Tonight I made dinner.
I made salmon with white wine and dill, roasted yams, and a caesar salad.
I made dinner.
I have not made dinner for a long time. About a year and a half. Not since I moved back from Toronto.
A year and a half ago, I was slightly defeated from three years of attempts to crawl out of solitude, but optimistic about what I was going towards. I had been working out three times a week with a trainer. My health had never been so good and my body reflected it. I saw the trainer, made shakes, cut the carbs after 6pm, drank seldomly, and did not engage in anything beyond alcohol. I made dinner a lot.
So then I moved back. I entered a profession. Got busy, got stressed. I stopped making dinner. I stopped training. I did, however, find something beyond alcohol, something that I largely control but occasionally gets the better of me, like an eighteen year-old in a bar fight. And when I lose that fight, I hate it. Not the first few hours, but those that follow, and the day or two afterwards. You can do the math - the benefits by no means outweigh the costs.
I was scared at first that this was addiction. It is not. I never choose it above anyone or anything I love. It's only there when I'm bored and lonely, popping up anywhere from once a week to once every 3 months. No, I won't be on Intervention anytime soon. But it takes something from me, even so. And my job takes something - a lot of somethings, actually - from me. My family gets a little bit, my friends get some too, when they're around.
And by the end, I'm so tired of lending out little bits, for both good and bad, that there's not a lot left. Not for the gym a mere four floors down. Not seeking new people or communities. Not for making dinner.
It's silly for an adult to wait on being rescued.
Showing posts with label I'm a big boy now. 9".. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I'm a big boy now. 9".. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Monday, April 18, 2011
Loner Week - Day 1: Jaundiced Swan Lake
I have a week off. I'm doing daily Loner Tours of different parts of the city. Today is Day 1.
First up was brunch at Tequila Bookworm. Smoked salmon platter with cream cheese and a Montreal bagel. Apparently so good that my fat ass forgot to photograph it. Here are the remnants.
Next, I stopped by my old building to see if the bike I had left U-Locked to a pole outside the local Montessori school last July was still there. Admittedly, not on the official Eye Weekly tour, but bygones. Not surprisingly, the bike had been removed, to which I say: Fuck you, Montessori. Fuck you and the humanistic instruction horse you rode in on. You don't know me. You don't know my life.
On to the Lakeshore condominium district, where one developer had built a park and within it an art instillation paying homage to Canadian literary hero, Douglas Coupland. I have no answers for you on this point.
From here I started my trek to Union Station, but got distracted by the gorgeous misty lake and the wouldn't-you-know-it schooner and tugboat sitting in its harbour. As if this wasn't picturesque enough, as I was taking the photo a swan swam up. Yep. A motherfucking swan, motherfuckers. True fact about swans: they are the size of pigmy rhinos. No foolin'. They could fuck your shit up if they wanted to.
From the lake, I wandered to the financial district and attempted to find the PATH. These letters stand for something but I don't care what that something is. Essentially, the PATH is a series of underground tunnels and shops that connect the downtown area bordering between Front and Lakeshore (N-S) and Yonge and York (E-W). For non-Torontonians, it's a lot of goddamn space, ayit? Also, move to Toronto. Also, I got lost a lot and it took nearly one and a half adventurous hours to get from Union Station to Old City Hall. Kinda fun. Kinda old-person-power-walking-in-a-mall.
Next on my list was to buy Spanx at The Bay. Do I need Spanx? Did I just buy tight Calvin Klein undershirts instead? Maybe. Was my entire plan a disaster when I got home later and realized I'd grabbed the large size by mistake? Yes, yes it was.
At this point I was nearly passed out from all the walking. This *points to self in drag queen-esque manner* is not meant for physical exercise. I got a burrito. It was awesome. Then I went to my next checkpoint, which was the National Film Board of Canada, where you can watch a movie in a private booth and NOT slip on semen. Aces. Not aces? The fact that they were closed. Fuck you, Can-con, I'm-a go watch Rango. Again.
I did this thing for Luminato a few weeks back and they'd given me a $10 gift card to Kiehls. Way to treat a boy right, Luminato. I bought a bar of soap for $17 and regret nothing. Plus the counter chick was really sweet and gave me tons of free samples, and they had a wicked backsplash.
Then I went to hipster favourite, The Dark Horse Espresso Bar. Actually, no. They just opened a second location so you know those hipsters ain't havin' it no mo'. Still, maybe the best capp I've ever had. And the wait staff is pretty as was my driiiiiiiiiiiiink! And yes, that is a chocolate pecan butter tart. Hate the playa.
First up was brunch at Tequila Bookworm. Smoked salmon platter with cream cheese and a Montreal bagel. Apparently so good that my fat ass forgot to photograph it. Here are the remnants.
Next, I stopped by my old building to see if the bike I had left U-Locked to a pole outside the local Montessori school last July was still there. Admittedly, not on the official Eye Weekly tour, but bygones. Not surprisingly, the bike had been removed, to which I say: Fuck you, Montessori. Fuck you and the humanistic instruction horse you rode in on. You don't know me. You don't know my life.
On to the Lakeshore condominium district, where one developer had built a park and within it an art instillation paying homage to Canadian literary hero, Douglas Coupland. I have no answers for you on this point.
From here I started my trek to Union Station, but got distracted by the gorgeous misty lake and the wouldn't-you-know-it schooner and tugboat sitting in its harbour. As if this wasn't picturesque enough, as I was taking the photo a swan swam up. Yep. A motherfucking swan, motherfuckers. True fact about swans: they are the size of pigmy rhinos. No foolin'. They could fuck your shit up if they wanted to.
From the lake, I wandered to the financial district and attempted to find the PATH. These letters stand for something but I don't care what that something is. Essentially, the PATH is a series of underground tunnels and shops that connect the downtown area bordering between Front and Lakeshore (N-S) and Yonge and York (E-W). For non-Torontonians, it's a lot of goddamn space, ayit? Also, move to Toronto. Also, I got lost a lot and it took nearly one and a half adventurous hours to get from Union Station to Old City Hall. Kinda fun. Kinda old-person-power-walking-in-a-mall.
Next on my list was to buy Spanx at The Bay. Do I need Spanx? Did I just buy tight Calvin Klein undershirts instead? Maybe. Was my entire plan a disaster when I got home later and realized I'd grabbed the large size by mistake? Yes, yes it was.
At this point I was nearly passed out from all the walking. This *points to self in drag queen-esque manner* is not meant for physical exercise. I got a burrito. It was awesome. Then I went to my next checkpoint, which was the National Film Board of Canada, where you can watch a movie in a private booth and NOT slip on semen. Aces. Not aces? The fact that they were closed. Fuck you, Can-con, I'm-a go watch Rango. Again.
I did this thing for Luminato a few weeks back and they'd given me a $10 gift card to Kiehls. Way to treat a boy right, Luminato. I bought a bar of soap for $17 and regret nothing. Plus the counter chick was really sweet and gave me tons of free samples, and they had a wicked backsplash.
Then I went to hipster favourite, The Dark Horse Espresso Bar. Actually, no. They just opened a second location so you know those hipsters ain't havin' it no mo'. Still, maybe the best capp I've ever had. And the wait staff is pretty as was my driiiiiiiiiiiiink! And yes, that is a chocolate pecan butter tart. Hate the playa.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
I'm a teachah, mufukas
Ok, not quite. I’m a teacher candidate. But close enough. Incidentally, for those not in the know, the Jew thing just started to be way too much work, so I’ve peaced out on that and have decided that, rather than date 17 year olds, I should just teach them.
Teach them ‘bout my wang.
Sorry. That was inappropriate and probably pretty illegal.
We take several courses in our teachable subjects (drama + music = whatafag), psychology, electives and our education seminar, where we actually learn how to be teachers. Our instructor in this class is like our den mother and also Greek, leading me to call her My Big Fat Greek Mamma. In my head. And in my dreams…
Sadly, her own BFGM passes away a short while ago and she had to leave us for two weeks in order to fly back to Greece for the funeral. She probably did some sun-bathing, too. But mostly the funeral thing. Probably.
Before our first post-Hellenic class, I was a wreck. I don’t do well with those that are grieving, let alone a woman that I had known less than a month yet still desired to rest my head on her bosom. I’m not really sure why but I kind of worship her. It might be that she can’t pronounce ‘sheet’ and it always comes out as ‘shit’. She is my world.
I thought for days beforehand what I would say upon entering the classroom, but nothing short of flinging myself at her feet seemed appropriate. On the day of Her return, I walked into the class and OF COURSE BITCH WAS ALL IN BLACK. Fan-fucking-tastic. As if I wasn’t nervous enough, diva was practically wearing a veil of grief.
The legs and liver were shaking as I approached her, still undecided as to how I should convey my Big Fat Jewy Sympathy. Then tumbling out of my mouth came:
“Hi. You good?”
…
Ok.
Conjure, if you will, the myriad of things I could have said. Make a top 5 list. I dare ya. Now, is “Hi. You good?” anywhere on that list? No, it is not because it is the single douchiest thing a person could say to his mentor/new mother in her hour of need. It is also further evidence that I am never ever cool. Upon hearing the words escape my lips, I was filled with instant shame and regret. I wanted to get a poison arrow to the heel or feed myself to a hydra or choke on a moussaka sandwich. Anything to remove the sting of being the single awkwardest boy this side of the Aegean Sea. I prayed for the Olympian gods to rein down fiery ambrosia on my balding-at-an-even-quicker-pace-if-that's-even-possible head, to inflect such Promethean measures that my callow, stupid-headed poopy-facedness would ne'er rear its ugly 7-headed face again.
Then she turned and looked at me, closed her eyes, gave her head a little nod and said, "Yes, my beautiful angel darling. Is okay."
Friday, June 18, 2010
Ich bin nicht cool
Well, it's 10:12am and I've been at work for an hour and accomplished nothing. I feel this trend will likely continue until at least 4:59pm when I may muster the day's effort in clicking "Shut Down" on my Start menu. You're really only supposed to log off but I like to shut 'er down on the Friday because I somehow thinks this counteracts the 23 story building leaving all its lights on for the duration of the weekend.
Magic Powers: Now the only way left to save the Earth
Whoa. That got political. Anyway, let's move on to the real topic. I know you're thinking that someone who spends most of his employed hours modifying Google-searched images in MS Paint is extremely cool. I am here to disprove this myth.
I AM NOT COOL.
I'm not going to chock this one up to failure. That would imply that I am failing at being myself, which would be ridiculous. I kick demon ass at being myself. That self, however, is not cool.
