It's a social visit. My neurologist and me. An annual tradition. This man who has known me since early adolescence, I go and see him ever twelve months. I take an afternoon off work, pay an insane amount for metered parking by the hospital (Twice as much as anywhere else in the city? These people should be shot.). I sit in his waiting room - perhaps five minutes, perhaps forty-five. He collects me and we head to his examination room, where, every year, a new resident doctor waits, anxious to see such a rare, nameless case. They're always quite lovely, a sharp contrast to him. Tall, wiry, sort of hideous, from a colonial nation - I'm convinced his entire family line did horrible things. He's brilliant, if a horrible human being. Cold, removed, occasionally droning on about hospital bureaucracy or making vague political remarks that are completely inappropriate coming from an MD. I don't care. I'm not here for any real reason.

He pokes. He prods. He pricks me with safety pins and touches a vibrating mechanism to my skin to see if I can feel it. Sometimes he attempts to fool me by making the sound of hitting the vibration device but stopping it before it reaches my skin. I always look away as though to show that I'm being a good sport, but I can tell. It sounds different when he stops the vibration.

He speak to the resident, using medical jargon he doesn't bother to explain to me. It doesn't matter. He tells the intern I'm a musician. They ask me how the deterioration affects my profession. He then takes the opportunity to prattle on about his childhood relationship to the recorder or how much his wife hates the bassoon.

He concludes by saying he has nothing more to say. He has other patients in far worse shape. He tells us one or two stories about them. He states that my numbers are good, commenting on my broad shoulders (lol), though in a rare moment of humanity he does acknowledge that good numbers in no way negates the functional deterioration I report. He then asks if I wish to see him again next year. This is a farcically meaningless question because we both know I have to. Not for him, of course. He's completely useless to me. But my insurer will have too many questions if I stop this annual pilgrimage, so I agree. He'll get to share me with his latest resident, and, in turn, I won't lose my livelihood. Not a bad trade, actually.

Maybe next year I'll bring a picnic,

Airbud meets Metropolis

Life is hard right now. Not like Syrian refugee hard. Not being held in detention for 30 hours at JFK hard. Just, like, I don't think I'm living the life I was meant to hard. And also I'm 3-fucking-2 and there are complications that come with that number that didn't exist when I first started this ten years ago.

Guys, I have a fucking dog. Do you know how restricted I am as a person because of a dog? Like, ruff rough stuff. I also have a mortgage. And a car. And a job that allows me to have these things. And I'm fucking lucky to have all that, as well as my white male privilege. I mean, I've got the queer gimp Jew thing, but still. These are complications as much as they are joys. Or what should be joys.

I am fucking miserable. Not just tonight but generally. Was I miserable ten years ago? Probably. Was I trying to do hot yoga via radiator heat in my first apartment and then blogging about it? Yes. But being miserable is okay when you still have the whimsy and naivety of youth that allows for such misadventure. Now I'm wise and miserable. And it licks taint.

Maybe I'm just a miserable person. And were I just a miserable person writing about their life and throwing it into the void of internet communications circa 2006 then that would be unremarkable, as we were all doing this shit in 2006. But maybe it isn't just that. Maybe this is an attempt to reclaim the fervour I had then, part of a journey to analyse what interested me enough in observing people on the bus or fabricating love affairs between me and the guy who watered the plans at work. And illustrate it all in Microsoft Paint. At least if you're miserable and passionate then shit can get accomplished. Or maybe I'll just write this one post and that will be it.

So I don't know. Don't hold me to anything. But I know it can't stay like this.

I need friends

I live in a neighbourhood that was recently named one of the most desirable in Canada. It's one of the more vibrant in Winnipeg, hosting not just wealthy artsy/academic types but also several low income housing units. My building is a five-storey yuppie haven with newly reno'ed hardwood floors, large windows, AC, and a bathroom with one of those bathtub shells that fits over the old one, with lots of shelves and stuff. I've only seen one tenant over thirty-five. His name is Daniel and he is a suspected alcoholic who sits on the front stairs in a stained tank top and fisherman's hat, smoking until even his eyes grow wrinkles. But enough on Daniel.

The building next to ours is a mere three storeys and, while not low-income housing, is certainly at a lower price point than my overpriced pad. It's a sunny day here. Warm without being hot, and the first time in weeks that the humidity has lifted and the sunlight comes down pure, as though swerving through and around water particles had somehow tainted it before now. Against my lease's regulations, I have removed my window screens to feel the sun and look out on the neighbourhood from above.

Below, in the shadow of our building, I see a woman. 30's, 40's. Hard to tell. She is dressed in a striped tank top and shorts, a cigarette in one hand, a tote bag in the other, with two more tote bags on each shoulder. She lays them down by the dirt beneath what I assume to be her window. From the three bags, she begins to remove rocks, varying in size from about that of an apple to a spaghetti squash. She lays them carefully, one by one, in an arch from one end of her window to the other, the tangent just touching the edge of the dirt where it touches the grass.

