Genet + Wine = Not Friends

After hanging out with the Boyf on Saturday night, I got home and decided to have some wine and listen to music. This was at 2am. I was totally enjoying being alone and listening to tunes that did not have to meet the Boyf's approval. I also spoke to a couple of friends that live abroad, blah, blah, blah. Next thing I know, I've downed two and a half bottles and it's 7am. I decide it's a good time to go to bed...

When I wake up, I feel horrid. My neck is killing me, I have a brutal headache and my stomach is pissed off. Naturally, I decide I have bacterial meningitis. The clock says 8 and I assume it must be 8pm since I feel so radically different and as though I've slept for days. This causes confusion and anger because I notice that the Boyf hasn't called all day long and that grates.

Then I realize that the sun isn't up in this part of the world at 8pm in late October. This leads me to believe that it was 8am Monday morning and I was mentally preparing myself to get ready for work. Peeps, I had slept for an hour- it was 8am on Sunday. And no, I didn't have meningitis, but the worst hangover of my life. Yesterday was a write-off and I think wine and I need a break.

Let me introduce you to...

... Mr. Floatie.

Mr. Floatie is a giant turd that was planning on running for mayor of Victoria, BC. He was unceremoniously forced to abandon his campaign because he is a character and not a person. His platform was largely based on sewage treatment (Victoria dumps its dumps into the Pacific) and environmental issues. It is a sad day for democracy when the people of Victoria (Victorians?) are denied the Mr. Floatie option.

Right now I feel like...

Star Trek permeates everything

So, Lt. Sulu came out as a big flaming intergalactic queer this week. Kudos to gramps. It must have been quite the challenge to be a limp-wristed Asian in 1960s Hollywood, or anywhere else, really.

It is interesting to note that in the 60s there was a homo to be found on Earth, on the show's set but in Star Trek's year 2583 or whatever there isn't a single fag character cavorting through space. And I mean none of the 5 series in the franchise. Could it be that Klingons, transporters and warp drive are more plausible than a gay astroboy? Or did genticists get rid of us? Either way, that version of the future is pretty dull and sexless and therefore, useless.

Somewhat related to this is a disturbing ad I saw on TV. While I was ill last week, I watched about 937 'Star Trek: The Next Generation' episodes on SpikeTV- The First Network for "Men" (the quotation marks are mine). During a commercial break, there was a promo for one of their more manly shows, 'The Ultimate Fighter'. From what I gathered, it's brutal and 'no-holds-barred'. And it is "brought to you by the US Army". Is that normal? I suppose you could argue that brutal and lawless may reflect a segment of the US Army, so perhaps. Plus, when you factor in the homoeroticism it makes even more sense. But really, should an institution that proclaims to be spreading the values of "freedom" and "justice" but which also is developing a bad rep be sponsoring a barbaric "show"? I guess it's a recruitment tactic, which makes it even more fucked up.

The truth about my job

Today, Hormonster was annoying me and hurting my feelings at work, so I glamorously burped at her.

Hormonster: If I smell that I'm going to barf all over you.
I am using my arms to waft the burp away from her.
Genet: I'm wafting. What do you want me to do, get the jet-stream in here?

This made me realize that I love Hormonster and that my workplace is vulgar and hilarious.

Stay with me

A while ago, Ginger and I were going to have a little intra-Toronto escape by staying at the Gladstone Hotel. They were in the process of renovating and the rooms were cheap. Each room has been designed by a different artist making each one aesthetically and thematically unique. That is what a boutique hotel should strive for... enough of the minimalist Scandinavian hospital decor. Plus, the Gladstone does a kick-ass karaoke night and has cool events all the time.

Anyhow, I wasn't able to take that break with Ginger but am wanting to do so very soon. Above are photos of the two rooms I would like to stay in. The top photo is my idea of nature... two dimensional and on a wall.

Not that I'm bi-polar or anything

I was feeling very post-ill today and was consequently pretty subdued... until I got home from work, that is. I was overwhelmed by an intense manic feeling and became incredibly hyper for no reason at all. This was short-lived, however. After blasting Stereo Total and dancing like a complete asshole in my room, the manic-o-metre was off the scale. My hugely inept attempts at singing along in German/French/Turkish were also fuelling the frenzy. I was dancing like Linda Blair's understudy and convulsing with laughter simultaneously. I thought I was going to have panic attack from all the action which quickly brought me back down to Earth. I decided to wait it out and forgo the Ativan for a more organic approach... like turning the music off and sitting. Within 10 minutes, I was numbly lying on the couch watching some banal show on the Discovery Channel and lamenting my life. I need sleeping pills.

