so I dumped myself into a cab and rode home, wishing that Filipe wanted me as a boyfriend or that I wanted Penny as a girlfriend or that I simply get more days like this one.

Labels: friends, movies, music, oh l'amour, travel, Trawna, working girl

BOOTY CALL

To those of who who haven't been able to ask in person (as others have), "So what happened to that guy you were seeing?", I can let you know that he called me last Friday. Feeling the beginnings of a cold, I'd decided to spend a night in and was completely surprised to hear from him. Keith asked if I wanted to go out for a drink. I told him I wasn't feeling up to it -- the truth -- and he said that he hadn't really seen me since that night he brought over some food. "Yes," I said evenly, "that was three weeks ago."

He again suggested that I should come and have a drink, adding that he'd already been out with some work colleagues. He then told me he'd be "real easy to take advantage of." At that moment, after weeks of neglect from this guy, there just wasn't an 'ew' big enough, so I suggested he call "some other time and we'll do a raincheck." My friends think that was too wishy-washy but he's a friend of Danielle's and not a bad guy, really, so I was feeling political.

Irritated beyond belief but still political.

Labels: oh l'amour

EASING UP

Whew, glad that's over with. I hate these emotionally-fragile spells.

Keith is apparently gone and increasingly forgotten, and I made up with Ruby last evening, so things feel back to normal. Everything I whined about on Monday still applies, of course, but I'm trying not to be so hard on myself. I remember the mantra that if you can't be compassionate towards yourself, you can't have any compassion for anyone else.

But still none for the freaks upstairs -- they were playing "Truly Madly Deeply" by Savage Garden very loudly at 4 am the other morning, and that song is eternally unforgiveable.

Labels: oh l'amour

SPIRAL!

Is there a chapter for Mopers Anonymous? Where people could get up and say, "Hi, my name is Scott and I am a moper"? Where others with the same affliction could nod in sympathy? (Nodding sadly, of course.) No, I don't think there is -- only Paxil or some other garbage.

My landlady -- the delightful Ruby -- let me know today that I've apparently not said one positive thing about the building since I've moved in. This is probably true. I told her that I was very happy with the new place and that my attitude is just coloured by the noisy idiots upstairs keeping me up all the time. I didn't realize how personally devoted Ruby is to her building and I'm blue over offending her.

But how to fix it? That is, after all, where most of this comes from. If I seem negative or irritable or whiny or any other label I've been tagged with in recent months, it's because I'm a problem-solver by nature. I'm trying to fix what's wrong -- focusing on negatives all the time is an unfortunate side-effect. What's really grating at me these days is the feeling of being entirely unable to fix anything or, in this case, actually making things worse. It's depressing.

I'm not scoring many victories lately, that's for sure. After a solid start with Keith, things took a nosedive when he just stopped calling for a week. I couldn't leave any messages on his cellphone and wondered what had gone wrong. We finally talked last weekend and it turned out that a) he lost his phone for a couple days, b) he was terribly busy with work and c) isn't "very good with multi-tasking". In my head, I understand all of this but, even now, I'm still irritated at feeling like a "task" on some to-do list. If you don't want to call me, then please don't. It's better for everyone. I tried to shrug it off and chase him down later that week, only to have him finally respond on my machine with, "Wow! Holy message assault!" Assault? Sorry, you have to me feel like I'm neglecting you OR stalking you -- not both.

When I feel low like this, however, it begs the obvious question of who would want to call me? I can't abide feeling this kind of self-pity when there's so little warrant for it. I'm a smart, capable, healthy, thirty-something man -- there's no reason for me to be or feel this useless. Maybe I need to get back into volunteering -- working with people with actual problems, rather than self-created ones, might be what I need. Anything to shake this horrible feeling that I radiate sadness. Hell, even by typing all this, I'm throwing out my woes on you, my dear reader, and that's not helping anyone. Yet doing the 'stiff-upper-lip-put-on-a-happy-face' schtick makes me feel so phony and disconnected.

I feel like that kid in 'The Sixth Sense' -- I see sad people. Everywhere. And I don't know how to help them. I used to think that just trying to keep my own self together and happy would allow me to help -- or at least not add to their woes -- but it's not working either. I just still keep believing, however, that good advice is out there -- that people can help me with my concerns and I with theirs -- if we can just talk about it in the open. Facing the possibility that I could be wrong about that -- that the simple-minded mantra of "Don't Worry, Be Happy" really is the best advice -- is what's keeping me up at night. Well, that, and the upstairs construction projects.

Labels: oh l'amour

RUT

Virtually everyone I encounter these days complains of how cold the last six weeks have been -- and they're not wrong -- but I've always felt there's a bigger problem with winter: the dullness.

