Tag Archives: drinks

Pride Tips for Out of Towners, 2009 Edition

Queer stuff, Toronto, Travel

ketchup_prideSo you’ve decided to visit Toronto and enjoy it’s #2 outdoor attraction (second only to The Beaches Jazz Festival, according to their site).  Regardless of who tells you their numbers are numero uno, Toronto Pride reels in a crapload of cash for the city (The Gay Community has it’s own subsection on Toronto’s tourism website – take THAT Caribana!). It’s a good idea to research your options before opening your wallet and organize your fun before hitting the street.

That’s where I come in! Hello tourist! So glad I could help!

You may recall my article last year: Pride Tips for Out of Towners. I’m bitter happy to report that not much has changed. The bar you are drinking in will have a draconian liquor inspector grumpily wander through to see if they can make some money in fines. And some circuit party will try to seduce you with their glossy posters of near-naked men, but there will be a chance that you choose incorrectly and spend $95 to find you’re not at  the “A-List” bash and wind up with a crowd that looks more at home at a Phish concert. The Parade tips still hold true (early, sunblock, elbows), as do the street crowd crush. Don’t forget that “bagging and bedding a Torontonian” is still a bit like coaxing a snipe out of the bushes. We seem to have tightened our shy little cocoons around ourselves during this long, cool spring! All I reported last year are still valid tips. Take heed!

At this time I need to reiterate my number one peeve about Pride: You should NOT, repeat NOT eat at any restaurant on Church Street during Pride. Eat from a hot dog cart (blarg!), bring your own food, starve, devour your travel companion or gnaw on your own foot. Do not eat at any Church Street restaurant.

Wait… I think I need to nail that home:

DO NOT EAT AT ANY CHURCH STREET
RESTAURANT THAT IS LOCATED ON
CHURCH STREET DURING PRIDE

Got it? Just want to let you know. All restaurants will take you in their arms, whisper sweet nothings in your ear, thrust a pre-set menu in your hands and then jizz in your face while rifling through your wallet for your cash. And not in a good way.

Here’s a list of restaurants that are off the strip and worth your money:

Daybreak – This place is popular, pricey but has big portions. At the corner of Carlton and Church, just outside the Village.

Studio – When Daybreak is full, two doors south is this crumbly greasy spoon. Cheap alternative great for breakfast.

The Coachhouse – Same as The Studio, but over on Yonge and Wellesley. Greek twist on a diner.

Chew Chews, Johnny G’s and Gourmet Burger – Three Cabbagetown options that are a little walk away from the Village.

Sizzler – Late Late night burger place with baby sized meat patties at Yonge and College. Not much to look at but BABY SIZED BURGERS!! Late at night!!!

Olympic Pizza – Been in the village forever. Consistently good but unremarkable Italian food the recipe for a great restaurant!

Tokyo Grill / Okanomi House – uncommon Japanese food (read: NOT sushi).

Ginger – Not the one on Church, but over at Yonge and Bloor, there’s an outlet that will most likely not fuck you for cash. Great non-restauranty hot and sour soup.

Oja Noodle House – Right beside a pricey “EggRoll” restaurant. Dishes more authentic and way cheaper. Charles and Yonge.

That’s a good start. Yonge at Bloor has had an explosion of Asian Fusion dining places. All seem “good” if not a bit dollar-y.

New tips? Got a couple!

Photography

photo5In some cases it’s polite to ask if you can take pictures of random hot guys/gals/gender-fucks, but in most cases it doesn’t matter – cameras are everywhere during Pride and if you’re shy, stay the fuck home! But asking for a photo is not only as polite as a Canadian in a foreign land, it’s an excellent way to break the ice.  So if you do go this route, may I suggest little business cards with your Twitter/Flickr/Facebook page URL on it so you can ensure your subject can view your work later when they’re at home slathering on the aloe vera. And for those people you were jokingly taking a picture of (“Good lord that outfit!! I must ridicule it online tonight!“) and get caught doing so, may I suggest a separate card with www dot lemonparty dot org on it.

Street Escape Routes

I failed to mention last year that to avoid the crush that is the uncomfortably crowded street in front of Woodys and the parking lot Beer Tent (Church and Maitland), the Pride Committee has smartly enshrined the alleyways behind these two venues open for easier access past this bottle neck. There are similar North-South routes between East-West streets if you need to dash up Church Street. Any Pride volunteer will gladly point them out.

Texting

Keep your cell phone charged. The crowds are so large you will want to know where your friends are. Twittering may not be such a good idea since it goes down more often than a career drag queen 2 days before rent is due. Thankfully iPhone users will have MMS texting by then and you can send your friends your location (or trick’s face) for group approval.

