Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Not my body; still my choice
One of the bloggers that I follow posted recently about needing switch birth control methods and consequently taking the Planned Parenthood "What method of birth control is right for YOU?" online test.
Birth control is not really a problem that effects me, and by "is not really a problem" I mean "will never possibly in a million bajillion years except if I get drunk and overly confident in a bi threesome be a problem."
That said, I fucking love online multiple-choice tests and so I thought, what the hell, and opened up my mind and my pretend vulva to Planned Parenthood. Also, the knowledge that plannedparenthood.org would be permenantly archived in my work's Big Brother-esque internet monitoring system coupled with the fact that I'm outta here in a week makes me kinda wet in my pretend vulva.
I waded through a myriad of tough questions: Would my partner* be willing to pull out? Would I be okay with an initial couple months of side effects, such as tender breasts? What is the most important quality about my chosen birth control? Would I be comfortable with inserting objects into my vagina? My answers in these cases were no**, yes and "That it prevents pregnancy" and "depends on the squishy level."
After 3 gruelling and soul-searching minutes, PP gave it to me straight:
Birth control is not really a problem that effects me, and by "is not really a problem" I mean "will never possibly in a million bajillion years except if I get drunk and overly confident in a bi threesome be a problem."
That said, I fucking love online multiple-choice tests and so I thought, what the hell, and opened up my mind and my pretend vulva to Planned Parenthood. Also, the knowledge that plannedparenthood.org would be permenantly archived in my work's Big Brother-esque internet monitoring system coupled with the fact that I'm outta here in a week makes me kinda wet in my pretend vulva.
I waded through a myriad of tough questions: Would my partner* be willing to pull out? Would I be okay with an initial couple months of side effects, such as tender breasts? What is the most important quality about my chosen birth control? Would I be comfortable with inserting objects into my vagina? My answers in these cases were no**, yes and "That it prevents pregnancy" and "depends on the squishy level."
After 3 gruelling and soul-searching minutes, PP gave it to me straight:
Conclusion: I am not responsible enough to be in charge of my own birth control and clearly need to be monitored by a medical professional to ensure I don't fuck it up.
Wow, Planned Parents. Judgey McJudgejudge Judgersons. Thanks, Mom. Also, they nailed it right in the vag.***
*Okay, I was typing on autopilot and initially wrote "parents." Paging Dr. Freud...
**He'd be all "Ooh, baby, I'll totally pull out. I wanna cum all over your tits," but I'd know better cause he's an ass man.
*** *shudder*
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
In which I instigate a blog war about... liberal bleeding hearts? Wtf...
You know, I aim to bring the chuckles over here at FF, but sometimes there are situations that are notably unfunny that I have to comment on. Historically, these have included posts on medical conditions, career anxiety and the ongoing feud between me and my penis. Okay, that last one's a little bit funny.
A fellow blogger submitted this post the other day. It is about how he, a brown man, categorically would not want to come back as a white person in a future life, ending his post with a disclaimer that this was not a racist sentiment and we had the following comment exchange:
The Illustrious D said...
I do want to be white in my next life. But that's not racist either...
July 13, 2010 9:25 AM
Amak said...
@ I-D:I donno whether I should ask this but: Would you still want to be Jewish in your next life? (Assuming there is a next life and assuming you'd have the choice)
The Illustrious D said...
I once heard a famous lesbian state that she hopes her kids are straight. This had nothing to with self-loathing or lack of pride, but rather wanting her kids to have the easiest path possible.To that end, I would come back in my next life as a white heterosexual Christian (at least culturally) man.Though I wanna try one go-around as a woman at some point.
July 19, 2010 12:33 PM
Amak said...
@ I-D:My point in this post was exactly the opposite. I realized I came to value my struggles however hard things might have been for me. I don't want it easier in my next life. Is that masochism? Maybe. But it's also a political consciousness that I seem to embody and that feel committed to and want to keep living by.Thanks for responding, dearest I-D.
July 19, 2010 5:27 PM
Oooooooooooooooooookay. I have several points to make on this subject and I'm doing it here because I don't want to bogart his comments section.
