The Accidental Canuck

An Intentional Canuck?

2011-10-21T17:16:00.007-04:00

So, yesterday, in a windowless room on St. Clair Avenue, along with 78 other "newcomers," at approximately 2:30 p.m., after enduring the tiresome windbaggery of a citizenship judge, I repeated a handful of meaningless words with my hand in the air and mysteriously, magically, finally became Canadian.

And, exhale.

Weird sensations accompanied this event. I was undoubtedly excited and happy for it to happen, but in the days leading up to it, whenever someone looked to me for a reaction, I found myself forcing the exuberance I felt they were expecting. I tried to explain it to T when he did the same: it's too complex, too faceted to reduce to a single response. Perhaps it should be as simple as "Goal Achieved: Celebrate!" But it just isn't.

I suppose I first became aware of issues of geographical access when I was about 15, and along with this awareness was the slightly desperate realization that I was not among the privileged. Ever since then, 25 years of life, this single issue has driven my choices, governed my fears, and imposed a sense of helplessness and victimhood, perhaps more than any other factor, including money or sexuality. In many ways, I am a product of it; it created facets of me that I cannot even begin to enumerate. I have hated it; but it has also been a constant, a seam of the exotic to distinguish my life and character from everyone else's. It has formed my political views, my religious views; for the past 20 years, it has forced me into a consistently adversarial position with my social and political environment. It has also been a convenient excuse for underachievement. And like anyone under the sway of an oppressive force for long enough, a part of me loves it. The difference, the soapbox, the cross borne. It's a bit insane to say it, but a part of me mourned it in the days leading up to yesterday.

But I'm sort of over it all now. The ceremony itself was a lot of fun: a bunch of friends and coworkers came out, and I felt playful and powerful. On the not-serious suggestion of the pretty Taiwanese girl next to me, I put my maple-leaf pin in my ear as an earring and strode proudly up to accept my certificate. It was being there and doing that, feeling the waves of success and support, that I came around to T's feeling. For him, this is an absolutely extraordinary achievement that we pulled off against towering odds. This is the culmination of years of fear and fatigue and desperation and loneliness, the culmination we couldn't always properly envision, but for which we stuck it out all the same. This is the turning point. I have no time to grieve the ousted oppressor.

Country is nonsense. In this view I have not changed. Expressions of allegiance to objects, abstracts, notions, hereditary figureheads—drivel. Maudlin, misty-eyed anthems that momentarily create the illusion of unity and meaning and history, but which are little more than socio-political expedients to consolidate obedience around a set of geographical accidents. I do not ever foresee myself self-referring as "Canadian" with any degree of pride or ownership—but not with shame, either. The patriots will balk (and some already have), but this is about, in the end, nothing but access. The access that is allowed to some (the minority), often through an accident of birth, and arbitrarily withheld from others. That's what I've wanted all this time: simply access to occupy this world as fully and with as much permission as we all deserve.

God in the details

2011-07-23T13:03:00.004-04:00

It turns out yesterday's horrendous acts of terrorism in Oslo were not the work of Islamic extremists (despite the fact that one or two such groups tried to claim responsibility, sending the media on a speculative feeding-frenzy), but instead a lone Christian extremist (or duo thereof—it's still not clear at time of writing) opposed to multiculturalism, among other things.

Should we, I wonder, hold our breaths for society's outrage against Christians? Its painting of all Christians with the same extremist brush? Acts of violence against Christians? Calls for their expulsion? I sincerely doubt it, and am grateful for it, but it makes one wonder how this story might have played out differently if the bomber–gunman's religion had been Muslim rather than Christian. I do not expect, for instance, in-depth analyses from the media about the rise of Christian extremism—despite my suspicion that the internal shift to extremism within Christianity over the past two decades would probably compare favourably with Islam's global conversion rate, a statistic frequently bandied about to induce our panicked horror.

This isn't about being pro-Islam or anti-Christian—it's about the media's hypocrisy, and the historical/economic roots of religious/racial demonization. Of course, the solution is not for society to do to Christians what has been/is being/will be done to Muslims. The solution is to have a rational, mainstream discourse about the manifold and unrelenting dangers of religion. Period.

Webcoms

2011-07-20T11:53:00.005-04:00

I love me a good comic web-series (webcom?). Yes, there is a lot of crap out there, but it's such pleasure to come across one that holds up despite the limitations of the medium and the resources. Take the VGL Gay Boys, Jeffery Self and Cole Escola's short-lived web-based sketch-comedy show (webskom?), before they found a wider audience and a more mediocre comic-style on one of the gay networks. These early videos were rough and sloppy, but completely, bust-a-gut hilarious. They live randomly on YouTube; search "VGL Gay Boys" and watch away. My faves are Meeting Meryl Streep, VGL Gay Boys with Bernadette Peters, and The Recession Video. VGL Gay Boys on Gay Marriage is a hoot too.

A more recent discovery, and with higher production values, is Jack in a Box (http://www.jackinaboxsite.com/), a delightful series about a nelly NY bear-cub(ish) actor/resentful box-office employee who loves cupcakes. His mother and aunt are hilariously over-the-top, and his best girlfriends appropriately irreverent/clueless. Some seriously quality cameos, too. Yes, I watched the entire series (22 episodes) in one sitting a few months ago. What? They're only about 8 minutes each.

And finally — but ironically least brilliant — is Lisa Kudrow and Don Roos' Web Therapy (http://www.lstudio.com/web-therapy/). I heard about it because Showtime is picking it up, or repackaging it, or something. I love both the creators and practically squealed when I saw La Streep in three episodes — yet, I didn't fall over myself laughing. Much of it is improvised, and I fear it shows. Thing about improv, it needs to be structured. Chris Guest gets this. Improv the shit out of something in rehearsals, then structure it for performance. Filming improv is never as funny for an audience as it is for the performers. Still, worth watching, if only for the Streep outtakes reel. Never get tired of watching that woman laugh.

Bitten

2011-07-06T20:18:00.003-04:00

We had a lovely day on Monday — rode our bikes (T's newly purchased from an overly ambitious Craigslist seller for one third of its price) to the islands, both took long runs (in shifts, while the other watched our stuff), and lounged on the nudie beach (admiring some, evading others) — but clearly something entomological did not want me there. Since then, I have developed steadily more irritated clusters of bites, mostly on my thighs and stomach, that redden by the day and even possibly increase in number, though this last observation may be a symptom of my rampant hypochondria. Google offers little help, much panic: Carrions disease, the Pappataci fever virus, Leishmaniasis — all carried by the delightful (and needless to say extraneous to our continued well-being) sand flea. Of course, minor annoyance for several days is also a possible consequence, indeed the most common, but why settle for the mundane? An abiding fear is that they were not incurred at the beach at all, but are the result of a sudden, unexplained, and entirely coincidental infestation of bedbugs. I continue to monitor this possibility with utmost seriousness. I'm considering mapping the existing bites, or marking them with a Sharpie before I go to bed tonight, in order to be certain that there are no new ones tomorrow. I shall keep you updated — both on the developing invasion of alien insects and my dwindling sanity.

While you were out

2011-06-29T11:34:00.019-04:00

So, the elephant in this cyber-room is my 3 1/2 years of blogging silence. Why did I stop? Not sure, and reading the last few posts before I stopped offers no clues. Why did I start again and now? Connection. I am not on Facebook anymore; I don't tweet; I'm not a regular caller or e-mailer. I haven't even kept up reading the blogs of DemonDoll or Lulu or LolaDiana, despite the fact that they have gone on faithfully blogging all this time. Without it being my intention, my actions have threatened whatever connection I was maintaining with people I love. I want this back. And yet, I haven't told any of them I am blogging again. A part of me fears awaking the monster of obligation to claw at my shoulder; a part of me fears I will remember why I stopped and stop again, and push these loved ones even further away.

Still, here I am. For now. And before we move on, I feel like some kind of brief reckoning of the intervening years is in order to bring us up to speed. So, while I was out (not exhaustive and in no particular order),

we moved apartments and now live mostly contentedly downtown, far from the Jerzys and paczkies of Roncesvalles, but far also from its quiet, leafy side-streets and cheap vegetable markets;

I applied for Canadian citizenship, and expect that in six months or so, the lifelong taint of being a geo-political undesirable might finally rinse off, and I might finally get to travel again;

I had my first surgery, a hernia repair that lasted about 40 minutes, during the weeklong recovery from which I read the egregiously awful Girl With the Dragon Tattoo;

T had a terrifying stress-collapse that still makes my heart pound and that knocked him on his back for several months, but from which he recovered spectacularly, publishing his first novel, doing book tours, and spending two months in Europe researching his next novel on a Canadian arts grant;

I enrolled last year, at the age of 38, in the University of Toronto, as a first-year undergraduate no less, to study History and Art History, with the goal of going all the way to a PhD and a career teaching Art History at the university level;

I bought a pair of Vibram Five-Finger shoes, the horror of friends notwithstanding;

I made one or two of the aforementioned friends;

I became a vegetarian, because I could no longer conscionably balance the cheapness of a piece of meat with its ethical and environmental costs;

my sister Vida died, but after a long and hopeless illness, so on some level I felt relief for her;

I joined then quit Facebook, staging my exit as a three-day suicide countdown, which provoked more than one "friend" to quit me first;

I got a cell-phone, only to hear the incredulous question, "You don't own a cell-phone?!" change to, "You don't own a smartphone?!";

I designed this card for the 2010 "I Heart My LGBTQ Family" campaign — the last completed drawing I've done — while the prospect of me and T becoming parents has become increasingly less likely, by mutual assent;

I have started learning German and, though hearing the language still makes me giggle a bit, I have developed a fascination for German culture, art and history that I never had before;

my current (and soon-to-be-former, due to his placement ending) therapist informed me matter-of-factly that everything I have been experiencing of late is common "mid-life" stuff, leading to a series of tiny (figurative) explosions in my brain;

I fell in love with Kristen Wiig; and

I grew a beard, which I wear now in all seasons, with more than a little relish for its racializing and politicizing effects.

Toronto Shame

2011-06-28T11:11:00.009-04:00

It's June again, so cue Toronto's latest Pride clusterfuck. After 2010's free speech brouhaha, this year's story is the refusal of the mayor to continue a 15-year tradition of marching in the parade, citing prior plans to spend the weekend at his family's cottage in the country. Some might say (and have) that this is his right, he is not explicitly obliged to attend, and a refusal should not be taken as proof of homophobia. I might concede if this person did not have a history of disparaging the queer community: as a city councillor, he was the only no-vote for accepting additional HIV funding from the province, dismissing the epidemic as a concern only for gay men and drug users; and as a mayoral candidate, he refused to distance himself from the endorsement of a virulently anti-gay preacher (yes, we have them here too), saying instead that when it came to the issue of marriage, they were of the same mind. Yet, this provincial Harkonnen became the mayor nevertheless, thanks to the amalgamation laws of Ontario's last Conservative premier (whose name is still a byword for catastrophe among social justice folks) that essentially handed the suburbs electoral sway over the city.