I have got to take up skiing or hockey or something because once the Monumental Distraction of Christmas is over, I realize just how stupefyingly boring winter can be. Business at both the store and the pub is slower, I'm working less, I'm staying in more -- so, aside from this unexpected and delightful arrival of Keith, I'm forced to admit that my life is terribly uninteresting at the moment.

I'm blessed with a wide circle of fascinating friends and acquaintances but, when I ask them lately "what's new and exciting," they simply shrug. There's just nothing going on.

It's always seemed strange to me that most movie studios reserve their big crowd-pleasers for the summer months. Even on the hottest day, I'd rather be outside and, right now, a February night with "Spider-Man 2" sounds perfect. Too bad TV is such crap, too -- I seem to watching "The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" and little else.

Time to throw a party, I think, or -- better yet -- get myself invited to one (the new apartment is still too cluttered with boxes and junk for my comfort or that of my guests). Consider that a hint!

Labels: oh l'amour

FEBRUARY 14th AIN'T NUTHIN' BUT A CALENDAR DATE

I really hate Valentine's Day since it makes everyone miserable. If you're single, all that hearts-and-flowers crap makes you feel lonelier than ever; if you're in a couple, the pressure to find some fancy way to "celebrate your love" (as one poster in the mall read) can be a major irritant.

Nevertheless, this Valentine's Day found me coupled -- with someone new, no less; someone I was trying to impress anyway. The trick is to keep your goals simple. I made reservations at a very nice but moderately priced little restaurant in my neighbourhood -- nothing too extravagant but still nicer than, say, the Keg.

Keith and I bantered over whether or not to order the sea bass. "It's on the endangered species list," he said, "so you may not get another chance a few years from now." "But eating sea bass put it on the endangered species list," I laughed. "You won't save the ones already in the freezer back there," he said. And so on.

My friend Tara cut my story short when I told her yesterday: "You had the chicken," she announced. "Why do you assume I had the chicken?" I said. "You agonize over the menu but you always order the chicken," she said. I frowned at her presumption, especially since I'd had the chicken.

I also welcomed a very positive sign: while preparing to hand Keith a very small, not-serious, not-really-some-sort-of-Valentine's-Day gift, he handed me a gift bag and a long speech about how he doesn't believe in Valentine's Day and how this was "a generic February 14th gift". After opening our gift bags, he found my "romantic jazz" CD an appropriately cheesy gift and I found his DVD copy of "The Manchurian Candidate" an appropriately cynical one. Nice to be sympatico -- especially on that most dreaded of holidays.

Labels: friends, oh l'amour

FEELS LIKE SPRING

You know it's been a vicious January when you start feeling giddy with Spring-ness because the temperature's climbed all the way up to minus two degrees.

Or maybe it's just having Keith over for dinner last night.

Oh dear, it's happening again -- that glow of luuuuurrrrrve. I really can't stand it. I mean, there I am, in the middle of doing something necessary, when I suddenly picture his smiling face and I stop and feel all warm inside, utterly distracted. I'm a grown-man of 32, for God's sake, not some 17-year-old girl.

He's very cute, though. Aargh.

Labels: oh l'amour

THE NOT-SO-STRAIGHT-AFTER-ALL PARTY

I haven't seen my lovely friend Danielle since well before Hanukkah started so imagine how pleased I was to get an e-mail from my friend/her boyfriend Josh, planning a surprise birthday party. Suddenly, our lack-of-getting-together was not rudeness or apathy on anyone's part but a savvy way to deflect Danielle's suspicions. Telling her I'd be too busy to see her on her birthday is easier when I've already told her I'm too busy so many other days.

Turns out it was a karaoke party -- alarming at first but fun once you're ready for it. Christopher was there, along with the not-quite-gay-enough Keith (more on him in a bit). We all spent more time pouring over the songbook than the menu. I sang Bowie's "Let's Dance" and, obviously, an Elvis tune, "Burning Love" (that one required a couple of pints first).

What amazed Danielle was how, well, gay the evening turned out -- despite us homo men being wildly outnumbered by the straight girls in the place, all the songs chosen were lavender nuggets like "Relax," "Flashdance," "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" and "Back in Black" (AC/DC? Oh, please!) "It's like a gay bar in here!" squealed Danielle with delight and even Josh slow-danced with me and the others at one point. "I don't know which team I'm on anymore!" he said. "You're on Team Guiness!" yelled Keith. Christopher, Keith and I did a strange sort of three-way slow-dance to some country song -- especially unnerving after Keith had looked up from the songbook at the two of us and announced, "We should do a threesome!" I heard some part of my brain yelling, 'Poker face! Poker face!' and was unable to look Christopher in the eye.