First of all, it is racist. Flat out. You can have all the reasons in the world (and we'll get to some of those in a moment), but it's still racist. It's essentially giving more value in your experience as a non-white more than you ever possibly could as a caucasian. Not religious experiences, nor sexual, cultural or handicapped experiences. This is purely about the skin colour you were born with and valuing it above another's. Sorry, you can paint it in whatever far-left liberal nobility you like, but that's racist.
This is not to say that all races have the same experiences, which is what I ultimately think he was getting at. The implicit tone was saying that he values his experience as a brown person; this is totally, 100% valid. I value myself as a Jew. I value myself as a queer. I value myself as whatever-label-I'm-using-to-describe-my-physical-condition-this-week. It's all worthwhile. But guess what other experience is worthwhile? Being white. I don't really identify as white, but there's a lot of really good shit that comes along with that DNA. In refusing to entertain the notion of having those benefits, you essentially place more value on your oppression, real or perceived, than on being born with a certain racial advantage. It's wallowing, accepting whatever persecution you can grab and holding on for dear life rather than refusing it and moving on.
There is a tendency among young adults to react to the shattering of childhood perceptions of the world with radicalism, fight. We place more value in being different than in being good. More worth in personal struggle than saying, "Fuck you," getting over it and moving up in the world. Petition? Sure, I'll sign it. Protest? I'm there. What's it about? I don't really know, but someone's mad about something so I'm in. Anger requires no research whatsoever. The big issues of the world are not dealt with by the angry, but rather by those who have gone past that to understanding and, in many cases, sadness. It's naive to think that we can solve what the great educated minds of the world cannot, but then again, we're not really looking to find solutions. We're looking to be angry.
Why? We just love being different, even crucified. We base our burgeoning adulthood identity on all these things that separate us from our peers and collect them like they're Pokemon. The harder our journey, the prouder we are of ourselves. "Is that masochism?" No. It's way too smug to be masochism. It's self-satisfying martyrdom, it's weaving your own hairshirt, it's flogging yourself with a smile and it's repulsive. Hey, why not cripple yourself while you're at it? Why not pluck out your eyes or blow off your eardrums? At what point does difference stop being perceived as noble and just as fucked up? Probably the point where you yourself are at, I'm guessing.
As stated, I enjoy the unique perspectives that I've gained from my "otherness." I am happy to own them for the rest of my life and look forward to the things they'll teach me. But they're not fucking battle scars. They're not a button on a canvas messenger bag. Not a sign at a rally on posterboard from the Dollar Store. And they're certainly not a self-congratulatory mock up of an image of white domination on someone's blog. My oppressions, my struggles, they don't put me in a nobler place because I've lived them. It's shit I've been dealt and if someone came up and offered me a contract stating that in my next life I could be a healthy, white, straight male, you bet your ass I'd sign.
A fellow blogger submitted this post the other day. It is about how he, a brown man, categorically would not want to come back as a white person in a future life, ending his post with a disclaimer that this was not a racist sentiment and we had the following comment exchange:
The Illustrious D said...
I do want to be white in my next life. But that's not racist either...
July 13, 2010 9:25 AM
Amak said...
@ I-D:I donno whether I should ask this but: Would you still want to be Jewish in your next life? (Assuming there is a next life and assuming you'd have the choice)
The Illustrious D said...
I once heard a famous lesbian state that she hopes her kids are straight. This had nothing to with self-loathing or lack of pride, but rather wanting her kids to have the easiest path possible.To that end, I would come back in my next life as a white heterosexual Christian (at least culturally) man.Though I wanna try one go-around as a woman at some point.
July 19, 2010 12:33 PM
Amak said...
@ I-D:My point in this post was exactly the opposite. I realized I came to value my struggles however hard things might have been for me. I don't want it easier in my next life. Is that masochism? Maybe. But it's also a political consciousness that I seem to embody and that feel committed to and want to keep living by.Thanks for responding, dearest I-D.
July 19, 2010 5:27 PM
Oooooooooooooooooookay. I have several points to make on this subject and I'm doing it here because I don't want to bogart his comments section.
First of all, it is racist. Flat out. You can have all the reasons in the world (and we'll get to some of those in a moment), but it's still racist. It's essentially giving more value in your experience as a non-white more than you ever possibly could as a caucasian. Not religious experiences, nor sexual, cultural or handicapped experiences. This is purely about the skin colour you were born with and valuing it above another's. Sorry, you can paint it in whatever far-left liberal nobility you like, but that's racist.
