Thursday, January 28, 2010


I just found out that my company's newsletter is called New Directions


Hehe. Nude erections.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Something sort of unsettling just happened and I'm not completely sure how I feel about it, other than a bit bloaty but that's most likely the 5-bean soup from lunch.

'Member that coworker of mine who asked about my sexy walk last week (I'm currently marketing it as Centaur Chic; watch your back, Katie Smith)? Well, today we're working on a project in from of my computer and she says, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Here's a little insight into the mind of a functioning homosexual: No matter how comfortable we are with ourselves, how easy our coming out was, how much of a non-issue it is, when we hear the question, "Can I ask you a personal question?" our sexuality is the first place our minds go. This is then followed up with the thought that no one with whom we do not have a personal relationship would ever actually ask this, never mind a colleague while at your place of employment.

Then, without even waiting for so much as a head nod from me, Little Miss Goes-Against-The Grain comes right out (so to speak) with, "Are you gay?"

I reply, "Yes."

She says, "So is a friend of mine on this floor, Emily*."

I say, "Well, then it looks like our takeover is really coming along."

Now, I recognize the complete and utter inappropriateness of her question. That is like pre-Stonewall shit. It's pretty much just asking me what I enjoy doing with my penis and while I consider myself quite transparent, an informational liberatarian if you will, that question in this environment is the precise reason for PC Nazism in corporate environments and, moreover, it's just tacky. The only people that need to be concerned about the whereabouts of my penis are those whose body it directly enters. That said, I am torn between my discomfort in this situation and my ideal that sexuality should be a non-issue, as uncontroversial as eye colour. I've never hidden this aspect of myself, but I've also never volunteered it to anyone. These days, the closest I ever come to coming out is speaking about a crush/date/disappointment using a gender-specific pronoun. This was the first time in my life that someone has pointedly asked me, other than my parents who have a bit more of a vested interest in me than a coworker I've known for a week and a half. On the one hand, the question felt like a violation of privacy, but on the other, I'm pretty pleased with the way I dealt with it by making it a non-issue. I'm not about to raise a big stink about something when my position is that it shouldn't be stinky in the first place.

There's no wrap-up to this here:

The Silky fuckin' Hen

*I've met Emily. She is so cool. I want to be that cool. I want to be a lesbian.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Man, this got me swear-y

In a similar vein as my occasional fixation with pop music, I am going through a reliving of my favourite childhood cartoons via YouTube. While I certainly enjoyed Dino-Riders, Just Like Mom and you've already heard my view on Captain Planet, my favourite kids show of all time may shock in its obvious lack of manliness. No, it's not Take Part cause DON'T EVEN GET MY STARTED ON THAT SHIT I WILL END YOU. No, the most character defining show of my pubescence was Jem and The Holograms.

I know, right?

I feel the obsession began right from the intro, an infectious 80's bubblegum offering encouraging me to "be a Jem girl." Clearly, as witness to my parental request for the Jem fashion templates, this suggestion was taken to heart (I was given New Kids On The Block templates instead; fuck you, Dad). The animation in this opening also had a lot more frames per second than normal, resulting in her dance moves looking like that of a real person. It was like cartoons actually existed, people. Mind. Blown. One would imagine that the minute number of young boys who actually watched the show would identify with Jem's road-manager/boyfriend of her alter ego Jerica, Rio. Not this little fucker. I realize this comes as quite a surprise given my reputation for amazing road managing skills and occasionally purple hair. But Jem was so hot! Like, Kelly Kapowski hot. And didn't (don't) I want to be hot. Plus they all had wicked coloured hair and makeup the shapes of shapes all over their faces. The latter, I feel, inspired me and a visiting cousin to draw all over each other's faces with crayola markers when we were about 6. Bath time that night was not pleasant. How many 6 year-olds has Hannah Montana inspired to draw on their cousins' faces with crayola markers? Me thinks, by the cool silence from Camp Cyrus at press time, not a lot.