Keith interested me in the way he seems so straight. I don't even know what he's doing or not doing to make me say that, but there it is. Normally, I hate those personal ads that declare the subject to be "straight-looking, straight-acting." I don't know what that is, especially when all the straight guys I know use hair products and slow-dance with me. The SL,SA thing always seems a bit self-hating to me, but then I chat with a guy like Keith and realize, 'Oh, this is the kind of guy they're looking for -- direct and unassuming, basic masculinity.

I wasn't trying to hit on him but somehow it became apparent that we were ending up together. By the time the evening was winding down after last call, Danielle and Josh were leaving just the two of us -- "for your date," she said. Minutes after they left, the karaoke guy announced that Keith and Josh were due up to sing Johnny Cash's "Ring of Fire" so we got up to drunkenly besmirch a dead man's good legacy. It was fun, though, and despite standing outside a straight bar on Yonge and Davisville at three in the morning, we couldn't help but make out in the street. Keith had earlier praised Hamilton but now I said, "Good thing we're not in Hamilton -- we'd be getting our asses kicked right about now!" He laughed and waved down a taxi to my place, where he turned out to be gay enough indeed -- but I've said too much already.

Thanks for a lovely party, Josh, and -- once again -- Happy Birthday, Danielle!

Labels: friends, oh l'amour

THE NIGHT THE LIGHTS WENT OUT IN TORONTO, NEW YORK, CLEVELAND, etc.

Well, wasn't that something?

Nothing's better for the soul than an occasional reminder of how fragile our little existences can be, and I'm proud of how well our beleagured city dealt with its latest crisis. People were spontaneously walking out into street intersections and directing traffic -- you gotta love that. If you're curious what I saw during the blackout (and why else would you be reading this if you weren't?), here's a rough timeline:

4 pm
After five hours at the store, I headed over to the sub shop on Dundas for a late lunch. The counter guy put my sandwich in the microwave to heat it up a bit and -- no word of a lie -- the power went out when he pressed the microwave button. He looked like a deer in the (lack of?) headlights. "You seem to have blown a fuse," I finally said. "No, no," he stammered, "It's the whole store! Why the whole store?" I poked my head out the door to see his neighbours doing the same and another customer came in and told us the street traffic lights were out. "I just got a call from a friend at Yonge and Eglington who says the power's out up there, too," she said. Figuring the record store would be dark, I scarfed down my sub and headed back.

5 pm
Feeling pretty smug in that my tasks require no computer or electrical devices, I was brought down to earth by the near-total lack of light in the store. The emergency lights just weren't bright enough to work by and we all decided to go home. The entire black-polo-shirted staff of World's Biggest Bookstore were lined up at the ice cream truck so I joined them. The sidewalks were crammed with people, motorists were all grid-locked in around us and one guy got out of his car and started screaming at the truck in front of him. It occured to me that these were the two main ways to handle a crisis: relax and get some ice cream, or break down and start ranting. Chocolate soft serve has never tasted better.

6 pm
Stood around with Stan on Yonge and Richmond, trying to hail a cab for Gabe, the assistant manager. At nearly six months pregnant, she was in no condition to walk home to Queen and Roncesvalles. I suggested she go over to the Sheraton and rest in the lobby while the staff (hopefully) helped her get a taxi, but Stan insisted that one would have to come along. Many did, but the ones that weren't full already out-and-out refused to stop. I ran over to one Chinese driver, stuck in traffic, and he started wailing that the boss had insisted he get the cab back to the garage. "I have problem! I have problem!" he yelled with his hands in the air. I agreed with him and looked elsewhere, running out into the street to plead with drivers to at least radio their offices. One guy simply drove away from me but, with the roads clogged, I easily jogged up beside him, matching his speed. "I have a pregnant woman in thirty-degree heat for over half an hour now! She can't take this!," I yelled, "Can't you radio for another cab down here?" "It doesn't matter," he yelled back (with two Indian women cowering in the back seat from me, the crazy man), "The dispatcher won't answer!" Nice. Stan finally told me that he'd walk Gabe down to Front Street -- between the Royal York hotel and Union Station, there would have to be at least one empty taxi. Right?

7 pm
After filling the big Brita filter in the fridge with water (just in case) and cracking open every window in the apartment, I flopped down on the bed and wondered if I'd be at the pub later. I called, but there was no answer. I called my boss at home, but there was no answer. I called my worry-prone father to let him know that everything was fine but he seemed puzzled over why I'd bothered. I explained what I'd just been through with Gabe and the entire story. I paused at one point and he said, "Is anything wrong?" "What do you mean?" I asked. "Is anything wrong?" he repeated. "I just told you what's wrong!" I said. "Oh, it'll be fine," he said, as if I were panicking. I still never get my dad -- he always seems to think there's some terrible problem going on but stays totally unperturbed when an actual problem arrives. Maybe the constant worrying keeps him cool in a crisis, I don't know. Meanwhile, I kept calling the pub -- no answer.