This is not to say that all races have the same experiences, which is what I ultimately think he was getting at. The implicit tone was saying that he values his experience as a brown person; this is totally, 100% valid. I value myself as a Jew. I value myself as a queer. I value myself as whatever-label-I'm-using-to-describe-my-physical-condition-this-week. It's all worthwhile. But guess what other experience is worthwhile? Being white. I don't really identify as white, but there's a lot of really good shit that comes along with that DNA. In refusing to entertain the notion of having those benefits, you essentially place more value on your oppression, real or perceived, than on being born with a certain racial advantage. It's wallowing, accepting whatever persecution you can grab and holding on for dear life rather than refusing it and moving on.
There is a tendency among young adults to react to the shattering of childhood perceptions of the world with radicalism, fight. We place more value in being different than in being good. More worth in personal struggle than saying, "Fuck you," getting over it and moving up in the world. Petition? Sure, I'll sign it. Protest? I'm there. What's it about? I don't really know, but someone's mad about something so I'm in. Anger requires no research whatsoever. The big issues of the world are not dealt with by the angry, but rather by those who have gone past that to understanding and, in many cases, sadness. It's naive to think that we can solve what the great educated minds of the world cannot, but then again, we're not really looking to find solutions. We're looking to be angry.
Why? We just love being different, even crucified. We base our burgeoning adulthood identity on all these things that separate us from our peers and collect them like they're Pokemon. The harder our journey, the prouder we are of ourselves. "Is that masochism?" No. It's way too smug to be masochism. It's self-satisfying martyrdom, it's weaving your own hairshirt, it's flogging yourself with a smile and it's repulsive. Hey, why not cripple yourself while you're at it? Why not pluck out your eyes or blow off your eardrums? At what point does difference stop being perceived as noble and just as fucked up? Probably the point where you yourself are at, I'm guessing.
As stated, I enjoy the unique perspectives that I've gained from my "otherness." I am happy to own them for the rest of my life and look forward to the things they'll teach me. But they're not fucking battle scars. They're not a button on a canvas messenger bag. Not a sign at a rally on posterboard from the Dollar Store. And they're certainly not a self-congratulatory mock up of an image of white domination on someone's blog. My oppressions, my struggles, they don't put me in a nobler place because I've lived them. It's shit I've been dealt and if someone came up and offered me a contract stating that in my next life I could be a healthy, white, straight male, you bet your ass I'd sign.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Another pre-Tree of Knowledge tale
I still can't get my junk up to do a legit post, so once again I'm bringing you a tale from my Before They Were Assholes vault. Cause seriously, I was muthafukkin cute kid.
Scene: Kitchen table. I am 4.
My parents were part of that first generation to ascribe to the helicopter technique and so were very concerned with their little snowflake's well being. That said, both of them had lived fairly supervision-free childhoods, going on all sorts of wacky Stand By Me-esque adventures involving wandering and gangrene-causing metal objects, and so they were a bit more laissez-faire than some of my contemporaries' respectable parents. C-Dawg, I'm lookin' at you.
Still, they knew that they'd have to one day have a respectable progeny to ensure their Meals on Wheels or Meals on Hydroplaning Pockets of Air (or whatever things are gonna be like in the future) got delivered to them. On this particular occasion, my parents wanted to ascertain just how street smart I was by asking a series of questions relating to Strangers. Anyone that knows me now will tell you that I have roughly the cred of 50 Cent circa 6th bullet wound, but this was not the case during my childhood.
"So David," they began, "What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and wants you to go with him*?"
"I run away and tell an adult," I responded.
"Very good. And what do you do if a stranger comes up to you and says that Mommy and Daddy asked him to pick you up in his car?" they pressed on, turning my Brite Lite on high and shining it right in my face.
"I yell 'NO!' and get away as quick as I can," I proffered, a bit dramatically.
"Yes, that is correct," I was told, as I beamed from my sexually ambiguous mug.**
"Now, David, listen very carefully. This is very important. What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and offers you candy?"
Fuck.
I love candy.
I knew this was the clincher, that I would have to reach back into the recesses of my mind and scour all the information that these people had instilled in my during these first four years. I thought long and I thought hard and I came up with the answer I knew they wanted to hear:
"I would...eat the candy, rush home and BRUSH MY TEETH!"