After ten minutes, she steps back, same cigarette in hand, to admire her work. I want to yell down to her, "Hey! You won't be able to grow anything there! There's no sunlight."

But I think maybe she knows that already. She's clearly a functional person, one who can afford nice-ish clothes, cigarettes, and means of transporting three bags of rocks. I feel like she knows something I don't. Maybe something philosophical about how in a world without flowers, rocks become things of beauty. Or some shit like that. I don't know. But it makes me sad. Not for her, but for my own lack of understanding.

ESL adventures on Grindr

Holy Shit Balls: Hey

Illustrious D: Hiya

HSB: Love? Big? Love

ID: Pardon?

HSB: Looking for love. What kind of love

ID: Platonic or romantic, long term for both

HSB: Ok

ID: You?

HSB: R u hung? Platonically speaking I'm hung

ID: You're platonically hung?

HSB: Looking for big love Yep .))

ID: What...does that mean?

HSB: And platonically HOTT

*sends me picture of his cock*

Too :))

ID: K thanks

HSB: U going?

ID: Not looking for that kind of love.

HSB: But that was platonic Platonic is not physical Ur def need to be clear.

Gym, part the third

Just spent $2,500 on a gym membership and personal trainer.

I had better fucking have someone to hold with my newly muscled arms once I get them.

Y’all, I seriously wish that rapture had shown up, cuz fer serious, I got nothing to write. My favourite bloggers are either:

a) riddled with anxiety, drama and drunken/drugged-out adventures

OR

b) people that actually have their shit together and lead interesting lives.

I gots neither of these things going for me. I’m out, get on well with my parents, about to have a kinda-interesting-but-only-to-me career and don’t do nearly enough drugs. Seriously. I’ve been looking and – so strange – no one has responded to my “SELL ME DRUGS” craigslist ad. I’m also doing a cleanse at the moment so I can’t even drink. I had three weeks worth of Chelsea Lately episodes to watch last weekend, an impossible endeavour whilst sober, and momentarily contemplated giving myself a vodka tampon enema (yeah, it’s a thing), but after reading into it, I decided that burning sensation, diarrhoea (that’s British spelling, y’all!) and potential death aren’t really my thang. And so I holla’ed back to my decongestant experiment days and popped 3 non-drowsy Advil Cold & Sinus. Unfortunately, they just made me buzzed and really cranky, so at 9:30pm I took an Adivan and called it a night.

Do you see? Do you see why this is not the blog of winners?

Also, follow me on Instagram @theillustriousd. I take cool pictures. Rekanize.

Two Things

1. My parents went to a royal wedding theme party where everyone was supposed to wear a fancy hat, a fancy top and casual pants. My father later sent me a group photo of the party wherein everyone's lower half was still considerably fancy (full-length dresses, tux pants, etc). I sent an e-mail asking what had happened to the casual bottoms. His response:

"My underwear was very casual. Dad"


2. Today, while waiting in the rain for a streetcar, I decided to check Grindr and guess who was less than 300 metres away from me. Yep. This is my life.

Remembering nothing from my Robaxacetted week except job-related loathing

I have just arrived at work and am being flanked on three sides by coworkers having personal conversations ranging from barely audible hush to full Springer melt down.

The latter is an otherwise genteel South Asian lady who I affectionately call Indonesian Dr. Philla. The 'a' is cause she's a chick. The extra 'l' is there cause I'm AMAZINGLY KNOWLEDGEABLE ABOUT LATIN LANGUAGE STRUCTURES. Currently, I'm being unintentionally entrusted with the knowledge that her cousin is back with this cad Antwan, who is evidently "just not a cool guy, you know?" and that he better watch "hisself" cause he played this same game with her friend Monique. It's like I'm working in the projects.

Across from her, another stand up employee is privying me to the knowledge that she's having some credit card debt issues and that the lovely Visa rep just "doesn't understand" that she and her husband are struggling to make ends meet, what with only making $45,000 each annually and that she was under the impression that their 50-inch plasma TV would be a tax write-off as he's an evening manager at Block Buster.

Finally, on the other side, is Black Magic, who is talking about me and the cold shoulder I'm giving her cause she's effectively passed half of her work load onto me. One of the lesser examples but consequently all the more infuriating is that rather than place a letter in the mail room on her way home, effectively requiring to take an additional 15 seconds in her laborious trek, she instead took the time to write a post-it note asking me to do it. Biznatch, how lazy can you get? Well, ladies and gentleman, the answer to that question lies in the size of her ass. I'm pretty sure it's the size of Gary Coleman's casket. One could incubate a baby moose back to health between those cheeks. Our boss seems to be okay with this situation as she knows BM (ahahaha...BM...) is lazy as fuck - trust me, fuck is lazy - and needs the work to get done so she tasks it to the one person currently not on the phone with creditors, recently paroled family members or BFFs named Shanice.