As previously stated, I've been volunteering for the NXNE music festival and am reminded daily of how not cool I am. First of all, I've been driving a 12-seater van to transport bands to and from the airport/gigs. No one cool has ever driven a 12-seater van. The bands thus far have taken two approaches to being driven by me. The first involves all of them sitting in the back and not talking to me, as though I am their paid chauffeur rather than a volunteer who just finishedMS Paint-ing working for 8 hours at their real job. On one such trip, a single person out of the seven I was driving wearily stretched out his hand as way of introduction. I in turn flailed about and eye-hand-coordination failed. I think maybe two of our fingers interlocked. I am not cool.
I felt cool for about a moment when I got to go up to back stage security and say, "Yo, I'm here for the band," and he nodded me through, but then the manager says, "You're here for the band? Awesome. They're just gonna finish up and then do an encore. Do you want to wait back here?"
Oh god, I am so cool.
"No, I mean behind the backstage area in that stairwell. Great, thanks."
Aaaaaaaaan we're back.
Another super twatty American manager, when I dropped her off, even omitted an "Uch, could you at least open the door?!"
Bitch, it's a 1983 Ford E350 and you're not Miss Daisy. Back. The. Fuck. Down.
The second approach to the Warning:-Not-Cool pheromones I must omit is that the band will just be a bunch of jackasses. In this case, one of them will at least ride up front with me but will ask inspired questions like, "Dude...dude...how much would you charge to drive us to Dildo Bay?"
"Um, where's that? I just moved here not too long a-"
"Dude, Dildo Bay, Newfoundland. How about Intercourse, Pennsylvania?"
"Uh, I dunno. I'm just a volunteer and I have to work in the morning."
God, lamest response ever. What is wrong with me? I'm not cool, that's what. Then they'll pretend to accidentally blow each other (it's this new thing among comics where they pretend to start coughing and this merges into them pretending to be choking on one of their friends' dicks. It's totally straight. And funny.*), telling mock-racist-but-kinda-just-racist jokes and talking about how amazing their set was.
Um, you're in a Queens of the Stone Age side project - things aren't going all that great for you. Art rock, this ain't.
I am not cool but at least I'm not a delusional asswipe either.
Douchey Bassist: Hey, so, what's the hardest to guys have ever sucked each other off while you were driving them?
Illustrious D: ...
DB: I bet they were from AFI. That guy's hit on me so many times, fuck. So is that gay if I let him?
ID: (trying to be cool) Depends on how much you enjoyed it.
Drummer Who May Be Getting Head From A Groupie: Nah, man, it's only gay if you kiss afterwards.
*It's only one of these things.
P.S. - I left my very first comment on a blog that I love, but failed to omit a key word so it just read, "Clearly, really does hate fags." The writer commented back, "Um, was the word God supposed to be in there somewhere?" and then my internet soul curled up into a ball and died. 
Magic Powers: Now the only way left to save the Earth Whoa. That got political. Anyway, let's move on to the real topic. I know you're thinking that someone who spends most of his employed hours modifying Google-searched images in MS Paint is extremely cool. I am here to disprove this myth.
I AM NOT COOL.
I'm not going to chock this one up to failure. That would imply that I am failing at being myself, which would be ridiculous. I kick demon ass at being myself. That self, however, is not cool.
As previously stated, I've been volunteering for the NXNE music festival and am reminded daily of how not cool I am. First of all, I've been driving a 12-seater van to transport bands to and from the airport/gigs. No one cool has ever driven a 12-seater van. The bands thus far have taken two approaches to being driven by me. The first involves all of them sitting in the back and not talking to me, as though I am their paid chauffeur rather than a volunteer who just finished
I felt cool for about a moment when I got to go up to back stage security and say, "Yo, I'm here for the band," and he nodded me through, but then the manager says, "You're here for the band? Awesome. They're just gonna finish up and then do an encore. Do you want to wait back here?"
Oh god, I am so cool.
"No, I mean behind the backstage area in that stairwell. Great, thanks."
Aaaaaaaaan we're back.
Another super twatty American manager, when I dropped her off, even omitted an "Uch, could you at least open the door?!"
Bitch, it's a 1983 Ford E350 and you're not Miss Daisy. Back. The. Fuck. Down.
The second approach to the Warning:-Not-Cool pheromones I must omit is that the band will just be a bunch of jackasses. In this case, one of them will at least ride up front with me but will ask inspired questions like, "Dude...dude...how much would you charge to drive us to Dildo Bay?"
"Um, where's that? I just moved here not too long a-"
"Dude, Dildo Bay, Newfoundland. How about Intercourse, Pennsylvania?"
"Uh, I dunno. I'm just a volunteer and I have to work in the morning."
God, lamest response ever. What is wrong with me? I'm not cool, that's what. Then they'll pretend to accidentally blow each other (it's this new thing among comics where they pretend to start coughing and this merges into them pretending to be choking on one of their friends' dicks. It's totally straight. And funny.*), telling mock-racist-but-kinda-just-racist jokes and talking about how amazing their set was.
Um, you're in a Queens of the Stone Age side project - things aren't going all that great for you. Art rock, this ain't.
I am not cool but at least I'm not a delusional asswipe either.
Douchey Bassist: Hey, so, what's the hardest to guys have ever sucked each other off while you were driving them?
Illustrious D: ...
DB: I bet they were from AFI. That guy's hit on me so many times, fuck. So is that gay if I let him?
ID: (trying to be cool) Depends on how much you enjoyed it.
Drummer Who May Be Getting Head From A Groupie: Nah, man, it's only gay if you kiss afterwards.
*It's only one of these things.
P.S. - I left my very first comment on a blog that I love, but failed to omit a key word so it just read, "Clearly, really does hate fags." The writer commented back, "Um, was the word God supposed to be in there somewhere?" and then my internet soul curled up into a ball and died.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Metric is playing Lilith Fair? What a bunch of vaginas.
Well, I fucked around with the template and now it's ass. Whatever. I think the devil-may-care skewedness of this "design" bespeaks a casual air that is by-and-large refreshing. Mostly though, I'm tired of pretending like I know anything shit all about HTML. It gives me man menses.
In my attempt to becoming a social creature whose sole friend is not the bottle, I decided to start volunteering. For the record, I ran a volunteer task force of about 800 for a large theatre festival once upon a time and can say with confident if not absolute certainty that volunteering is lame. Nothing requiring matching XL t-shirts is EVER going to be a good time. Still, social creature. No friends with the bottle. So I signed up for NXNE, which is Canada's oh-so-clever-and-not-at-all-trying-too-hard answer to the SXSW music festival, as well as Toronto Pride. Unfortunately for me and potentially humorous for you, they called me at 8:30pm a couple nights ago when I was 3 glasses into a bottle of malbec.
Scene: My bed. Computer on my lap. In the midst of watching the entire back half of this season's Heroes. It is no less stupid when drunk.
[phone rings]
Illustrious D: Helloooooo.
Homosexual Volunteer: Hi, this is Tim from Toronto Pride. Is this David?
ID: Who wansht to know?
HV: Um, Tim. Tor-...Toronto Pride?
ID: Suuuuure you are.
HV: I see that you've signed up to volunteer with us. Do you have some time to ta-
ID: TIMMEHHHHHH!
HV: -lk about the roles you're interested in?
ID: Don get frejsh.
HV: Do you have any experience in leadership positions?
ID: Asjh you can see on mah applikashuns, I was volunteer coorjinater fer the winnipeg flinge frestival. So yes...biiiiiiiiiotch.
HV: Ah. Very good. So would you be interested in working in the Pride street fair as a team leader, signing vendors in, directing pedestrian traffic, tasks like that?
ID: I can't sign. Not deaf. We're on the phone, bahahahaaa *burp*
HV: The shift is rather long.
ID: Sizshe does not mattjher to me.
HV: It's about 15 hours long.
ID: Whoa, Pharoah, back the dtruck up. Aiin no way in hall that I'-
HV: You'll be fed.
ID: Deal.
HV: The training has already happened but if you show up half an hour before the start of your sh-
ID: Yerr zexy.
HV: What?
ID: Yerr Mexi...
HV: ...
ID: *attempts to lick own elbow*
HV: Um, I-
ID: ...can.
HV: Yes, well-
ID: NAILED IT.
HV: Okay, well I think that just about does it for us. Thanks so much again. I'll e-mail your schedule and if you have any more questions feel free to call the Pride Info Line.
ID: Is that thish number?
HV: No.
ID: Then what's thish number?
HV: It's actually my cell phone.
ID: Can I jusht call you?
HV: Call the Info Line.
ID: How 'bout just a text?
HV: No.
ID: YOU NEVER REALLY LOVEJD MEAHHH!
*click*
FIN
In my attempt to becoming a social creature whose sole friend is not the bottle, I decided to start volunteering. For the record, I ran a volunteer task force of about 800 for a large theatre festival once upon a time and can say with confident if not absolute certainty that volunteering is lame. Nothing requiring matching XL t-shirts is EVER going to be a good time. Still, social creature. No friends with the bottle. So I signed up for NXNE, which is Canada's oh-so-clever-and-not-at-all-trying-too-hard answer to the SXSW music festival, as well as Toronto Pride. Unfortunately for me and potentially humorous for you, they called me at 8:30pm a couple nights ago when I was 3 glasses into a bottle of malbec.
Scene: My bed. Computer on my lap. In the midst of watching the entire back half of this season's Heroes. It is no less stupid when drunk.
[phone rings]
Illustrious D: Helloooooo.
Homosexual Volunteer: Hi, this is Tim from Toronto Pride. Is this David?
ID: Who wansht to know?
HV: Um, Tim. Tor-...Toronto Pride?
ID: Suuuuure you are.
HV: I see that you've signed up to volunteer with us. Do you have some time to ta-
ID: TIMMEHHHHHH!
HV: -lk about the roles you're interested in?
ID: Don get frejsh.
HV: Do you have any experience in leadership positions?
ID: Asjh you can see on mah applikashuns, I was volunteer coorjinater fer the winnipeg flinge frestival. So yes...biiiiiiiiiotch.
HV: Ah. Very good. So would you be interested in working in the Pride street fair as a team leader, signing vendors in, directing pedestrian traffic, tasks like that?
ID: I can't sign. Not deaf. We're on the phone, bahahahaaa *burp*
HV: The shift is rather long.
ID: Sizshe does not mattjher to me.
HV: It's about 15 hours long.
ID: Whoa, Pharoah, back the dtruck up. Aiin no way in hall that I'-
HV: You'll be fed.
ID: Deal.
HV: The training has already happened but if you show up half an hour before the start of your sh-
ID: Yerr zexy.