And lastly:

Your Outfit

Please take some time to consider what you will wear. Feather boas are for straight boys who were dragged to Pride by their girlfriends. Outrageous drag is fine, but consider it will be hot and you may be outside for some time. Melty creatures does not equal funny drag. You’ll scare children. May I recommend something clever yet not too noticable…

Whatever you do, enjoy your Pride. If you see me, say Hi!

The Lesson: First for Everything

Personal Bits

Two upper middle class, housework-shunning, career women sit down to lunch, order martinis and the topic of their children come up. A common complaint is discovered and a plan is hatched.

When I was 13 (ish), my mother announced I would be going out on a date. Imagine the internal spit take that generated. My mother… the matchmaker! I was appalled for a moment at the thought of her talking about my inability to socialize with strangers. And my social ineptitude… Wait… What? With a girl?

Holyshitwaitaminnit… A date with a girl??! Would I have to kiss her?

At this time I had already had sex with a man. I knew it was right, my hard wired brain was just doing what it was genetically told to do. But somewhere in my chest, a voice said “Oh fuck it! Give it a whirl!” So when you hear earfucks saying “Gay is learned!” or “Gay can be behaviorally eradicated from your system!” punch those fuckers in the nuts for me. It makes me physically ill to think that people can “cure” you by rote (or disfiguring electroshock). I digress. I decided to give it a whirl, despite the huge fear that was in my goolies.

She was my age and slightly gangly and while she was not the most popular girl in school, she was smart. Near genius smart for her age. I was more intimidated by that, than her sex. My mom stood just outside of earshot (which, by the way is physically impossible) while I made the call:

“Hello Dorcas…?”

Let’s stop right there. I am sure the reason Dorcas was so intelligent and wise beyond her years was purely based on the need to constantly explain to people her name was not a vehicle for child-like slurs. Get it out of your system now, I’m sure she had heard them all well before she was 5 years old in numerous playground and recess gatherings. Dork Ass; Door Knob; Dork Face; Dumb Ass etc. Years after our date, I had seen her verbally rip the skin off of some drunk fucker who called her out about her name, during a illegal teen drinking party. While her words were venomous, her eyes were dead set and almost blasé. She had her name defense response honed to an art.

Of course, her name was the first thing we talked about on our date. I thought I asked politely but my question still riled her. “It’s from the bible,” she told me, “Not that I’m religious or read it at all.” We then tore into how embarrassing our mothers were: from naming conventions to matchmaking. We were friends then.

But throughout the evening there was a voice in my head. “You gonna kiss her when this is over?”

I admit that the night was a blur. I do know we went to Star Wars. I do remember her telling me that hand holding was not required. I do remember at the end of the evening, after walking her home, standing at her door, (thankfully without any parent in view – we lived in an age when 13 year olds could walk the streets unattended) we did kiss. I think I kissed her teeth.

We became friends after that. Like “holy Christ we will never, EVER talk of this again” kind of friends. When Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back came out, we went on another “date” much to the amazement of our parents. I remember my Mom reeling like being hit by a slap when I mentioned Dorcas and I were going out on another date, three years after the last. We laughed hysterically at the end of the evening when I kissed her hand.

Two upper middle class, housework-shunning, career women sit down to lunch, order martinis and awkwardly avoid talk of their children.

Blog Roll Ups!

General

I’m dry today so I thought I’d troll off my virtual friends.


Acid Reflux relates a story of his French interviewer being highly interested in his erection while being HIV positive.

Blamblog relates how I felt in the 80s, but without the drinking.

Brokeass Weave posts a preeetteeee pickchur! (NSFW language)

Citywoof has a serious pain in the foot, a night of debauchery and a stolen tryst in the loo.

Got Cris posts an interesting mix tape.

WARNING! CulturalSNAFU hasn’t updated since Nov 5…

The Electronic Replicant has a post about… uhm. It’s a post where he talks about bluetooth… uh. He has nice colours on his site.

The Fortress of Solitude continues with his Bond Haiku Movie Reivews.

Sadly, From A to B hasn’t posted anything since October.

Fresh Ink for Gambrinous With Griffonage. And it’s about time too.

Hairy Fish Nuts blows a circuit when a right winged blogger shows some liberal backbone.

I Always Win riles against the machine that is City Hall. I wish I owned a car so I could get mad.

Just a Dude Talking About Life takes us on a locomotion ride. (rest of site NSFW)


Mid-Century Maudlin is old! So he plays young!