GOODNIGHT, CINCINNATI!
*In the 80's, there was no gender equality in childnapping.
** No seriously, I was a cute ass motherfucker
What...a fat little fuck.
20 years later and still faggy, still alone, playing with my own balls
Scene: Kitchen table. I am 4.
My parents were part of that first generation to ascribe to the helicopter technique and so were very concerned with their little snowflake's well being. That said, both of them had lived fairly supervision-free childhoods, going on all sorts of wacky Stand By Me-esque adventures involving wandering and gangrene-causing metal objects, and so they were a bit more laissez-faire than some of my contemporaries' respectable parents. C-Dawg, I'm lookin' at you.
Still, they knew that they'd have to one day have a respectable progeny to ensure their Meals on Wheels or Meals on Hydroplaning Pockets of Air (or whatever things are gonna be like in the future) got delivered to them. On this particular occasion, my parents wanted to ascertain just how street smart I was by asking a series of questions relating to Strangers. Anyone that knows me now will tell you that I have roughly the cred of 50 Cent circa 6th bullet wound, but this was not the case during my childhood.
"So David," they began, "What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and wants you to go with him*?"
"I run away and tell an adult," I responded.
"Very good. And what do you do if a stranger comes up to you and says that Mommy and Daddy asked him to pick you up in his car?" they pressed on, turning my Brite Lite on high and shining it right in my face.
"I yell 'NO!' and get away as quick as I can," I proffered, a bit dramatically.
"Yes, that is correct," I was told, as I beamed from my sexually ambiguous mug.**
"Now, David, listen very carefully. This is very important. What do you do if a stranger comes up to you and offers you candy?"
Fuck.
I love candy.
I knew this was the clincher, that I would have to reach back into the recesses of my mind and scour all the information that these people had instilled in my during these first four years. I thought long and I thought hard and I came up with the answer I knew they wanted to hear:
"I would...eat the candy, rush home and BRUSH MY TEETH!"
GOODNIGHT, CINCINNATI!
*In the 80's, there was no gender equality in childnapping.
** No seriously, I was a cute ass motherfucker
Spaghetti sauce or childhood rosacea? You decide.
What...a fat little fuck.
Here I am sitting in my brother's wheely-chair, pretending I'm little but
really just coming off faggy. Tragic foreshadowing. Butch bathrobe, though.
20 years later and still faggy, still alone, playing with my own ballsThursday, July 15, 2010
Fuck you, ABBA.
Today's Google header is retarded.Okay, so I have nothing to say at all but I'm getting all paranoid about my low output recently. Low out put = me not putting out = blogging prude. It's like THE RULES made a Blogger! Edition.
What? Even I barely get my 90's pop culture references any more.
So I have nothing to say, as previously...said... so I'm just gonna tell ADORABLE childhood anecdotes and pray that no one notices how shitty this blog has become since I started my monstrous ABBA/MS Paint undertaking.
I am 6 years old, playing in the backyard with my next door neighbour, Nathan. Nathan is going into grade 2 and infinitely cooler than I for it. It is the summer time and as always The Red River Exhibition, a three-week long carnival with lots of rides and deep-fried shit, has pulled into town. It is a modern Neverland and so, like all things related to childhood, such as Full House, Lucky Charms and the notion that "my no spot is just for me," my parents have denied me knowledge of its existence.
Nathan, in his super suave 7 year old voice, asks, "Hey David, are you going to the Ex this year?"
Oh god, he is so cool. I don't even know what the fuck he is talking about.
"Good question, Nathan," I respond, "Let me just go an check with
Mother informs me that, no, small child, you shan't be venturing forth to have this "fun" you've heard about in rumours and the liberal media.
Distraught not at the idea of missing out but rather having to tell Nathan that I am not in his Universe of Candy Appled Awesome, I head back outside to face the music. This being 1990, likely Minni Vanilli.
"Well?" he asks.
"No," I reply, "I am not going to the Ex...
...but sometimes I go to the Y."
GOODNIGHT, CHICAGO!