While this show, which aired at 2:00pm every weekday afternoon on YTV, was the highlight of my day, seeing it now brings up some serious moral conflicts. First of all, Rio kisses Jem in, like, the second episode. Looks like it takes less than 44 minutes to go from devoted boyfriend/handyman of the Starlight House for orphans to straight up pink-pubes lovin' cheater. Uh, Rio, someone wants to speak to you. So to review, here's a chick who deceives her boyfriend, makes a move on him while under the guise of an internationally recognized song stylist and when he is all "Yeah, baby, let's do this!" thinks not about the fact that he is a trifflin' man ho (entrapment doesn't negate ho-dom. Don't even try that shit with me.) but rather chastises herself for not telling him that her dead father's masturbatory holographic robot lady projects rock star style onto her body through her earrings. Duuuuuuuude. Also, who the hell is looking after those little orphan fuckers while everyone's on tour? The Misfits?! Uh, I don't think so, buddy! Is it possible to call Child & Family Services on animated characters? Cause let me tell you: speed dial, motherfuckers.

New favourite thing: Fuck You, Penguin. Goddamnit! People need to stop being funnier than me!

Monday, January 25, 2010

Oh hai. That last post was my 200th. Booya.

I may or may not have just sprained my wrist. "How the eff did a suave guy like you do this, Illustrious D?!" you may ask. "Masturbating," I may reply. This is a lie, but it would be kind of funny. Well, at least it would be if said in person. Maybe. Moving on. In actuality, this tragedy occurred at work as I was filing whilst seated on a stool. I scooched my bum back, miscalculating the surface area of the stool and promptly fell off. At first I was rather miffed that I had so foolishly injured my wrist bone, as it is connected to the arm bone, which is in turn connected to the shoulder bone and everyone knows that is my favourite bone. However, it then dawned on me that the miscalculation of the scooch could be directly accounted to a misperception regarding the size of my ass. By this inference, one could deduce that my ass is growing smaller, thereby making this the most joyous event of my day. Praise be.

In what has shaped up to be a banner week for my romantic life, last night I came across a Manhunt profile for what seemed like a totally nice guy: 24, cute, not anorexia-inducingly trim, DJ, couple of tats and the prettiest eyes you ever did see. However, upon further inspection of his primary profile photo, I noticed that he was sporting a LIVE STRONG bracelet. Let us all issue a collective sigh of disgust and befuddlement. Look, if you wear t-shirts from Threadless, describe yourself as a "spinner of phat old school beats" and you are gonna post photos of your badass star tattoos emblazoned symmetrically at the location of would-be man-lines if you were toned enough to have them, please do not counteract these David-attracting qualities by wearing a yellow rubber, 4 year old Malaysian-produced piece of what is essentially pop culture iconography from 2004 rather than an actual charity donation and that was last current when a certain Tour-de-France-winning, alt-pop-dating, alligator-weekend-bag-looking douchenozzle still had two low hangers. I just can't do that shit.

Ugh. Why can't I just marry Joseph Gordon Levitt and be done with it already? He has such good posture.

Saturday, January 23, 2010

Reader poll: When the guy you were kinda seeing gets weird and distant and you stop talking to one another and then you see that he is now oh-so-whimsically "in a relationship" on Facebook with a female friend of his, would "liking" this on your news feed be too passive aggressive?

There is nothing ickier than being blown off my someone you didn't even like all that much in the first place. I need a chemical peel for my heart/genitals.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Last night, Slightly Insane Jewess and I went to see the Broadway tour of Rent. This post is getting a 'Homosaywhat?' tag based on that statement alone. The drawing attraction of this particular production was that it boasted the return of the two original male leads, as well as that huge black woman screaming Cs in Seasons of Love. The guy who played Mark was just as great as he was back in the day/soundtrack/movie and I found myself wanting him sexually despite the fact that he is a 40 year old ginger/albino hybrid. Twould seem that my psychosomatic pattern of abhorring what I've just lost/given up, i.e. teenage Hispanics currently, is in full effect. The other lead guy was, well... okay, follow me here. You know when two people couple up and they begin to take on little mannerisms of the other person that otherwise would be totally unnatural? For example, a girl might begin to drink bourbon or a guy might become a Facebook fan of Glee. Well, it's like this guy was in a loving, committed three-way relationship with a grade 9 drama class and the Swedish Chef from the Muppets. He'd clearly regressed in acting prowess since making the film (and anyone who saw his whole "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman" scene can attest that there wasn't a lot to begin with), as well as implementing umlauts on every single vowel he sang. To compound all this sexual tension and fallen idol syndrome, I had to contend with SIJ's justified but still cloying emotional state at losing a friend that she'd known for a minute halfway across the country. If this sounds cold, you try giving a heartfelt mid-performance one-armed hug to a chick wearing a leather sweater. Not easy, people.