Finally, let it be known that the first two characters were both a ruse and that they're all Black Magic.

Fuck, I hate her so much.

Karmatic Retribution for Talking About Reta-... People With Intellectual Disabilities

A Text Conversation

Young Portuguese* (2:34am): David, I feel odd.

Illustrious D (7:21am): Okay. How?

YP (7:24am): Sorry about that. I was kinda drunk and feeling bad about the...non...way I left things.

ID (7:25am): Do you feel better about it now that you're sober?

YP (7:25am): You know I don't.

ID (7:26am): Not to sound like a dick, but I don't really know anything either way. The whole hot-cold thing was kinda confusing.

YP (7:27am): Bah, it's cool. Just forget I sent anything.

ID (7:28am): Not really all that cool. Forgotten nevertheless. Happy birthday me.


I'd like to issue a formal notice of appreciation to The Universe for waiting a whole 5 minutes after I woke up to fuck with me.

I am sad (new definition)

Saturday night I was sitting on my bed with the laptop, drinking wine and feeling generally miserable because my would-be dinner companion waited until 9:00 to cancel. I was consoling myself the the aforementioned wine as well as attempting conversation with this really-dull-but-at-least-he's-online guy that has been on my msn for months. About 5 minutes into the conversation, the following, unedited conversation occurred (It's long. Sorry. Suck it up.):


(500) Days of David says: You like Sam Tsui? That kid is UNbelievable. I'm pretty sure his Lady GaGa medley turned me gay. Again.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yah he is I follow him on facebook hehe(

500) Days of David says: I can't watch him too much. Get jealous

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ol lol Id soooo go on a date with him lol

(500) Days of David says: isn't he, like, 12?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol yah i think Im jsut attracted to his talent

(500) Days of David says: Alrighty, clearly I'm barking up the wrong tree then

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: always been aroused by it

(500) Days of David says: talent? That's fair. Do you have any?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: none that are appropriate lol I used to sing, took lessons for years. did some really awesome concerts can dance...took tap., jazz and some ballet been on stage in community shows.... some really big productions and did a lot of stage managing

(500) Days of David says: what kind of really awesome concerts?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: prob the most noteworthy was Karmina Burana at the Ottawa Art Centre with three top canadian vocalists

(500) Days of David says: yeah? Cool. Done that one a couple times. Though ours was with the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. They toured it to Ottawa though. My friend (and future roommate) was the sop soloist.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: we joined up with two other choirs..... was about 500 singers plus the NAC orcahstra

(500) Days of David says: nice! musta been awesome You're a tenor?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep I sang first tenor for that

(500) Days of David says: The gays tend to be tenors

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: i am trying to remember who the soloists were I think Russel Braun was the barione i remember him coming out on his crutches

(500) Days of David says: LOVE him... so amazing. Rusty.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: hes the one who uses crutches right?

(500) Days of David says: oh no you're thinking of Kevin McMillan. He was ours the second time around. Teaches at Western. Bit of a pompous ass. But I like his Carmina.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: fun

(500) Days of David says: You gotta admire a guy who overcomes a thing like that. I mean, making it as a classical singer is hard enough, but to do it without opera? That takes balls.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: yep for sure and most singers are pompus darling comes with the art

(500) Days of David says: I disagree. The good ones don't need to be pompous. I've met so many incredible singers that are just the sweetest people in the world.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: well clearly u are in the know and i know nothing does that satisfy ur ego?

(500) Days of David says: *cock-eyed emoticon* are you being serious?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: honestly right now...u are coming across rather pompous

(500) Days of David says: Because I disagreed with you?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: "Oh ive done that, and better then u and I know them" lol no...I could care less if u disagreed with me it was actually me just saying the stuff Ive done and u ....well seemed like u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad

(500) Days of David says: I'm sorry you interpreted it that way. I was just saying that it's cool we've done some of the same stuff.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol hon u never really acknowledged what I did just came up wiht bigger and better stuff that uve done and went on about who u know really... it makes u seem arrogant and pompus having to upstage people its poeple like that that made me leave the arts

(500) Days of David says: You know, I think if you went back and read this conversation knowing that I was just trying to relate to you and find common ground, I think you might see that I was just trying to have a good discussion. I'm sorry if you felt I was trying to upstage you, but frankly, that's not what I'm about, and had you chosen to not assume the worst interpretation of an msn conversation, you might have seen t hat there was some common ground. But this...this is just negativity on your part.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol dude

(500) Days of David says: You're a nice guy and it would be great if maybe you could assume other people were as well

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: ur always trying to one up me...or minilmize me,...in jest or not

(500) Days of David says: HOW? I never said it was better I said it was the same Are you really that cynical?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: lol not in the least i find it kinda suprsiding how defensive ut are getting over this most psychological therorists suggest that strong defensiveness is a reaction to self doubt

(500) Days of David says: well if you were trying really hard to engage someone and was met with the reaction of being called pompous, you might be a bit defensive.