8 pm
Feeling that impotent desire to help without any real means of doing so, I decided to see if my neighbours had enough candles. I'm quite fond of the odd candlelight dinner or reading on the sofa with lots of warm light, so I keep a couple boxes of the ones from Ikea on hand. I went door-to-door around my floor and a couple others and was dismayed at how my neighbours first thought I was trying to sell them the candles. "No, no," I kept insisting, "I just want to make sure you have some if you need them." They seemed to find that peculiar, which disappointed me, but many were grateful. I went down to the courtyard last, where a large group of people were sitting out in the fading sunlight. "I hear you're the Candle Man," one neighbour said and, though I cringed at the thought of that nickname sticking with me, it felt good to be helping out, even in this tiny way.

9 pm
After making an "executive decision" to stay home, I waited for the pub's inevitable "where the hell are you?" call, but nothing came. I put batteries in the radio and listened to the news station for a while, laughing out loud at Mayor Mel's usual idiocy. On the subject of water conservation, he reminded the listeners not to water their lawns or wash their cars for a while -- clearly, the two priorities at the top of any ordinary person's to-do list during a nation-wide power shortage. "And don't use candles!" he blurted out. I obviously leaned forward at that point. "We have to preserve our resources right now," he continued. "Candles? A resource?" I thought. Lastman instead recommended going out to the hardware stores for battery-powered flashlights because "a kid could knock over a candle and start a fire." If Mel wasn't so busy washing his car, I figured, he'd have noticed that the hardware stores -- and everything else -- were all closed. Meanwhile, Michael Coren was busily downplaying his callers' terrorist-attack theories with tact and good sense. I hate it when he makes me like him.

10 pm
Basked in the candlelight inside and the remarkable darkness outside my window -- even with the bank towers lit up with their own generators, the dark city felt gothic. I turned to the jazz station, made some tuna sandwiches and resumed reading the third Harry Potter book. I was actually enjoying myself until the jazz station abruptly went to static. I literally didn't like the sound of that. There was a knock on the door and I opened it to see a wide-eyed young black woman and her small boy. "They said at the office you might have some spare candles?" she said very hesitantly. I glanced back at my living room, lit like the Police's "Wrapped Around Your Finger" video. "Of course!" I announced and handed her a few, feeling most magnanimous. This was the ego equivalent of deep-tissue massage and I enjoyed it, guilt-free like frozen yogurt. After a while, I climbed up the stairs to the roof-deck, astonished by the black city spread out before me and by the amount of traffic still out there. I wouldn't be out driving in that even if I were being paid.

11 pm
Called Gabe to see if she got home in one piece but got a machine. Called Stan to see if he got Gabe home in one piece and he explained how that nightmare had continued. No taxi at Union Station was taking anyone, except for one guy who was demanding $100 for each ride. "That prick!" Stan snarled. He finally walked her over to the Co-op Cab garage at King and Spadina. "King and Spadina!" I said, "She could've nearly walked home!" "I know!" he hollered, "It was awful!" But she did make it home -- like my roommate, who slammed the door shut behind him and began huffing about the three-hour trip home on a crowded bus. "From Mississauga?" I said, "In three hours? You were lucky, I'm afraid to say." He began the typical "how-could-the-powers-that-be-allow-this-to-happen?" rant. "There's too many people and too many cars," he declared, pausing to make fun of all the candles in the apartment. "What would you prefer?" I asked, and told him about the mayor's "out-out-brief-candle" babble. Jerry listened, then went to take a shower, which I found mind-boggling after a discussion of conservation. Feeling wide-awake and frankly a bit trapped, I decided to check out the dark streets. "Is that a good idea?" Jerry asked, "Aren't you afraid of being mugged by looters or some trans-gendered persons?" I'm convinced he either says this stuff to piss me off or he's insane. Probably both.

Midnight
The downtown was deliciously eerie. On Richmond Street, the only light came from the sweep of car headlights or the extra-strange red glow from their tail-lights as they passed. The giant, classic Sam the Record Man sign was dark, the entire Eaton Centre black. With so much "light pollution" gone, you could see the stars in the sky. It's been a long time for me and they were beautiful, especially the bright orange dot of Mars, so visible for the first time in 60,000 years. I snapped photos of the downtown -- not knowing if any would turn out -- because the sight of the abandoned streetcars was too peculiar not to try and capture. I walked over to "the ghetto" where, as always, gay people were making their own fun: a near-campfire on a streetcorner, making out in the street and a group of people dancing in the parking lot across from my pub to a portable CD player. As I stood in front of the pub, I was surprised by a hello-tap on the back from the-boy-I-have-a-crush-on, the latest in an apparently-endless line of guys younger than me and not terribly interested in me. This is not a good pattern but I can't seem to help who I so-very-occasionally fall for. Fortunately, he's one of those preferred guys who is in his early twenties but thinks like someone in his early thirties (unlike me, concerned that I'm the exact opposite). We chatted with Miss Jackee Baker and Amanda Roberts, the two drag queens who were supposed to perform at the pub that night, before moving on.