Queers and allies are understandably peeved. There was some shouting outside City Hall yesterday, and this delightful protest by a self-described "heterosexual housewife". This gives me hope that all is not lost, that Canadians won't suffer with characteristic demureness the recent wave of conservatism that is sweeping this country. But in the short term, it is worrying: as queer-bashings spike in this city, and stories of violence from other Pride celebrations on the continent trickle in, this mayor's position empowers a hateful minority and signals to them that their views are endorsed. Though I would like nothing better than to see him gorge on humble pie, I fear what ingredients may need to go into such a delicacy.

Broken-winged bird

2011-06-27T21:00:00.003-04:00

I have done my finger a mischief. Middle finger, right hand. So frequently exercised once upon a time on the 101 South and sundry other arteries of the pumping Southland, as well as more recently, pedaling up Church Street. In fact, this finger was the recent cause of a severe upbraiding I received from a suited gentleman near my work. He, in his SUV, veered in front of my trundling bicyclette to make a left turn, and as I turned down the same street behind him, I gestured an assessment of his driving skills. He stopped his vehicle, exploded out and began screaming imprecations at my approaching self. Oddly, I stopped to listen, as if it weren't directed at me at all. It was early in the morning, mind, so neither of us was at his best. After hearing a good forty seconds of vein-popping invective (while his female companion shrank visibly in the passenger seat), I suggested, in as calm a tone as I could muster, that he treat himself to a soothing tea. This did little for his temper, but thankfully propelled him back into his vehicle, after a few parting gems. I continue to see this squire around the neighbourhood, always in the same grey suit, and we register recognition with our eyes, but nothing more.

But I digress. My finger, mischiefed. It's a bland story, almost embarrassing, yet due to the conspicuous splint I must wear for the next 5 weeks, one I am called upon to tell with frequency. So, I'll get it over with. Went to movies, felt an itch, got home, stripped clothes, Silkwood-showered, took clothes down to laundry room to dry at high temperature in case of bug-infestation, pressed the dry button with rather more force than was required, causing my finger to slip and the first joint to buckle rather painfully. Said joint would not return to its position, but lolled forward lazily instead, no matter how often I nudged it back into place. So, off to Emergency Room. Free health care makes one seek it out for the slightest thing, though it's by no means a breeze. Four hours and more than one heart-wrenching sideshow later, I emerged splinted and cowed. I will never underestimate a Maytag again.

The hand specialist I saw later in the week assured me it is an extremely common injury, and easy to do, though more often the result of basketball, construction work, martial arts — something rather more dynamic than laundering. He also says it will probably not fully straighten, so this finger will always be a tad crooked from now. (I just remembered my grandfather had rather crooked fingers; but this was due to several of them having been severed in a railway accident and then rather hastily sewn back on by a village doctor. I shit you not.) The worst thing about it is navigating the simplest of things, the things one takes entirely for granted, and realizing how integral that one digit is to such actions. A recent example: the bowl of spaghetti I made for my supper. You try twirling pasta onto a fork with a decommissioned bird-finger.

White

2007-12-02T14:29:00.000-05:00

There has been an unusually large amount of snow falling lately in my world, and I am a little alarmed to think that we aren't even halfway through winter yet. To further jangle my nerves, I read this morning a prediction from Environment Canada that this will be the longest and coldest winter in about a decade. Great. I am trying as best I can to see the beauty in it, not only the physical reality of the snow, but in the broader themes of Nature renewing herself, of Planet Earth behaving as it should...but it is a daily struggle, and I fear I am losing. Another mortifying detail from Environment Canada's announcement: Canada is the second-coldest country in the world. I'm assuming Russia is first. I don't know why this surprises; I don't know why the tiniest germ of panic took life at the discovery of this fact, in black ink. It's not like any of this was a secret. It's not like I haven't been noticing the looks of disbelief on Canadians' faces when they learn we left Los Angeles for Toronto. Indeed, I find myself pining for LA more in the winter than any other time. I barely think of it in the summer, and can even think of one or two moments I felt grateful not to be there anymore. But that was July. This is December, and I find myself endlessly checking the weather in LA. It rained there last week; but now it's gorgeous again. About a foot fell here last night.

Why am I so affected by the weather? Why is it so important to me? T loves this weather. Sure, he misses summer, but he has perspective: this is the weather now, it will change, more nice weather will come behind it, life continues notwithstanding. Where do I get this kind of perspective? I am considering the possibility that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD...I know, isn't it pathetic). One sees advertisements for light therapy boxes in the newspapers here, glowing tabletop orbs of sun-mimicking radiance. Sufferers spend 30 minutes or so a day sitting next to one, and allegedly have much less inclination to check the weather in Southern California 17 times before lunch. Price tags range from $150 to $300. I am considering a purchase. Or at the very least a test-bask.

Nothing to say...

2007-10-29T15:30:00.000-04:00

...but I'll post anyway, 'cause I know if I don't soon, I'll start hearing about it.

I've been sickly of late, nothing major, just sort of congested and tired. I spent pretty much all weekend in bed, as a result, with only a brief foray on Saturday to engage our downstairs neighbour in an altercation. Faithful readers will recall the characters of Ali and Ali, shoe purveyors, from an earlier cameo. Well, Ali 1 (aka Fat Ali) continues to labour under the delusion that music played loudly and bassfully will lend an impression of attractiveness to his egregious footwear offerings — and trust me, this is not merely sour grape-juice, they are egregious: I've seen Eastern European call-girls wrinkle their noses. Anyway, feeling more than usually put-upon in my unwell state, I marched my elevated goat down to his door and requested that he adjust his levels. And to my amazement, he refused. A somewhat clumsy argument ensued, marred equally by his imperfect grasp of the English language as by my imperfect comprehension of his version thereof. Little in the way of entente was achieved, an interest in involving the slum-, I mean landlord in all future dealings being the one point on which we were in agreement. I mustered what sniffling dignity I could, and exited.

Fortunately I care little for the fallout as we are moving — hooray! We finally found a place downtown that we can afford and that would not require a complete abandonment of our standards. It's actually fairly nice, parquet flooring notwithstanding, but the best thing will be its location: five minutes walk from Thom's work, a ten-minute bike-ride from mine, and a few short blocks from St. Lawrence Market and the waterfront. And best of all, we get to see the (wide) back of our dismal landlady. I suppose I'll miss the pierogies and the paczkies, and the long summer nights smoking non-filters with Jerzy and the boys under the brass pope outside the Catholic Credit Union...good times, but it's time to move on.

Debrief

2007-10-09T11:53:00.000-04:00

I suspect I should feel sufficiently cowed this morning to delete the previous post, but that would be censorship of a kind — of my true character. Yesterday, at about 4:00 p.m., we received a phone call from our dinner guest of the previous evening. He had just checked himself out of the emergency room. Yes, taking a cab home at about 1:30 a.m., the pain had become insupportable and he diverted the cab to Mount Sinai Hospital. They informed him, after placing him on a morphine drip and doing a battery of tests, that he had a case of aggravated gallstones that would require surgical attention sometime in near future. Allegedly the doctor said it had nothing to do with my cuisine, but in my mind the connection is irresistible. Was it the pot-roast, the rice-flour soda bread, the gluten-free berry pie — or was it, all together, a recipe for murder?

In other news, to reward Canadians for having to wait months to see delayed broadcasts of the addictive drivel Project Runway, we have been given our very own version, Project Runway Canada — hosted by none other than Iman. After some initial awkwardness (she seemed at first like a second-rate actress playing a supermodel), she settled into what I suspect is her natural tone of ruthless disdain, like a panther recently awoken from a nap. Even her compliments, delivered in a velvety baritone, sound like veiled threats. The locks of hair on one of the final two contestants before elimination were literally trembling under her gaze! I anticipate a trail of tattered mediocre prêt-à-porter, and maybe even a little blood, in her languid wake.

What if...

2007-10-07T23:55:00.000-04:00

A scenario for you: You invite someone over for dinner, serve them a meal you've spent all day preparing, of which they consume three gusty helpings. Sometime between the main course and dessert, however, your guest begins complaining of gastric discomfort, and begins belching to relieve it. Several belches a minute. Not swallowed discreet belches, either, but open-mouthed windy ones. Fine. You're friends and adults, not to mention males, who of course are predisposed in your undifferentiated masses to find irresistible humour in stomach-gases. OK. The guest starts to wince in a less-than-humourous manner, and adjourns to the bathroom. Some twenty minutes later, your guest emerges; you suggest, in your hospitable way, that he lie down, and your own bed being the only bed in the house, you suggest he do so there. An hour passes. The clock strikes midnight; your guest shows no signs of rising. Your partner, unconcerned with these developments, proceeds to watch a documentary on the ear-bleeding musical stylings of Bob Dylan. You are relegated to the kitchen where you have spent the entire day anyway. Hot acid fury drips down your brain...

Man down

2007-10-03T15:58:00.001-04:00

I am writing this from our kitchen table, despite the fact it is 4:00 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon. Yesterday morning, hubris overcame reason: rain notwithstanding, I chose to ride my bicycle to work. Outfitted with a slicker, I imagined all risks had been covered. Wrong. I forgot the advice of many a seasoned Torontonian bike-rider to navigate with the greatest of prudence the streetcar tracks that crisscross our city, and blithely took a downhill swipe at the most diabolical tangle of them, thinking to outrun a row of approaching cars. True to legend, tracks become slick as ice in the rain and will suck any incautious bicycle tire without ruth into their vortex. Down went I, hip-first, sliding in a spectacular diagonal across the intersection. Cars mercifully braked and their drivers paused expressionlessly while I gathered myself, my tangled bike and the shredded vestiges of my dignity from the rain-swept tarmac and hobbled to the corner. I can only imagine I was sort of numbed by shock and pain and rain, because after a brief inspection of the bike, I remounted and continued my journey to work, believing myself only superficially affected by the fall. But my concern slowly mounted in proportion to the increase of pain in my hip-joint. By the time I got to work, I could barely walk. It was fairly pathetic. I did a disposable ice-pack from our first-aid kit, which brought brief relief, but soon it became clear that I was quite helpless and very possibly facing a fracture or at the least a sprain. So home I came, hobbling at an excruciating pace up and down the staircases of the public transport system, too cheap (yes, me!) to shell out 25 bones for a cab.

It was a painful night, relieved by painkillers and cold-packs, and this morning I decided the attempt to get to work would probably do even further damage. So here I sit, never far from our institutional-grade walking-cane left over from T's bouts with sciatica in the early oughts, watching AbFab clips on YouTube and feeling the cool wave of laughter therapy wash my aching limbs.