HV: What?
ID: Yerr Mexi...
HV: ...
ID: *attempts to lick own elbow*
HV: Um, I-
ID: ...can.
HV: Yes, well-
ID: NAILED IT.
HV: Okay, well I think that just about does it for us. Thanks so much again. I'll e-mail your schedule and if you have any more questions feel free to call the Pride Info Line.
ID: Is that thish number?
HV: No.
ID: Then what's thish number?
HV: It's actually my cell phone.
ID: Can I jusht call you?
HV: Call the Info Line.
ID: How 'bout just a text?
HV: No.
ID: YOU NEVER REALLY LOVEJD MEAHHH!
*click*
FIN
Monday, May 03, 2010
Imagined Pre-Birthday Messages
Tomorrow is my illustrious 26th birthday. As I anticipate receiving literally fours of celebratory wishes, I thought I would jump the gun and predict what some of the heartfelt wishes may contain:
Hungarian Father: Hey Muffininski (why he chose a Russian suffix to my childhood nickname is a question for the ages), it's Daddio comin' at ya! Have a happy birthday, Mister, and while you're at it, find me a son-in-law!
Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling to wish you a happy birthday and say that it's okay that you missed our anniversary yesterday. I'm sure the call got lost in the mail. Anyway, hope you do something nice with a ...friend and maybe things will happen to you this year. Can't wait to see you on Friday! If you need a ride from the airport, call us.
Electro Bro: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling again. Your brother sends his regards but he's too busy smoking the gange trying to forget about Finnigan. Hope you're not worrying about having missed our anniversary. Buh-bye.
Future Roommate: Anonymous says: Happy birthday, sweetheart! Can't wait to see you this weekend! We gonna get cruuuuuuuuunk.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted ur intenchun was 2 b born and you did that but ive read a lot of reesurch shoing that u r pompous cuz being 26 isnt that impressive lol oh hon persutis.
ESLothario: *crickets*
Unibrow: Hey, buddy-pants. I just wanted to call and wisjh jhouuu a haaaappsatlihg (message truncated due to rufie someone slipped him in order to tweeze that shit.)
Flight Attendant Nick: :) :P :) :D :P :) :) ;) :D IF I COULD TURN BACK TI-
Iranian Grocery Owner Lady: (upon seeing the strawberries I've picked out) No no no. You can do better than that. Go get others.
Actually happened. Even my produce vendor disapproves of my choices.
Hungarian Father: Hey Muffininski (why he chose a Russian suffix to my childhood nickname is a question for the ages), it's Daddio comin' at ya! Have a happy birthday, Mister, and while you're at it, find me a son-in-law!
Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling to wish you a happy birthday and say that it's okay that you missed our anniversary yesterday. I'm sure the call got lost in the mail. Anyway, hope you do something nice with a ...friend and maybe things will happen to you this year. Can't wait to see you on Friday! If you need a ride from the airport, call us.
Electro Bro: Hi, sweetie. It's your mom calling again. Your brother sends his regards but he's too busy smoking the gange trying to forget about Finnigan. Hope you're not worrying about having missed our anniversary. Buh-bye.
Future Roommate: Anonymous says: Happy birthday, sweetheart! Can't wait to see you this weekend! We gonna get cruuuuuuuuunk.
Frog-->Getting High (Park) says: granted ur intenchun was 2 b born and you did that but ive read a lot of reesurch shoing that u r pompous cuz being 26 isnt that impressive lol oh hon persutis.
ESLothario: *crickets*
Unibrow: Hey, buddy-pants. I just wanted to call and wisjh jhouuu a haaaappsatlihg (message truncated due to rufie someone slipped him in order to tweeze that shit.)
Flight Attendant Nick: :) :P :) :D :P :) :) ;) :D IF I COULD TURN BACK TI-
Iranian Grocery Owner Lady: (upon seeing the strawberries I've picked out) No no no. You can do better than that. Go get others.
Actually happened. Even my produce vendor disapproves of my choices.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Parental Views on my Singlehood: Part the Second
My mother just called me on my work phone:
Illustrious D: Wha-? Hello?
Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. Did you call me at the office?
ID: No...
SM: Oh, then you must have caller ID (<----that's me!) and can see our phone number.
ID: I must.
SM: I'm going to go to the spa with Gloria to get massages on our day off, but I just wanted to let you know that Dad and I are going to dinner and then the theatre tonight so we will NOT be calling you later to say Good Shabbos.
ID: Mmmmokay. I'll try to not add that to the Feelings of Abandonment file.
SM: What?
ID: You look really pretty today. Is that a BumpIt?
SM: What? We're on the phone. Please be serious. But regardless that's not a very nice thing to say about my nose.
ID: No, Mom, I-... never mind. Goodbye.
SM: WAIT!
ID: *waits*
SM: *waits to see if I'm waiting*
ID: *adjusts balls*
SM: So this may not be the best time to talk about this cause you're at work, but lately...I've sensed that...you're...lonely...for a...rom...antic relationship.
ID: Well, Mr. Shatner, that's a very astute observation. Father has posited the very same hypothesis.
SM: It just seems that you could use it right now.
ID: As opposed to the last 10 years I've been looking for it.
SM: Right.
ID: *readjust balls back to original position* It's like you're in my head.
SM: They say it takes about two years so really get integrated into a place and so you're really just at the beginning still. You have the apartment and a job and you have lots of acquaintances (Mom-speak for "I suspect you're a whore.") and a couple friends like Unibrow and the one that looks like a doll, but I just think you should have a really good relationship.
ID: Holla.
SM: Are there any, um, you know, gay Jewish groups in Toronto?
ID: Yes. It's called Kulanu. The quasi-attractive Jew from back in December told me about it before dropping off the face of the Earth.
SM: Well, you're pretty self-sufficient so I'm sure you'll check it out if you want to.
ID: I'm sure I will, too.
SM: Well, this has been exciting. You work on the relationship thing. It just takes a little effort.
ID: Mother...
SM: That's all I'm saying.
ID: Mmmmmmmm-hmm.
SM: I love y-.
*click*
Illustrious D: Wha-? Hello?
Slacker Mom: Hi, sweetie. Did you call me at the office?
ID: No...
SM: Oh, then you must have caller ID (<----that's me!) and can see our phone number.
ID: I must.
SM: I'm going to go to the spa with Gloria to get massages on our day off, but I just wanted to let you know that Dad and I are going to dinner and then the theatre tonight so we will NOT be calling you later to say Good Shabbos.
ID: Mmmmokay. I'll try to not add that to the Feelings of Abandonment file.
SM: What?
ID: You look really pretty today. Is that a BumpIt?
SM: What? We're on the phone. Please be serious. But regardless that's not a very nice thing to say about my nose.
ID: No, Mom, I-... never mind. Goodbye.
SM: WAIT!
ID: *waits*
SM: *waits to see if I'm waiting*
ID: *adjusts balls*
SM: So this may not be the best time to talk about this cause you're at work, but lately...I've sensed that...you're...lonely...for a...rom...antic relationship.
ID: Well, Mr. Shatner, that's a very astute observation. Father has posited the very same hypothesis.
SM: It just seems that you could use it right now.
ID: As opposed to the last 10 years I've been looking for it.
SM: Right.
ID: *readjust balls back to original position* It's like you're in my head.
SM: They say it takes about two years so really get integrated into a place and so you're really just at the beginning still. You have the apartment and a job and you have lots of acquaintances (Mom-speak for "I suspect you're a whore.") and a couple friends like Unibrow and the one that looks like a doll, but I just think you should have a really good relationship.
ID: Holla.
SM: Are there any, um, you know, gay Jewish groups in Toronto?
ID: Yes. It's called Kulanu. The quasi-attractive Jew from back in December told me about it before dropping off the face of the Earth.
SM: Well, you're pretty self-sufficient so I'm sure you'll check it out if you want to.
ID: I'm sure I will, too.
SM: Well, this has been exciting. You work on the relationship thing. It just takes a little effort.
ID: Mother...
SM: That's all I'm saying.
ID: Mmmmmmmm-hmm.
SM: I love y-.
*click*
Monday, April 12, 2010
5(Barely)Alive
Saturday night began with buying Sprite in a gas station and ended with me inexplicably naked next to a very not naked flight attendant. Let us attempt to unravel the mystery of yet another fucked up night in the big city together, shall we?
The evening began with a very strong martini. I normally do not drink heavily prior to group pre-gaming, but I was feeling slightly anxious about the impending outing, the second in the week with the flight attendants, as well as the insinuation that there might be illicit substances involved. (Despite a relatively intimate history with las drogas, the thought of them still makes me nervous.) The idea of spending yet another evening with near-strangers was weighing heavily, a sentiment with which most transients/emigrés can empathize. One such empathizer was Flight Attendant Nick, who despite his man-child sweetness was actually rather acute at picking up on my reticence while msn-ing that afternoon. I felt much better after going all whiny bitch on his ass, emo-ing on and on about missing the comfort of long term friendships. In hindsight, I probably would have bailed were it not for this oversharing, so that and the martini were justifiable courage in getting my ass out the door.
ID: Hello, Rationalized Alcoholism.
AC: Hello, Illustrious D.
I took the subway to where the other flight attendant, Former Hottub Mate, was living to enjoy some libation along with FAN, two goateed bears and their dog, Pilot, who I spent the majority of the night calling Tyler. I imagine I might have been corrected by one of the other four humans had my increasingly drunken slur not come out as "GHIIIBLOTR" every time I tackled the dog after it started dry humping me.
Upon arrival, FAN asked me what I take with my Smirnoff. I considered telling him Grey Goose, but realized that this might be a lost cause when the mixer I was offered turned out to be 5-Alive or Déli-Cinq to all the Frenchies. The next thing I remember is being in FHM's room belting out the Glee soundtrack and Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album with roughly a 2-6 of vodka in my gullet. Why Stevie Nicks continues to haunt all my weekend misadventures is beyond my conscious level of understanding. Evidently, I cannot go my own way (go my own waa-aa-ay). After that, we merged into the bears' living room to watch the end of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, a childhood favourite and one of the more overlooked films in the Dick van Dyke oeuvre. It's also incredibly fucked up and manages to make Mary Poppins look like a lesson in realism. After the end credits, we moved on to play Scene It, an interactive movie trivia game, on their sixty-inch plasma, confirming the stereotype of gay desire to play with the most inches possible. By this point, I had imbibed as much as I would and felt a bit goofy, but didn't think I was anywhere in the realm of drunk. I even managed to pull off a second place finish with Scene It while embodying the hottest avitar on the screen.
ID: Hello, Small Victories.
