-----Email Message-----
Sent: Sunday, August 24, 2008 4:39 PM
Subject: list of fears secret

A friend of mine made a list of his fears and insecurities and had a friend of his make one of hers too in order to make me feel better when I was struggling with some personal problems. In return, I had to make one of mine. I was surprised at how long it was. Even more so, I was surprised at how therapeutic it was to share all of our darkest secrets with each other. I cried at first, but then we laughed about it and turned it into a joke.

I don't think I could've found healing so complete in anything other than those lists and the deeper connection it formed, even if it was temporary. I still read those lists sometimes. I get the same sort of feeling I get as when I read PostSecret, only it's a little more overwhelming. There's just a strong sense of belonging and connecting, of not being so alone anymore.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Well, I'm game. I'm afraid...

1. That I'll never find love. Oh, we all knew that one was coming so let's just get it out of the way. What is this, your first time on this blog? Get over it.

2. Of birds. Seriously. What the shit? Ground animals can only go side to side and forward and back; birds are fucking 3D! And with the little beaks and claws...gah.

3. That I have no idea what I want to be when I grow up.

4. That I know exactly what I want to be when I grow up.

5. Of angering people. I don't do well with that, even if I know that I am unequivocally in the right. I just don't like being yelled at.

6. Of being broke. I'm so fucking Jewish. I get really anxious if I don't have some sort of payment on me. The knowledge that with my credit and debit cards, I have enough money to get me from Siberia to my doorstep is a very comforting thought and when they're not on me, I'm deeply unsettled.

7. Of having to watch my parents express emotions. It's weird. My mother cried last week at my father's 60th birthday toast and I almost ralphed.

8. Of homophobia. What is that? Homophobiaphobia? In any case, I'm so not the social vigilante I dream of being in those situations. I tend to just sit there and stew and wish that everyone was queer for one day just to see what it was like.

9. Of heights. Though not really of heights, per se, so much as falling from heights. Heights by themselves are fine.

10. Of Virginia Wolff. Did you see The Hours? Bitch is scary.

11. Of the pedophile in the movie Little Children. That character was the cause of my only adult nightmares.

12. That two of my former dates/acquaintances/whatevers will start dating. It's bad enough when one starts dating a stranger, but somehow, if I know them both, I assume that talking about how much I sucked is like foreplay to them.

13. Of not having messages returned. That's why I don't leave them.

14. Of Male troubles. See previous post.

15. That I'll never make a truly great cream sauce. I'm a good cook; why the shit can't I do this?

16. Of starting anything that has the potential for failure, like a work out regimen. Cause better that I just not do it at all than to be in shape for 3 months?

17. Of Tori Amos, Madonna, Emily Haines and all those really strong female musicians that seem like they don't really like anyone.

18. That I'm too clever for my own good sometimes. This sounds like an ego booster; it's not.

19. Of becoming one of the lifers in opera chorus. Ugh.

20. To eat at Baked Expectations. EVERYONE has a horror story from that place, including mine of food poisoning by tia maria torte on my birthday. Dessert Sinsations 4 Life, yo.

21. To shave my head. My aunt suggested it last week and I've been seriously contemplating it, but that...that is a commitment. Plus, what I do about facial hair, sideburns, etc. These are the questions I have.

22. Of my dog. He's an asshole.

23. Of my dad's "Let's talk about sex" talks. I'm 24. You can stop now. And please never use the word "release" in my presence again.

24. Of not having any comments in response to this post.

Dear Friend...

What a whirlwind time we've had. This is, what, our eleventh year of being intimately acquainted? Better make it twelve. Of course, you've been there since birth, but we didn't really spend much time together until then. I've watched you grow with me throughout the years, through some good times and bad. You were always there to give me an honest opinion of the gents I was going out with and when I disregarded your initial reaction, I always regretted it. You're like my Rock of Gibraltar and, oftentimes, just as hard. Yes, you can be quite the most stubborn of companions, shooting off when I least expect it, barely making an appearance at social gatherings or simply going hot or cold without a moments notice. Sometimes having you in front of me makes me feel like a star and occasionally like a limp rag, but I always appreciate the attention paid when I take matters into my own hands. Even when things get a bit hairy, you manage to rise to the occasion and we thrust through together. If I have one complaint, it would be your inability to accept my protection when I just want to keep us both safe. Yes, I know, you're getting better and I appreciate that. But in these times, I have to be firm with you and I hope you'll return the favour.