WARNING: My Life in the YYZ hasn’t posted since October…

My Blog Rules Your Ass has his Xmas miracle gift online for all to see!

My Prozac Cocoon lists the things he’s thankful for… and he’s not even American!

Nice To See SteveieB proves to us that he is Mark Hamill / Val Kilmer’s love child.

You have questions? Phronk has Answers. But not as to why he’s wearing Family Guy underwear.

Planet Romach reminds us that Xmas isn’t about online porn. Wait… No… I mean “just ourselves”. Did I say porn?

Rainbow Dishes is also caught up in the 6×6 Flickr meme. Cute dog!

Ripping Stitches says what I’ve been thinking last week: Bailout? No! Loan? Yes!

Sharkboy is also in the throws of the 6×6 meme. Of course it’s a picture of me in an ugly shirt.

StudioYVR has a taper worm. Ha! Not what you think…

The Mangina Monologues beats the pants off his Dad with a Wii. Er. Playing with his Wii. Uh. Video games. He beat his dad in video games.

Matias N Oz quotes my favorite holiday cartoon and posts a lovely pic!

bstewart23 wonders why there are two people a day infected with the HIV virus in the city of Toronto. I blame online ads.

Bizarre Christmas wishes are the order of the day at tomato transplants. Are you sure she actually wanted to be on a crappy reality TV show?

Turniphed posts the “Cop overdosing on pot” video.

Unsweetened posts about her numerous blogs being nominated for a Canadian Blog Awards category. I’m not bitter. No.

Yarraville posts arty shots that made me have some ‘splainin’ to do to the IT department.

Whew! That’s a long post. If I left you out you either need to post something or I missed you. Love to all!

Reconnecting

Distractions, Personal Bits
Here Be Dave

Here Be Dave

In the fall of 1981 I met Dave while doing props for a community youth theatre show. A few of us went over to his house for lunch on a break between rehearsals and while I was chewing away on a sandwich, Dave concocted a 2-second blood pack of ketchup and a ziplock bag, behind an open fridge door. He tried to throw at me as a joke and it didn’t work so he resorted to exploding it across his chest. Dave was obsessed with horror movies, you see. Not sure what happened, but when the prank failed miserably, I thought his cunning was a thing to be reckoned with.

Dave was one of two friends I did acid with for the first time. And was the reason I will never be 100% welcome back into his house by his mother. She’s convinced I shoved the tab into Dave’s pure and vestal mouth, when it was Dave who upped the ante with pot and a few drinks at his sister’s house while we waited for the drug to kick in. And kick in it did. When the acid refused to recede from our reality, Dave called his Dad to come get him before he “died”. What ensued was a comedy of sorts, seen through the fog of teenage drama, heightened by LSD: Police were going to be called; one friend’s career in the RCMP was going to be ruined; my mom would find out and I would cease to exist with one glare.

Things sorted themselves out when Dave’s older sister stepped in and told his mom that time will bring Dave down (he had tread a groove in his bedroom carpet walking off the acid) and that everyone should just calm down.

As you’ve probably guessed, Dave was the fearless one in our circle of friends. He would try anything if it meant getting a reaction from anyone.

And fearless he is. He has a wife and two kids and a house in the Beaches and is now sporting a huge CSI/Grisham-style beard because “it pisses everyone off”. Glad we were able to reconnect!

Family, Secrets. In Repose and Response

Personal Bits, Queer stuff

Weekend Pictures Here

What can you learn of someone within 3 minutes? 30 minutes? 3 hours? 3 days?

This long weekend, we ventured up into the Gatineau area to visit SharkBoy’s “Summer Place” – Notre Dame Du Pontmain to be exact.

It’s a tiny village nearly smack dab in the middle of a massive amount of small lakes about an hour and a bit north of Ottawa, in the Gatineaus. NDdP makes it’s living on the one hotel, the one depanneur and one boat launch and a lot of video rentals. I’ve never been before and I hope I go back. A lot. Mountains rise up out of so many lakes it’s like visiting BC but without the weed. Every morning and evening the sun puts on a display of colours you become drunk with the spectacle. Deer peer at you with those creepy eyes from the sides of the road. Bears have been seen. It truly is one of Quebec’s hidden treasures from the English.

We left late on Friday night to a wall of traffic that spanned downtown Pickering to Brockville, where after 6 hours in the car at 2am, we desperately tried to look for a hotel. All the details of the travel can be found on Sharkboy’s blog. One thing I did enjoy was playing “Senator and the Hooker” in the divey-est hotel on the outskirts of Ottawa that had stucco swipes as wall decoration and other 70s Swiss Chalet motifs (“Spank your bottom? That will be $5 extra, Senator!”).