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Hon... I wish u could see me right now

(500) Days of David says: I know we don't really know each other, but you made the active choice to think the worst

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: Im not at all really paying atention to u nor giving u much thought sorry lol u are really using the wrong termonology on this one lol I dindt make the choice to think the worst u are over generalzing and clearly missed what I said well typed

(500) Days of David says: which was what?

Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted. ur intention was to find some common ground and yes clearly u would get that from re-reading our conversation u are biased from ur intent u know what ur intent was i dont cuz Im not in ur head however. my conclusion...alkthough not a huge conclusion but one none the less came from our conversatons of late You talk about intelectual persutis and conversations and such and u have a tone that, it makes it seem like someone has to be challenged in order to be at ur level u seem to set a bar, and expect people to be there ur wording in your questiosn, come acros as more mechanical rather then general inqusitory of someone in some of our discusons (yes I cannot come up with a specific example, but thats really beacuse I dont give them much thought at aklll...Id rather worry about what im making for dinner or when I can fit in a run) but you come accross with a tone, that people must prove themselves worhty to be at ur level and then with our discussions todya... htis is how I would opperate if I had found out that someone had done the same show as me I would have said oh thats awesome, I loved when I did it...I had this experience rather then that...u went about who was in the show, how many times uve done it...and showing cradentials (winipeg ballet....) and i mentioned the one bari we had...and ur like ow hwe had him the 3nd time round that really does not have a tone of lets talk about shared experiences and yes...u might disagree with me about singers...however... happen to have an older sister who has worked with many many top notch canadian talent (doenst matter who they are) and most of them have an attitude doesne mean they are not nice but in order to survive in that world, u have to be comforable with ur degree of talent, and able to sell it...often times comes across as being pompious and u might think of me as being generally negitvi or cynical It is an easy conclusionn Im sure but it is not even close to the truth I am rahter laid back... I am also really into budist type meditation (mindfullness based stress reduction speicicfially) and I have worked extreamly hard on not being cynical nor nbegative I have a lot of reasons to be both....but it is so far from who I am but again...its an easy conculsion to get to should one not step out of their own sphere and really examine the verbatum and word choices we use not an easy task for sure, cuz we always have our intended context

(500) Days of David says: I'm not really sure where to begin, so I think I'll choose not to. I think we have proven here tonight that the written word in real time can be a very precarious thing. I'm not going to defend the way I talk or try to explain myself cause I think we're just past trying to listen to the other. I'm really sorry that this is the impression you got, as I can assure you it is not one shared by anyone knows me, but that said, I don't imagine you have much interest in getting to know me, so let's say goodnight and good luck and, most of all, good bye.

Did you get through all that? Seriously? Cause I woulda checked out after point dexter here spelled Carmina Burana with a 'K'. Anyway, maybe I slipped myself a roofie or was just super depressed but this almost made me cry. I know. I want to walk away from me, too, right now. I was just so confused about how I could have come across as so horrible! I mean, we meet these kind of people all the time, ones that are always looking to play the victim based on the slightest possibility of misinterpretation. Clearly, this was not about me. Or maybe it is and I'm the delusional one, but realistically, no.

There were so many things I wanted to say to this guy as I sat there for 10 minutes as he composed his final (punctuation-lite) opus. In the end, as you can see, I simply chose not to as there could be no getting through to him and in the words of Madonna, "Your heart is not open, so I must go." Yeah. Referenced the fourth single off of Ray of Light. You're welcome, The World. I could have said that he certainly had a lot to say for someone who repeated twice that he hadn't given a second thought about me. I would say that clearly a little vaca to Tibet is in order because them Buddhist lessons are clearly not paying off. I would also suggest to him to ask the monks how to properly spell 'Buddhist' as clearly that'd been glossed over in his westernized training. I would say that, yes, I do try to expressed myself in an "elevated tone" as to not use the skills I have acquired seems a bit silly, but that I don't expect other people to rise to my "bar" but rather to have decent conversational skills. I would say that I understand that his conversational skills may have been impeded by his constant Laughing Out Loud and simultaneous reading of How To Mask Your Nervous Breakdown Recovery By Calling People Hon A Bunch. I would say that it's time to stop using the word "sad" interchangeably (as in well seemed like "u needed to upstage me its actually...making u sound kinda sad") with "functioning at a level which I am not equipped to deal with and confuses me." Can we reclaim the word "sad," people? It's something that fills you misery, not misguided self-superiority. That this person is so unhappy with their existence (57friendsonfacebook say what?) and mistrustful of others around them really did make me sad. In fact, it made me so sad that I copied it into an e-mail for three friends just so they would tell me immediately that I was not an awful person. So sad that I stopped drinking my glass of wine. See them four horses in sky? Yeah.