To alleviate concern, I am on the mend; it can't have been a fracture or even a sprain, as I am walking mostly without pain. I imagine another day or two and it will be fine. It better be as I expect to get back on the bike tomorrow. I know, have I gone mad? Who is this person? Yatsu expressed some concern recently about the perils of my biking in the city, and I've thought about it a bit since then. There's an undeniable aspect of defiance, of independence, of daring fate to act. I wouldn't call it a death wish; quite the opposite; a life wish. For a person who has allowed fear to guide so many of his decisions, it feels great to conquer that fear in at least this one arena. It's not bungee-jumping or alligator-wrestling, no, but it keeps the small warrior inside me alive, if just slightly bruised.

Nuit Blah

2007-10-01T11:49:00.003-04:00

On Saturday night, I learned the secret that has tickled the corners of Mona Lisa's mouth for the past few decades: people, when gathered in their droves, ruin art.

Nuit Blanche is billed as an "all-night art party" - hundreds of artists take over public spaces with installation art and the public comes to ogle from 7:00 p.m. to sunrise. What a great idea, huh? Emphasis on "idea" - just as the emphasis in the event tagline ought to be on "party". I am inclined to be charitable (in a patronizing, supercilious sort of way) to the hordes of wide-eyed suburbanites and stoned adolescents that flooded the streets of Toronto: perhaps it was a hunger for art that drew them out. I thought that at first, courting death on my bicycle, as I set out for the night. But one hour later, the only "art" I had seen was a homeless gentleman playing bones on a city trashcan. What "art" there was was either obliterated by the crowds or by the artist's concern to create something more likely to entertain, or mystify, rather than actually provoke thought or introspection or debate. What resulted was mayhem, at best a freshman Burning Man (a football field of spaced-out undergrads lying on the grass, pondering the grandeur of a string of blue fairy lights attached to a cluster of helium balloons), at worst an extended commercial (numerous pieces offering a number to text a message to, which would then be projected on a screen or building-face - all appropriately branded by a major phone company).

It was actually a very interesting event, at least philosophically and in retrospect, given my last blog about Warhol, who said at some point in the seventies that commerce was his art. From that perspective, this was the ultimate Warholian declension: an event ostensibly about art, branded to distortion by its sponsoring financial institution (whose name I refuse to give anymore airtime to), and dressed up like a party. I guess, in the end, the art itself was neither "art" nor "culture", but a collection of (unintentional) baits set up to draw the event into place, and demonstrate the actual state of culture: a braying drunken bloated thing, desperate to filter every experience through some sort of technology - a camera, a screen, a phone - and I suspect, heaving, on the evening after, a collective sigh of familiar relief in front of its television set.

OK, yes, I am an elitist. I have no problem admitting this. But am I in favour of separating art from culture (society), essentially the work from the people? I give myself that impression and it concerns me. I wonder, sometimes, if I am the one missing the point.

Musings

2007-09-27T11:17:00.001-04:00

We have been watching (in installments) a documentary on Andy Warhol over the past few nights. It's from the PBS American Masters series — quite good, I recommend it. When T picked it up at the video store, I sniffed with disdain, in part at its four-hour running time. More significantly, however, I have just never been an admirer of Warhol or of his work, or at least the parts of it with which I was familiar. T, on the other hand, is a huge fan ever since attending a large exhibit of Warhol's work some years ago; T has frequently cited this in-person exposure to the overwhelming collectivity and scale of Warhol's original work (rather than reproductions in books and magazines) as being key to appreciating the man, and he repeated this dictum at the video store in response to my apathy. I retorted with some pique that an artist should not require that we view their œuvre in person in order to appreciate their greatness.

The documentary served me up a modest slice of humble pie, however. Warhol's early commercial illustrations (mostly of shoes for fashion mags) are really quite wonderful, as well as his more private drawings of dreamy young men in the all-together. His inked line demonstrates, as the documentary discusses, a mastery of the blotting technique — a nice trick that creates a "printed" effect at once clumsy and delicate — but what the documentary doesn't talk about is the "continuously drawn" effect of the line in his figurative work, reminiscent of Cocteau and even Schiele. It's a technique (also called "blind drawing") that I've always loved but haven't had much success with personally: drawing without removing your eyes from the subject, in other words, not looking down at the page. Of course, the truth is that the great practitioners of this technique probably did look down at the page quite a bit, but their genius is in leaving the impression that their drawings occurred in one breathless unstoppable line, as if the act of creation were reduced to the pen and the subject, with the artist subsumed into one or the other.

But I declined a second helping of pie. Warhol was a fairly cold-blooded character — not that this should affect at all our appreciation of his work and, indeed, it was to an extent this aspect of his vision that made for his early Pop Art successes — but sooner or later, I think, this quality began to overwhelm his art. The celebrity portraits become repetitive, ditto the consumerist works, and the film work seems sort of lazy — a laconic quality that feels generally true of all his work from the mid-sixties on, as if once he had obtained fame, he realized he need do only the barest minimum to maintain it.

The commentators in the documentary wax eloquent about his extraordinary grasp of ideas — but these are their ideas, not Warhol's. Sure, Warhol provided an œuvre po-faced enough to support the projection of all sorts of ideas, but is this artistic genius or simply a gift for deadpan? And must I really be an art scholar to be elevated by his work? I don't know. One critic spoke of him as a sort of seer, predicting the furture of celebrity culture — but I don't know that Andy so much predicted it as perpetuated it. And from our vantage point in history, is this really something worth celebrating?

The Birthday of DemonDoll

2007-09-25T15:40:00.000-04:00

Today is the lovely DemonDoll's birthday. When I first saw DD, I was just a little scared of her beauty, humour and fierceness, and in my heterosexual confusion, imagined I should bed her in order to overcome that fear. She dealt with it as she deals with most things — elegantly, directly and summarily: she snogged me. A snog (for those of you who are not familiar with the term, or who may be more familiar with the British colloquial definition of "kiss") entails having a hand clamped over your mouth, and then air blown up your nose. It is followed by a fair amount of dizziness and disorientation, as well as, if administered by DemonDoll, the sound of demented giggling and the irrefutable declaration that you have been claimed, just as if you were a branded heifer. And indeed I was: owned by her ever since. She has made me laugh probably more than anyone I know (or at least as much as Yatsu; combined, they are lethal); she has also dispensed some of the most reasoned and loving advice of my life; she is generous and brave and literate and bawdy and she loathes the word "utterly". There is, in short, no one with whom I would rather chew a bun. Happy birthday, I love you.

Tired, cranky

2007-09-24T10:49:00.000-04:00

Hello. I'm tired. Why am I so tired? I eat well, I ride my bike about an hour a day. I go to bed early. I don't, however, always sleep immediately: T likes to read himself to sleep, and though he uses a discreet booklight, he has a habit of rubbing his feet together at every semi-colon — don't know why the semi-colons make him do that, they just do. Actually, I have no idea if it's the semi-colons; that's just one theory. I have many theories, as many as the sleepless, self-defeatist minutes I lie there, anticipating and timing the foot-rubs, interpreting, qualifying, codifying them, parsing the satisfied foot-rubs (a particularly elegant turn of phrase?) from the dissatisfied ones (a clumsily hanging participle?). They take on a feel of punctuation themselves, commas and EM dashes and ellipsis for the tedious ramblings of my insomnia. I need more coffee.

Have you been to http://www.overheardinnewyork.com/? Extremely diverting.

Holy expletives

2007-09-21T16:07:00.000-04:00

I'm full of adventure-clicking today! I followed one of DemonDoll's "Not so silent lurking" links to Crazy Aunt Purl, who seems like a delightful loon. Her rantings brought back many a fond memory of steaming, gut-searing road-rage on the freeways of Los Angeles. I cannot tell you how unfit I was to drive in that city, possibly any city. That I escaped alive and (so far) ulcerless is a work of the Good Lord. Speaking of the Good Lord (and, boy, did I, during the righteous fury of my daily commute!), Aunt Purl shares a particularly fine example of one of my favourite cursing sub-genres: the Christ-based expletive phrase. Hers, which I intend to adopt and spread liberally north of the 49th, is "Jesus Christ on a cracker!" I love it! In Catholic school, two decades ago, I may have coined (the memory is dim) my stock favourite ever since: "Jesus Christ on a bicycle!" (Of course, Catholic school was a hotbed of heretical fecundity in these matters, including the irreverent alternative lyrics to the Christmas carol, "These Three Kings": "These Three Kings of Orient are,/One in a bus and one in a car,/One on a scooter, blowing his hooter,/Chasing his fat grandma." Also: "These Three Kings of Orient are,/Tried to smoke a rubber cigar,/It was loaded and exploded,/That's why they followed the star." Ah, the religious education.)

Back to the Christ-based expletive: though while not strictly a phrase, "Jesus H. Christ!" is probably the oldest living relative of this form, which counts amongs its ancestors such bygone gems as "'Sblood!" and "'Swounds!" And then there is the ne plus ultra of Christ-based expletives, the one that makes even a heretic such as myself blush, that I reserve for only the most insupportable moments of crisis (or no more than three times daily on the 101), the appalling, the effective, "Jesus Fuck!" And yes, it is with a considerable amount of shame (and just a soupçon of wicked pride) that I must confess to being its progenitor.

Next blog deux

2007-09-21T15:17:00.000-04:00

Oh dear, sometimes "Next Blog" yields some very dirty results. Does "Horny Asian Girl"'s mother know what she's up to?

Next blog

2007-09-21T15:03:00.000-04:00

I have never clicked the "Next Blog" link in the header before — until today. I was taken at first to a goth blog called RESURRECTION, written in Spanish. I returned to my blog and clicked "Next Blog" again: now, one called "Poor Since 1959". A delightful, time-wasting feature.

In other developments, the emoticon labs have come up with thrilling new technology: the unibrowed smiley-face, l:) , and the unibrowed grumpy-face, l:( . A momentous step for multi-culturalism. [Credit to DemonDoll and WGD for inspiration.]

Nouveau look

2007-09-20T14:51:00.001-04:00

My blog needed to feel pretty again. Does anyone know how to change the little image at the top-left?

(Dear faithful DemonDoll...when all others had abandoned hope! ;) Which reminds me of a little-known fact, or to be precise, not-at-all-known by me prior to recently: the adorable smiley-face emoticon turned 25 this week. I think the winking emoticon is somewhat younger, and younger still its party-hatted cousin. I wonder, among the emoticons, which is the youngest? And are they agreed on their various ages, or is there acrimonious, ageist in-fighting going on behind the scenes?)

In the wind

2007-09-20T10:39:00.000-04:00

Hmmm, seems nobody's reading. Well, come on, what does one expect? Absent for seven months, people have lives! That's fine, though...sort of comforting, the idea of not being heard, sort of like talking to yourself in a public place, something I love doing but so rarely indulge in, for propriety's sake.