On the drive we talked a lot about family. The one we started ourselves (cat included) and the ones I was going to meet. As usual, but not so much this time, I felt the apprehension of meeting up with the in-laws and not being able to communicate as much as I’d like. But that always disappears within moments of getting past the front door because SharkBoy’s mom is always so welcoming and friendly (inbetween the “tabanac” and “câlisse”) and we generally communicate in elaborate hand gestures, drinks and the odd translation assistance from SharkBoy’s sister, Syl.

We did eventually meet up and make our way over to SharkBoy’s uncle’s extremely secluded compound after a long drive up, down, through, along swamps and riverbanks. Oddly enough we could see the house we were staying at from his dock, which would have taken 1/100th the time it took to get there if we had walked directly from door to door. Unfortunately the two places are separated by a large river, so unless you’re Jesus, that’s not possible. Visible but secluded. For a reason. He owned the entire mountain behind his house.

Leasing the road to the top of the mountain for a cell phone tower, he’s sitting on a developer’s wet dream of prime cottage land that overlooked the lake. But he wants to keep it to himself for now. That kind of power you don’t come by easy. As we were to learn when the pictures came out. Images of SharkBoy’s dad and his two uncles were presented in all their black and white glory and I got to learn how Romuald became the person who gave me SharkBoy. We also learned of some other stuff that I will respect a certain person’s embarrassment due to certain childhood behaviour, but let’s just say that it involved a chicken and a horse.

Later, SharkBoy’s cousin and her girlfriend piled us into their lesbian truck (who knew it was rampant in his father’s side?) and took us 1/3rd the way up the mountain on the maintenance road to the cell tower. Then we walked the rest of the way. Nearly straight up. For a solid hour. That’s right, this fat, office cube chubbo walked up the side of a mountain to get utterly drenched in sweat (thank god they’re all family now). I also got to spend my first really private moments with Syl and we discussed ex-boyfriends and how sometimes a family’s responsibility is not to mention that we’re dating a jerk. Nothing new or shocking but she managed to make me feel like a brother in those few moments. I also snapped a few shots:

After bombing around on ATVs, we went tubing. First time for me behind a boat where I didn’t fall down within the first couple of seconds of it taking off (I suck at waterskiing).

That night, after saying our bon soirs, we discovered that seclusion has a price: the road back to the highway was washed out in a freak flash flood that came down from the side of the mountain after a short rainfall. Who knew that a mountain could “retain water”? This is where SharkBoy’s family shone: they all came out to the site on their ATVs and trucks to see the damage and within an hour, we had “rebuilt” the road, moved a down tree and scouted ahead the 3 miles to the highway on the ATV to make sure that the road was clear. It was an adventure, to be sure (we could have been at that part of the road during the flood), and his uncle and cousins were actually apologetic for the delay.

The next day the “kids” (without Sharkboy’s mom and aunt) set out to discover the waterfalls at Windigo, a swanky time-share like resort that I’d love to spend a week at some summer time (hint hint). There I saw a frog. Hold your Quebecois jokes. But before leaving, I was struck with the biggest stomach pain right between breakfast and the time we got into the car, which I kept mostly to myself until it started to subside. I wasn’t too chatty that morning. But it passed and I don’t blame anyone’s food…

At this time it was becoming quite evident that one of the guests was not feeling the same emotions for being away for the weekend and would not put down their cell phone for all the texting that was going on. I kept on remembering that when I was their age, I was yearning for not being at family outings either, and would sulk annoyingly over in some corner with a comic or tv show. Kids today (ugh. shoot me. I just wrote “kids today”) have better ways of sulking the fun from the moment by tapping messages to their friends on a small keyboard. I wanted to take them aside and tell them that family time is extremely precious, especially at 40something, and that they should savour the time they have. But of course, I kept my nose out of it. But I did felt old remembering how I behaved exactly the same (sans electroniques). This led to the weekend being cut short by hours (thankfully not by a day) and we managed to get back to Toronto at an extremely decent hour, so thanks teen angst!

In all, a good weekend. I’d love to go back again!