1 am
The two of us continued on our stroll and he asked me for advice regarding a crush of his own. It's the classic story: boy meets boy, boy likes boy, boy likes some other boy, so first boy keeps his mouth shut. In my too-many years of dating, however, I've learned to relax about these things. I liked being his shoulder to lean on and there will always be someone else coming along later -- maybe even someone my own age. Meanwhile, it's strangely comforting to know that, even as the Premier declares a state of emergency in Ontario, some things in life never change. I walked home and smiled at the big condo tower next door, just a few of its dozens of black windows lit by tiny flickers of candlelight.

2 am
Laid on top of my sheets, trying to get to sleep in a heat I am just not used to (except for that AC fiasco at the store, but I wasn't trying to sleep then). Didn't realize just how spoiled I've been by central heating and cooling, nor by how much happier I am under my blankie.

This afternoon
Back to normal? Sort of. Stan, Gabe and I sat in the dark store with the doors locked from ten till noon -- well, okay, 10:30, since I was late after trying to get my fish-tank pump working again in my home's restored power. "It was either be late," I told my bosses, "or have my fish die choking on their own excrement." I got no argument, only jealousy that my building was back on-line but not much else.

So I've got the day off -- a healthy chunk of it spent detailing all this -- and I plan to go home, make some iced tea, keep the AC off (okay, maybe just really low), avoid using much water and get back to that Harry Potter book. Let's hope the pub's open tonight so I don't go broke. In the meantime, drop me a line and let me know how your evening went.

Labels: bookworm, family, friends, insanity, oh l'amour, Trawna, working girl

GRASPING AT STRAW MEN


Two nights in a row off (!) and it was time for a pub crawl with my friend Gord. After some time on the dance floor, I was surprised to see a tall, square-jawed guy with a military haircut lead Darcy onto the floor and begin making out with him. Part of me was relieved to see Darcy moving on after weeks of pining but I was also rattled by the sight.

It felt silly to be jealous, since I'm the one who let him go, but I'd already been feeling blue over the lack of anyone in the bar who might prove better. I briefly considered chatting up one guy who kept moving my way but I knew I wasn't interested and that I would just be wasting his time.

By that point, I felt awful -- not wanting Darcy but not wanting to be single -- until I realized that, as usual, I was being way too hard on myself. It's not that I don't know what I want, it's that I know exactly what I want. And it wasn't in that bar tonight.

Labels: oh l'amour

NEVER CAN SAY GOODBYE

The trouble with this whole online diary business is that I can only go on about myself. I don't feel comfortable including too much detail about my friends and family, especially if it's at all negative. This is no place to be airing dirty laundry. This rule of mine makes it very difficult to discuss breaking up with Darcy. While I had my reasons for leaving, I certainly can't go into them here.

I can say, however, that I've missed him terribly this past week and I wish things between us were different. He came by the pub tonight and said he wished he could take me home. I wanted that too but knew I couldn't say so. It wouldn't change anything, for this was a scene we'd played out exactly the same after I'd left him back in June.

When tonight's shift was over, I thought I might cheer myself up by popping into the club down the street for its last hour of dancing. After paying the cover, I walked in to find the place nearly empty and Darcy walking towards me. He was heading out as I was heading in and the timing was unnerving. I'm glad I don't believe in fate.

We chatted outside with a fair bit of awkwardness, since we both knew that -- literally and figuratively -- we were headed in different directions. He gave me a gentle invitation back to his place anyway but I gave him a goodnight kiss and went home solo. This would all be easier if he were a terrible person but he's not. All I do know -- after a year of trying to make us fit -- is that he's not the one for me. I'll have to keep reminding myself of that while I still want him back so badly.

Labels: oh l'amour

THE EVIL OF BANALITY

Not thrilled about still more gaps in my supposedly daily entries here but, as musician Robyn Hitchcock writes in his own Slate Diary this week, "most of my life is too intimate or too banal to describe." For me, that would currently be my break-up with Darcy last week and my daily shifts at the record store and the pub. I'll have to stay quiet about both for the time being, while I search for topics less intimate and less banal.