And now, as an intermezzo, a brief conversation I had with a colleague at my new job preparing exam materials for paramedic students:

Chatty Colleague: Do you know what defibrillation is?

Illustrious D: Oh yeah. I watch Grey's Anatomy.

CC: I watch House.

ID: Well, uh, there's not a lot of defibrillation on House...

She conceded my point.

Well, that was rousing. Moving on, I think it's safe to say that my foray into seeking new readership outside my real life has been an abject failure (with one noted exception; hollah atchya, B-Town). This is disappointing only because there are some highly followed blogs out there that are absolute shite. Like seriously, straight-porn-watchingly dull. One of my favourite bloggers DCcised recently went all ranty on this subject, while adding his own brand of humorous butt hurt, regarding another écrivain that draws a loyal following somewhat larger than his own and ya know what happened? He received more comments on that post than on any other he's ever written. Now, I enjoy this guy's writing; it has a lovely mix of observational bitchiness and self-deprecation that truly is my bread and butter. However, while I completely empathize with his frustration, calling out a fellow blogger was a bit of a dick move... a dick move that got him 32 muthafukin' comments! Do you know what we can garner from this, children? The gay blogosphere, as in the gay reallifeosphere, loves them some trash talkin' queens duking it out in front of a rapt audience. So I feel that in order to really thrive in this niche, I need not be clever or relatably emo or remotely intriguing; all I gots to do is start calling people out on their shit and wait for the controversy to catapult me to fame (blog rolls) and fortune (monetized ads)! I could be the Kathy Griffin of the homo blogging universe!

Suck it, DCcised! This blog is my god now!!!!!!!!!

Monday, January 18, 2010

I just got yelled at whilst going down an escalator by a homeless schizophrenic ascending adjacent me. For sneezing. I replied that I absolutely adored his happy kitties sweatshirt. This, however, did not placate him.

I started in my new position today, which, if my internet history is any indication, is shaping up to be much like my old position, minus superfluous accesories such as pens or a trash can. It is nice to know that in these troubled times, a cash-strapped government can be fiscally responsible in the rationing of writing utensils and waste recepticles. Consequently, I have decided to adopt my own trash can in the form of my colleague's cubicle. Sorry, Marjorie. Also, my new colleague (32, three kids, nuff said.) asked me about my fly walking style today, with a an apologetic preramble about PC work boundaries that lasted roughly the length of a Schoolhouse Rock episode. Finally, I was just like, "Bitch, I'm gimpy! Deal wit it!" then smiled sweetly and hobbled away.

I'm not sure what's going on with YP, though I'm allowing me to become more convinced that it has little to do with me. He says he's just been feeling out of it for the past week and a half as a result of switching to college-friendly sleep times, i.e. not going to bed at 4am. While this makes sense, I have never understood giving up social/sexy opportunities due to sleepiness. The fact that I would under no circumstance opt to sleep alone given the choice seems to be a sentiment shared only myself while his ability to treat this like what it is - two guys who've known each other a month and have no responsability one another - is infuriating in its rationality. I hope he dies in a fire. No, I hope he sleeps over one more time and then dies in a fire. Minus the fire. Okay, and the one more time. We're currently having a texting war over who is most closely resembles the missing link. I need to have sex so bad.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Well, he bailed.

Intuition: 1 Penis: 0
Tonight is the movie date with the Young Portuguese. As previously stated, I'm feeling quite a bit of ambivalence from him; we text for a good part of the day and usually chat a bit before bed (effectively replacing ESLothario, thank the good Lord), yet I haven't seen him since last Tuesday. Also, as a result of some preexisting sexual trust issues on his end, we're currently not gettin' 'er done, reverting to kissing and heavy fondling while we "get to know one another." Granted, this was my suggestion, as I'm not a fan of being with someone who feels the need to take 8.3 consecutive showers after seeding...but still. He assures me that is this has NOTHING (his cap locks, not mine) to do with me and yet this is small comfort when my testicles have turned a shade of blue hithertofore unseen with the human eye and that is now being optioned as the eighth colour of the rainbow (watch yo back, indigo). Consequently, I feel like we're reversing into the Friend Zone. How is that even possible? How did we go from naked hot tubbing to him texting me, "What are the municipal boundaries of Chinatown?" in one month? This has been all too much for my personal M.O. of being attracted to disinterest and so I now find myself way more into him than I'd ever intended to be.