Friday, July 09, 2010
A new bodily goo for me to swallow
Have you ever felt some tickling the inside of your nostril, presumably a booger in some form or another (fossilized, goo, etc.) and so you sniff really super hard but then that little flap separating your nasal passage from your throat doesn't have time to close so the booger passes through it and suddenly you're wondering what morsel of food just dislodged from your back molar and is drain-circling your throat when you realize that - omagad - it's the booger and so you hork it up really loudly and you taste it and then for a moment it reminds you of eating boogers as a kid and how much fun it was so you try to eat it but then you're all "Um, I'm eating a booger right now," but you can't really stop booger-eating so you just kind of swallow it?
*sigh*
Wow.
My promised ABBA-ductee reinterpretation is still being created. So far I've done 10 MS Paint drawings. I'm quickly coming to hate this project. But I will percevere for you people. Goes I'm a giver. Just not the Lois Lowry kind.
*sigh*
Wow.
My promised ABBA-ductee reinterpretation is still being created. So far I've done 10 MS Paint drawings. I'm quickly coming to hate this project. But I will percevere for you people. Goes I'm a giver. Just not the Lois Lowry kind.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
My self-esteem needs a shower
Once upon a time, the pictures that I uploaded linked themselves so that you could see the larger format, but now the blogging gods have deemed me unworthy of such privelege and thus have relegated my lowly readership to squinting just so they can marvel at the amazing detail I pour into every piece I create.
As such, I have made a top 10 list of my favourite words on my blog Wordle, the idea of which was coopted from Nigel at corndogpenis.blogspot.com:
10. Um - Way to start off with a bang, Wordle. But yeah, I use 'um' way too much.
9. Dildo - No witty comment. I just like that it was included.
8. Bechamel - See, you think I'm classy, but no.
7. Pizzas - Plural.
6. Members - Not as in joint associates of a common club or organization, but rather, penii.
5. Back Pocket - Okay, I realize it's two words, but 'pocket' is inside of the B of 'back' and I thought that was kinda cool in a very Alanis Morissette circa 1996 kinda way. Fine, admittedly not my best blog post ever.
4. Awkward - Just like #5.
3. Magic - as in, comma Black.
2. High - Which clearly I was when I thought this would be a fun post.
1. Failed Many - One on top of each other in my Word and far too telling in my life.
NEXT TIME: I reimagine ABBA lyrics from the perspective of an abductee.
UPDATE: For some reason, this one picture, the one on which I based my whole "Blogger is a whore that hates me and my small
Monday, July 05, 2010
Wherein I devote 17 straight (ha) hours to the community that ignores me
This past weekend, I volunteered 20 hours to Toronto Pride as a result of 3/4 of a bottle of wine. As with my NXNE volunteering, it was a complete shit show and a total waste of time. The following is an overly-detailed account of how my Saturday went:
5:15 - Wake up at housesitting house. Punch their cat in his cat junk for whining at me while I make his breakfast of chicken livers and gravy. Half of the third world doesn't eat as well as this asshole.
6:30 - Arrive at volunteer check-in. Lament pink shirt I'm forced to wear and the fact that the picture for my volunteer badge is the best photo I've taken since 2003. Contemplate scanning it for new Facebook profile pic. Sit around for 45 minutes waiting to be told that my team and I can leave.
7:20 - Walk with group to Vendor Registration tent 10 minutes away. I am the team captain and am completely drunk with power as a result of carrying the walkie-talkie.
8:00 - Darren, a 38 year old volunteer who I inadvertently alienate by guessing he's 40 when asked, goes to get coffee for everyone and a breakfast sandwich for me, a tragic sign of carb-loading to come.
8:45 - We actually do shit for 25 minutes, signing food vendors in and giving them their permits.
9:30 - Chatty-Cathy Darren asks us all what we do and when he learns that I'm new to the city, tells me that he's been here for 7 years and that it "doesn't get easier." I want to punch Darren in the pancreas.
10:15 - A 50 year old white woman in causasian dreads and a tye-dyed muumuu sets up a bunch of hippie-shit necklaces on a nearby picnic table, in clear defiance of those vendors who actually purchased permits. One of my fellow volunteers, a kicky 19 year old aspiring lawyer, asks me if she can be the one to go get all up in Moonchild Rainbowbeaver's grill and, naturally, I say yes. I support her youthful exuberance, but mostly I just don't want to get off my duff.