SV: Hello, Illustrious D.
The plan was to go to Buddies, a club in the gay village known for my most acrimonious enemies, the Hollister Douchnozzle and the Over-Manicured Twink. I got up from the couch to put on my shoes...and that is the last thing I remember until arriving at the club. Evidently, Smirnoff has a new time-release formula that makes you think you're all ballin' and awesome at Scene It and then - BAM! - need to lean on a 6'2" air steward just to walk down the street.
Now, I am pretty ridiculous-looking sober. I have relatively broad shoulders, a small waist, enormous hips, accordingly disproportionate ass and perpetual stubble. Combine all that with my meandering gate and there's chuckles galore for various squeegee kids and stupid drunk trollops out on the street. The only time I don't look a bit silly is when on drugs, at which point the marginally useful muscles of my lower extremities muster all their strength and I'm somehow able to be all normal times.
ID: Hello, Reason Why David Should Always Have Access to Street Drugs.
RWDSAHATSD: *crickets*
The opposite of this occurs when I've been drinking. Now, I've been known to yell at a bouncer or two when waiting to get into a club and they ask me if I've been drinking a lot. I usually yell at them about disabilities and how they might be able to ascertain the difference between inebriation and gimpiness had they not flunked Kindergarten 4 times. While this attempt to enlighten society about the everyday struggles of the differently abled may seem admirable, the fact is I'm usually drunk as the dickens. In this sloppy mess of a state, I am generally under the impression that I'm carrying myself off rather well only to reflect the next day and realize that I was an absolute shit show. 'That night proved to be no exception. Fortunately, the line at Buddies was so long that we just walked right on by and decided to go to a local watering hole where they have soft-core porn on the TVs and weekly Best Ass competitions. And we wonder why family values coalitions exist.
ID: Hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck.
EH: The bible says that a man and anot-...
ID: You shut your stupid whore mouth.
Now, I don't really recall what happened next. Something went down that I didn't see, but FAN, who had been all but letting me piggy back him as we walked far behind the other three, apparently saw someone making fun of me. Again, I didn't see this and frankly if I saw myself that night I probably would be making fun of me too, but regardless, we got into a cab and took it back to my apartment without telling the others. In retrospect, this seems strange. He kept saying stuff like, "I don't care about it. I just like you for you," and all this other noble stuff, which was all very well and good except that it was just kind of making things worse. God knows that if the whole 7 Deadly Sins thing really exists, I'm going down for all of them, but Pride, I suspect, would be the main culprit. I'm okay with feeling bad about myself; I don't need you to. I'm also inwardly suspicious of anyone that makes the 'it doesn't matter to me' assessment without really knowing me very well. Perhaps I'm overly cynical, but the ability to overlook something as fundamental as physical capability without having the affection that comes with time seems odd to me. It tends to place people in the Too Good To Be True folder.
So we arrive outside my apartment and get out of the cab when I realize that I left my coat at the bears' house. My coat with my keys in it. I full on drunk dialed my friend in the building and it went a little something like this:
Slumbering Jessica: Mmmm, hello...?
ID: Garflehumbghroh.
SJ: Um, hello?
ID: Jmessicarz.
SJ: David?
ID: Are jhou hawm?
SJ: No, I'm at the boyfriends'.
ID: FAAAAAWWWK. Sorwy, were shjou ashleep?
SJ: Kinda.
ID: Oh sit, I'm shorry. I left my shjacket at bye.
Oh yes, internet friends. You can proceed to be jealous of the people in my real life any time now.
I had this crazy notion that perhaps the initial martini had impaired me enough that I had forgotten to lock my apartment door, so after a few minutes we covertly (read: stumbley)followed someone else into the building and walked to my place only to find that Stupid Slighty Buzzed David had, in fact, had enough sense to lock his door. I suggested we jimmy the lock. FAN thought this was unwise. I considered breaking in from the outside by cutting the screen on the window I'd left open. He told me that this, too, was probably not my best move.
We got into another cab and returned to the bar where our earlier companions had wound up. My previous history with bouncers came full circle when I was told with no uncertainty that I would not be going inside. Rather than deriding his education and/or assumed tininess of genitalia, I slunk down onto the steps and waited outside while FAN went in to find the others. It is at moments like these that I feel like a small child again. Nicholas is the same age as I and yet the entire night I felt like his little brother or something, and now I was planted on the stoop outside a bar with his hoody, big woe-is-me eyes and an urge to pee very badly. Eventually, the others filed out and one of the bears went to get the car. Or both of them. They were gone a very long time so let's go with both of them. Meanwhile, FHM had picked up some groady Italian guy and they were sloppily making out on the sidewalk. For the record, watching two unattractive people kiss while you're drunk is a better laxative than Metamucil.
Finally, the auwhora borealis came back with the vehicle and all six of us piled in, with me perched on FAM's lap, hearkening back to my child-like awareness where I also forget that I am nearly 6' tall and weigh close to 160 lbs. My sullenness was lifted when the Disney sing-a-long begins and we all start wailing along to Les Poisons in various degrees of ability. FAN told me I had a nice voice, as if I needed more proof of his inebriation. While it is nice when I'm sober and beautiful when I'm high, my drunk voice sounds like the love child of Peewee Herman and Cookie Monster.
ID: Hello, Further Proof That I Was Raised By 80's Television.
FPTIWRB8T: Hello, Illustrious D.
After dropping off the aesthetically challenged couple and Bear #1, Bear #2 drove us back to FAN's place, all the while talking about the drama that befalls two tops in love and his massive junk. It was very skeezy and reminded me that I am so not of that hyper-gay reality and am probably just a straight guy with daddy issues. We went inside and I promptly stripped to my skivvies, poured myself a glass of water that I regrettably did not drink and and fell asleep in his bed. When I woke up, we were spooning and hung over. We talked for about half an hour, at which point I realized that I was naked. I do not know how or why this happened, though he was quite the gentleman about it, curling into a hedgehog ball while I covered my shame.
The adventure concluded around 2pm in the consumption of greasy pizza, delicious chicken bites and a limp of shame home to catch up on backlogged episodes of Brothers & Sisters until well past eleven that night. It may not have been my perfect night, but at least I didn't wind up with a nauseating guido. So there's that.
NEXT TIME: David ponders whether or not he wants to make good on his acceptance into the University of Toronto's consecutive bachelor of education program. For those who are of the opinion that I should never under any circumstances be permitted exercise influence around children, it's not looking good for you.
It's 6:00pm. Do you know where your crotch fruit are?
The evening began with a very strong martini. I normally do not drink heavily prior to group pre-gaming, but I was feeling slightly anxious about the impending outing, the second in the week with the flight attendants, as well as the insinuation that there might be illicit substances involved. (Despite a relatively intimate history with las drogas, the thought of them still makes me nervous.) The idea of spending yet another evening with near-strangers was weighing heavily, a sentiment with which most transients/emigrés can empathize. One such empathizer was Flight Attendant Nick, who despite his man-child sweetness was actually rather acute at picking up on my reticence while msn-ing that afternoon. I felt much better after going all whiny bitch on his ass, emo-ing on and on about missing the comfort of long term friendships. In hindsight, I probably would have bailed were it not for this oversharing, so that and the martini were justifiable courage in getting my ass out the door.
ID: Hello, Rationalized Alcoholism.
AC: Hello, Illustrious D.
I took the subway to where the other flight attendant, Former Hottub Mate, was living to enjoy some libation along with FAN, two goateed bears and their dog, Pilot, who I spent the majority of the night calling Tyler. I imagine I might have been corrected by one of the other four humans had my increasingly drunken slur not come out as "GHIIIBLOTR" every time I tackled the dog after it started dry humping me.
Upon arrival, FAN asked me what I take with my Smirnoff. I considered telling him Grey Goose, but realized that this might be a lost cause when the mixer I was offered turned out to be 5-Alive or Déli-Cinq to all the Frenchies. The next thing I remember is being in FHM's room belting out the Glee soundtrack and Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album with roughly a 2-6 of vodka in my gullet. Why Stevie Nicks continues to haunt all my weekend misadventures is beyond my conscious level of understanding. Evidently, I cannot go my own way (go my own waa-aa-ay). After that, we merged into the bears' living room to watch the end of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, a childhood favourite and one of the more overlooked films in the Dick van Dyke oeuvre. It's also incredibly fucked up and manages to make Mary Poppins look like a lesson in realism. After the end credits, we moved on to play Scene It, an interactive movie trivia game, on their sixty-inch plasma, confirming the stereotype of gay desire to play with the most inches possible. By this point, I had imbibed as much as I would and felt a bit goofy, but didn't think I was anywhere in the realm of drunk. I even managed to pull off a second place finish with Scene It while embodying the hottest avitar on the screen.
ID: Hello, Small Victories.
SV: Hello, Illustrious D.
The plan was to go to Buddies, a club in the gay village known for my most acrimonious enemies, the Hollister Douchnozzle and the Over-Manicured Twink. I got up from the couch to put on my shoes...and that is the last thing I remember until arriving at the club. Evidently, Smirnoff has a new time-release formula that makes you think you're all ballin' and awesome at Scene It and then - BAM! - need to lean on a 6'2" air steward just to walk down the street.
Now, I am pretty ridiculous-looking sober. I have relatively broad shoulders, a small waist, enormous hips, accordingly disproportionate ass and perpetual stubble. Combine all that with my meandering gate and there's chuckles galore for various squeegee kids and stupid drunk trollops out on the street. The only time I don't look a bit silly is when on drugs, at which point the marginally useful muscles of my lower extremities muster all their strength and I'm somehow able to be all normal times.
ID: Hello, Reason Why David Should Always Have Access to Street Drugs.
RWDSAHATSD: *crickets*
The opposite of this occurs when I've been drinking. Now, I've been known to yell at a bouncer or two when waiting to get into a club and they ask me if I've been drinking a lot. I usually yell at them about disabilities and how they might be able to ascertain the difference between inebriation and gimpiness had they not flunked Kindergarten 4 times. While this attempt to enlighten society about the everyday struggles of the differently abled may seem admirable, the fact is I'm usually drunk as the dickens. In this sloppy mess of a state, I am generally under the impression that I'm carrying myself off rather well only to reflect the next day and realize that I was an absolute shit show. 'That night proved to be no exception. Fortunately, the line at Buddies was so long that we just walked right on by and decided to go to a local watering hole where they have soft-core porn on the TVs and weekly Best Ass competitions. And we wonder why family values coalitions exist.
ID: Hi, Elizabeth Hasselbeck.
EH: The bible says that a man and anot-...
ID: You shut your stupid whore mouth.