This California same-sex marriage thing is getting my goat good. WTF??? This law has passed twice now, twice! What difference does it make to Schwarvbcjhgvznegger? And what right does he have to ignore the will of his legislature and millions of Californians. He stupidly claims that prop. 22 indicated the people's will to ban same-sex marriage, but this was passed seven years ago! Things are heating up, though: first, a call for his lesbian chief of staff to resign in protest, now the news that San Diego's mayor will sign the resolution to overturn prop. 22 and become a "friend of the court" in constitutional hearings currently underway, after learning that his grown daughter is a lesbian. This is what needs to happen. People need to start realizing their interconnectedness. Your Republican mayor has a lesbian daughter, your Republican governor has a lesbian chief of staff, your friends, your neighbours, your co-workers are queer. I don't think most people want to discriminate, but I think these connections are not easily made for many people in conservative communities: the media offers only stereotypes and provocations, and the queers who occupy these people's lives are in many cases too terrified to come out for fear of repercussions. I was just ranting off about Jodie Foster the other day: no, I'm not asking her to become a political mouthpiece for queers, all I'm asking, expecting, is that she realizes that her silence implies shame (whether she feels shame or not), and that she should not in any good conscience be able to continue profiting from silence while millions of queers are suffering for being out. Visibility is going to turn the tide, and one celebrity (for better or for worse) can count for thousands of non-celebrities. I am considering a boycott of The Brave One.

Here's an abstract nude I just drew; started out as a doodle, but I sort of like it. Not sure yet, but it may still be in progress.

Anger-management yogi-style

2007-09-19T16:54:00.000-04:00

My therapist-counsellor who told me I had difficulty expressing my anger — the same therapist-counsellor who ditched me to go into private practice with nary a hint that I might follow him with sliding-scale benefits (express this, dick-sweat!) — offered the following constructive, non-combative technique for dealing with anger:

Kneel beside your bed
Raise your fists above your head and breath in deeply
Bring your fists down forcefully on the bed, at the same time pushing the air out of your lungs
Repeat until serene

I tried it once with good results — however, red wine, preferably half a bottle, combined with a slab of dark chocolate, is most consistent.

(Two in one day, nay, one hour — impressive, no?)

Long time coming

2007-09-19T16:23:00.000-04:00

It has been almost seven months to the day since my last post, and though I've experienced the odd twinge of contrition, I can't say I've lost too many hours sleep over it. Am I not suited to the blogopshere? What makes for a compelling blog, anyway? And by that I mean compelling for the blogger. Most blogs are about the blogger; the blogger is, therefore, the main subject. Does it follow then that if a blogger is not interested enough to maintain her or his own blog, said blogger is not interested in themselves? I am starting to suspect I require a more compelling subject. Take this dedicated soul, for instance: pancakerecipes.blogspot.com. Clearly this is a compelling subject, for both blogger and reader ("bloggee" is not, I believe, an appropriate term in this case; a bloggee would have to be one about whom a blogger blogs, and despite my fondness for batter-based breakfast foods, I cannot bring myself to anthropomorphize them) — or is it simply a cry for help?

TO allure

2007-02-22T14:31:00.000-05:00

An uncommonly charming (though obviously not recent) view of the city I currently call home (Photo credit: my boss, aka Toronto's Biggest Fan):

White stuff

2007-02-22T09:32:00.000-05:00

A view from my office building (though, alas, not my office):

Shortbus and other bits

2006-12-10T11:10:00.000-05:00

So, yes, we finally went last night to see Shortbus. A lot of the momentum has dissipated around it - it clings resolutely to the lineup of a lone theatre - but we both really felt we wanted to support it, not only for John C. Mitchell's sake, but also for the queer cause. My capsule review: "Less fun than Caligula." Yes, I was disappointed, but really could it have gone any other way? My expectation was huge after Hedwig, and this project has been germinating so long already in my awareness, that it was sort of doomed from the opening credits. However, having said that, I do think it was more than a failure of expectation. In a small part, I do think a few of the performances harmed it - it is clear that not everyone is trained to act, and it should be said that I don't fundamentally doubt the ability of untrained actors to perform well, because there were to be fair some very good performances from actors who were very likely here enjoying their debuts. But I think the bigger issue was the script, or at least the process that engendered it. Improvisation can be wonderful for a film (Mike Leigh anyone?), but it needs a firm hand, and I wonder how easy it would be to exert such control while also trying to create an environment of sexual liberty. Whateva...I'm no expert, I just know that it reeked of improv, and worse still, beginners improv workshop. The best scenes were definitely those that had nowhere to go, I mean no beats to hit, revelations to arrive at, and there were some really lovely ones - but in so many scenes the mechanics of story advancement or character exposition were downright clumsy. The question is: am I a prude? Not a sexual one, because the sex scenes were wonderfully unremarkable, peripheral to the people, as I think was JCM's intention, but a formalistic prude, requiring a certain cleanliness of intention, delivery, structure. Maybe JCM wanted to dispense with all that, in which case I'm the closed-minded fuddy-duddy. T loved it, found it daring and moving and clear - but I think he puts little stock in formalism, lets himself enter without appraising the building first. Anyway, blah blah...I'm sure you couldn't wait to hear my thoughts on the topic, well you can all relax now. Oh yes, one last thing: as I said, none of the sexual activity, including auto-fellatio, orgies and rim-jobs made me in the least uncomfortable; the finale, however, a bizarre cabaret number delivered with peculiar earnestness by a sort of MC proxy, capped off by a brass band and a sing-along, made me squirm with embarrassment and long for an act of coitus to avert my eyes to.

Other bits, or bit, I suppose: Made contact, sort of impetuously, with an old classmate whom I barely remember. Found his name online and had a vague recollection of our having been friends in my last two years of high school. This recollection is troubled by another of our having been openly hostile to one another at an earlier time. Not entirely sure which impression is the greater in his memory. Anyway, he wrote back very briefly, citing a pressing appointment and making a promise to write in greater detail at another time. What exactly is the point of reviving high school contacts, expecially in cases where the contact is only vaguely remembered? It's not as if any conscious affection exists. The point seems fairly clear: Time Regained. Taking stock of the past 18 years of my life in the hope of finding some sense of purpose, validation hidden in it.

One of the loveliest moments in Shortbus: an ex-hustler, now suicidal artist, sits in a closet and confesses tearfully to a dominatrix that when he now reads what he wrote aged 12, he finds he is still striving for exactly the same things all these years later.

Bloogle?

2006-12-03T21:45:00.000-05:00

Imagining I would be ahead of the curve for once, I foolishly migrated my blog to the new Blogger Beta managed, it appears, by Google - despite the rather ominous warning during the migration that once performed, it could never be reversed - and now my blog is not recognizing some of my most faithful readers. DemonDoll, for some reason, is dismissed as "Anonymous" in all her comments! What have I done? Has anyone else trod this same wanton path? Will life ever be the same again??

A moment from my mouth

2006-12-02T10:06:00.000-05:00

For your enjoyment - and perhaps also to serve as warning to those of you guilty of tooth-neglect - a snapshot from my recent tryst at the dentiste's, taken midway through the procedure:
Allow me to point out some of the more delightful features:

The gently snaking hand of the dental clamp, ensuring that my tooth did not shatter during surgery;
The flexible steel spikes - although only three are visible, there were in fact four - each inserted all the way down into one carefully hollowed-out canal of my root; and
My favourite, the sort of fluid elegance of the adjacent tooth's root, curling back, recoiling as it were in horror.
Not pictured: a blue rubber dental dam, stretched and pinned across my mouth, and perforated to allow access to the one offending tooth. I have to say after my first experience with a dental dam, they seem like a very inexact form of protection - don't you agree that lesbians deserve some improved technology after all these years?

Enough local anaesthetic flowed to fell a herd of after-Thanksgiving shoppers. My jaw still hurts today, two and a half days later, from being propped open for two hours. They did not, to answer DemonDoll, provide any of the lovely pills one comes to expect as reward for enduring such torment. Tylenol 3 with codeine was the best on offer (and indeed, would appear to be the wildest that most Canadians dream of - the sweet soothing waves of vicodin have yet to wash these shores), so I opted to stick with our impressive stash of leftovers at home: the one benefit in T's chronic back-woes.

Wednesday will see the completion of this phase of the ordeal: a permanent filling - although, a crown will ultimately have to go over the whole mess, but not until I've saved for it. In the meantime, soups, puddings and purees and no teeth-clenching activities...well, almost none.

Oh, yes, this puts me in mind of one final detail, the most unexpected and perhaps also the most mortifying. After my procedure, T came to fetch me (which was awfully nice of him, though the aftermath was thankfully nowhere near as traumatic as the last time), and we left at around 12:30 pm, as many of the employees were leaving for lunch. The office is located in the gay village area, and as we were walking towards the subway station, a dental employee, an amiable young man who had had, on a previous visit, commerce with my mouth, suddenly overtook us, walking swiftly and with purpose in his eye. He did not notice me, or if he did, did not acknowledge. A few feet ahead of us, he turned down an alleyway - not just any alleyway, but a rather notorious one, as it contains the entrance to one of the city's most popular "gentleman's clubs", and sure enough, as we passed the alleyway, we saw him go right in. It took awhile for this to sink in; I wasn't sure if I had in fact seen it, but T confirms its truth. Am I a prude, or is it rather horrifying to discover that one's dental professional has a thing for lunch-time raunch? Of course, he uses gloves in his work, so really what's the harm? And yet, I am suddenly not looking forward to my next visit.

Radix malorum

2006-11-29T18:50:00.000-05:00

One of my teeth is dying, and its death-throes are putting me through hell. It began on Sunday (or so): a low aching in the jawbone that came and went in half-hour waves. It wasn't anything significant then, a minor annoyance, like the occasional nerve-twinges I suffer from (doesn't everyone?) but which go away after a few days. In this case, it did not go away. It has become a walloping pulsing crimson ball of agony. Until this morning, vicodin was keeping me human; I have since either developed an immunity, or the pain is seated at too deep a level for anything short of morphine to affect it. My dentist - she of the exquisite bones and strangely detached bedside manner - saw me on an emergency appointment yesterday. The verdict: root canal, pronto. She scheduled me for next Friday; I called this morning and apparently sounded close enough to an act of homicide to justify bumping me up to tomorrow. At 10:15 in the morning, she will drill into my tooth and scrape away all the dying roots and pulp that make my tooth a living thing, leaving behind little more than a skull. It will look like all the other teeth around it, with one exception: it will be empty, it will be dead.

I've had a root canal before - trust me, my dramatics are anything but amateur. The last one, administered in Glendale, California by a star graduate of the Josef Goebbels school of schadenfreude, left me literally screaming at the wheel of my car to offset the pain. Ten minutes later I was picking painkillers up off the carpet in a scene worthy of Neely O'Hara.

You'd think, with that as a template, I would be terrified about tomorrrow: I'm not. I'm quite excited. The thought of that needle slicing into my gum and delivering sweet numb oblivion is positively dreamy. Any fear is also mitigated somewhat by my sheer seething fury at the cost that this brief jaunt in the dentist's chair will incur to me. Thanks to my employer's sterling health benefits - yes, the ones that are supposed to justify and offset the sub-standard salaries we command - I will be paying for 50% of this debacle: $475, boys and girls. And that's not counting the crown that will eventually have to be applied. I could embark now on a rant about the futility of a middle-class existence, the endless cycle of reversals, the hateful, gall-churning toil of staying afloat, I could curse and wail with stirring rage - but I won't. My ibuprofen levels are dangerously high, and I suspect I would just return sober in a day or two and delete it all.