10:50 - Cindi Lauper begins her soundcheck and I decide to catch a glimpse, handing the walkie over to Darren as secret punishment for getting my breakfast sandwich on a biscuit and NOT THE CHEESE BAGEL I HAD REQUESTED. Turd. In any case, the 19 year old wannabe litigator and I stroll backstage with are super-authoritative volunteer badges and she gets all sassy with the security guard trying to shove us away as I totally gay out when C.Laup passes by within 8 feet of me.
12:00 - A skinny woman volunteer with weird thinning but curly hair arrives, saying that she is a 'runner', meaning someone that can do random errands, but as there is nothing to do, she sits down and joins our crew.
12:05 - I realize this is a man. Stephen quickly becomes a den mother to us all, randomly telling us stories of adventures with lesbians, brown acid in the 70's and jokes with Darren about the joys of leather sex. I want to joke with Stephen about the joys of leather sex. I want to punch Darren in the eyeball.
12:45 - Stephen takes order for coffee and then announces that it'll likely take him a couple hours cause he has to drop off some children. Or Pride buttons. I wasn't really listening.
1:00 - Changing of the guard. Darren et al are replaced by two teenage girls, a quiet Asian who I immediately want to befriend and a curly-haired hippo who reminds me of my retarded cousin.
2:15 - Stephen returns and as Darren is gone I drink both of our coffees, totalling 4 shots of espresso. Lacking is my foam and honey, which Stephen forgot but makes it seem like he didn't hear in the first place. Bloom is sure off the rose with this one.
3:30 - I ask girls what their favourite colour is.
3:45 - Repeated calls are made over the walkie for David. I answer them. No one answers me back. This becomes a running joke that everyone at Pride hates me. This is kinda funny. Not really, but kinda.
4:55 - All that coffee comes back to haunt me and I am escorted to the washroom by Barbara, the little Chinese girl. She goes to the University of Toronto, close to where our tent is and sneaks me into the library bathroom. She's pretty much Michelle Yeoh in Tomorrow Never Dies.
5:05 - I fully Jackson Pollock the toilet bowl.
5:45 - A new volunteer arrives. He is little and foreign and kind of cute. I mentally name him My Little Albanian. He also bears a striking resemblance to this guy who's been messaging me on Manhunt, who incidentally had just had a birthday. I decide to see if they're one and the same, building on my amazingly successful "What's your favourite colour question?" question from 3:30, and ask everyone when their birthday is. MLA's is in August. Myth = busted. But still... I'm fucking crafty.
6:15 - Stephen adds me on Facebook via his blackberry and then leaves.
6:45 - I go for another stroll and some young, kinda cute, kinda stupid guy starts talking me up. I think I've made a new friend but then I realize that he's just drunk and I remember that I don't have friends. Crafty lone wolf am I.
7:00 - Barbara and Tons-of-Fun leave.
7:01 - Twinky boy shows up in a volunteer shirt cinched at the navel and his green-and-white striped underoos more than visibly showing, saying that he's another runner. I tell him that there's nothing to do so to feel free to go run. He smiles huge, yells, "Okay!" and fucking takes off in a flailing jog. I hate him more than Darren.
7:02 - I'm bored. I regret telling Fairy Fox to go away.
7:30 - I try making small talk with MLA and it comes out that he's a huge Mozart fan. We listen to arias on my iPod. Things are looking up.
8:45 - Bag checks at the gate have resulted in a line about a quarter mile long to get in to see Cindi Lauper. A lady asks MLA and I for directions to the beer tent before informing us that she really wanted to bring her kids but that it "wasn't her weekend." Evidently, alcoholism and oversharing does not lead to primary custody. Who knew?
9:15 - MLA and I are tasked with putting up Jones Soda signs all across the top of our tent. I hold the signs while he tapes. We bond.
9:21 - I poke MLA in the stomach. I'm so playful.
9:30 - Things get heavy. MLA tells me all about how introverted he was back in Europe because of his sexuality and how his father doesn't know even now and how he works at McDonald's while going to school for a bachelor of science in biology. I want to hug him.
9:45 - Fresh from the washroom, MLA breathless informs me that that we may get a whole pizza to ourselves if none of the other volunteers claim it. I still want to hug him. Maybe more.
9:50 - Another drunk guy comes up to me and says how much he appreciates the volunteering I'm doing. He then wishes me a Happy Pride and informs me that he's sucking as many cocks as he can in celebration and encourages me to do the same.