Now, I don't really recall what happened next. Something went down that I didn't see, but FAN, who had been all but letting me piggy back him as we walked far behind the other three, apparently saw someone making fun of me. Again, I didn't see this and frankly if I saw myself that night I probably would be making fun of me too, but regardless, we got into a cab and took it back to my apartment without telling the others. In retrospect, this seems strange. He kept saying stuff like, "I don't care about it. I just like you for you," and all this other noble stuff, which was all very well and good except that it was just kind of making things worse. God knows that if the whole 7 Deadly Sins thing really exists, I'm going down for all of them, but Pride, I suspect, would be the main culprit. I'm okay with feeling bad about myself; I don't need you to. I'm also inwardly suspicious of anyone that makes the 'it doesn't matter to me' assessment without really knowing me very well. Perhaps I'm overly cynical, but the ability to overlook something as fundamental as physical capability without having the affection that comes with time seems odd to me. It tends to place people in the Too Good To Be True folder.
So we arrive outside my apartment and get out of the cab when I realize that I left my coat at the bears' house. My coat with my keys in it. I full on drunk dialed my friend in the building and it went a little something like this:
Slumbering Jessica: Mmmm, hello...?
ID: Garflehumbghroh.
SJ: Um, hello?
ID: Jmessicarz.
SJ: David?
ID: Are jhou hawm?
SJ: No, I'm at the boyfriends'.
ID: FAAAAAWWWK. Sorwy, were shjou ashleep?
SJ: Kinda.
ID: Oh sit, I'm shorry. I left my shjacket at bye.
Oh yes, internet friends. You can proceed to be jealous of the people in my real life any time now.
I had this crazy notion that perhaps the initial martini had impaired me enough that I had forgotten to lock my apartment door, so after a few minutes we covertly (read: stumbley)followed someone else into the building and walked to my place only to find that Stupid Slighty Buzzed David had, in fact, had enough sense to lock his door. I suggested we jimmy the lock. FAN thought this was unwise. I considered breaking in from the outside by cutting the screen on the window I'd left open. He told me that this, too, was probably not my best move.
We got into another cab and returned to the bar where our earlier companions had wound up. My previous history with bouncers came full circle when I was told with no uncertainty that I would not be going inside. Rather than deriding his education and/or assumed tininess of genitalia, I slunk down onto the steps and waited outside while FAN went in to find the others. It is at moments like these that I feel like a small child again. Nicholas is the same age as I and yet the entire night I felt like his little brother or something, and now I was planted on the stoop outside a bar with his hoody, big woe-is-me eyes and an urge to pee very badly. Eventually, the others filed out and one of the bears went to get the car. Or both of them. They were gone a very long time so let's go with both of them. Meanwhile, FHM had picked up some groady Italian guy and they were sloppily making out on the sidewalk. For the record, watching two unattractive people kiss while you're drunk is a better laxative than Metamucil.
Finally, the auwhora borealis came back with the vehicle and all six of us piled in, with me perched on FAM's lap, hearkening back to my child-like awareness where I also forget that I am nearly 6' tall and weigh close to 160 lbs. My sullenness was lifted when the Disney sing-a-long begins and we all start wailing along to Les Poisons in various degrees of ability. FAN told me I had a nice voice, as if I needed more proof of his inebriation. While it is nice when I'm sober and beautiful when I'm high, my drunk voice sounds like the love child of Peewee Herman and Cookie Monster.
ID: Hello, Further Proof That I Was Raised By 80's Television.
FPTIWRB8T: Hello, Illustrious D.
After dropping off the aesthetically challenged couple and Bear #1, Bear #2 drove us back to FAN's place, all the while talking about the drama that befalls two tops in love and his massive junk. It was very skeezy and reminded me that I am so not of that hyper-gay reality and am probably just a straight guy with daddy issues. We went inside and I promptly stripped to my skivvies, poured myself a glass of water that I regrettably did not drink and and fell asleep in his bed. When I woke up, we were spooning and hung over. We talked for about half an hour, at which point I realized that I was naked. I do not know how or why this happened, though he was quite the gentleman about it, curling into a hedgehog ball while I covered my shame.
The adventure concluded around 2pm in the consumption of greasy pizza, delicious chicken bites and a limp of shame home to catch up on backlogged episodes of Brothers & Sisters until well past eleven that night. It may not have been my perfect night, but at least I didn't wind up with a nauseating guido. So there's that.
NEXT TIME: David ponders whether or not he wants to make good on his acceptance into the University of Toronto's consecutive bachelor of education program. For those who are of the opinion that I should never under any circumstances be permitted exercise influence around children, it's not looking good for you.
It's 6:00pm. Do you know where your crotch fruit are?
Monday, March 29, 2010
Rollins With Mah Homies
Apologies, Global Family excepting Herr Kanada, for the dearth of posts as of late, although it seems to be world wide wacky phenomenon as everyone's output seems to be down at the moment. I chock mine up to the afore/oft mentioned ennui and expect comments of sympathy, frozen snickers bars and cash money to come pouring in from the baker's dozen of winners following my descent into pre-Passover madness. Hey, Ancient Jew Slaves: I feel you, peeps.
Wanting to emerge from my nest of self-imposed isolation and dejection, I called in sick to my regular Friday night dinner invite and went to see Señor Henry Rollins speak instead. I won't bore you with a long preamble about his many deeds and services, as that's what Wikipedia and nakedmalecelebrities.com are for, but he's a punk rocker/spoken word presenter who speaks to the oft disenfranchised angsty masses of suburban adolescents and the messed up adults they become. He also has wacky adventures travelling to strange foreign locales such as Burma or Pakistan, not for gigs or appearances but rather just to check out the places about which we only hear negatively and at the hands of Western media sources. In addition, he is a hetero tattooed tank of a guy who is a huge proponent of gay rights and not being a douche. I wanna hug him in ways I can't even express.
I went to be inspired and I suppose I was. He wasn't quite as humorous as when I'd seen him previously, but was all the same extremely entertaining, self-depricating and generally awesome. While I didn't walk out of the show and book a ticket for Azerbaijan, I did feel inspired to grab a NOW magazine and fill in every free night normally spent sitting at home on the interwebs and drinking wine with an activity of some sort, whether it be a show or a talk or just something to enrich my life better than backlogged episodes of Heroes. I also rode my newly-re-tired bike to and from the show, which always makes me feel like a Big Boy, and I even fixed the chain when it fell off, thereby making my hands filthy and my sense of purpose shine. Small victories, people.
So how did I spend my post-Rollins weekend? Saturday, I tidied my place and took myself to lunch. Then I popped into Starbucks, where I spilled an entire Grande American Misto all over the everything by dropping the jar of honey I was pouring from into my drink. A Hot Dad with a baby strapped to his chest told me I'd done it with "panache" and they made me another drink for free so I'm-a call Win on that one.
From there, I transitted my tuxedo-carrying ass to Buttfuck Nowhere, where I arrived an hour early for a 5pm dress rehearsal of a concert happening later that night, starring my dog-and-pony-show Jew choir (the 'ch' is guttural) and some Protestant equivalent with 3 times the members and 1/3 the makeup. Okay, for serious, United Church Goers, the good lord invented MAC counters for a reason. Hell, he invented Dollarama makeup aisles for a reason! A lesser reason, but STILL A REASON. Moving on, after butchering the Chichester Psalms so bad they became New Testament (zing!...just kidding; I have no clue what that meant), things wrapped up around 10:00pm, allowing me to get back to my urban reality, down three caffeine pills, two martinis and a non-drowsy deconge and bike down to The Beaver to meet fellow blogger The Queer Behind the Mirror (QBM) for some raucous dancing. I managed to nearly get hit by cabs a mere three times and then stood in line outside for a solid 20 minutes while an obese drag queen performed Fleetwood Mac covers, complete with backing band comprised of 1 guitar, 1 bass, 1 drum kit and 17 tambourines, including one played by a man crowd surfing to 'Landslide'. I finally got in around 12:30am, ordered a shot of vodka and a bottled water, kicked off my Kenneth Coles and dropped it in the manner that one might was it hot on the dance floor. Highlights included nearly getting assaulted by a drunk amazonian woman doing what one could infer was her signature dance move, protecting a tiny tattooed woman in a tutu when now-coke-out-of-her-mind Steven Nicks decide to stand/stumble in the middle of the dance floor, and finally getting surprise-ridden by bearded drag queen when I was on all fours looking for my shoes under a table.
QBM and I left around 2:30 and he crashed at my place, making excellent use of the futon. The following morning we went for leakfast (suck it, Brunch) and then parted ways as I went off to meet my aunt and uncle for a play. We saw Breakfast, which is about a house-coated woman descending into madness at the hands of her self help cassette, culminating in dry humping the personified tape after erotically coating it in pudding, banana, strawberries and vanilla yogurt (We just narrowly avoided the splash section). Needless to say, it was a bit ridiculous and hit-you-over-the-head obvious about sexuality and repression, but at an hour-long running time, it was manageable. We then went on a matzah-finding adventure, 'cause evidently most urban grocery stores are staunch anti-Semites. We soon found an embarrassment of riches at a nearby Price Chopper (which, incidentally was our original nickname before "The Chosen People" got all trendy) and then went back to Aunt and Uncle's pad to get toasty on wine and full on his homemade pizza. I got home around 10:30.
So that was my weekend. I did not protest Ann Coulter or participate in any sustainable living fashion shows, but I did keep myself occupied, which I suppose was the goal. I'm still not totally out of the woods yet, mostly cause my weekly quiche didn't turn out that great (yeah.) but it's a move in the right direction.
Lastly, while walking home this week I saw a scarf lying in the middle of the road that had been run over repeatedly. For some reason, I picked it up and thought, "Hey, if laundered this would actually be a really nice scarf for a sweet natured, conservatively dressed straight guy with grooming challenges." Unibrow is receiving it next weekend.
HAPPY PESACH, BIZNATCHES!
Wanting to emerge from my nest of self-imposed isolation and dejection, I called in sick to my regular Friday night dinner invite and went to see Señor Henry Rollins speak instead. I won't bore you with a long preamble about his many deeds and services, as that's what Wikipedia and nakedmalecelebrities.com are for, but he's a punk rocker/spoken word presenter who speaks to the oft disenfranchised angsty masses of suburban adolescents and the messed up adults they become. He also has wacky adventures travelling to strange foreign locales such as Burma or Pakistan, not for gigs or appearances but rather just to check out the places about which we only hear negatively and at the hands of Western media sources. In addition, he is a hetero tattooed tank of a guy who is a huge proponent of gay rights and not being a douche. I wanna hug him in ways I can't even express.