Well-played, my little Iberian hobbit. Well-played.

I do fully realize that my current sentiments will likely be resolved tonight when we hang out, but logic has never played a huge part in my brain's life plan. Besides, it provided fodder for a new post at time when inspiration (read: COMMENTS SECTION) is at an all time low. Your love is my manna, people. Come on.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

I think I have mono. Either that or I’m just suffering from plain old exhaustion brought on by this cold, my apartment’s terrible feng shui and my inability to sleep through the night despite downing the Lorazepams like tic tacs. As a result, I have become grotesquely emotional, having openly weeped during last week's Desperate Housewives, but moreso just lazy.

My week-old beard is approaching Cast Away levels of intensity. I have been in a cyclical state of laundry since my return a week ago, refusing to commit to folding all at once and instead systematically tackling only select items based on how quickly they'll wrinkle. I’ve also refused to sweep or dust, choosing instead to think of lint balls, clothing tags and rogue pieces of diced red pepper beneath foot as “floor ornaments.” Rather than laboriously tapping out texts on my phone, I’ve opted to log onto various service providers’ websites to type out my messages there, simultaneously pissing off my friends and ensuring the survival of the Jews Are Cheap Douches stereotype (I only have 250 texts/month). Additionally, I proposed via my work’s suggestion box that we have several bidets installed in the employee bathrooms as the manual act of folding the 1.5-ply gauze they pass off as toilet paper is simply too much exertion never mind the over-exfoliation for my quickly-atrophying fingers, not to mention the over-exfoliation of my Sweet Nikki Brown. Finally, I have even gone so far as to make a movie date with the Young Portuguese at a theatre rather than having him come over, which would thereby necessitate me to manscape my party zone, as last week I delivered, at his request, a lengthy but educational power point presentation entitled “Ass & Ball Hair Maintenance: Lookit You All Shiny!”

Donations of adderall and select genus of herbal speed may be submitted via the comments section below.

Monday, January 11, 2010

I recently attended a social soirée involving a varied group of people, some of whom I know rather well and some not at all. Given that I am a relative new-comer to this city, this is not a rare occurrence; the fact that I even knew some of them was an advantage often absent from my social exploits. At home in Winnipeg, when I am completely relaxed with my kinfolk, I tend to take on the role of wisecracking social organizer, priding myself on hosting abilities, witty repartée and occasional sexual party favours. However, in a group of n00bs, I am a great deal less affable, contenting myself in the role of observer, perhaps spouting out the odd cultural reference or double-entendre, but generally laying back until I find a connection, usually female, occasionally alcohol, a medium through which I 'join' the group. Sometimes, though, there is one individual who just jumps out at me in a completely arresting manner, effectively shutting down any humour or confidence I might have emitted. Usually, there is some physical attraction to this person and, as such, they are generally male, but this pull is not necessarily induced by physical beauty so much as an aura, presence, call it what you like. Whatever term you choose, it still shuts me down quicker than a Republican at a critical thinking conference. At this recent event, however, I was very conscious of the fact that there was no physical attraction, yet I still felt that pseudo-paralysation, perhaps due to their total comfort in that environment or that they were a controling force in the events of the evening. Who knows? Not this kid. But I'd like to. I want to study this, this quality that causes me to de-David-ify, perhaps even coming up with some sort of unit of measurement for my awkwardness (the "Um" perhaps?) and eventually arriving at a formula I can use on the spot to once again become my awesome, vivacious embodiment-of-a-Cole-Porter-lead-character self. Cause I'm fucking delovely, goddamnit!