10:15 - By the grace of God, we get shut down early. Passive aggressive comments are made at the supervisors about how maybe 17 hour shifts of wasting people's time are a bit excessive.
10:20 - MLA and I listen to Cindi while leaning against a tree. This is his first Pride and had to lie to his father about working all day. He is clearly in awe of the massive amounts of people and music and lights, like a 14 year old dropping E at his first rave. Except instead of E, he's dropping - wait for it - his guard. Deep.
11:00 - We walk back to volunteer headquarters to drop off the walkie-talkie. MLA carries my bag. He's about 5'5" so this is both endearing and sort of funny, too.
11:20 - We walk to the subway, throw out our shirts out - him so his father won't find it, me because I'm an autumn - and exchange numbers, hugs.
12:00 - I get home and talk to Future Roommate incoherently. I tell her that I have a headache which I fear may be do to alcohol withdrawal. I later realize that it's more likely because I've been up for nearly twenty hours and all I've put in my body is coffee and shitty pizza.
12:35 - Receive text from MLA thanking me for a pleasurable evening and that he's never felt so open with someone in his whole life.
Okay, maybe not a total waste of time.
5:15 - Wake up at housesitting house. Punch their cat in his cat junk for whining at me while I make his breakfast of chicken livers and gravy. Half of the third world doesn't eat as well as this asshole.
6:30 - Arrive at volunteer check-in. Lament pink shirt I'm forced to wear and the fact that the picture for my volunteer badge is the best photo I've taken since 2003. Contemplate scanning it for new Facebook profile pic. Sit around for 45 minutes waiting to be told that my team and I can leave.
7:20 - Walk with group to Vendor Registration tent 10 minutes away. I am the team captain and am completely drunk with power as a result of carrying the walkie-talkie.
8:00 - Darren, a 38 year old volunteer who I inadvertently alienate by guessing he's 40 when asked, goes to get coffee for everyone and a breakfast sandwich for me, a tragic sign of carb-loading to come.
8:45 - We actually do shit for 25 minutes, signing food vendors in and giving them their permits.
9:30 - Chatty-Cathy Darren asks us all what we do and when he learns that I'm new to the city, tells me that he's been here for 7 years and that it "doesn't get easier." I want to punch Darren in the pancreas.
10:15 - A 50 year old white woman in causasian dreads and a tye-dyed muumuu sets up a bunch of hippie-shit necklaces on a nearby picnic table, in clear defiance of those vendors who actually purchased permits. One of my fellow volunteers, a kicky 19 year old aspiring lawyer, asks me if she can be the one to go get all up in Moonchild Rainbowbeaver's grill and, naturally, I say yes. I support her youthful exuberance, but mostly I just don't want to get off my duff.
10:50 - Cindi Lauper begins her soundcheck and I decide to catch a glimpse, handing the walkie over to Darren as secret punishment for getting my breakfast sandwich on a biscuit and NOT THE CHEESE BAGEL I HAD REQUESTED. Turd. In any case, the 19 year old wannabe litigator and I stroll backstage with are super-authoritative volunteer badges and she gets all sassy with the security guard trying to shove us away as I totally gay out when C.Laup passes by within 8 feet of me.
12:00 - A skinny woman volunteer with weird thinning but curly hair arrives, saying that she is a 'runner', meaning someone that can do random errands, but as there is nothing to do, she sits down and joins our crew.
12:05 - I realize this is a man. Stephen quickly becomes a den mother to us all, randomly telling us stories of adventures with lesbians, brown acid in the 70's and jokes with Darren about the joys of leather sex. I want to joke with Stephen about the joys of leather sex. I want to punch Darren in the eyeball.
12:45 - Stephen takes order for coffee and then announces that it'll likely take him a couple hours cause he has to drop off some children. Or Pride buttons. I wasn't really listening.
1:00 - Changing of the guard. Darren et al are replaced by two teenage girls, a quiet Asian who I immediately want to befriend and a curly-haired hippo who reminds me of my retarded cousin.
2:15 - Stephen returns and as Darren is gone I drink both of our coffees, totalling 4 shots of espresso. Lacking is my foam and honey, which Stephen forgot but makes it seem like he didn't hear in the first place. Bloom is sure off the rose with this one.
3:30 - I ask girls what their favourite colour is.