So had I felt it would do any good, I might have said some or all of that. Rather, I sadly closed my laptop, rode my bike to a friend's and had him ply me with vodka and chocolate cake until I fell asleep on his couch. Was this the easy way out? Maybe. Was this indicative that my msn days are drying to a close? Quite possibly. Was this taking the high road and acting with a bit of grace, a bit of maturity, despite publishing his e-mail address, kermitty75@hotmail.com, in my blog?

*stares up at the night sky*

I hope so.

Riding in Cars with Boys

I just bit into an apple and the lower retainer that had been affixed to the back of my bottom teeth since I was twelve broke off. It was supposed to be removed in tenth grade but I stopped returning my orthodontist's calls the previous summer. Consummate professional, but awful lover. Also, I'm pretty sure I just heard my boss say, "That's retarded!" Ugh, so rude.

So the flight attendants...

On Thursday night, I agreed to go out with this guy that I had been sporadically talking with since January. The reason I finally took him up on his invitation? Because he'd offered to drive me and my suitcases from my apartment to the house sitting abode. I am a whore for non-public transportation. After dropping his friend off at a bar, it became apparent that this was not going my way when he suggested Tim Horton's as our destination. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress to a Dunkin' Donuts. This may be more than adequate for some people, but not this americano misto-sippin' G-star. He also chose to by-pass the location a mere block from us in favour of one 10 minutes away just so that he could use his friend's GPS. I'm still on backstory and already the Audible Sigh tag has taken the stage. Granted, he did treat me to my $1.50 cup o' joe (and I mean that; I accept any and all acts of chivalry), but the conversation was about as laborious as that Precious girl's saunter down the red carpet at the Oscars. Anyway, nothing much happened that evening, though he did drop by a couple nights later to hot tub and molest me. It's okay, y'all; I was wearing a really short skirt, so clearly asking for it.

Anyhow, this takes us to Monday. In the afternoon, some random starts talking to me on the msn. Turns out that this is the fellow we dropped off at the bar a few days prior and thought I was cute. I feel that 'cute' in this scenario is code for 'will stimulate the unfortunate looking if bored'. It became clear that the fact that I'd big spooned his friend two nights prior was not a deterant. Neither was loyalty, evidently. Anyway, it soon became evident that this man was reta-... really dumb. To illuminate, I offer this illustrated breakdown of his cranial output:

He kept talking about the two of them picking me and taking me for a drive (No, this is not leading to a three-way public indecency ticket). I received an "Okay, we're leaving now!" pretty much every hour on the hour for the entire afternoon. At 6 o'clock, I looked out the window and there they were, smoking cigarettes and sporting looks right out of an American Eagle markdown bin. For a moment I considered pretending not to be there, that they had the wrong address or that I was out or simply at Hogwarts, but I manned up, petted the kitty and walked outside. Our destination on this balmy Easter Monday eve? Bed shopping at The Brick.

Hear that sound? It's all 14 of my followers swooning in unison. I told them that there were some really great furniture places *cough* a few blocks away, not to mention a Leon's, but evidently the latter was too expensive and the former were not trustworthy as they are not chains (tragic foreshadowing). So we drive north for about 16 hours and the entire time, the newer flight attendant is playing DJ with his iPod. The only problem is that he is only interested in the three aforementioned divas and despite having upwards of 12 (not kidding) remixes of some tracks, cannot seem to find anything he likes. In the 35 minutes it took to get to the store, I'm pretty sure I heard three songs in completion. It was like

"Do you belie-eeve i-"

skip

"If I could tur-"

skip

"Do you be-"

skip

"Music! Makes the pe-"

skip

"Life is mys-"

skip

"Life is a mystery, ever-"

skip

"Life is a-"

Skip

"Life-"

skip

"Life-"

skip

"Cause I'm your laaaaaaaaady-"

skip

"This is a SONG FOR THE L-"

skip

"Life is-"

And so on. Hell, I know thee well. Eventually we reached the hallowed Brick, where the new one was talked into buying a $1,600 king-size bed. At first he protested, saying, "Oh but it's too big for just me," and then pouting in my general direction. You know when a fat person needs pants that are big enough to fit around their waist but they have no butt so they keep having to pull their pants up? Okay, if that's your situation, just go with the king-size. It's alright. No judgey. And you know when a person is so bad with money that they need to put their new mattress on an 8 month payment plan that requires on the spot credit approval? Okay, if that's your situation, you've made some poor choices. And lots o' judgey. But know what garners the most judgey? When you ask me whether your Abercrombie & Fitch baseball cap looks better forward or backward and then flip it around 7 times to fully illustrate. Hey, rotund effeminate men of the world: no.