The Acid House Years

I brought my external hard drive to work today and have been listening to some old acid house, which I still love. Actually, I have a bittersweet relationship with the music as it reminds me of my adolescence. When I was about 14, I was very much into Inner City (remember 'Big Fun', 'Good Life', whatever). Knowing that the other boys would whip my groin into a frenzy, I felt ostracized and simultaneously superior somehow... I think living in the suburbs intensified this as I saw myself as a 'downtown' kind of guy- very urban, nocturnal and underground. I would stand on the apartment balcony on winter nights, longingly looking towards the downtown skyline with a mug of hot chocolate in my hand and Inner City playing in my head. Yes, I may decry this as hilariously pretentious now, but did I ever feel like the coolest, most world-weary Grade 9 in Don Mills. Why all these memories of teendom this week? I have no fucking clue.

From Russia with... danger

OK, I have to admit one of my guilty pleasures... I kinda loved t.A.T.u.'s first couple of singles. Yes, it's true. Beyond the blatant manipulation of pseudo-Sapphic iconography and the ludicrous spelling of their band "name", my new favourite thing about them is the name of their new album- 'Dangerous and Moving'. Would that be emotionally or physically 'moving'? Bad Russian translation or poverty of ideas? Debate. Also, please note their pensive yet potentially "dangerous" poses... They are awesome.

Famous Quote #1

I just had a memory of something said to a friend of mine when we were about 15.

My friend had been chatting on the phone with this very strange guy around our age for a while, and he was trying to get her to have sex with him. I would listen in on the other phone. In frustration, he once said "Well, can I at least put it in your bum or something?". This is not the quote that I am referring to though. After a few days of this chatting and now quickly realizing that his dream was not going to come true, he was exasperated. He ended their "relationship" thusly:

(in a random Jamaican accent)
"You devious rat... Unscrupulous cat... Uncivilized bat."

He then hung up, never to be heard from again. Why the bizarre 'break-up' statement had to rhyme is a mystery for the ages.

Scary indie charity

Several indie luminaries have joined forces to record 'Do They Know It's Hallowe'en?' for UNICEF. The video is available here. The lineup includes members of (or the individuals comprising) Arcade Fire, Buck 65, Peaches, Feist, Devendra Banhart, Wolf Parade, Sonic Youth and... Elvira. I thought her tits had ghoulishly swallowed her whole back in the 90s, but I guess I was wrong. It's for a good cause, so buy it if you like it.

Mr. Spector, you do have style

Generally, I find our society's obsession with celebrity either vacuous or irritating or both. I really don't want information regarding Britney's bouncing baby boy to take up space in my brain, space that could be used for much more worthy knowledge, like... anything else. Occassionally, however, I do find the ridiculousness of celebrities to be just too amusing. Take this photo of Phil Spector. What the fuck? He's on trial for murder... does he think his hair is going to scare the jury or win him points? Is he trying to conjure Medusa and turn the court to stone? He is so guilty of so many things.

I brought them to their knees

The New York Times just can't stop correcting itself about that Broken Social Scene review. Did I make them tremble? I sense an impending power trip on my part.

Study this

Well, it appears that I am only quasi-prepared for the masses today. I'm at work and incredibly drowsy, which would be fine at home but really doesn't work well at the bureau.

Zoulpy just mentioned that a new "study" links smoking to a lowered IQ. First, these studies need to be trimmed... there are so many and so many apparently usesless ones that they all seem to cancel each other out or become meaningless. For example, bisexuality doesn't exist according to one study... Has Mr. Science been to Sneakers? Also, sexuality is far too complex to distill in a research study, you asexual nerd. Another study posits that people with "bad" initials, like S.I.N. or P.O.O. die younger or something. Who paid these people? Why aren't they fucking off? How bored are they? What possible value does this research hold and for whom? It's so stupid it almost seems mystical. So now, I've decided to name my child Donatella Ernesta Arantxa Demón to see how the little one turns out.

Second, if smoking lowers your IQ, how do you explain... umm... Europe? Or me?

Peeps, I'm tired and grumpy. I'm going to go home.