I hate you. I adore you. And I know others have felt the same.

Just as you salute me, I salute you, my penis, my friend.

Oh Em Gee, Sarah! You know this shit is coming back now.

Brief update: My hellish tenure with the Fringe is over. I have no job. I have no plans. I'm-a be blogging a lot. Prepare for a hail storm of crap.

There's something almost humourous about two heterosexual actors playing gay for pay on the screen in that moment just before they kiss. They're never believable and I'll tell you why. In that half second before their lips are to meet, they inevitably part and this most false action completely betrays their pussy-loving ways. Go back and look at the great straight embraces of the celluloid; a straight man would never dream of opening his mouth before his lips touched his lover because that would completely foul that sublime moment when the lips touch for the first time. Do they part afterwards? Well, of course they do. This is not a Disney film, my dear; some friction is necessary. However, that first moment is to be preserved. It's as though these two sweetly delusional thespians believe that the only intimacy that can occur between two men calls for the lips to be parted, which is unfortunately homophobic as they probably think of themselves as allies. Now that our esteemed government has given us the right to marry, this does not mean that weddings will end with the phrase, "You may now fellate the bridegroom!"

It's so disappointing, isn't it? We expected so much more. I can recall sitting through a screening of Making Love in 1982 at the Metro 8. One would have thought that the release of the film was messianic, such were the palpitations in my chest. In the scene where Harry Hamlin and the cute but ultimately forgotten other guy are bare chested, hands tracing backs, lips inching closer, the pulsations moved somewhat more southernly. And then at that moment, that moment for which I braved slurs from the pock-marked box office employee and the disappointment of realizing I was one of seven people in the theatre, each sitting by themselves, their lips finally touched, but not before that asshole Hamlin opens his goddamn lips. Suddenly, it was false. It wasn't the apocalypse but rather some pre-Melrose demi-hunk serving my life up on spray painted silver platter. I walked out in disgust, just like all those that had walked out for the exact opposite reason.

There is nothing more thrilling than that moment, you see. An amazing kiss is about contact, to be sure, but when they disappoint you so 90% of the time, one can't help but live for that second before it all goes wrong. My greatest pleasure on this earth is lingering on his bottom lip the moment we touch. I am convinced that the Song of Songs was written about his bottom lip. I would call it manna had I not been heckled as an old dramatic by some of my ever aging girls. The comments of our 25 year age difference are near constant from them and I take every loving barb with reverie, so happy am I with that bottom lip. That bottom lip is the one vice on this earth that I have maintained in this, the golden years of life for a gay man not yet 50. The previous ones always needed a balance to keep them from oscillating out of control. The promiscuity of my thirties was tempered by the fact that I only slept with unattractive men as to not indulge too frequently or risk contracting some dreadful ailment by one to ugly too bear a repeat performance. In my twenties, my lust for food, thinness and my poverty resulted in a cycle of spending far too much on fancy meals after which I would promptly induce vomiting as a chastisement on behalf of my wallet as well as my waistline. Now in my forties, I only have his bottom lip and fuck, if I don't make up for Harry Hamlin's mistakes.

PS - We all knew that Miami 3 wasn't happening, so quit your whining. It involved a sunrise massage overlooking the ocean and the near strangulation of my father. I am currently making butt-love to my Hermes belt, though.

It's Britney, bitch

Dude, it's so not Britney. Did you really think it was? Consider yourself pwn'ed mothahfuckahhhhhhhh. Seriously, the only thing that Britney and I have in common is a cheap weave and an obligation for child support.

Updating in the summer is hard, yo! I'd love to say that this is because I'm off frolicking my ass off in some goddamn meadow with a sensitive satyr who has become my lover, but alas and alack, this is not so.

I have, however, been getting up to some good shit.