Things went from bad to worse after I gracefully bit it while exiting the store and the Effeminable Snowman, thinking that I'd merely hurt myself, wanted to make light of the situation and began imitating my walk as he minced down the sidewalk. Naturally, he had no idea that this is actually my regular contribution to bringing sexy back, but still it wasn't awesome. I got pretty quiet after that. Then we got back in the car and drove around looking for a - wait for it - SWISS MUTHAFUKKIN CHALET. For all y'all 'Mericans, this is like taking someone you're trying to impress t-... Wait. There is no equivalent to the devil's own chicken shack. I suggested we go to the Greektown area, because the food is good and the people are hot, but mostly because I wanted to be closer to home when I made my escape.

"It's really nice, kind of like mom & pop bistros and bars all along one strip."

"Well, do any places around there have endless breadsticks?" asked my former tubmate.

"Um, n-..."

"Cause we ain't goin' nowhere without endless breadsticks..."

"Life is a myst-"

"...And dipping sauce."

After another hour of driving around in circles, they decided to meet four other friends for Korean BBQ. I took one look at what was sitting in the front seats, multiplied this by 3 and though, "Nargh, I'm out." Fortunately, it was at this time that my mother called and right on Jewish mother cue says, "Honey, what's wrong? You don't sound so good." I told her that I was out with some lovely new friends but that I was getting one of my chronic migraine attacks. "But you don't have mig-.." I hung up on her.

"Fellas. This has been nifty and memorable, but I'm feeling headachey. Is it okay if I jump out at, oh, say this subway stop that we're just happening to pass as I tell you this?"

Then I dove through the passenger window and called my mom, who laughed the entire time. What a bitch.


Yesterday, the nonsensical softness posted a comment which referred to me as grumpy and a self-proclaimed douchebag. Later, Kama over at Queer In the Mirror pondered about my real life personality versus the one that authors this blog and where the line falls. I told him somewhere in between, as I am generally more caustic and lively in the presence of close friends, but am nowhere near as racist. Some may know London Preppy, a Greek-British blogger who for many years was essentially the leader amonst gay hedonistic oversharers. His life revolved around his body, clothing and various prescription medicated adventures. It read like fiction and after several years he announced that much of it was. In the same way that he his not a complete narcissist, I am not that much of a douchebag as I seem to think. Details and emotions are just often exaggerated for dramatic/humoUr sake. Anyway, the point is that I maaaaaaay have given one of the flight attendants this blog address, so if you're reading, um, hi and I had a great time and, yeah, call me. Also, congrats on learning to read.

Faceplanting the Light Fantastic

Ya know, I don't set out to fail at life. Flava Flav aside, no one does. So when I constructed a lovely, simple plan to do an errand on Sunday, I had to clue as to the shit show for which I had just bought a ticket.

I had spent the previous night alone, drinking old fashions and chatting with hometown friends on the msn. At one point in the evening, I had thought I might venture out solo to The Beaver so I popped a couple of my beloved non-drowsy decongestants that turn me into a dancing machine. Or a sloppy mess. Anyone who has read a single post of mine can imagine which of these two outcomes came to fruition. By 1:30am, though still chatting with some Winnipeg peeps, I'd moved on to include a couple of Torontonians, as well. It took every fiber in my fuzzy, cuddle-starved being to resist their suggestion of coming over for rom-coms and laying our limbs on top of one another. Thank god I keep my apartment in such a state of unruliness so that I can under no circumstance accept a spontaneous invitation such as this.

Upon waking the next morning, I felt like crap. What a waste of a Saturday night. The only way to assuage the creeping self-loathing would be to venture forth into the warm (1°C) and bright (overcast) daylight to walk (gimp) beside my fellow humans (mouth-breathers). I had three things I wanted to do:

1. Walk my bike to the nearest gas station and refill the tires, as it had spent its winter attached to a traffic sign outside the neighborhood Montessori school gathering rust. Why I lack the ability to take care of my possessions it beyond me.


2. Ride my newly inflated bike to Chapters and buy Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang, the new collection of asshole essays by Chelsea Handler. A reader's note here: When I am writing, the voice in my head is that of the hypothetical love child of Ms. Handler and David Sedaris. So there's anothr piece of the puzzle for ya.


3. Take my new book to Tequila Bookworm, my neighborhood hippiester cafe for my new favourite thing, their smoked salmon platter, hold the gherkins. In reality, I order this so I can inform others that I spent my lunch "gherkin off." Ha...ha.

In order to properly illustrate how wrong everything went, I have illustrated, using my print screen and MS Paint prowess (click to enlarge):

1. 10:47 - I leave my apartment. Despite being overcast, the natural light still burns. I unlock my bike. Wow, unlike germs, rust isn't just a myth.

2. 11:02 - I arrive at Petro Canada and discover a pay-by-the-minute compressed air dispensers. Fudge you, PC. Fudge you.