Otherwise, I think my excuse for not writing more is still a solid one -- in a week of scheduling-gone-bad, I've just finished my fourth double-shift in a row. I need sleep like a junkie needs heroin but, as a hamster discovers, it's hard to stop that big wheel once you're running in it. I can deal with it -- this is the life I've currently chosen for myself, after all -- but I admit I'm still bristling over an encounter with an old acquanitance last week.

Running into me right after The Talk with Darcy, he could see that I was unhappy and frustrated. He decided to give me a pep talk but, when it began with "What happened to all those plans you used to have?", I knew I was in trouble. My well-intentioned hero let me know that working at the pub was not the best thing for me and that I have to "get out there" and "make things happen" for myself, because it's all just that easy and had never occurred to me before.
Ass.

In Hollywood movies, people frequently get "one chance" to win the game, get the girl, beat the bad guy, whatever. In Hollywood movies, they usually succeed. But what if you live in the real world and that "one chance" never comes? Or if it does and you fail? Or -- perhaps worst of all -- if it does and you don't recognize it? What becomes of you then? Do you just "get out there" and whip up another? And do you deserve to be abandoned if you can't?

I'm angry at this guy because he's right, of course -- I know success won't come along without any effort from me -- but I refuse to be lectured about laziness when I'm working fifteen hours a day on little sleep. Obviously, I need to be working smarter rather than more -- doing less for more pay -- but how? If it's so damn easy to "make things happen", why are so many of us barely getting by? Obviously, I should have finished my woefully-expensive and essentially-useless Psychology degree -- grinding myself further, further into debt -- but does not doing so mean I've doomed myself to a life of labour-class living? Time to get out there...

Labels: oh l'amour

GOTCHA!

As Darcy and I discovered this past weekend, Niagara Falls is still one of the strangest places to spend time in – alternately pathetic and beautiful – but eating there takes a bit of work. Every restaurant is either a dive or a Burger King. I’m not usually that fussy about dinner but this place quickly turned me into a food critic.

Fortunately, we did get one solid meal at a decent steak and seafood place called Sparks, “courtesy” of the Howard Johnson’s we stayed at. I put courtesy in quotes because we soon discovered that the terrific $35-50 coupons we were given by the hotel to lure us in merely offset the gouging. Every entrée at the restaurant was over $25 and bacon and eggs at the Denny’s next door went for $15! One look at a menu and I instantly recalled the phrase “tourist trap” (the hotel and restaurants obviously being in cahoots). So take this sucker’s advice: if you’re going to Niagara Falls anytime soon, pack a picnic basket.

Labels: oh l'amour

FLY ME TO THE MOON

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

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

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

MY BIG GAY TV REMOTE

While having a late dinner with Darcy and putting "Will & Grace" on the television (in its fifth season, the show is still very funny), roommate Jerry asked to flip to the dreaded CNN for a minute. The sight of Larry King interviewing Madonna earned two shrieks of delight from them and one groan of despair from me -- a 66.6% homosexual approval rating. Unlike, say, every other Larry King interview ever, this one was conducted in a hotel room chosen by the interviewee. Doesn't Larry know that if he lets Madonna have her way like that, she'll get a bit full of herself? Way to suck up, Larry, and thanks for yet another reason to avoid that channel!

Labels: oh l'amour

THE BAD, BAD MAN

Realizing with horror that it's been an entire week since my last post. So undisciplined. But even scarier is wondering where the week went. A couple lovely evenings with Darcy in the middle of non-stop customer service.

Or lack thereof. I'm blue at the moment over my shift at the pub this evening. A photographer I know and like was working a party there but, by 2:45 am, had enjoyed one drink too many and refused to leave the bar. Now I've been told -- previously in general and this evening in particular -- that every single non-staff member MUST be out of the pub by that time. I tried to talk him into leaving in the least threatening manner I could but he kept screaming to stay, wailing, "Leave me alone! You are totally stressing me OUT!" Really, he was acting like a small child but I still ended up feeling like someone being cruel to a small child. I felt sorry for him and, quite frankly, it's much easier to turf out assholes.

I fear that the incident will reflect badly on me with my boss and co-workers. I fear that the photographer will go on at length to anyone who will listen about what a bastard he thinks I am (it's a small community). Mostly, I fear that there WAS some way to get him out gently and on time but one that just didn't occur to me. Is everyone this hard on themselves, or is it just me?