Shaken and stirred

2006-11-17T10:33:00.000-05:00

Suddenly I care deeply about the franchise...

Signs of life

2006-11-11T10:44:00.000-05:00

OK. This hasn't been my longest absence. I checked. Once, in August, I didn't post for thirteen days. Although, I suspect that won't stay the record forever. I get busy (imagine whining, overly-defensive tone, please)...writing even a paragraph sometimes seems like more than I can manage. Then there's the issue of content-judgement: Do I really have anything interesting to say? I think back to recent events, and nothing seems particularly blog-worthy, but you be the judge. What follows is an unordered list of items as they occur to me:

Had psychiatric assessment at Centre for Addiction and Mental Health, shit you not. Long story: really just looking for a therapist, but the system dictates that one has to be assessed in this way in order to access free services. Seemed a little extreme to me, but WTF? As I suspected, I did not make the cut: not addicted (not dangerously, anyway) and not clinically unstable (not such that merits medication, that is). Actually, that ended up being the substance of his assessment: to prescribe or not to prescribe. Sort of creepy.
Went to the boss' house for dinner last night. Sort of nervous for variety of reasons, but relieved at the last minute to discover T & I were not to be the only guests. I'd gotten it into my head that she was inviting us in order to gently sack me. Absurd, I know, but the inclusion of other guests calmed this fear. T had a workshop, a roll-on-the-floor all-day theatre-games thing, and intended to get home and shower and change before dinner. He did not. He rolled up on his bike in sweats and t-shirt five minutes before dinner. I am trying to choose my crises: I chose this one. But I was wrong. My boss didn't give a shit, and I should have known she wouldn't. Mostly laid-back New Yorker who spent 14 years in Rwanda, so not so big on ceremony. Anyway, it all went fine. Conversation mostly lively, helped up to a point by the flow of wine, and then steadily hindered by same substance. Don't expect the ax anytime soon.
Attended a potluck for the Daddies and Pappas 2B and the Dykes Planning Tykes. Sort of intimidating being in a roomful of fertile lesbians who know nothing of the reproductive challenges of a male couple. The egg is really so much mightier than the sperm. But it was fun too. Met my first Persian lesbian. I think she wanted to take out a restraining order on me by the end of the evening. I glommed on and wouldn't let go. Didn't realize how much I crave the community of cultural/sexual allies. I like lesbians.
Ali and Ali, shoesellers, who occupy the store beneath our apartment, are starting to get on my tits. Every weekend I have to go downstairs and ask them to turn down their music. To be fair, I don't think they are even blasting it, but I can hear it and it's right under my drafting table. T's work area is way in the back, so he doesn't hear it as much, and in general he is less of a freak about noise-intrusion than I am. When I ask them, they are always very agreeable about it, but for pity's sake, do we have to go through it every week?? I suspect my misanthropic tendencies are not helping my self-esteem issues much...
...so implies my therapist, who's actually my counsellor, not being a qualified therapist at all, but a social worker who is trained to give counselling, or some such nice distinction. He's really quite sweet, and I am finding the work fairly helpful. The only problem is it's a short-term program which I am almost halfway through, and it costs money though not a lot, hence item one above.
Hey, it's 11:11 on 11/11/06!!
Now it's 11:12...
Just think when it's 2011! 11:11, 11/11/11!!
Saw Borat...very funny, but confusing in its mixture of real life and staged life. Well, probably confusing only to me who needs to see the seams in order to appreciate something. There are definitely some moments that are staged and cast with actors who are in on the joke; there are also other moments that are not. I suspect some of the most disturbing are of the latter type. More than once I did not want to laugh, but scream.
Want to see Death of a President this weekend, as I think its run is wrapping up to make way for new Nicole Kidman flick, Snur, I mean Fur. Heard it's amazing, DOAP not Fur. Fur will not get one of my red Canadian pennies. Nicole Kidman must be stopped and I intend to do my part.
We're off to Montreal again in two weeks time...Thanksgiving in fact. Don't imagine we'll have too traditional a Thanksgiving experience there, perhaps a poutine fashioned into a turkey leg. Makes me think of Mark's stomach-chrurning tofurkey some years back...
Should I keep going?
Prime Suspect this weekend!! DI Jane Tennyson's last installment! I could soil myself with excitement. Sunday night, PBS, although the faithful probably already know that; the rest of you heathens, don't start on series seven, get yourself to a video store and watch series 1 through 6 first.
OK, that's enough. Apologies for the tedium, but I did warn you.

Happy Halloween

2006-10-30T18:25:00.000-05:00

Seems sort of sad that a pumpkin is one of my proudest achievements, but here it is...

Pig of my Heart

2006-10-22T18:38:00.000-04:00

Behold my beloved's pig. More than a little influenced by our having just enjoyed Helen Mirren as HRH QEII. As for the Jocelyn Wildenstein reference, search me. Please note also the absence of any tail. Let me assure those readers who bemoaned the absence of tail in their own drawings — and I can do this with categorical certainty — that there is little basis to the conclusion drawn...

And now for something completely different

2006-10-19T11:07:00.000-04:00

Some comic relief, but not without illuminating somewhat the condition of humanness...

Draw a pig

Mom

2006-10-19T10:43:00.000-04:00

Just got off the phone with Mom. Turns out she hadn't read the e-mail yet (see previous post). Conversation went something like this:

V: So, Mom, there's something I want to tell you that I mentioned in the e-mail I sent, something I've wanted to tell for a while.
M: Well, why don't we just leave it and I'll read the e-mail?
V: Well, no, I want to tell you in person.
M: But, aren't you at work? You probably can't talk right now.
V: I'm in my office; I can talk.
M: OK.

Explanation followed along with some reasons as outlined in previous post. Mom's first reaction to the news was:

M: In May??
V: Yes.
M: Can—you can do that?
V: Yes.
M: Well, as long as you are happy.
V: We are, very, and very excited about the possibility of becoming fathers too. And I know that you can't share in our day-to-day lives, but I really want you to know what's happening in them and hopefully be a part that way.
M: Well, what's important is that you are grown up, you're an adult, if you think you are making the right decisions with your life, you are responsible for your own soul (italics mine), and as your mother all I can do is support you.
V: Even if you disagree?
M: Even if I disagree.
V: Thanks.

Her voice had become very quiet and sort of shaky. My sister and her kids were over, so I'm glad she had someone to debrief with (my sister knew, by the way, further tangling this web). I am really grateful to Yatsu and Corn for your advice; I am glad I did this; I feel better about my part. And still there is that feeling of selfish recklessness that comes everytime I come out of a closet (and I've come out of some, closets built, to my amazement, within other closets), that sense not of empowerment and triumph but of having done a little damage by choosing truth over discretion.

Gay Tidings

2006-10-18T13:47:00.000-04:00

I am feeling a creeping sort of dread, and I think I must discuss it: Yesterday I told my mother I got married in May. I did this in an e-mail. I didn't really think much of it at the time, but later when I told T about it, his first reaction was not the glowing smile of pride I expected, but the unguarded exclamation, "In an e-mail?!" My hunch that I may have stepped false has steadily grown since then.

This is complicated territory, and I feel I should present background in my defense. My mother is not of the inclination to rejoice at her son getting hitched to another bloke. She may make a strong effort to impersonate prideful maternalism, and I appreciate it, but it is an unconvincing performance. I feel I know the true nature of her feelings. Also, I had my own misgivings about marriage, for entirely different reasons — antiquated, patriarchal institution co-opted by religion and all that — but with help from T, I overcame them. However, it was not a time in which I felt prepared to have to defend our decision. I wanted only joy in return for joyful news. This was all compounded by the fact that the wedding itself was somewhat precipitate, done when it was for practical reasons. T and I agreed then and continue to feel that, while it was our official wedding, the spiritual event had yet to take place within the circle of our family, chosen and biological. Many of you reading this right now were not told till after the fact, and perhaps felt a twinge of resentment for it at the time, but I hope I pleaded our case well and that you understand the distinction we make between official and spiritual nuptials. In many ways, we felt conflicted about expecting people to get all excited twice over the same event (sort of like those people who insist on having multiple birthday parties in the same period and expect the enthusiasm to remain undiminished at each one), and whether rightly or not, I included my mother in this. If I had allowed that her joy may have been genuine and absolute, I still felt like I would have wanted to preserve that first response for the spiritual event, which she might personally attend, rather than have experienced it vicariously through a telephone line. Clever followers of reason will observe that my actions yesterday in informing her by e-mail would give the lie to this foregoing argument. But I didn't say any of this was logical or right, just that it happened and why.

So, why did I tell her now. A few reasons: it's been on my mind a lot. I had a sense of doing more harm by not telling than by telling. A good friend also called me on the possible fear aspects at work in my behaviour, and certainly that would explain the knee-jerk impulsiveness of my actions. And also I wanted to share the news about our adoption hopes, and it felt like an unusual omission to not mention that we were married. Anyway, it's now been 24 hours since I wrote, not long it must be admitted especially where Third World e-mail reliability is involved. But I cannot shake the picture of my mother shuffling broken-hearted about the house in her slippers and not having the strength to write back. As I say, I have a creeping sense of dread that I have behaved with a monstrous lack of filial feeling, and I'm not sure now how to fix it.

Sugar daddies

2006-10-15T10:52:00.000-04:00

Last Tuesday saw our first meeting of the "Daddies and Pappas 2B" course. A weekly gathering of queer gentlemen couples occupies a second floor room at the downtown Y and dicusses the ups and downs, pits and falls of parenting. Queer lady couples meet simultaneously downstairs at the "Dykes & Tykes" class, and though T & I were disappointed not to be integrated with these Sapphic moms, we are both looking forward to the cross-class potluck in a few weeks. Our facilitator is a terribly sweet gentleman, not a parent himself but the product of queer parenting, although he has a facilitating voice that I find sometimes overly conscientious. We are joined in class by a pair of air stewards, two elderly couples, one of which has already parented the biological daughter of one of the members, an enormous refrigerator-like and suspiciously straight-behaving bloke whose partner was "busy", and us. Our first class entailed the screening of a video about queer parents in the San Francisco area. I fully expected to see P, that odd but delightful gentleman Yatsu and I know who adopted two feisty infants some years ago...and so I did, but only in a wordless wave-by. One of his sons was dangling off his arm and P was smiling indulgently down at him. There was another chap I recognized in the video, though I couldn't quite place him. Anyway, it was good to see queer men doing what we think we want to do, but it didn't even begin to answer any of the manifold logistical questions T & I have.