3. 11:04 - I walk across the street to good ol' dependable Shell. The air dispenser is free. I give Petro Canada an over-the-shoulder finger. When I go to fill up the tire, it inflates with the pressure from the machine and then immediately deflates. Clearly, there is a hole in my tire about the size of an infant's head and it needs to be taken to a bike shop. Fa-fa-fabity-fab-fabulous.

4. 11:08 - I make the unwitting mistake of not walking up Spadina and discovering what would have made my life a whole lot easier (See #5).

5. 11:25 - I reach Chapters on John St. I comb the entire store looking for the book, implementing computers and laymen alike in my search for this tome. I stndd around for 10 minutes while one of the Vested tears apart the backroom searching for the 5 copies that their website claims the store has. Upon his return, he presents me with an apology and a voucher for 15% off at a different store. Finally, something good has come of this. I ask if he knows of any bike shops in the area and am told that there is one just a block up but that people rave about Dukes. Score two for Chapters! "Where is that?" I ask. "Spadina & Richmond," he replies. This is roughly 250 feet from my apartment. POINTS REVOKED, CHAPTERS.

6. 11:59 - I backtrack to Dukes. It is closed on Sundays. I start to seriously question my faith. I fronttrack to the other bike shop.

7. 12:07 - I pass a homeless man in a wheelchair asking passersby to give him "change for pussay.""

8. 12:16 - I arrive at the bike shop a block away from where I was 35 minutes prior. It is closed. I become an atheist. I lock up my bike and kick a pigeon.

9. 12:21 - I catch a streetcar. Step in what may be partially congealed vomit from St. Paddy's.

10. 12:26 - I arrive at Eaton Centre. I jaywalk. Foiled again, coppers!

11. 12:28 - There is a standard escalator practice in Toronto that one stands on the right side and walks on the left. Upon entering the mall, I notice that on my escalator, the Asians all standd on the left and everyone else on the right. Why? If your native tongue were Hebrew or Arabic, I might be able to give this a pass, but Asians? Don't most oriental languages go up-down? If anything, shouldn't they be attempting to ascend the descending escalator and vice versa? I don't get it, Asians. Yes, you have the most appealing natural body odour of all the major racial groups, but what do you want from me?! Incidentally, the only non-Asian is a white woman standing next to her friend and waxing on about how Torontonians don't take advantage of their city's culture and diversity. Lady, first off, you're in a mall. Secondly, based on the size of your ass, it would seem that the only culture and diversity you've been getting is from the International Selections menu at Boston Pizza. Anyway, I get to Chapters and after finding the Humour section (under a big sign that, naturally, reads SPORTS...) I buy my book and get the eff outta there, though I must admit that having listened to Lisa Loeb, k.d. lang and the soundtrack from Glee on their store muzak kinda makes me think that Chapters knows my soul.

12. 12:57 - Now aboard the streetcar with dreams of bagels and a schmear, I receive a call from ESLothario inviting me last minute to his show that afternoon. He insists that I come as he reeeeeeeeally wants me to meet his boyfriend. Aw, hells 2 da no. I tell him that I'd love to but that I just have too much to do though he should call me if they're doing something afterwards. I then make a note to pick up a new sweater after my what-started-out-as brunch so I can feel extra kicky should this meeting transpire.

13. 1:06 - I arrive at Tequila Bookworm and order my smoked salmon platter. It is not nearly as good as I'd anticipated. The book, however, is awesome and while I never did get that call from ESLothario, I still wound up going to Winner's and picking up some madras sneakers that'll be ballin' on my trip to Miami next month.


Finally, I recently got called out by brown sporadic commenter Herr Kanada for making my posts too long. To him, I'd like to say a special thanks for reading and if you have festering occupations with length then that is something you need to take up with your therapist and not with me via facebook chat. Best of luck with that.

Hate On for Laos Week Continues

My Korean-born friend (not the sleepover pal; this one speaks English) told me recently that he will never feel completely at home in Canada, but no less than he would in Korea. He explained that he is truly a product of both societies and requires elements of both to feel whole. Favourite pastimes may include karaoke while eating back bacon or igloo-building while eating kittens. While I heard what he was saying, I could not fully understand the Asian-Canadian cultural experience, partially because I'm full blown Canadian, albeit one of queer/Jewish/Hungarian/gimpy decent, but mostly just because I DO NOT PROTEST USING CONTAINERS OF MY OWN BLOOD.







Look, I get that you guys get the shit end of the stick. Is that an expression? Is now, haters. But seriously, Asians got tsunamis, communism, an entire nation of cab drivers and tech support workers, and to top it all off most of them have to live next to that asshole, Laos. It's pretty much the Ned Flanders of the Orient. So when Taiwan decided to protest...something (I didn't read the article; they're always bitching about one thing or the other), I thought, "Way to go, Taiwan. You gave me years of good Happy Meal toys in the 80's; I will support your right to get all P.O.'ed at The Man."