For starters I am obsessed - OBSESSED - with Kathy Griffin. Yes, I realize that my frequent declarations of obsession for strong, funny women that could easily be drag queens falls into the category of gay stereotype, but you know what? I can't fight it. I'm not made of stone, people. Men aren't funny. End of story. This bitch talking smack about Lindsay Lohan is. (Side note: FireFox just tagged the word 'Lohan' as not in the dictionary. Like Don McLean, I inquire as to when these people will learn. Lohan will live forever. Right click. Add to dictionary)

Little known fact: I've actually met Kathy Griffin. For shiz. During my summer in Montreal, my ampley-bossom buddy and I went to see her at a club for Just For Laughs. Afterwards, we loitered around hoping to catch a glimpse, busing tables, smoking butts, etc. and when the security said we had to leave, we made a mad dash around him to the stage door, whereupon the lady with the face so tight met us with passive enthusiasm. There's still a photo floating around my apartment somewhere., but I still remember the feeling of my hand on her waste, inadvertently stroking her poly-blend black top.

That's kind of the biggest news. Otherwise, I went on a ten-day tour with Chai, which could have been a Bravo special had it been at all interesting. I nearly took out half the singers at one point, such was my rage. God bless the portable DVD player, as it was the only thing that stood between me and Chomocide. (Michael Park, that one was for you.)

I've also started seeing someone, though since day one I've just been waiting for it to end, fatalist that I am. We've fallen into this nice pattern where we see each, two days go by, I get anxious and screw someone else, his roommate calls me and tells me lies about infidelity, gang wars are started and then we cuddle. It's all very sweet. Seriously, it's probably gonna end in about 23 minutes.

Miami 3 is on her way. Patience.

As I've stated before, I don't cry. Not really. As a child, yes, all the time. Near daily at some points. I always loathed it, as far back as I can remember. I'm not entirely sure why, perhaps some gender vision that was muddled to think that it was shameful, but I've always hidden it. When I have cried, it's typically been done once year by an event that is unforgivable. Things will continue to evolve after it, but the person or event that caused it will never really be healed. We can be surrounded by such beauty but it will never be Eden. When I have cried, it's been like shoving a waterfall through a sieve. If you're standing underneath the sieve all you see are little droplets falling down; you're completely unaware of the force beating from the other side. There are as many ways to cry as there are to laugh, though I think generally involve either sobbing or silent agony. I've never sobbed. Never had the falls break the sieve and vocalized despair. Not once. I have no clue what it feels like, though I can imagine from watching enough Baz Lurmann films.

But there's one coming.

It's everything about this past year. The move, the aimless wandering around the end of my degree, the emotion surrounding the Recital, the tectonic shifts in friendships, the barren womb of the countless relationships I didn't have this year or perhaps just the one...It's coming. I'm experiencing it almost every day now, watching an episode of sappy television or listening to a song that ends me. Sometimes I catch it and taper back. Other times, I think that I'm just going to let it out but then quickly retract the reigns, the rebellion and its failure occurring within a split second.

I've been told before that for me to cry is one of the worst things possible. Granted, this was said by a dear friend; I'm not really sure why, but I almost understand it. It's not an ego thing or thinking that I'm better than an other, but it seems as though something would break if it would happen or I just wouldn't be able to stop. I know what this sounds like, but at times I feel as though I'm just passing through, like I don't really belong here. This isn't meant to sound grandiose, but I almost feel as though any human behaviour has simply been assigned so I can pass through unnoticed, undetected, while performing some sort of heavenly case study. A celestial creature riding transit.

I've been feeling oddly drawn to the angel Gabriel lately. Those that know me would never think that divine inspiration would be a presence in my life, and I'm not saying it has in the traditional sense, but it's almost like meeting someone for the first time and knowing them completely, knowing exactly what will make them laugh, draw them in, push them away. This was similar. I never thought anything of seraphim and always loathed the name 'Gabriel' but some time, several months ago, it just clicked into place, batteries meeting, that this was something worth drawing from. What it actually may be is not important, whether it is a calling or merely brain synapses misfiring, completely irrelevant so long as a journey is begun.

I've been almost crying a lot lately.