3:45 - Repeated calls are made over the walkie for David. I answer them. No one answers me back. This becomes a running joke that everyone at Pride hates me. This is kinda funny. Not really, but kinda.
4:55 - All that coffee comes back to haunt me and I am escorted to the washroom by Barbara, the little Chinese girl. She goes to the University of Toronto, close to where our tent is and sneaks me into the library bathroom. She's pretty much Michelle Yeoh in Tomorrow Never Dies.
5:05 - I fully Jackson Pollock the toilet bowl.
5:45 - A new volunteer arrives. He is little and foreign and kind of cute. I mentally name him My Little Albanian. He also bears a striking resemblance to this guy who's been messaging me on Manhunt, who incidentally had just had a birthday. I decide to see if they're one and the same, building on my amazingly successful "What's your favourite colour question?" question from 3:30, and ask everyone when their birthday is. MLA's is in August. Myth = busted. But still... I'm fucking crafty.
6:15 - Stephen adds me on Facebook via his blackberry and then leaves.
6:45 - I go for another stroll and some young, kinda cute, kinda stupid guy starts talking me up. I think I've made a new friend but then I realize that he's just drunk and I remember that I don't have friends. Crafty lone wolf am I.
7:00 - Barbara and Tons-of-Fun leave.
7:01 - Twinky boy shows up in a volunteer shirt cinched at the navel and his green-and-white striped underoos more than visibly showing, saying that he's another runner. I tell him that there's nothing to do so to feel free to go run. He smiles huge, yells, "Okay!" and fucking takes off in a flailing jog. I hate him more than Darren.
7:02 - I'm bored. I regret telling Fairy Fox to go away.
7:30 - I try making small talk with MLA and it comes out that he's a huge Mozart fan. We listen to arias on my iPod. Things are looking up.
8:00 - I teach him how to play 'Hot or Not' with a Fab magazine featuring a cover model that looks like Nate from Six Feet Under but totally naked and a guitar covering his junk. MLA says he likes tanned muscle guys with hair only on their heads. I'm fucked.
8:45 - Bag checks at the gate have resulted in a line about a quarter mile long to get in to see Cindi Lauper. A lady asks MLA and I for directions to the beer tent before informing us that she really wanted to bring her kids but that it "wasn't her weekend." Evidently, alcoholism and oversharing does not lead to primary custody. Who knew?
9:15 - MLA and I are tasked with putting up Jones Soda signs all across the top of our tent. I hold the signs while he tapes. We bond.
9:21 - I poke MLA in the stomach. I'm so playful.
9:30 - Things get heavy. MLA tells me all about how introverted he was back in Europe because of his sexuality and how his father doesn't know even now and how he works at McDonald's while going to school for a bachelor of science in biology. I want to hug him.
9:45 - Fresh from the washroom, MLA breathless informs me that that we may get a whole pizza to ourselves if none of the other volunteers claim it. I still want to hug him. Maybe more.
9:50 - Another drunk guy comes up to me and says how much he appreciates the volunteering I'm doing. He then wishes me a Happy Pride and informs me that he's sucking as many cocks as he can in celebration and encourages me to do the same.
10:15 - By the grace of God, we get shut down early. Passive aggressive comments are made at the supervisors about how maybe 17 hour shifts of wasting people's time are a bit excessive.
10:20 - MLA and I listen to Cindi while leaning against a tree. This is his first Pride and had to lie to his father about working all day. He is clearly in awe of the massive amounts of people and music and lights, like a 14 year old dropping E at his first rave. Except instead of E, he's dropping - wait for it - his guard. Deep.
11:00 - We walk back to volunteer headquarters to drop off the walkie-talkie. MLA carries my bag. He's about 5'5" so this is both endearing and sort of funny, too.
11:20 - We walk to the subway, throw out our shirts out - him so his father won't find it, me because I'm an autumn - and exchange numbers, hugs.
12:00 - I get home and talk to Future Roommate incoherently. I tell her that I have a headache which I fear may be do to alcohol withdrawal. I later realize that it's more likely because I've been up for nearly twenty hours and all I've put in my body is coffee and shitty pizza.
12:35 - Receive text from MLA thanking me for a pleasurable evening and that he's never felt so open with someone in his whole life.
Okay, maybe not a total waste of time.
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