But this whole blood thing? Not even Amnesty International is down with that shit. They're all on the phone to the AP like, "Oh yeah, we for totes support Taiwan...mmm-hmm...mmm-hmm...Blood, you say?...Ah, I see. We're out."


It's creepy guys. Plus, I'm not technically allowed to give blood in my country cause of the teh ghey and all but people in Taiwan get to draw their own blood on the street and throw it at some dude's house? I mean, what about MY rights, Taiwan? I'd loooooooove to go throw some blerd at 24 Sussex most days, but Red Cross's troglodytian laws say that despite my recent STI testing and near-abstinence at the hands and genitals of Toronto's queer community, I can't help some O negative baby that was in a car crash. Baby don't care. Baby wants to get to be a toddler. Trust me. I know babies.


And once again I've made an entire nation's woes completely about myself and my hemoglobin ambitions. Sorry, Taiwan. I'll buy a shirt at the Gap this weekend. Maybe.

Blanket statement: Videos of beautiful, shirtless men singing pretty songs will always and forever be one of the greatest things ever. Yeah. That sentence made sense, muthafukas.

Oh Jay...why do you and the Madonna-esque gap between your two front teeth keep insisting on not falling madly in love with me?... Wazzat? Cause we've never met and the only contact we've ever had is when I left a singular comment on your blog? Oh right. SHUT UP I DO NOT FALL TO YOUR LOGIC.

This morning there were two girls in the subway seeking donation for sick kids with heart disease. Or worms. I wasn't really paying attention. In my experience, there are three kinds of non-riders you'll encounter in the subway: charitable donations seekers, buskers and people handing out mini samples of Kraft Dinner (I do not know why they do this. I don't have all the answers, people). The girls were about 13 or 14 so why they were doing this at 5:00pm escapes me, though if I had to guess... retarded elderly girl scouts. One of them was small and demure, holding out her tin with both hands and an optimistic half-smile while the other was a dead ringer for Shamu with a mouth to match.

"Change for sick kids! Want to donate change to sick kids?!" she shouted in what I believe to have been whale song.

It's not that I am prejudice against fat people. Well, no more than most people. It's just that - okay, don't turn on me but - you know she totally bogarted her wee friend's KD sample!!!! This, I cannot abide! Also, and it's not as though I take pleasure in making fun of tweens, but if you're 14 and wearing a Hannah Montana leisure suit that barely covers the blossoming fupa you've been cultivating...you're not on my side. In life, I mean. Still, I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt (you know, that she had an Achey Breakey Dad) until there was a huge influx of people, all of whom were ignoring her, and suddenly this massive humpbacked whine of "DOESN'T ANYBODY WANT TO GIVE MONEY TO SICK KIDS?!?!?!?!?!?!" echoed across the whole station. This bitch was seriously trying to find Nemo. I audibly whispered, "Jeezus..." and the cute guy in the argyle sweater in front of me turned around and smiled.

David: 1 Free Willy: 0


Also, a quick note to old people:

Hey! Old People! Learn how to use Gmail properly or get the fuck off my interwebz! When you receive a group message about your goddamned Jewish community choir, do not - I repeat, DO NOT - reply all! Cause then my ass is stuck deleting every single one of your "I'm in! Sign me up!" or "I'm out of porridge :( " messages cause I can't stand to look at the entire cascading conversation riddled with names like BerthaandHerb@fuckingoldperson.com taking up my whole freakin' screen! Now go spread Ben Gay on something!

You know what? That's it! You're getting your own tag! FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCK!!!98Q29570YNc0q75yqwt6-yuT]-'

Fuck you, Facebook Bumper Sticker.

Fuck. You.



Today I realized that whenever I see a person with red hair walk by, in my head I always scream, "GINGEEERRRRRRR!" Unlike most of the population, I find select redheads extremely attractive. I've yet to become intimate with one, but given my lack of sexual discretion, it'll probably happen at one point or another, and likely not with the gorgeous auburn ones but rather the pasty freckled kind that resemble Alfred E. Newman and Opie's love child.

I also had a similar reaction when the girl with autism/the sillies started laughing maniacally on the streetcar this morning, though that was more "Oh my god, I love that retarded girl." Like all children and most pets, I enjoy her in small doses but do not want one of my own. I feel this will qualify me to be a kickass uncle, assuming the my brothers date crazy bitches that poke holes in their condoms in the hopes of hopping on those sweet pilot/electrician trains. My Special Uncle Skills will include teaching the dangers of over eyeliner-ing (nieces), winning hearts with show tunes (nephews) and the importance of brow maintenance (both), as the latter sure as hell hasn't worked on my friends. You know who you are. And that I mean you. And you read this blog. And I'm going to keep mentioning it until that shit gets taken care of.

Welcome to the world, Audible Sigh tag.