Hello again

Being more or less incapacitated for nearly a week has been wonderful. Despite the somewhat too frequent discomfort of being ill, I strangely enjoyed the experience. I clearly needed a time out from Earth. All I did was lay down in the darkened basement with the TV gently flickering and murmuring... I spoke to essentially nobody and the medication ensured that I slept, or at minimum was sufficiently spun out to be totally incapable of maintaining a thought. It was like being in a constant, peaceful (albeit uncomfortable at times) present. OK, I'm glamorizing the flu.

I think by Monday I will be ready to face the masses. For now, I'm going to watch 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' and gorge myself on Cadbury Fruit and Nut- the only chocolate bar that could describe me so well.

Bored

I'm still sick and still in bed, folks. And I am very bored. I think I have become agoraphobic.

I'm sick

That's all I have to say. I'm going back to bed.

The best apartment EVER

Here is a photo of Muffy's boudoir in 'Today's Special'. Note the wistfulness in her eyes... Muffy makes it abundantly clear why 'boudoir' comes from the French for 'sulking place'. However, this brings up the frightening prospect that Muffy was really a spoit and selfish bourgeois bitch because with a home like that, she really shouldn't be sulking about anything.

Air Canafuck

I was rummaging (can you digitally rummage, or does said rummaging have to be a physical act to count?) through some old files and I came across this Air Canada ad which was in the Toronto Pride Guide (in case you didn't know, you can click the image to enlarge). Could you imagine any US airline cheekily referencing anal sex so blantantly? I think not. Those poor gay American tourists... they must feel like they've reached the Promised Land, expecting all Canadians to be homos. Beavers and moose rimming each other in the hinterland. Mounties mounting their men. Palatial igloo-bathouses. Maple syrup as the new KY. I wish, eh.

OK... I changed my mind

I am indeed going to subject you to some wrath, but a very small amount. A friend of mine is visiting from overseas and we met up for drinks last night. Later on in the evening, the Boyf joined. Friend and Boyf didn't get along on their first two meetings... fine. They seemed to behave like children which made me wonder if they had New Kids posters stuck to their walls. Anyhow, they were both strangely nervous and felt threatened by each other. Oh, and both of them have a history of being socially awkward. I'm trying to be polite...

Last night, all hell broke loose out of the blue. The Boyf and I had a slight tift, causing Foreign Friend (FF, like Fist Fuck) to break into tears. Tears. Real tears. FF then proceeded to storm out of the bar. This caused me to berate the Boyf for not just shutting up as I had suggested he do. Then he got pissed. It was a retarded whirlwind of emotional immaturity. A human Katrina. Or a bad episode of 'Will & Grace' wherein melodrama has supplanted the humour and Karen and Jack have died. I really hate that. And I hate that I'm going to have to pick up the pieces. This is draining and dumb. Sometimes loneliness and solitude are very appealing.

Oh, there was one unrelated moment that I found hysterical, courtesy of myself. A seriously disheveled and hammered girl stammered up to me and said "Aren't I sexy?", to which I replied "You look like you just fell out of a laundry hamper". Yes, peeps, I do laugh at my own jokes.

Not a good day...

... not at all, friends. People are royally pissing me off and cramping my style. So, in order to spare you my wrath, I will simply post a photo depicting my emotional state. And you thought I was a closed book.

The games we play.

My co-workers Zoulpy and Hormonster are often hysterical. We have invented many games and phrases over the years. Hormonster invented my new favourite game today. Our coffee supplier has a very weird gimmick which involves handing a cheap carnation to the receptionist whenever he drops off the goods. Hormonster found this particularly inspirational today and snuck up behind me, gently dropping carnation petals onto my laptop. It was hilarious, surreal and slightly pornographic. I felt like royalty in a 1970s CityTV Blue Movie. This game shares many qualities with the "Ripping Paper" game. That game involves a blank piece of paper, upon which one writes a noun... usually something like "Friendship" or "Love" (there is no requirement for the word to be a noun, however). You then gingerly approach the target from behind, and quietly place the paper directly in front of their eyes. After they have been given sufficient time to read the statement, you very slowly rip the paper in half and let the pieces fall to the floor. Now "friendship" and "love" have become "enemy" and "hate". Very dramatic. Try it. It's fun!

I win! Sort of.

It appears that the New York Times has acknowledged their stupidity. OK, I exaggerate and I can't fully take the credit, but at least the masses will have the correct information. I love angry letter-writing!

I am 5 years old again... Maybe I always have been.