I went to be inspired and I suppose I was. He wasn't quite as humorous as when I'd seen him previously, but was all the same extremely entertaining, self-depricating and generally awesome. While I didn't walk out of the show and book a ticket for Azerbaijan, I did feel inspired to grab a NOW magazine and fill in every free night normally spent sitting at home on the interwebs and drinking wine with an activity of some sort, whether it be a show or a talk or just something to enrich my life better than backlogged episodes of Heroes. I also rode my newly-re-tired bike to and from the show, which always makes me feel like a Big Boy, and I even fixed the chain when it fell off, thereby making my hands filthy and my sense of purpose shine. Small victories, people.
So how did I spend my post-Rollins weekend? Saturday, I tidied my place and took myself to lunch. Then I popped into Starbucks, where I spilled an entire Grande American Misto all over the everything by dropping the jar of honey I was pouring from into my drink. A Hot Dad with a baby strapped to his chest told me I'd done it with "panache" and they made me another drink for free so I'm-a call Win on that one.
From there, I transitted my tuxedo-carrying ass to Buttfuck Nowhere, where I arrived an hour early for a 5pm dress rehearsal of a concert happening later that night, starring my dog-and-pony-show Jew choir (the 'ch' is guttural) and some Protestant equivalent with 3 times the members and 1/3 the makeup. Okay, for serious, United Church Goers, the good lord invented MAC counters for a reason. Hell, he invented Dollarama makeup aisles for a reason! A lesser reason, but STILL A REASON. Moving on, after butchering the Chichester Psalms so bad they became New Testament (zing!...just kidding; I have no clue what that meant), things wrapped up around 10:00pm, allowing me to get back to my urban reality, down three caffeine pills, two martinis and a non-drowsy deconge and bike down to The Beaver to meet fellow blogger The Queer Behind the Mirror (QBM) for some raucous dancing. I managed to nearly get hit by cabs a mere three times and then stood in line outside for a solid 20 minutes while an obese drag queen performed Fleetwood Mac covers, complete with backing band comprised of 1 guitar, 1 bass, 1 drum kit and 17 tambourines, including one played by a man crowd surfing to 'Landslide'. I finally got in around 12:30am, ordered a shot of vodka and a bottled water, kicked off my Kenneth Coles and dropped it in the manner that one might was it hot on the dance floor. Highlights included nearly getting assaulted by a drunk amazonian woman doing what one could infer was her signature dance move, protecting a tiny tattooed woman in a tutu when now-coke-out-of-her-mind Steven Nicks decide to stand/stumble in the middle of the dance floor, and finally getting surprise-ridden by bearded drag queen when I was on all fours looking for my shoes under a table.
QBM and I left around 2:30 and he crashed at my place, making excellent use of the futon. The following morning we went for leakfast (suck it, Brunch) and then parted ways as I went off to meet my aunt and uncle for a play. We saw Breakfast, which is about a house-coated woman descending into madness at the hands of her self help cassette, culminating in dry humping the personified tape after erotically coating it in pudding, banana, strawberries and vanilla yogurt (We just narrowly avoided the splash section). Needless to say, it was a bit ridiculous and hit-you-over-the-head obvious about sexuality and repression, but at an hour-long running time, it was manageable. We then went on a matzah-finding adventure, 'cause evidently most urban grocery stores are staunch anti-Semites. We soon found an embarrassment of riches at a nearby Price Chopper (which, incidentally was our original nickname before "The Chosen People" got all trendy) and then went back to Aunt and Uncle's pad to get toasty on wine and full on his homemade pizza. I got home around 10:30.
So that was my weekend. I did not protest Ann Coulter or participate in any sustainable living fashion shows, but I did keep myself occupied, which I suppose was the goal. I'm still not totally out of the woods yet, mostly cause my weekly quiche didn't turn out that great (yeah.) but it's a move in the right direction.
Lastly, while walking home this week I saw a scarf lying in the middle of the road that had been run over repeatedly. For some reason, I picked it up and thought, "Hey, if laundered this would actually be a really nice scarf for a sweet natured, conservatively dressed straight guy with grooming challenges." Unibrow is receiving it next weekend.
HAPPY PESACH, BIZNATCHES!
Monday, March 22, 2010
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. 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.
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:
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
My boss just thanked me for something and my response was "Np." I need an internet cleanse.
This was a bit of a funny weekend. Most others are spent preparing for the week to come (sorry, Shabbat), but as I'm going home on Thursday for 10 days I didn't do all my normal rituals, like a big shop in Kensington (unrelated: I need to stop buying cucumbers. I never eat them and they just sit in my fridge like a huge dong, fermenting and eventually releasing all sorts of liquid fun). As there were fewer errands to do, I decided to go out and have an awesome time on Saturday night as Sunday could be spent convalescing. Initially, I was planning on going clubbing in the gay village with ESLothario and some of his peeps, which had potential but wasn't really filling me with dance fever. I account this partially to a fear of reawakening the minor infatuation that transpired last fall at the hands of seeing anyone come within 3 feet of him ( inevitable at a club, from what I understand), but mostly I just have no desire to step foot in the village, rampant homophobe that I am.
Later in the afternoon, I received a completely random message from a chat buddy last heard from about five years ago. We'd gotten chummy prior to my visit to Montreal, where he was residing, in 2005. We did not hang out as he wound up being out of town for all but one day of my visit but we kept in touch for a while afterwards, mostly on the basis of our Toriphilia and mutual boredom. Anywhoozles, he'd seen that we'd both moved to Toronto and proposed we hang out that night at a queer dance party being held in the trendy boho part of Queen West called Parkdale. I am feeling an increasing attraction to this neighborhood, as it seems like a lovely artistic enclave removed enough from downtown to have a sense of community yet only about ten minutes away by streetcar. Additionally, the gay community there (affectionately self-titled Queer West) is present in a very natural, integrated way as opposed to the normal two options of closeted devotee or screaming rainbows. As such, I was very excited, imagining this would be similar to my outing with The Jews. I promptly bailed on ESLothario and began mentally imagining what I would wear, relieved at not having to pick out an ensemble that accentuated those desirable features which I am sorely lacking (pecs, bubble butt, 2", etc.). Imagine my disappointment when I was karmicly bailed on by the Montrealer, leaving me alone with my milk frother and dead dreams of newfound community.
Then, in an odd moment of courage, I thought, "Fuck it, I'm going anyway," and sure enough at 11:06pm, with 5 ounces of vodka and 120 mg. of pseudophedrin coursing through my veins, I marched out the door. I would have walked, but evidently I'm just too stylin'. I arrived at The Beaver, essentially your typical neighborhood bar, at approximately 11:45pm. Initially, I thought this an ironic name for a queer dance party venue until I arrived and saw that the only people on the tiny dance floor were four lesbians. Evidently, they're still considered queer. The tables by the bar were filled with queer hipsters of both genders and a few of their straight friends. As I did not feel like sitting alone like a loser, I opted to dance alone like a loser and made a b-line for the dance floor. The music was indie/old school hip hop. This, anthropomorphically, is not my people. The fact that I shook this ass pretty much non-stop is a testament to how deeply I did not feel like sitting by myself, as well as to the two decongestants I'd downed prior to embarking, effectively teaching me that third times a charm with over-the-counter non-drowsies.
I got hit on twice in the course of the night. The first was by a fucked-out-of-his-mind Stanford Blatch lookalike, but about ten years older, meaning five drug-filled years older. He was also dressed like Rudy of Fat Albert fame. After introducing himself and his lesbian bestie "Ocean" (yeah), he asked me about my life, leaning in far too much for my liking and allowing me to experience that all-too-familiar combo smell of illicit substances and bad oral hygiene. Later in the night, he gave me his number written on the back of someone else's business card. Unfortunately for Stannie, Becky McFarlane, Co-Director of the Ontario Council of Alternative Businesses, is much more likely to receive a solicitous phone call from me than his surely-encased-in-man-spanx ass. Aside from the olfactory assault, I was able to confirm that he was in fact high as a kite when five minutes after giving me the card, he came back over and said, "I just want to let you know I wasn't hitting on you; you just seem like a nice guy." Now, normally I would simply accept this statement at face value, but having been in this man's physiological condition, I can safely inform you that when a person is fucked up, offending someone else or being rejected is the most devastating thing imaginable. I swear that a solid third of my conversations at raves were spent with both of us trying to reassure the other person that we "liked them."
The second come-on had potential. In the dark. I saw a tall ambiguous male form from across the room awkwardly dancing alone and thought he looked endearing and potentially cute. (As to differentiate between his dancing and mine, Stanford had previously told me earlier in the night that he liked my dancing and this had allowed me to grant myself permission to fucking go off on that dance floor. Fat people have always told me that they liked the way I dance. Perhaps the inability to pick up one's feet is a biologically-ingrained instinctual attraction for people with over active thyroids.) After a while, the tall shadowed one comes over and begins shuffling in general proximity to me. We were kind of dancing at each other, like birds or something. At this point, the DJ, who has gradually switched to electro-house (thank the good lord; I can only be black for, like, an hour. Max.) put on a remix of...something. I can't remember, BUT ANYWAY he leans in and says, "I don't think I can survive this remix right now," to which I replied, "Let's find out together, shall we?" We kept making small talk but I was beginning to see him more clearly now and was having my inclination to believe him to be a hottie utterly dashed. He wasn't unattractive, but just...ne pas. I looked at my phone and it was just about 2am, the time that I had built myself up to stay until, so I said goodbye and left.
I realize that this would be a far better story had I met someone of note or had some sort of awesome adventure, but as it was I just went home, did not hook up and/or cuddle with anyone and went to bed solo. Sunday was spent entirely in my PJs catching up on two months of television and little else. I'm actually rather happy with the weekend. Ideally, I'd like to return to the Beav with someone else, perhaps the Montrealer, but I'm not into forcing anything. Not entirely sure if my newfound comfort at being able to do anything alone is healthy, but I tend to get satisfactory results from these outings.
Well, this was my attempt at narrative blog writing. It was...something. If you're interested in reading about someone who has found a way to be happy and hilarious simultaneously, the unicorn of bloggers, check out Sassy Curmudgeon. She had me stifling my tearful laughter with a Received By date stamp at work last week.