It also brought up a difficult issue for me, and one I sense will come up again in this class: socio-economics. I am my parents' child in this: money matters to me. I don't want to have a child if money is an issue. I want the house, I want the volvo, I want to be able to spend time with a child without being beholden to an employer. This is complicated territory for me: I'd like to think I want all these things for my child, but how much is this me wanting these things for myself? How much is this the drag of parenthood? I mean the outfit, the getup, the external trappings? I grew up very much aware of money; we were not poor, but we were far from wealthy, and yet my parents managed somehow - and by it seems to me a conscious effort - to project an image of wealth. We had the big house, the pool, the two cars, we went abroad once a year. We lived in a relatively upscale neighbourhood, and I went to a private school, so my friends were all boys from privileged homes, and by all appearances, I was one of them. The cost of this effort of impersonation was that my parents could often not afford their chosen lifestyle. They spoke constantly between themselves, and in our earshot, of their lack of resources. One of the most peristent messages I received in my childhood was that any day, any moment, the money could stop, completely dry out, and our life, our image would shatter. I lived in mortal fear of any of my friends discovering the truth. Today my relationship with money is seriously fucked up. It is usually my first and last consideration; I feel like money and I are negatively-charged magnets; when I have it, I pretend it's not there. It sits at the heart of so much of my regret. This is not a thing I want to give to a child. I want my child to have a healthy relationship with money, and whether this means having oodles of it or just being in a position to impart understanding and perspective on it. I mean, given all the above, I consider myself a fairly detached person materialistically, but I can only imagine what sort of monster I would be if I received that messaging in 2006 and in a north American context.

The upshot of all of this is the oldest excuse in the parenting book: I want to be ready. And the irrefutable argument is that while we have the freedom to plan our readiness, biology doesn't always wait, and many children have come into unprepared lives, and fared beautifully. We will be ready when we have to be; I have perfect faith in our combined abilities, if not in my individual pathologies. So, when this class is done, in ten weeks, will we be ready to have a child? No, but we are hoping we'll be closer to a decision.

Fall

2006-10-07T11:48:00.000-04:00

Today is lovely and warm, one of those atypical fall days that feel like a happy oversight on the part of the weather gods. And yet there is enough of a bite in the air to remind one of where you are, and enough of that extraordinary golden-coloured light that only happens this time of year. I love it. Yes, I know, soon enough it will be colder than a witch's grommet (in the word's of my reluctant father-in-law) and I will be cursing the long blistering slog of months (see subsequent posts for unhinged rants on the topic), but for now it's perfection. I dream of a land of perpetual fall. Where leaves turn to colour and fall and give way to new leaves, without interruption. A land where the year-round uniform is a light sweater and a jaunty hat.

Where's Vajso?

2006-10-04T18:49:00.000-04:00

Where is he, indeed? Sometimes I wonder. Until recently, he was in a car returning from an idyllic three-day cloistering in a cabin on a private lake 100 km west of Ottawa. He is currently to be found trying his damnedest not to slide into a total slump at the reality of being back in this loud, ugly, shit-coloured city...although, to be fair to said loud, ugly, shit-coloured city, I think I would be describing most cities if not all that way right now. I think I have the soul of a country dweller. I know: it's all lovely and serene for a few days, even a few weeks, but living there is quite another thing. Yes, this may be true...but how do I know? How can I know until I try? I've spent my entire adult life living in cities, and yes it's OK, but shouldn't I try the other too? I can't begin to tell you how spectacular this place was: a tiny cabin perched on the edge of Sugar Lake, a private dock with two chairs facing the water, a canoe and two oars for idle jaunts on the water, and everywhere you look, maples and birch trees and sassafras in an absolutely indescribable palette of autumn golds and reds and purples and limes. And quiet. Oh my god, so quiet. T and I sat on the dock listening, I shit you not, to the sound of birdwing 200 feet overhead! We came back to the sounds of streetcars and honking delivery trucks and a tethered dog yelping and the blaring radio of Ali and Ali, shoe-sellers, downstairs. I wanted to run all the way back to Lanark County. This is typical of me, though: this idealizing of vacation locales. I suppose I would go mad if left too long in the country; at the very least, I'd lose my tenuous hold on the social graces. This is a larger problem, I fear, than a simple yearning after arcadia; this goes to the heart of my dissatisfaction with wherever I live. I felt it in L.A., for what seemed to be justifiably mitigating reasons; I feel it here, the set of mitigating circumstances eliminated to make way for a different set. The common denominator is me. Well, me and a city...which leads me to believe in conclusion that maybe I have, after all, the soul of a country dweller. As Hamlet says when asked his thoughts while resting his head in Ophelia's lap: "Country matters."

OK, this is a bit strange: we were there for three dinners and three breakfasts, and we ate nothing but pork products. Hmm, and at Ramadan no less. Not like that should matter to us, but still, we didn't plan an all-pork holiday or anything, it just fell out that way. But did I mention we canoed on Sugar Lake? Well, we did. T did most of the work, I being preoccupied with sitting in such a way as not to capsize us. No, my balance settled itself after a bit, and I pitched in with the rowing. But mostly we just sat on the water, drifting through that perfect silence, watching the skeletons of old trees float by under us.

Hold the sausage

2006-09-16T09:54:00.000-04:00

Our neighbourhood is predominantly Polish, and by extension, Catholic. Within spitting disatnce are to be found three churches and a Catholic credit union. The latter is less than 100 feet away and boasts a bronze sculpture of John Paul II beneficently welcoming the savings of the faithful. It is standard practice for earnest old biddies, out on a shopping trip, to spare a moment to kneel at Johnny's feet and offer up a prayer for the propserity of their zlotys. In our first days as residents, T and I hatched a midnight plan to swathe the statue in a boa and strap a dildo to his loins - but we thought better of it. No messing with Johnny in these parts - he's like, well, like the pope to them.

We have been bracing ourselves all week for the advent of this weekend's annual Polish festival which we are only just discovering takes place literally on our doorstep. The street from end to end is being blocked off as we speak, and tents are going up in every direction, the majority of them no doubt to accommodate purveyors of pierogis and other cabbage-enhanced lard products. T and I took a stroll last night and happened across a poster advertising the coming festivities. No less than thirteen hours (13!) are devoted to today's bacchanale, stretching from 10 a.m. (moments away as I write) to 11 p.m. Tomorrow is a more modest, even sacred affair, spanning a mere nine hours. The poster continued to promise a glorious array of performance events: Polish klezmer bands, Polish clog-dancers, Polish whirling dervishes (I can't confirm the accuracy of this last item), and to top it all, Polish dancing under the stars. And where should all this raucous, brain-deafening Polish merrymaking be scheduled to take place? At the Catholic credit union stage! Even in death, JPII hounds us.

Hedwig!

2006-09-11T20:29:00.000-04:00

Played hooky from work this afternoon to attend a panel discussion with John Cameron Mitchell and the cast of his new film, Shortbus, in the basement of a church, of all places. Wow. Tried mostly successfully to avoid throwing self prostrate at his feet. The audience was small and almost entirely queer, and JCM pretty much used it as an improvised standup set. Amazing to sit less than six feet away from this small, unassuming waif (looking, I must admit, rather more like a middle-aged lesbian than the fabulous castrated kraut) and to hear Hedwig's dry, hilarious voice coming out of him. I haven't seen the film yet, so seeing the cast didn't mean much to me, although I was excited to see the star, CBC presenter Sook-Yin Lee, who I recently learned was none other than the overzealous, slightly truculent Philipina in Hedwig's onetime backup band.

I have to say though, in criticism of the great one, he has gathered a rather white group of actors; and young; and pretty. JCM says he wanted people who were attractive, but not necessarily physically - more like attractive to themselves. He says he wanted to show real people having relationships, navigating sex and love and life. Obviously one can't represent everyone, but what about people of colour? Middle-aged people? People who don't find themselves attractive? As someone firmly in the first category, hurtling towards the second, and endlessly waltzing in and out of the third, I am interested to see if I relate personally to his film or not.

T asked a question; I did not. I feared a replay of the infamous "I-we-you-love" episode from my 1995 meeting with Emma Thompson. She still has me on restraining order.

Hollywood North

2006-09-07T15:23:00.000-04:00

It's festival week in Toronto, and Torontonians are flushed with a sense of relevance. Brads and Angies and Judes and Toms have descended en masse. The Barenaked Ladies played outside the office window this morning. (My Executive Director was heard to express some surprise that they were men and not ladies.) Shop windows are festooned with film spools and director's chairs and any possible item that might inspire mortals to think the establishment is somehow connected to the proceedings. Lips and tits shine with the fresh squeaky gloss of collagen and silicone top-ups. Hummers and limos prowl the street like hungry prehistoric ghouls. I work in festival central, aka Yorkville, so it's barely a surprise that I'm having odd flashbacks to life in L.A., but even at home, in sleepy old Roncesvalles, often deemed too far from the downtown core for the hipsters to tarry, even there, lights and cameras stand poised to immortalize the frock-clad heft of John Travolta in Hairspray, the movie of the musical of the movie. My noblest posture, in the face of all this, is indignant irritation. "Who cares?" I ask of anyone who will/must listen. Movies are, in the vast majority, trash; their creators and purveyors for the most part overpaid hacks. "Restore my streetcar route! Give film back to the people!" I chant, pumping the air socialistically with fist. This, as I said, is my noblest posture. Careful observers will notice my least noble posture as I walk out at lunch to buy some food, my eyes swivelling greedily to catch one cherished glimpse of a famous face.

Misc.

2006-08-25T09:53:00.000-04:00

Seems all I do is bloody apologize here! But I am sorry: one measly posting saying I will post again soon, and then silence. Pathetic, I know. Let's just move on, shall we?

So, the AIDS Conference. Pretty mad, I'll tell you. Hard not to consider the extent of the expense: if all the delegates, with all their airfares and all their hotel costs and all their lunches and dinners and breakfasts, and all the exorbitant registration fees, and all the useless bloody crap, buttons and stickers and posters and pamphlets, and the entire local host budget, if all of this was converted to cash and bundled off to Africa or South America or South Asia, would there have been anything at all to discuss? And then again, if there's one thing I learned, it's that money is only a part of the problem. Not a very big part, actually...which is, frankly, why the Bills (Gates & Clinton) leave me rather unimpressed. The amount of hoopla and reverence and sheer star-worship that attends them, and really, for what? For having money and being generous with it? When the one promotes sex-worker "rescue programs" in South Asia, promising productive, moral lives in Nike sweatshops, and the other gives nice words of support for the Bush-driven U.S. AIDS programs where abstinence is valued over prevention and developing country governments are quietly "encouraged" not to request generic drugs from other developed countries that are willing to deliver them? A little bitter, me. I confess, I've always harboured one of the more ignoble traits of the socialist-minded: the resentment of money, or rather, the resentment that the money's not mine. Sigh.

