I TMI'ed your mother last night

Hey, remember that time that I went back home for a work-vaca and forgot I had a blog? Yeah, me too. Lolz. But not really at all.

Are you ever about to pee in a strange washroom (e.g. in your childhood home) and you notice a really loud clock that sounds like it's yelling at you and then you can't start the pee stream going? Just me? Alright then.

I'm stalling. I just really don't have anything to blog about. This entire trip, recording this album, has essentially just been one big headache. A worthwhile headache, perhaps, but no less painful. Yesterday it took me 2 hours to record 45 seconds with five people giving me feedback but no instruction. How is that even possible? Answer: With Jews, anything is possible. I mean, we crucified the son of God for fuck's sake.

Sorry. Too soon?

This really was an unfortunate attempt. I'm going to stop now. Oh, but before I go, just a little FYI that Manwhore Winnipeg David is back, so if anyone knows any morally questionable 18 year olds or sheep, you know where the comments section is (Rabbi Berkowitz, I'm looking at you).

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

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

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

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

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

David: 1 Free Willy: 0


Also, a quick note to old people:

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

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

If I ever have a son, I'm gonna name him something that ends in an 'A'. Just to fuck with him.

My brown friend (Yeah. I have one. Step off!) and I were half-seriously chatting last night about the notion of seeing others naked. My history with shared nudity is illustrious; often times exploratory, occasionally shame based, but always fascinating. I've always been incredibly self-conscious about donning my own suit de birthday, most prominently in the Pan Am Pool change room between the ages of 4 and 10, which is so silly, cause it's not as though size is important at that age anyway. Unless you're a pedo, in which case, STOP READING MY BLOG. My Hungarian father was and still is very quick to point out that there is no shame such appropriate public nudity. Granted, this is also a 300 lbs. man who has met about a third of my friends in a t-shirt and micro-briefs. Despite his European sensibilities, something must have happened to me as a toddler to royally fuck up any normal perception of body image that may have developed.

Despite my aversion to grown ups seeing me au naturel (Blog goal: use as many euphemisms for nudity as possible), I was always the innocent yet pervy kid playing doctor or truth or dare with other kindergartners. Obviously it was never sexual at that age, nor is it to this day to imagine seeing a friend in the buff. It's still weirdly fascinating though. In high school, I had a couple of friends over and we decided to have a three-person toga party that lasted about an hour before it became a strategically placed pillows party. Nothing sexual happened, but it was indefinably exciting to transform my basement into a naturalist colony for a night.

Okay, so maybe it's time to introduce an Oversharing tag.

Perhaps my platonic approach to most nudity is fueled by the the dualistic, all-consuming of celluloid and online willies that abound. On the one hand, the permeating presence of over-the-top beauty has absolutely dulled my physical attractions to the point that I'm barely ever drawn to anyone who is not ridiculously out of my league, while at the same time the remainder of the populous become so desexualized that their nakedness is of no consequence. It's on par with seeing someone shirtless; just another detail I can add to the collage of the way I think of you all in my head. Like, brown friend would probably be like, "Aw, look! There's an anteater poking out of that there bush!...Wait."

Wow, that got deep yo! Well, 'bout as deep as The Immaculate Collection, which I think I'm gonna download so I can vogue out on the plane ride home Thursday night.

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.

10 Things I Have Learned From Manhunt

10. The definition of 'slim' is not universal.

9. Nothing says "Looking for a long distance relationship" more than shirtless, headless photos.

8. Most people do not like Asians.

7. Some people fucking love Asians.

6. No one that is out of the closet wears boxers.

5. To be a gay man means two things: You are physically and/or emotionally attractive to other men; you do not know the difference between "your" and "you're."

4. No one looks good in pink boy briefs.

3. "Just an average guy" is code for possessing the 3 Bad B's of Heterosexuality: beer gut, baseball cap, butt foliage.

2. If someone appears too nice, they're ESL.

1. I need to stop going on Manhunt.

Mature Conversation

(via text)

Uni-Brow: hey david [sic]. Woke up coldy. Trying to beat it down before break ends. Which means I'm flaking out...Again. I guess you can add it to the list. Sorry.

Illustrious D: Flaking out on what?

UB: Potential hang outs... Shit... Did I just create that in my head...

ID: Sure did. Still going on the list though.

UB: Ha! Fuck. You get rid of snore-zilla already?

UB: Spart-i-snore

UB: The hero of the birth of insomnia. Frank-in-snores [sic] return

ID: [Uni-Brown], you're not Barney Stinson and you never will be. But yes, the snore of Babylon is gone. Enjoy your convalescence.

UB: Ya. Mine were all of poor quality. This is true. But I set you up for the gold medal.

ID: Yeah. You were really a key player in that one.

UB: I just wanna be on a team.

ID: Well, [Brow}, there have been numerous attempts to get you over to my team but you will have none of it. So I don't know what to tell you. But good luck with everything.

UB: Ha. Check mate my friend. Once again you prove you are in a league of your own.

ID: What a lovely way of saying Single With Good Reason. BTdubs, this entire conversation is going on my blog.