This was a bit of a funny weekend. Most others are spent preparing for the week to come (sorry, Shabbat), but as I'm going home on Thursday for 10 days I didn't do all my normal rituals, like a big shop in Kensington (unrelated: I need to stop buying cucumbers. I never eat them and they just sit in my fridge like a huge dong, fermenting and eventually releasing all sorts of liquid fun). As there were fewer errands to do, I decided to go out and have an awesome time on Saturday night as Sunday could be spent convalescing. Initially, I was planning on going clubbing in the gay village with ESLothario and some of his peeps, which had potential but wasn't really filling me with dance fever. I account this partially to a fear of reawakening the minor infatuation that transpired last fall at the hands of seeing anyone come within 3 feet of him ( inevitable at a club, from what I understand), but mostly I just have no desire to step foot in the village, rampant homophobe that I am.
Later in the afternoon, I received a completely random message from a chat buddy last heard from about five years ago. We'd gotten chummy prior to my visit to Montreal, where he was residing, in 2005. We did not hang out as he wound up being out of town for all but one day of my visit but we kept in touch for a while afterwards, mostly on the basis of our Toriphilia and mutual boredom. Anywhoozles, he'd seen that we'd both moved to Toronto and proposed we hang out that night at a queer dance party being held in the trendy boho part of Queen West called Parkdale. I am feeling an increasing attraction to this neighborhood, as it seems like a lovely artistic enclave removed enough from downtown to have a sense of community yet only about ten minutes away by streetcar. Additionally, the gay community there (affectionately self-titled Queer West) is present in a very natural, integrated way as opposed to the normal two options of closeted devotee or screaming rainbows. As such, I was very excited, imagining this would be similar to my outing with The Jews. I promptly bailed on ESLothario and began mentally imagining what I would wear, relieved at not having to pick out an ensemble that accentuated those desirable features which I am sorely lacking (pecs, bubble butt, 2", etc.). Imagine my disappointment when I was karmicly bailed on by the Montrealer, leaving me alone with my milk frother and dead dreams of newfound community.
Then, in an odd moment of courage, I thought, "Fuck it, I'm going anyway," and sure enough at 11:06pm, with 5 ounces of vodka and 120 mg. of pseudophedrin coursing through my veins, I marched out the door. I would have walked, but evidently I'm just too stylin'. I arrived at The Beaver, essentially your typical neighborhood bar, at approximately 11:45pm. Initially, I thought this an ironic name for a queer dance party venue until I arrived and saw that the only people on the tiny dance floor were four lesbians. Evidently, they're still considered queer. The tables by the bar were filled with queer hipsters of both genders and a few of their straight friends. As I did not feel like sitting alone like a loser, I opted to dance alone like a loser and made a b-line for the dance floor. The music was indie/old school hip hop. This, anthropomorphically, is not my people. The fact that I shook this ass pretty much non-stop is a testament to how deeply I did not feel like sitting by myself, as well as to the two decongestants I'd downed prior to embarking, effectively teaching me that third times a charm with over-the-counter non-drowsies.
I got hit on twice in the course of the night. The first was by a fucked-out-of-his-mind Stanford Blatch lookalike, but about ten years older, meaning five drug-filled years older. He was also dressed like Rudy of Fat Albert fame. After introducing himself and his lesbian bestie "Ocean" (yeah), he asked me about my life, leaning in far too much for my liking and allowing me to experience that all-too-familiar combo smell of illicit substances and bad oral hygiene. Later in the night, he gave me his number written on the back of someone else's business card. Unfortunately for Stannie, Becky McFarlane, Co-Director of the Ontario Council of Alternative Businesses, is much more likely to receive a solicitous phone call from me than his surely-encased-in-man-spanx ass. Aside from the olfactory assault, I was able to confirm that he was in fact high as a kite when five minutes after giving me the card, he came back over and said, "I just want to let you know I wasn't hitting on you; you just seem like a nice guy." Now, normally I would simply accept this statement at face value, but having been in this man's physiological condition, I can safely inform you that when a person is fucked up, offending someone else or being rejected is the most devastating thing imaginable. I swear that a solid third of my conversations at raves were spent with both of us trying to reassure the other person that we "liked them."
The second come-on had potential. In the dark. I saw a tall ambiguous male form from across the room awkwardly dancing alone and thought he looked endearing and potentially cute. (As to differentiate between his dancing and mine, Stanford had previously told me earlier in the night that he liked my dancing and this had allowed me to grant myself permission to fucking go off on that dance floor. Fat people have always told me that they liked the way I dance. Perhaps the inability to pick up one's feet is a biologically-ingrained instinctual attraction for people with over active thyroids.) After a while, the tall shadowed one comes over and begins shuffling in general proximity to me. We were kind of dancing at each other, like birds or something. At this point, the DJ, who has gradually switched to electro-house (thank the good lord; I can only be black for, like, an hour. Max.) put on a remix of...something. I can't remember, BUT ANYWAY he leans in and says, "I don't think I can survive this remix right now," to which I replied, "Let's find out together, shall we?" We kept making small talk but I was beginning to see him more clearly now and was having my inclination to believe him to be a hottie utterly dashed. He wasn't unattractive, but just...ne pas. I looked at my phone and it was just about 2am, the time that I had built myself up to stay until, so I said goodbye and left.
I realize that this would be a far better story had I met someone of note or had some sort of awesome adventure, but as it was I just went home, did not hook up and/or cuddle with anyone and went to bed solo. Sunday was spent entirely in my PJs catching up on two months of television and little else. I'm actually rather happy with the weekend. Ideally, I'd like to return to the Beav with someone else, perhaps the Montrealer, but I'm not into forcing anything. Not entirely sure if my newfound comfort at being able to do anything alone is healthy, but I tend to get satisfactory results from these outings.
Well, this was my attempt at narrative blog writing. It was...something. If you're interested in reading about someone who has found a way to be happy and hilarious simultaneously, the unicorn of bloggers, check out Sassy Curmudgeon. She had me stifling my tearful laughter with a Received By date stamp at work last week.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Most amazing quote from my pretend life partner Jay Brannan:
"I always wanted to be bulimic but I have no gag reflex. So pretty much, you can either be skinny or give great head."
Which would you choose? Given that I haven't been to the gym in about 5 days, I'm thinking that proficiency in oral sex is clearly my calling.
Otherwise, not a lot. In Toronto, not having the best day. Job interview yesterday that went well, if a bit Jewy. The guy looked like the photographer from Just Shoot Me in a yamulka. Apartment hunting is not nearly as fun as I thought it would be now that I realize what $900 gets you in this town. To make matters worse, my parents told about this amazing building with a fitness room and rooftop terrace... and rent starting at about $1,200. Why is my dad such a bitch?
Pride was fun, though I had one of those fateful nights that are equally impossible to plan as they are to forget. It was amazement embodied in what I nearly possessed, if you can ever actually own someone. Coming face to face with what I almost had has left me with an emotional hangover, which is resulting in not going out today and eating a lot of cheese. Unfortunately, my aunt and uncle don't eat any cheese that are remotely comforting. Neither a brie nor Camembert in sight. It's hard to get an endorphin rush off of parm reggiano and stoned wheat thins. Entertainment value in a city where you know only a handful of people and like only some of them is rather low. My hetero lifeline is doing a bang up job at being a one person support system, but it's unfair to ask any more of him. I miss the comforts of easy friendships at home, those that know your history, all of your rememberthattime?s.
Only 6 more weeks of this nomadic bullshit.
"I always wanted to be bulimic but I have no gag reflex. So pretty much, you can either be skinny or give great head."
Which would you choose? Given that I haven't been to the gym in about 5 days, I'm thinking that proficiency in oral sex is clearly my calling.
Otherwise, not a lot. In Toronto, not having the best day. Job interview yesterday that went well, if a bit Jewy. The guy looked like the photographer from Just Shoot Me in a yamulka. Apartment hunting is not nearly as fun as I thought it would be now that I realize what $900 gets you in this town. To make matters worse, my parents told about this amazing building with a fitness room and rooftop terrace... and rent starting at about $1,200. Why is my dad such a bitch?
Pride was fun, though I had one of those fateful nights that are equally impossible to plan as they are to forget. It was amazement embodied in what I nearly possessed, if you can ever actually own someone. Coming face to face with what I almost had has left me with an emotional hangover, which is resulting in not going out today and eating a lot of cheese. Unfortunately, my aunt and uncle don't eat any cheese that are remotely comforting. Neither a brie nor Camembert in sight. It's hard to get an endorphin rush off of parm reggiano and stoned wheat thins. Entertainment value in a city where you know only a handful of people and like only some of them is rather low. My hetero lifeline is doing a bang up job at being a one person support system, but it's unfair to ask any more of him. I miss the comforts of easy friendships at home, those that know your history, all of your rememberthattime?s.
Only 6 more weeks of this nomadic bullshit.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Well now seems as good a time as any to do a little Toronto update.
Despite having only been here for three days, the city is really starting to feel like home. Exhibit A: I've already lost my wallet on public transit and recovered it within 2 hours. Exhibit: I've already tripped over gravity. Not fallen down, but lunged just so as to jar my back enough to remain in child's pose in the YMCA quiet stretching room for a good 56 minutes.
I've already seen two apartments. Well, the first one was technically rented by the time I TTC'ed my ass down there, so technically only one. Shaddup. In the end, I think it was all for the best as my immaculately ruined collection for discounted designer clothes didn't really match the melted lime Popsicle and immigrant families congregating around the front entrance. The second place was better. Obviously. It was on a lovely side street in the village (yes, I'm trying to rediscover my love for teh ghey) and was only half the size and $250 more in rent than my current place. Not bad! Not great either, though. At least the current tenant who showed me the place was cute and also a GLBTTQIX;3& community member. We even had a bonding moment over our shared purchase of a Superstore 'Japanese' screen. Not enough of a bonding moment for afternoon delight, but I would guess that sweet lovin' would have gone down had the next other potential tenant not shown up and had I not grown gills from the copious amounts of sweat dripping down my pits from all that lovely Toronto humidity. Damn other potential tenant...
Job-hunting (the dowdy, not nearly as fun cousin of apartment-hunting) has also commenced with resume polishing and cover letter compositions a-go-go. I've found some meh-looking jobs to investigate and hope to secure something for mid-August as quickly as possible. There's just so much welder/linecook/surrogate cow impregnation work out there for which I am waaaay too overqualified. There are also, apparently, several positions which I am not qualified. Evidently, Bay Street is not ready for sound financial advice from a 25 year old music graduate. I'm-a call antisemetic, homophobic gimp-hating shenanigans on this one.
More later. Passing out in a pool of my own sweat now.
Despite having only been here for three days, the city is really starting to feel like home. Exhibit A: I've already lost my wallet on public transit and recovered it within 2 hours. Exhibit: I've already tripped over gravity. Not fallen down, but lunged just so as to jar my back enough to remain in child's pose in the YMCA quiet stretching room for a good 56 minutes.