Labels: oh l'amour

THE ROADS TO HELL

My brother's birthday today, and Darcy was kind enough to offer me a lift to Hamilton. So much for good intentions. Those who say a road trip is the true test of a couple's bond are only partially right -- navigating the tangled streets of 'Steel Town' is the ultimate challenge to fidelity. At the wheel, Darcy was becoming increasingly annoyed with my lack of highway knowledge while I, attempting to keep us travelling in the right direction at least, got us increasingly lost. "If only we had a helicopter," I joked, but that car was a tough room. We eventually made it to my parents' house, of course, but not before some tones of voice were sharpened. I'd say we arrived just in time...

Labels: oh l'amour

I OUGHTTA BE COMMITTED

As I've mentioned before, one of the perks of my job at the pub is the steady supply of 'eyecandy'. On any given night, there are at least a couple of really attractive men who will wander by and, more occasionally, stop to chat me up. This has been very, very good for this former shy boy's ego. In the year and a half that I've worked there, however, I have only returned such a pass twice (and only once successfully).

For a long while, I avoided getting involved with customers out of some sense of duty -- I'm not being paid to hit on our patrons, after all -- but I eventually realized that such scruples are unneccessary when no one else working there is worried! Soon after that, however, I fell in love with my current boyfriend. He's funny and lovely, the chemistry is fantastic and I haven't needed anyone else.

While working tonight, I was again visited by Shane, an adorable blond 23-year-old who flirts shamelessly with me. I once called him on it by giving him my number and telling him to set up a date, but he never phoned -- we both seem to know that our relationship is strictly teasing. Shane was also flirting with a handsome 28-year-old named Craig but they apparently had the same arrangement, if only because Craig already has a boyfriend.

As I talked to them for a while, I soon began to realize that -- boyfriend or no -- Craig really liked me, Shane really liked Craig and I really liked both, quite frankly. A strange kind of three-way flirting escalated over the next hour or so and I didn't know what to think. While the old, unattached me would've easily known where all this should lead, the current, happily-monogamous me felt a mixture of glee and discomfort.

I like to flirt. I do it all the time, in a gentle way, with men, with women, with whoever seems interested in a tiny connection. I think it's healthy but I do worry about the fine line between being a flirt and being a tease. I worry about leading someone on. I worry about saying something inappropriate. I worry about my boyfriend feeling insecure and jealous about it. I worry about generally being a Bad Person, since I'm a former Catholic and it never goes away. Craig tells me he feels the same way.

The flipside here is that none of us are married -- hell, none of us can be, right? -- and in gay circles, infidelity is often considered a minor crime, if not inevitable. Monogamy, many argue, is an outmoded, sexually-repressive attempt at social control, oppressive to heterosexuals and damaging to homosexuals. I could -- or possibly should -- sleep with Craig, with Shane, with both, and I doubt no one would know or care if they did.

So, as an adult who's earned the right to make my own sexual choices, all I can say is yada yada yada. It's not going to happen. At the weathered old age of 31, I'm still in the process of sorting out how I feel about marriage, monogamy, boyfriends, one-night-stands and all the other labels and categories we impose on our sexual practices. All I know for sure is that, right now, Darcy makes me happy but my sleeping with someone else would upset him. It's as simple as that. The pleasure I'd get from exploring someone new wouldn't be worth the pain of deliberately hurting someone I love.

I'm as committment-phobic as the next man, I'd say. I know that, one day, I may look back on these words after Darcy has left and curse myself for passing up a chance with another but I like to think that, instead, I'll look back with him beside me and pat myself on the back for not screwing up my chance at happiness. No doubt after he complains about me flirting with the waiter again.

Labels: oh l'amour

FINDING WORDS

I'm lucky to have few regrets in my life so far but lately I'm feeling a major one. With a past year spent worrying over attacks on the US, looking for a new career, my father's poor health, and an off-again, on-again relationship with Darcy -- I've let a few friendships suffer or even lapse altogether. Basically, I'm finding myself trying to undo six months of withdrawl from the people around me.

Despite the sleek beauty of e-mail, I've communicated less with various people in my life, finding it difficult to focus on what to say. While I've used my journals (including this latest open-to-the-public variation) to push myself forward a little more these last few months, I've frequently found myself with nothing more helpful to say to my friends than the usual chitchat. Especially odd, since I've learned in life that just simple chitchat often leads to conversations that can inspire or challenge, but I haven't been practising what I preach.

Being unemployed was a huge part of this -- as long as I was nervously scraping by on a pub salary, I was utterly distracted and self-absorbed. I felt of no use to anyone. Now, that feeling is ebbing somewhat but that makes me laugh as I'm now in a record shop -- how useful is that? I have to keep reminding myself that sometimes the attempts are every bit as important as the results.

Last week, my mother invited me on a family road trip to New York State. Now, she and I both know that I have no time these days for anything like that, but she called long distance to tell me that she wanted my company. I appreciated the gesture and it's time I started making some of my own, assuming that the people who haven't heard from me in a while still have any interest.