Yesterday on the streetcar, I overheard a woman berating a man for choking his dog (he wasn't) and then screaming wildly about cruelty to animals. When I looked over to berate her with a raised eyebrow, I saw that she was, in fact, wearing a fur coat. Mind you, I'd place it's time of sartorial creation at roughly 1972 and she was clearly one of those bus crazies that, while not homeless, surely was living on welfare due to a plethora of social and mental diseases. This was confirmed as she began a conversation with two unwitting 19 year olds, which began with their nose rings and why, if they were so determined to put a ring in it, they didn't at least have the good sense to get diamond rings. Rhinestones, evidently, would not do. She then claimed to live in Thornhill (Jewish, moneyed enclave; I don't think so, Social Assistance Sally), to be a lawyer (cause legal professionals are frequently reputed to brag about bringing their own teabags to Tim Horton's and asking for hot water) and to know the owner of a Kipling-area electronics store that, should they inform one Mr. David Rosenbaum that "Regina" had sent them, would surely give them a discount on a used TV.

The Little Portuguese is acting somewhat distant. The last time we saw each other (Tuesday night through Wednesday morning) he was totally affectionate, to the point of sleep detriment which I'm convinced caused this cold in the first place. I let him sleep in while I went to work and while he didn't even make the bed, he did left an adorable note saying he'd had a wonderful time. Ah, the joys of dating teenagers. Now, however, things feel decidedly cooler. My invitation to call me should he want to do something this weekend was not accepted, he has ceased to initiate msn/text conversations and is being altogether enigmatic. And I'm not sure I really like him anyway. Ah, the shitfalls of dating teenagers.

As such, I spent most of my weekend in bed watching Captain Planet episodes and I have some observations:

-You can cut the sexual tension between Wheeler and Linka with a knife. Gi and Kwami would probably be doing it too if he wasn't such a pussy, i.e. voiced by LeVar Burton.
-The main musical theme when CP is kicking echo-villain ass is a complete and total knock off of the Star Wars theme, but with midi strings. You stay classy, early 90's.
- Captain Planet is the gayest superhero that has ever graced the skies in spandex. Despite his straight-porn-alluding mullet, you know he was totally touching Ma-Ti when Gaia wasn't looking and I don't mean his 'heart'. How else do you explain why that kid is so faggy?

Next on my youtube list: Jem and the Holograms. Rumour on the street is that she's truly outrageous.

Friday, January 08, 2010

Like many of my bredrin (new term from the Young Portuguese; he's so street he could have his own streetcar line), I have maintained my fair share of body image issues, resulting in various diet and exercise regimens. As it stands right now, I'm probably the thinnest I've ever been (Thanks, Inexplicable Week-Long Illness/Being Drunk A Lot!) and I haven't had a steady work out schedule since the summer. Beginning anything right now would be so cliché I'm not even going to even reach over to my number pad and add the accent on that 'e'. Suck on that, Dictionnaire Robert-Collins. I am, however, intrigued by an article from last weekend's Globe & Mail that discussed Tabata, a 4-minute(!) work out developed for the Japanese Olympic speed skating team:

"The Tabata protocol is a high-intensity training regimen that produces remarkable results. A Tabata workout (also called a Tabata sequence) is an interval training cycle of 20 seconds of maximum intensity exercise, followed by 10 seconds of rest, repeated without pause 8 times for a total of four minutes."

Rumour on the street (according to postpartum moms, not the Young Portuguese) is that it's 'da bomb, [sic] yo'. So I think I'll that a go, cause, you know, my building's gym being ten feet from my apartment is way too much effort.

On the diet (in the sense of eating habits, not weight-loss regimen) front, I'm trying this new locavore/high fat/natural food thing shared with me by a big ol' Jew I'll affectionately term Me In Ten Year. Essentially you do away with refine sugars, refined carbs, all the typical bad boys and welcome into your home FAT. Turns out that our tongues are actually designed for three tastes: sweet, salty and fat. That's why you get that mouth feel whenever you have cheese or high fat milk. Have you tried homogenized milk?! It's like cum of the gods! But in the awesome way! I shan't bore you by listing the copious number of homosexually-composed blogs written by dimorphics with a diet exclusively comprised of steamed broccoli and browned chicken breasts. Well, this is kinda like that except that I make a whipping cream-based portabella sauce with that shiz! Honey is ubiquitous, whole milk is encouraged and cheese is king. I have to say, having tried this for about a week, that it's pretty freakin' fun. Yes, I can see buying 5 local, free-range chicken breasts and copious amounts of dairy becoming expensive, but in a mere 3 weeks I will be on a government contract and with Kensington Market a mere 10 minute walk away, it seems a shame not to take advantage of the local food about which Ontarians are always self-flagellating.