I've already seen two apartments. Well, the first one was technically rented by the time I TTC'ed my ass down there, so technically only one. Shaddup. In the end, I think it was all for the best as my immaculately ruined collection for discounted designer clothes didn't really match the melted lime Popsicle and immigrant families congregating around the front entrance. The second place was better. Obviously. It was on a lovely side street in the village (yes, I'm trying to rediscover my love for teh ghey) and was only half the size and $250 more in rent than my current place. Not bad! Not great either, though. At least the current tenant who showed me the place was cute and also a GLBTTQIX;3& community member. We even had a bonding moment over our shared purchase of a Superstore 'Japanese' screen. Not enough of a bonding moment for afternoon delight, but I would guess that sweet lovin' would have gone down had the next other potential tenant not shown up and had I not grown gills from the copious amounts of sweat dripping down my pits from all that lovely Toronto humidity. Damn other potential tenant...
Job-hunting (the dowdy, not nearly as fun cousin of apartment-hunting) has also commenced with resume polishing and cover letter compositions a-go-go. I've found some meh-looking jobs to investigate and hope to secure something for mid-August as quickly as possible. There's just so much welder/linecook/surrogate cow impregnation work out there for which I am waaaay too overqualified. There are also, apparently, several positions which I am not qualified. Evidently, Bay Street is not ready for sound financial advice from a 25 year old music graduate. I'm-a call antisemetic, homophobic gimp-hating shenanigans on this one.
More later. Passing out in a pool of my own sweat now.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Oh, you guys, I'm struggling. Struggling, struggling, struggling. But good news: it's ok! It's a beautiful struggle. I'm finding all these ideas and concepts and precepts and mantras and theories and notions...all of them just flowing in, doing battle with each other. Not war-like battle, but more organizational battle. How to exist together battle, like trying to figure out how all the pieces of a room fit together.
Yes, I have feng shui battles.
There's a thirst right now to bring to configurations of thinking into being and, conversely perhaps, a desire to learn how to keep them at bay. It's like I want to know everything but rather than have it become instant gospel, I'd like to keep it all in a pen to fester and then settle, leaving, hopefully, some small truths that may be gleaned. I'm learning how to treat people, less reactionary, less 'helpful', which is really just another word for judgmental. I have this habit of throwing people away. I know this. I'm not saying that I've been necessarily wrong in doing this sometimes, but it is still a habit. I'm now thinking what would happen if instead of saying, "You know what? We had a good run. Thanks for playing," I let them, us, evolve into something else. Perhaps it would still end, that this shift was a sign that the relationship really does have an organic finish, but perhaps they...you know, wouldn't and we'd enter into a different stage with completely different functions.
Ultimately, this is a decision to not walk away, which is sorely tempting on so many occasions. I'm going through this really messed up period with my father, which certainly does not need to be aired in cyberspace, but contains many issues surrounding alpha male domination and parental sovereignty...things of that nature. And there's distance, unlike since I was in my teens and I feel it as well this instinctual desire to just shut off, contented with my cranial soap operas now showing the cutting and eloquent things I would say to demonstrate how demeaning this situation is to us both. What I'm learning, however, is that this will not do. It will not get us anywhere and could provide a pattern of alienation that could last until his death; the seeds of alienation have been planted over issues far smaller than this. So this is one of the struggles: how to maintain personal integrity (read: pride) while not catering to these base, irrational debates in which one is asked to participate. I don't know of course, hence the struggle, but rather than come to one conclusion and declare it god and master, I'm going to put the options at my disposal in that pen we were talking about earlier and let them stew, see what happens.
Ugh, this was so not intended to be a Daddy Issues diatribe but I just realized how late it is and must retire lest the Mennos decide to take up midnight tap dance lessons.
Yes, I have feng shui battles.
There's a thirst right now to bring to configurations of thinking into being and, conversely perhaps, a desire to learn how to keep them at bay. It's like I want to know everything but rather than have it become instant gospel, I'd like to keep it all in a pen to fester and then settle, leaving, hopefully, some small truths that may be gleaned. I'm learning how to treat people, less reactionary, less 'helpful', which is really just another word for judgmental. I have this habit of throwing people away. I know this. I'm not saying that I've been necessarily wrong in doing this sometimes, but it is still a habit. I'm now thinking what would happen if instead of saying, "You know what? We had a good run. Thanks for playing," I let them, us, evolve into something else. Perhaps it would still end, that this shift was a sign that the relationship really does have an organic finish, but perhaps they...you know, wouldn't and we'd enter into a different stage with completely different functions.
Ultimately, this is a decision to not walk away, which is sorely tempting on so many occasions. I'm going through this really messed up period with my father, which certainly does not need to be aired in cyberspace, but contains many issues surrounding alpha male domination and parental sovereignty...things of that nature. And there's distance, unlike since I was in my teens and I feel it as well this instinctual desire to just shut off, contented with my cranial soap operas now showing the cutting and eloquent things I would say to demonstrate how demeaning this situation is to us both. What I'm learning, however, is that this will not do. It will not get us anywhere and could provide a pattern of alienation that could last until his death; the seeds of alienation have been planted over issues far smaller than this. So this is one of the struggles: how to maintain personal integrity (read: pride) while not catering to these base, irrational debates in which one is asked to participate. I don't know of course, hence the struggle, but rather than come to one conclusion and declare it god and master, I'm going to put the options at my disposal in that pen we were talking about earlier and let them stew, see what happens.
Ugh, this was so not intended to be a Daddy Issues diatribe but I just realized how late it is and must retire lest the Mennos decide to take up midnight tap dance lessons.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Monday, September 29, 2008
So evidently unemployment does not equal greater blogging desire. However, it is fall, time of creativity, and I just found a dead-end jump at Hydro (what what!) so this should spawn multiple revelations.
Um, I got fish. Really, really bitchin' fish. Three dwarf gourami, four flame tetra and two sunrise blushing angelfish. They're awesome. The angels are named Sissy and Sonny after the childhood nicknames my father and his sister gave each other. This is mostly because, like my father and his sisters, the angels have no eyebrows. The other fish have no names because I don't like them as much. They are known simply based on their physical appearance and behavioral issues, much like I think we should characterize humans. The tetras, however, are giving me greys and here's why: They're supposed to be nice, friendly schooling fish that play well with others, but there's one that's a liiiiittle bit smaller than the other three and they keep picking on him! Anytime he swims remotely near their club, they rush him like an Alpha Beta Pi and send him careening off into some plastic plant like a little bitch. I look at this and think, "That fish...is me." Yeah. Tangible metaphor for life.
Monday, August 25, 2008
-----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.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, May 03, 2008
A Graduated Boy
It is over. At long last, done. And it was great. Not perfect. No. It never would be, not in a million years, such is my performance psychology. But I feel pride and, let me tell you, it's been a while since that sentiment has come to call. I received messages all day from people that had to bail at the last moment, but when it came down to it, the people that I loved were there. The oddest group, too. Random friends from my childhood, the quiet lady from work who I talked to twice, dear friends whom I've lived what feels like two lifetimes without. Even my nearest and dearest who couldn't be at the recital itself showed up in a small drove to the reception and we made merry for the rest of the night. When they arrived, it was like something out of (Heaven forgive me for this reference) The Lord of the Rings when that effing scary ghost army appears to back up the troupes. Heroes, they are. In the end, they were as much a part of the experience as the audience. You have to really examine the details to understand life. Love is not just sitting in a dark room listening to someone sing for an hour and a half; it's also driving across down after a 3 hour recording session just to show up for the reception. It's all the same.
Things are just better today. I've felt like this awful adult for the past month, so stressed and sarcastic, with no time for anyone else. Last night, on stage, I was a little kid all of a sudden, growing younger with each passing song that I released from my soul. And now I'm light again. It's the feeling you get in the second just before the e high hits when you know something amazing is going to happen. That feel struck me in the moment before I walked out onto that stage and it's just lived with me ever since. So lovely. This, the day after, feels as though I'm in the throes of it, being in love with everyone and everything. My clothes feel softer, my coffee tastes better. Hmmmm...
My-ami : part 2, coming soon.
Things are just better today. I've felt like this awful adult for the past month, so stressed and sarcastic, with no time for anyone else. Last night, on stage, I was a little kid all of a sudden, growing younger with each passing song that I released from my soul. And now I'm light again. It's the feeling you get in the second just before the e high hits when you know something amazing is going to happen. That feel struck me in the moment before I walked out onto that stage and it's just lived with me ever since. So lovely. This, the day after, feels as though I'm in the throes of it, being in love with everyone and everything. My clothes feel softer, my coffee tastes better. Hmmmm...
My-ami : part 2, coming soon.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
A while it has been.
I can honestly say that not since high school have I felt so isolated. The desperate teenage angst isn’t there, replaced by adult stoicism and acceptance of the negative, but the solitude is present. The plates, they are a-shifting. Twenty-four is fast approaching and with it the knowledge that early adulthood is drawing to a close. Mistakes are not cute any more. Responsibilities affect not only myself, but many around me and must be fulfilled to the letter. The letters D, V and the number 24. Perhaps the tragedy of adulthood is that when your ego takes a major bruising *cough*Festival*cough*, you don’t fight against the cause but rather drop trou and take it. At least with the irrationality of adolescence comes a sense that you deserve better, whereas now we’re nothing more than victims of our own doings, imperfect in a world that demands everything. There is no satisfaction in completing a task because no one is waiting to hand you a cookie anymore. It’s simply on to the next obligation. I tell people about the things I’m doing and they’re so generous with enthusiasm and congratulations, but the entire time I’m thinking, “Then why do I feel like such an abject failure?” Bizarre to the Nth.
Friends are utter failures at this point, a feeling which is most likely reciprocated. We’re all so selfish at this time of year, necessarily so in some cases, less in others. So much to do and so many ways in which to deal. Personally, I need people in my down time to continue with the work. Others are the opposite, but even when we both need that contact, schedules rarely align for play. To compound the physical aspect of that need, my semi-regular bedfellow has found himself in a rel-…rela-…what is that thing called ag-…ah yes. Relationship. It’s amazing how bi-weekly, (mostly) platonic sleepovers can keep the demons of restlessness away and more amazing still how notable their absences are.
In other news, working out for a few months and then stopping is a bad idea. Like, really bad. Fat is a bitter bitch, determined to make her presence known on my ass now more than ever. The recent hiring of last year’s crush to play in my recital and the recent hiring of celluloid on my buttocks has led me to a five-days-a-week gym routine for the next month. Starting today. We’ll see.
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