What else is going on in my world? Our friends Karen and Shim are coming to visit next weekend, which should be a lot of fun. Thom and I have designed a full roster of proposed events for them, though I suspect they will reject all in favour of city walks and drinking patios - fine by me! I realize suddenly that I have about four weeks of vacation/off time that I need to use I think by the end of October...although I should confirm this. Hopefully I can carry some over, as I don't much relish the idea of taking time off in order to sit at home for three weeks, making hourly postings to my blog (you lucky devils). You'd think we'd arrange a trip somewhere, a "vacation," such as I've heard people do. We'd both like to, I know; I just can't bring myself to justify putting us into the poorhouse for a few idyllic weeks away. Help! I need middle-class intervention, fast!

Babies, babies, babies.... Lololololola (I fear there is one too many lo's there) is "big with child," as I feel they might say in eighteenth-century Nova Scotian fishing villages. Too, too thrilling! It has sent my own biological clock - already an erratic timepiece - into deranged clanging. I look at Thom and think what an amazing father he would be, and I think I would be an OK one too, and I practically itch to do it. Yet, circumspection rules the day: we must, at my insistence, come at it practically, considering pros and cons, inflows and outflows, facts and figures, blah and blah. Many, many children arrive unplanned, with no attendant strategy, and they are fine and happy and their parents, I suspect, delightedly surprised to find that things find a way even without planning. Of course, others grow into serial killers...but that's all part of the gamble, isn't it?

Manifold kisses and pets and wonderments to you, Lo(etc.)lola! I am proud and happy and so excited for that little person's extraordinary future.

AIDS 2006

2006-08-18T15:37:00.000-04:00

It's over. The most exhausting ten days of my life are behind me. Apologies to all readers and loved ones, and all inbetween, for my silence. Will continue to post captivating details of my ongoing life later....

This little piggy went to market

2006-08-06T17:30:00.001-04:00

So, I needed some new shirts, see. I don't usually dress up for work: it's very casz (I suspect this is not the accepted spelling of this word, but what is? Please enlighten if you know) and, besides, my boss is a major clotheshorse (though I imagine he'd prefer "fashion-plate"), spending on clothes probably what amounts to as much as his rent, so why would I attempt to compete with that? However, there's this huge international conference coming up next week, and I have a full media-pass and will probably need to do a fair amount of schmoozing and pressing of flesh, you know, "face of the organization" and all that crap, so I figure, OK, Scrooge, you need to pony up for a few new shirts at least, this hopelessly outdated collection of Ross-specials won't cut it much longer. There was a time when I could get away with wearing just anything, whether I truly made it work or not, just with attitude. This attitude, I am discovering, had a best-by date and it is now starting to smell a little off. Time to upgrade the duds.

Thus, enlisting T on the promise that it would be a brief in-out sort of thing, we embarked for the mall. This was five hours ago. For further perspective, we only visited two stores. Two stores, five hours. Some more numbers: nine, being the number of shirts at one time or another under anguished consideration, each tried on at least nine times apiece, so maybe 81 is a more accurate number; two, being the number of shirts finally purchased; and fifty, being the amount I'd decided not to exceed for a single shirt, yet also being the price of each shirt I finally bought. A hundred dollars, you say, a bargain for two very nice shirts, which they are. Tell it to the purchase-guilt, my most finely-honed and frequently-used sense.

T was a complete doll, tolerating five gruelling hours in the armpit of the suburbs-invaded Eaton Centre, offering unflagging feedback to all my proposals, even declaring he would purchase them for me if money were my only obstacle (which it frequently was). And when the purchase-guilt kicked in (seconds away from checkout), he offered all sorts of encouraging reinforcement, including putting the tags in a safe place and assuring me that I can take them back at any time. The moment we walked in the door, however, he fell into a dead sleep, no doubt driven to the edge of his faculties.

The shirts? Oh, they're nice. One chocolate brown number with very thin eggshell pinstripes, the other one white (I think) with very pale pink, blue and yellow stripes. Both cotton, both nicely-tailored. Both from H&M, the IKEA of clothiers. That's all. Did I mention $100??!

My female readers (99% of my demographic, I suspect) are perhaps presently rolling eyes in mute exasperation. What constitutes the above-described guilt-worthy splurge must rate very low on the shop-o-meter. It is my endless struggle, however: the fear/guilt/loss of spending money on anything that I can't honestly do without. I need to work through this. I need tools to process purchases, I mean mental/emotional tools, to see value in things other than mere necessaries. Maybe I need a shopping therapist. Any referrals?

This flower wilts

2006-08-01T19:14:00.000-04:00

The time is 7.10 PM and the temperature is 34.8 degrees Celsius. With humidex, it's almost 45 degrees. I don't know what this is in fahrenheit, but I do know earlier today, with humidity, it was around 117. This is entirely unreasonable. I demand a recount.

Poil-Mel

2006-07-30T20:48:00.000-04:00

Question: Is a person too old for a faux-hawk if he has to taper it off into his bald spot? This was foremost in my mind this evening as I carefully crafted a landing-strip of my own. It is only the second time I've done this. The first time was on a birthday, my 33rd, I think, and it was clearly a dry-run at midlife crisis. It was effective, though, in making me feel different, if not necessarily younger, lifting me for a brief time out of a place into which I felt I was settling. The same is true of my present motives. I am hoping to disturb the state of affairs, hoping to cause a tiny jolt in the automatic movements of my life, force some surprises. I don't imagine it will last long; its effect or lack thereof will be made in a day or two, and it will become redundant. Truth is, I'm not sure how I feel walking around with my head looking like the mons of a mid-90s Playmate...

...which brings non-sequentially to mind the recent antics of that perennial charmer, Mel Gibson, whose recent tequila-fuelled joyride around Malibu ended in an anti-Semitic diatribe against a pair of arresting officers, one of whom, a female, Mel affectionately dubbed "sugar tits." Ah. Religion earns yet another glowing poster boy.

W--k

2006-07-27T18:19:00.000-04:00

Work is out of bloody control. I am expected, for what amounts to a pittance, to put in hours that a Siberian salve-labourer would object to. Actually, I am not really expected to do so; I was just wisely hired by people who suspected I was the sort of person to do the job, whatever it takes. "Work ethic" is, I believe, the euphemism. Middle-class drone-mindedness is rather more accurate. Urgh. And yet, am I dissatisfied? Not truly, so deep runs my middle-class streak. My job is quite challenging, and in a not always expected way, fairly noble. Noble? Well, ethical. I mean, we do good things for vulnerable people. Is that noble? I am not convinced nobility is a characteristic to aspire to.

In other news, my bicycle already needs a tune-up. Canadian Tire, the purveyor of said vehicle, has been working on it since Sunday. Apparently this is still not sufficient time in which to check its gears. Chris, the youth to whom I delivered my faulty conveyance, had a certain not unattractive surliness which precluded excessive questioning. I meekly accepted his vague assurances that a day or two would yield results. The more fool me.

More extaordinarily, we, that is my spouse and I, seem to be playing reluctant host to at least one mouse. Yes, you read correctly. Never in my life have I encountered such a thing, and now, all of a moment, I am housemates with one. I say at least one, because, though I have yet to see it in the flesh, I have T's reports of multiple sightings, in one particular spleen-crimping case where the offending rodent ran in swift flight from our kitchen counter to disapear through one of the burners on our stove and take refuge in the innards of the oven. The prospect of finding a fully-cooked mouse perched on my next tofu-meatloaf causes some dismay. Yatsu, of course, is currently nodding his head in smug vindication, having heard suspicious rustlings on the final night of his stay chez nous. Yatsu, my apologies are manifold, should I have sniffed in wounded denial. T, embracing his heritage, has slipped into battle-mode, deploying a sonar device which emits an inaudible sound hated by mice, as well as glue-traps, diabolical inventions that lure the quarry to a pad of super-glue from which it can never escape, there to be scooped up and disposed of by the victor. These innovations T has adorned with tasty niblets of cracker and peanut-butter, and already one bait has successfully yielded prey. Fortunately, I was nowehere nearby to witness its disposal, however I can't honestly say I experience too much pity on its account. It now remains to see if it was the only offender, or if, in fact, its entrapment is followed by that of comrades. I am hoping not; one mouse is exceedingly less objectionable than a battalion thereof. I suspect - and hope - and will encourage all prospective visitors to join me in this inclination - that this represents the end of our pestilence. Updates will follow. (Is it only me, or do I detect a trend of myself waging war against the animal kingdom?)

I am to be found presently at my desk at work, sipping 12-year old scotch from a bottle of Glenfiddich I keep stashed in a drawer for after-hour solace....

Sites I like

2006-07-26T10:05:00.000-04:00

The current issue of The New Yorker calls to mind two websites I like, and a third that has no affiliation whatsoever with the aforementioned self-important publication:

Wikipedia
http://wikipedia.org/
Yes, I know, no great revelation here. Wikipedia's about as commonplace as Google now...but still. I continue to be awed by this auto-didact's paradise of polygnostic pleasures. And in Polski, no less!

Jackson Pollock
http://jacksonpollock.org/
No great fan of his work, I nevertheless take frequent gleeful refuge in this site...perhaps because it slyly supports my theory that Pollock's geniuses were those of size, timing and willingness to waste paint.

80s Videos
http://www.thebestlegaladvice.com/
Cognoscenti, rejoice! I could barely believe my luck when I stumbled on this one. Guilty pleasure finds a home in this collection of 1,500 (were there ever so many?) of your favourite videos from the 80s. Have a fast connection or it will soon get tedious. After overcoming my initial horror at seeing only one Flock of Seagulls number (and not their undisputed chef d'oeuvre), I wallowed in the particular pleasures of Barbra Streisand's "Woman in love" (a production so impartial, the diva herself couldn't be bothered to turn up for it), and the post-Magritte art-school hokiness of ABC's "Look of Love." Tell me your faves...

The Heat Is On

2006-07-15T10:56:00.001-04:00

Remember that song? I don't know if it was actually called "The Heat is On," but that line certainly composed a significant part of its message, repeated ad infinitum to the accompaniment of synthesizers and the inevitable stray saxophone. It was some sort of theme song, I think, to a movie or TV show, or perhaps to a particularly ignoble episode of my early-mid teens, when I was determined to be a fashion designer, and spent hours seated importantly at my desk, perfecting fussy little doodles of Dynasty-inspired gowns, which invariably sported inflated shoulder-pads and frothy immense headgear that would make even Cecil Beaton demur. I remember I created a moniker for myself, convinced that I could never enjoy success in my destined field without an acccent and a hyphen somehwere in my name, and hence was born "Vasz-Don" (sadly the anglocentric limitations of Blogger forbid the critical flourish, the accent grave perched languidly over the "a", but pray imagine it), and it was this thrilling foreign-sounding signature (as if my name needed any help at all in that department!) that adorned in a flamboyant swoosh the cover of my "portfolio" - a weak assemblage of eight or ten derivative "creations" - stapled together into a folder and held at the ready for proud display to any unsuspecting dinner-guest who foolhardily engaged me in conversation. My poor parents. I think they actually attempted an evincing of pride at my endeavours, but could they really not have been quaking in the pits of their puritan souls for the eternal jeopardy of mine? Needless to say, the career of Vasz-Don was brief and unmemorable, failing to blaze any streaks at all across the Parisian springtime night.