That's the part that raises scary questions. Can a true friendship survive a long period of no-contact? Should it? If you have nothing in common with someone anymore, or no time for them, is there any point to maintaining a friendship? What do you do when one person wants to be friends but the other doesn't -- can friends be 'divorced'? And what could you say to prevent such a fate? Or are some friendships just meant to wrap up at some point?

I don't know the answers to any of this, sadly, but I do know that -- with one, long, glorious day off from both jobs tomorrow -- I'll be sitting back down here, writing a couple of letters, making a couple of phone calls, figuring out what I need to say and hoping that I haven't run out of time.

Labels: oh l'amour

NUMBER ONE WITH A BULLITT

Darcy and I stayed up watching Bullitt on CityTV's "Late Great Movies" last night. I oohed and aahed over the location filming in lovely San Francisco, while Darcy thrilled to Steve McQueen's Ford Mustang. And, of course, the car chase that uses both is still one of the most exciting ever filmed.

What really surprised me while seeing this movie again for the first time in at least a decade was the film's humanity. McQueen's cop character is a perfect tough guy -- the classic hard-boiled detective -- but you can see him stopping to check on the people around him in warm little ways and you can tell that he's upset by the violence he both encounters and dishes out. How different from the Schwarzenegger types who coolly march on after a quick, cruel joke at the evil villain's expense. "Bullitt" is that rare action movie that cares about the people in it, making your heart pound in empathy as well as excitement.

Labels: oh l'amour

THE WORLD SPINS

And I was doing so well…

I’m aiming to produce at least one post a day here but this has been a hectic week, notably for a big job interview this past Monday (crossing my fingers) and my birthday on Wednesday. Both went reasonably well, though the build-ups were more intense than the actual events. There will be a second interview for the job in question on Tuesday (biting my nails) and the birthday simply featured a lovely lunch with Danielle, dinner with Darcy and a shift at the pub’s crowded 13th anniversary party. People said, “How awful to have to work the night of your birthday,” but I just pretended that the whole event was in honour of me and enjoyed myself.

Labels: friends, oh l'amour, working girl

HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION

I suppose it might seem quite depressing to go on a weekend camping getaway dominated by thunderstorms but I found hiding out in a thankfully-waterproof tent a lot of fun. The light flashes, the sound of rain hammering the canvas and even the wind shifting the tent a bit made for lousy sleep but an exciting experience for someone who’s never camped outside before. Besides, it was only for one night, thank heaven, as we wisely opted for a hotel room the next evening (no gluttons for punishment here).

Sunday was spent at Six Flags Darien Lake, an amusement park I enjoyed but found distressingly similar to Paramount Canada’s Wonderland here in Toronto. The décor, the rides, the food…everything was nearly identical, aside from all the Warner Bros. characters (Superman, Bugs Bunny, etc.) in place of Paramount creations (Star Trek, Top Gun, etc.). Darcy just shrugged at this: “They’ve found a model that works and everyone copies it.” Doesn’t mean I have to admire them for it.

He’s right, however, when it comes down to the only thing that matters in such a place: the rollercoasters. While the Viper and the Mind Eraser (love that name) were a lot like Wonderland’s Wilde Beast and Skyrider, it was the Superman: Ride of Steel coaster that proved absolutely thrilling. When you suddenly feel 12 years old again, it’s hard to grumble about colourless conglomorates making the world a blander place. Hard, but thankfully not impossible.

Labels: friends, oh l'amour, travel, Trawna

ESCAPE!

I swear this will be my last post concerning World Youth Day but honestly, this evening they took up all of Queen's Park, most of University Avenue and a couple of television networks as they re-enacted the death of Jesus Christ. To the edification of thousands lining the sidewalks, some willing actor was 'bloodied' up, stripped down and hoisted up on the massive scarlet cross he'd just spent an hour or so lugging up Toronto's widest street (but I'm sure it was lighter than Christ's).

I'd give credit for this garish display if I thought for one second that it would remind those who run the Church of the lessons that Christ taught us. Whether you believe he was the Son of God, a prophet, an ordinary man or all of the above, Jesus Christ was put to death because he defended beggars and prostitutes while opposing intolerance, greed and power-mongering. I'm sorry but I don't see many current Church leaders following His example.

Fortunately, my Mr. Darcy has come to the rescue with a plan to go camping and ride rollercoasters at Darien Lake this weekend. This means we'll miss the Papal Mass but I'm sure a pricey DVD will be available at some point. Besides, we can't invite him along -- the Pope's hat would probably bar him from the best rides -- but I'm sure that once I'm dangling out of some contraption several storeys up, I'll be doing all the praying to God that He wants.

Labels: oh l'amour