Lastly, and this is not for the faint of stomach, but I had the most revolting experience of being in a bathroom stall at work next to someone who clearly had a raccoon trying to crawl out of his colon. The sounds this man's bowels made combined with grunting, the length of time and effort necessary to expel whatever demon being was clawing it's way to daylight and the fact that I'd totally just rocked a flying Dutchman (first wipe comes back clean) makes me think that I'm on the right track, food-wise.

Well, this post wasn't particularly interesting, but fuck it. I'm gonna go drink 18% cream through a straw,

Saturday, January 02, 2010

Adventures in Winnipeg

Being home has been lovely. A time for friends, family and constipation. For the first five days of my vaca here I expelled waste exactly twice. a lot of blockage.

Last Sunday was an extended family dinner which quickly devolved into a debaucherous booze fest once the Mennonite card games were brought out. My cousin was mixing me martinis all night and by the time the grownups left around 10:30 I was well in the bag. By midnight, I had compiled a list entitled, "Things that would make me put a ring on it" and thrown up all over the kitchen table mid-laugh. Vermouth in the nose...not fun. Much else is a blur until my brothers got me home at which point I began emptying the contents of my stomach into the main floor bathroom. A firm believer in equity, I then crawled up the stairs and ralphed in the upstairs loo. After throwing up a solid quart of vodka, my body had nothing left to give and began heaving in all sorts of directions. It was at this moment that my bowels graciously decided to relieve me of the previous two days' build up. I will spare you, my reader(s?) the delicate details of this evacuation but it ends with me calling my 19 year old brother into the bathroom and demanding that he "draw a bath." I managed to crawl to the tub and after properly washing away the vomit and shame, I then required his help to lift me out of the bath (while I one-handedly concealed my junk; boy's gotta have some modesty) and he escorted me to bed. He then, at my request, brought me water and a pail, cleaned up the bathroom and did my laundry. He was truly a champ. Well, runner-up champ. The true champ was me who, having completely expelled all the alcohol from his body, woke up hang-over free the next day.

I am a magical being.

New Year's was fine yet sorta lame. It would have been far worse had I not had zero expectations. I went to a house party (Q: does it count as a party if the only organizational element is a table on which to place the booze?) and I was the first one to arrive. Well, not the first exactly, but the first of my ilk. Ya see, our host for the evening is a lovely boy from a small town with a fetish on for opera and separate friendship groups to match this dichotomy. By the time I got there, the small town contingent, which I will delicately label "urbanely-challenged," were already a dozen strong and in various states of world hockey juniors frenzy and inebriation. Fortunately, I was shortly joined by Mikey J and we awkwardly sat on a couch as the women whispered drunkenly (read: talked) in one corner while the men ("men"?) set up an elaborate game involving two bar stools roughly three meters apart, two empty beer cups and a Frisbee. Guess what the goal was. Take your time.

Eventually, my music peeps showed up and we segregated ourselves upstairs, modestly drinking and playing Apples to Apples. This was fine, but it just kind of felt like any old Thursday night. Even midnight was kinda lame as no one could find a television channel in our time zone with a countdown. Someone just kinda started mumbling, "10...9..." and then we all blew our noise makers with all the gusto of a pre-Viagra octogenarian. I had also decided to participate in the Great Decongestant Experiment, Part 2 and had downed three of those puppies. Unfortunately, they just kinda made me restless and caustic, which occasionally drew laughs, but generally I suspect that I was just a big bitch. I'm still down for a third and final attempt in some sort of club setting, but should that prove unremarkable, it's strictly back to street narcotics. That's a promise.

In other news, I made the mistake of telling the little Portuguese that I tend to only be interested in guys that don't reciprocate my feelings so he shouldn't act overly interested. He responded by acting no less available but rather has taken to frequently calling me 'cockweed'. This one may be a keeper.