The foregoing was an unplanned tangent to the somewhat less personal declaration that the heat is on: summer has started with a slowly-building vengeance. Cold showers yield immediately to clammy sheeny sweat. Everyone, everywhere looks moist, all the time. Humidity, like rain, is one of the flaws in the cosmic design. One of those last-minute oversights, unavoidable glitches that every major project must endure and learn to work around.

The Table

2006-07-13T21:21:00.000-04:00

Did I mention I bought a drafting table? No? Well, I did. From a perfectly delightful lesbian, with exquisite tats up and down her forearms and warm green eyes. She was moving out of her partner's home, not really splitting up, just taking space, and needed to get rid of the table. Why? Long story: change of creative focus from plastic to electronic. Drafting tables don't lend themselves to desktop editing systems, blah, blah. What does she have to do with this posting? Nothing really. A diversion so I don't have to admit the truth that one can stumble on the most beautiful of tables - and it really is a beaut, with its old-style tilting wheels and real wood surfaces textured already with the act of art - but no amount of money or lucky timing will turn up inspiration. Yep. Dry as bone. I sit at this lovely thing and wait. Still, I'm not particularly worried. I suppose it will come if it must. Why shouldn't I be barren for a year or more? There's no rule that says otherwise. Expectations are fairly unsettling. T occasionally mentions how he's waiting for my artwork to make us millionaires. He's sort of joking, I know - but just sort of. The minute you identify yourself as an artist - of any kind - expectations arise. And judgements. I hesitated to describe myself as an actor when I was one; I hesitated to describe myself as a writer when I was fiddling with that; I hesitate to describe myself as an artist now. (What's that? Hesitation has been the only constant in my creative life? Yes, you make a good point.) Why bring it up at all then, if I'm so conflicted? I just wanted to tell you about my beautiful new drafting table, that's all....

Google Earth

2006-07-10T19:53:00.000-04:00

Have you seen Google Earth yet?

Oh. My. God. Pure cyber-crack, folks. My employers need to start worrying about this. My loved ones need to start planning intervention.

Developments...

2006-07-09T10:41:00.000-04:00

A brief summary of recent developments:

Bought owl (see previous post, Winged Vermin); with much delicate engineering, rigged item to end of wooden dowel suspended out of bathroom window. There swings menacingly. Pigeons non-plussed. Continue as if fearsome bird of prey were poorly-painted plastic knock-off...which it is. Actually witnessed pigeon landing on end of dowel to contemplate putative mortal enemy at close quarters. Bedroom window will now remain shut overnight. Airflow unsatisfactory, but slept past 9:30 two mornings in a row. Had forgotten how lovely such a thing can be.... If such sleeps are once again possible, gladly concede defeat...
Bought bicycle. Close acquaintances, please take moment to pick selves off floor. Bike-riding endemic in these parts; flat city, relatively compact downtown area. No end of encouragements from locals to procure one of own and discover joys of Toronto-living. Thom bought last weekend; purchase-envy gnawed at soul all week. Actual purchase day (Friday) fraught with misadventure. Not worthy of repetition; suffice to say, nearly held bicycle aloft as offering to appease gods. Went on fairly long date-ride yesterday with Thom. Riding in traffic somewhat blood-curdling; need practice; meantime, careening down sidewalks must do, pedestrian imprecations in wake. Must admit, Toronto much nicer from seat of bike. Went down by lakeshore and then up trail along Humber River. Quite delightful; lush, green, peaceful; helped immensely by shirtlessness of other gentleman riders. Bottom somewhat tender this morning...nothing to do with gentleman riders...
Took Thom to oysters last night. Lovely to watch him enjoy them, analyze their flavours... Not me; though raw fish in sushi/caviar form delights, something about salty, phlegm-like nature of oysters repels. Had fish and chips, lovely crunchy batter: sound of diet collapsing...
Saw Devil Wears Prada. Enjoyable froth, though La Streep and Stanley Tucci elevate proceedings. La Streep in particular; no histrionics, no scenery-chewing; finely-calibrated, lethal performance. Like watching deadly snake sunning itself on rocks. Oscah smiles.... Mr Tucci as refreshingly real gay-man-in-fashion; flamboyant, but not swish. Toothy ingenue serviceable as clothes-hanger. Clothes mostly uninspiring. Granted, have little sense of couture...but still. Thought a lot about Davida...
Sunday today...all day. Thought I would go to work for couple of hours...then thought better of it.

À bientôt.

Joys of Soccer

2006-07-01T14:23:00.000-04:00

Pursuant to my comments in previous posting re absurdity of World Cup fervour: by pure circumstantial accident, found myself witness to the climax of the recent England-Portugal game, witness to the exultant victors peeling off sweat-drenched t-shirts, witness to their exquisite torsos in moist, delirious embrace, further witness to the losers crumpled, weeping, breathtakingly tragic, comforting one another with hands placed against cheeks, gentle gazes, foreheads pressed together in virtual kissing-distance and tender wiping away of tears. Think circuit party meets E.M. Forster novella. So why the forlorn faces of the English spectators, devastated, dumbstruck, betrayed, bereft of hope? Is that all really necessary? Seen from my perspective, we're all winners, so long as someone takes off his shirt.

Canada Day

2006-07-01T09:58:00.000-04:00

Today is Canada Day, my second ever and the country's 127th, although it was known as Dominion Day until 1982. The following conversation took place in my earshot between a Canadian and an American:

American woman: What is Canada Day?
Canadian man: It's like our Independence Day.
American woman: But you're not independent.

Not sure what I think about all this. For the first time in my life, I am poised to potentially feel a sense of belonging in a country, not simply geographical but social and political too, and even, dare I say it, pride. And yet, it is still a mere abstraction, an abstraction of an abstraction. I find nationalism in most forms absurd. What others see as nationalistic pride, I see as geographical accident. Perhaps this is the refugee's perspective.

Based on the above conversation, I have some thoughts: Can it be dismissed as quirky Canadian contrariness that the Queen's face still adorns the currency and her regent still holds office? Can any society claim egalitarianism with a straight face while maintaining monarchical ties? As for the American, I think she places too much value on her country's independence from a colonizing force whose sway has long since diminished, and pays not enough attention to her country's dependence on foreign economics and internal moral imperialism. The hard-fought Constitution that sits at the heart of American pride is under daily attack from the very politicians that run her country. Arguably the same can be said of many other countries, too, Canada included, whose own Charter of Human Rights sits now in the cross-hairs of Prime Minister Harper's beady aim.

(I think I may be confusing "country" with "government" - again, perhaps unavoidable for someone for whom geography has always been politicized - so please forgive me if my questioning seems oblique.)

So, what do we celebrate when we celebrate national pride? All this World Cup nonsense, people waving flags, losers weeping, territorialism, ascendancy, feudalism, on and bloody on? I'm really asking here. Tell me, if you know. Are we proud in the sense of somehow participating, even peripherally, in a successful venture? Are we giving props to those who made sacrifices to make the venture successful? Or are we simply expressing gratitude that we live in relatively free, harmless societies?

Here's my last thought: I think the genius of certain governments is to have co-opted basic human rights, like health, dignity, freedom. They have branded these things, turned them into products which only they can dispense. But they are rights, not benefits. We wouldn't have to fight for them if they weren't withheld in the first place. And who's doing the withholding?

Winged Vermin

2006-06-28T07:06:00.000-04:00

Not by nature a violent soul, I am being pushed of late to extremes of cruelty, if only in my imaginings. The objects of my warlike sentiments: the pigeons that perch outside our bedroom window every g-d-m morning and do what I believe is referred to as cooing, though I demand that lexicologists devise another term for this sound. Doves coo, and best of all, at some remove from my bedroom window. Pigeons "broan", or "brind" in a manner to suggest a cross between a stalling car-engine and the dry-heaves of a food-poisoned troll. Until recently the pigeons would make their presence heard at about 6 or 6:30. The past few days, however, I have woken at 5:45 AM in anticipation of them, my whole body clenched for the first sawings of their gullets. Once they start in, so do my visions. In one, I catch the offending beast, and while gazing in its eyes, ever so gently snap its neck. In another, I stand outside my bedroom window with a shotgun, creating little puffs of feather. (Even the soul of pacifism, Thom, muttered something about soaking breadcrumbs in DDT the other day, though I think he has since become inured to the sound.) I cannot say whether the pigeons are aware of the fact that they are at war, though I suspect their leader, a plump beady-eyed rodent with a lecherous swagger, has noticed a breakdown in diplomatic relations. My attempts thus far at detente have included setting up a fan in the window for white-noise purposes, and while a short, sharp "shush!" out the window usually takes them by surprise, it is never very long before they regroup for a second skirmish. This must stop. It is time for the big guns. This weekend I buy a plastic, yet remarkably lifelike painted owl I have for some time coveted in the local dollar store window. Birdman MacArthur, your "grompelling" days are numbered!

Die + T

2006-06-27T13:29:00.000-04:00

Yes, I am on a diet. No, I'm not crazy. Yes, it's nothing that a more regular exercise program wouldn't solve. Yes, I do have serious body-image issues verging on the pathological. Any other questions? Good. Let's move on. I know I'm not fat. I also know I am not as thin as I once was. Is this age or chocolate? Likely the combined effects of both. I would like to be able to exercise more, but how exactly does one balance a full-time job with a relationship and still make time for creative pursuits (no, I'm not actually pursuing anything creatively at the moment, but that's the topic of another post), all while scheduling 90 minutes of brainless exercise three to four times a week? Truth be told, I'm not sure exercise actually works. At least the way I do it. I have belonged to a gym pretty consistently over the course of the past 10 years, and at one time, could be found diligently lifting dumbells at 6:00 AM, five times a week, to be followed by a breakfast of egg whites and power bar and a lunch and dinner of chicken breasts (two) and steamed broccoli. I looked like a million bucks. Well, a million yen, maybe. And yet, throughout that time, and the subsequent years up to this very day, I can't shake the nagging feeling that no matter how confident my pose, or how appropriate my gymwear, no matter how determined and masculine my self-gaze, or how convincingly expressed my grunts, that I in fact have no idea whatsoever what I am doing, let alone believe that it will have any positive effect at all. Exercise requires blind exertion; diet simply requires self-denial. This is an approach that has stood me in good stead.

A topic to enlarge on

2006-06-26T12:45:00.000-04:00

Have for some reason become the recent target of a veritable onslaught of penile enlargement e-mails, at work no less, where my uses of the internet are unimpeachably pure. Where do they come from? Why do they come to me? Should I really trust the money-back guarantees they promulgate? If my casual gleanings of these missives are to be believed, technology has advanced to the point of extracting deposits of fat from various overfed regions of one's body and injecting them, yes, injecting said deposits into the diminutive appendage in question. I fail to see how this can assist in weight loss.