Some banter at the office resurrected early 80s TVOntario children's programming the other day. Of course, this initiated an interweb seach. Holy fuck. I loved those shows. 'Today's Special'- hello, did you not want to live in Muffy's apartment? 'BodyWorks' and those boys in the trademark Adidas shorts (thanks fellas for letting me know I was a homo)... not to mention the theme song (can be found through link above)? 'Fables of the Green Forest' scared the shit out of me. The theme song for 'Passe-Partout' made me all weepy (I was a melodramatic and strangely nostalgia-driven child). I wonder if we could trace a discernable developmental pattern in Ontarian children reared on these shows... If we take me as the control, a large percentage would be: homosexuals exiled from gay "culture", slightly intoxicated with seediness and the underworld, easily addicted to just about anything, emotionally unstable on the inside and stoic/disinterested on the outside, intellectually superior with no sacred cows (except TVO). Should I apply for a research grant?

Seriously, this Montréal as the new Seattle/Manchester/etc thing has got to shut up

I'm reading a review of the new Broken Social Scene album and the writer states three times that band is from Montréal. This drives me crazy. I had to retaliate. This goes beyond civic pride. I simply cannot stand bullshit journalism and the artificial trends it spawns. I wrote a letter.

To the editor:

Despite your lazy attempts to crown Montréal some kind
of indie music paradise, I regret to inform you that
Broken Social Scene is in fact from Toronto. Its
members are in various Toronto bands. Simply having
Canadian citizenship does not obligate a musician to
be from Montréal. This becomes especially
embarrassing for you when you make statements such as “the
sound of 21st century Montréal is coalescing..." What?
500 km away in another city? Or, "Broken Social Scene refuses to ride on Montréal's momentum". That has less to do with refusal and more to do, again, with geography. Get it together.

Genet
Toronto (not Montréal)

A burger with a side of bulemia

So last night, the Boyf and I went to Sassafraz in Yorkville for a bite. They have very good burgers, a smoking room and the kitchen is open until 2am. Hence the visit. We actually go there randomly from time to time. Besides the aforementioned benefits, the real draw is the hilariousness of the Yorkville clientele.

For example, a frail and jaundiced Paris Hilton wannabe sluts her way up to the piano waving a $10 bill (cheapo) towards the pianist and says "play me anything by Sade" in a trying-to-be-sultry voice that sounds strangely like a 45 year old Oprahfied housewife. When the pianist asks what her name is, she replies: "Princess". Hearing "this one goes out to Princess" followed by the melody of Smooth Operator is too much for me.

In another corner, an elderly fag is trying to court a very uninterested and apprehensive piece of chicken. The old guy is clearly unable to handle his booze after many years of poppers, shame and regret. He is totally plastered. He's practically evolving before my eyes. The old guy shifts around and very gracelessly falls sideways off his chair. He then proceeds to "regain" the half gram of dignity he still possesses by shouting "that wasn't supposed to happen" in a very angry voice. His date is now confused and embarassed, realizing that his life is a disaster. You can almost hear him humming "The Rainbow Connection" in his head in an attempt to psychically transport him to the innocence and promise of his pre-disaster days.

Along with those two examples, the general vibe is a mixture of the ridiculous and the creepy. Muscle bound and ultra primped men, Sex in the City cougars (still), Russian mobsters and their requisite bimbos. Everyone is talking about money in one way or another. Everything is a commodity. But it's amusing. And slightly tragic.

And then you have me and the Boyf, eating our burgers and discussing Celine Dion's post-Katrina neurotic tirade on Larry King and the potential that her arm-flailing gesticulations were really coded messages to terrorists.

To you, probably: a murderer. To me: yummy in my bummy.

As you can tell, this blog hasn't taken us anywhere... A veritable blackhole of thought. Well, no longer.

Today, one of my many muses (see above) is in charge and leading me in all sorts of mental and physical directions. Who's the muse, you muse? (Apparently, he is not adverse to leading me into a mountain of ched). He is boyfriend #34 of today and prisoner #234-717 of Maryland. Don't fucking moralize. This is not a moral issue. He makes my groin tingle and that is a good thing. Besides, do you know everything everyone you've wanted to bump uglies with has done (or, not done)? Didn't think so. Not to mention what they have thought? How about the (often) horrendous emotional crimes people commit on a daily basis, with little more consequence than a potential flirtation with something approaching guilt. (That was a run-on sentence, I know. I like it. Calm down.). So, yes. A murderer gives me a boner... or rather, a photograph of a murderer does. I haven't heard his voice and that could make ALL the difference.

And no, I haven't written to him. Relax.