Devil May Care

Celebs and Media, Distractions

Devil May Care CoverMy review for the Mini Book Expo

Devil May Care
Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Flemming
* Hardcover: 304 pages
* Publisher: Doubleday (May 28, 2008)
* ISBN-10: 0385524285
* ISBN-13: 978-0385524285

Shipping sponsored by RandomHouse.ca

I’m not a big fan of authors taking over a franchise after the death of the original author and have regarded books like this as “authorized fan fiction”, not unlike the pornographic fanfic you discover on the web. I usually find these types of novels are soulless copies of the originals. The essence of the series the author cultivated throughout his career was always somehow missing when handed over to a young buck, much like several Issac Asimov 3 Laws of Robotics books. The ideas are there, but there’s no “life”. However, after reading DMC, I find that Faulks has created a story that is very much like an Andy Warhol print: not the original but important and to be revered just as much.

The Ian Flemming Foundation decided to release a new novel on the 100th birthday of Flemming and choose Faulks, a popular British writer to do it. Set in 1967, just after Flemming’s last (posthumous) book Octopussy, DMC has every element a great Bond story should have: a curvaceous, mysterious woman, Bond jetting off to exotic locales, car chases, a colourful screw-loose villain with a sadistic, quirky henchman and (out-turned pinky to bottom lip here, people) a world domination plot. In lieu of an arsenal of gadgets (which Bond claims to not like using), Faulks pulls one giant ‘gadget’ out of the history books which I won’t spoil, but yet made me geekily excited when I realized what it was. Faulks’ story is set mostly in the Middle East, late 60s where he manages to draw parallels to current issues with an air of foreboding which surprisingly made it extremely readable.

The book isn’t without it’s quirks: Faulks seems to pepper in too many “gourmet dining” scenes for my liking to establish that Bond runs with the rich and cultured. Several instances in the book has our hero eating while spying: Bond meets Scarlett Papava and has a late supper in Paris with her; Bond eats a lot of room service eggs while waiting for appointments; Bond dines in a Tehran cafe with his Middle Eastern contact; Bond eats cheese in Moscow. Every chapter has a few pages devoted to what the characters are eating or drinking which becomes distracting after a while. If this was a metaphor or a theme, it was lost on me – refueling? The music of life? Food seen as information stimuli? Faulks does detail the clothing and outfits of the late 60’s, but without designer label name dropping, which I thought would have placed more emphasis on the character’s rich lifestyles.

What Faulks lacks in setting, he makes up in action. His scenes of conflict are extremely well orchestrated and visual. He writes with such specialized detail that I had no doubt in believing what he was offering in way of guns, machinery or fighting technique. Faulks sets Bond’s initial contact with the villainous Dr Gorner in a tennis match so wrought with skill and minutiae that I may never look at another game the same way. His fight scenes are so clearly controlled, it’s cinematic (hint hint, Hollywood!).

Which brings me to the villain, Dr Julius Gorner, a rich pharmaceutical genius, hellbent on destroying all things English. Like every Bond villain, Gorner has one physical flaw: a deformed “monkeys paw” of a hand, which he embarrassingly covers with a white glove. It’s obvious that Faulks made Gorner a nod to Dr No: the original Dr No was named Dr Julius No; Dr No lost his hands in an attempt to send a message to other criminal rivals, where Dr Gorner cuts the tongues out of his insubordinates as a message to other informants; Gorner tortures Bond in a “cigar tube” escape attempt, much like Dr No does with Bond in air shafts. The similarities were a bit too close to Dr No, so much so that I found myself reading Gorner’s conversations in my head with the same clipped way Joseph Wiseman delivered his lines in the movie. Yet Gorner stands out on his own as satisfying as any Flemming creation when his hubris is served up to him at the hands of Bond.

If you’re like myself, a mild Bond fan (read 2 books, seen most of the movies, some twice) then you’ll enjoy DMC. If you’re anything less, you may not get the culture. But I am sure you’ll enjoy the ride! I would recommend Devil May Care to anyone looking for a little action in their summer reading.

Pride and Pre-Juices

Queer stuff, Toronto

All Photos here.

Pride in ketchupserifThursday:
Met up with The Photogs, The Mailman and Mr Insurance and broke my first rule of Pride (I think I broke 99% of them, this year), and had drinks at O’Greedys. Just drinks. While the service was attentive, mostly it was just smokey. Two pitchers of sangria, one pitcher of tap beer and a basket of poppers came to $120. Thanks for not letting me down, O’Greedys!

Friday, we went to get SharkBoy’s new ink and saw Wall•E. 72 hours later and I’m still thinking about it. Sign of a really good movie. Meesh was a bit endorphined-out so we headed home early, no visit to the street.

Saturday was busy: 7:30am we went to The Terminal Barber, where we manscaped, then off to the optomitrist where we met the most delightful new salesperson in the shop connected to our doctor’s office. She sussed us out in seconds and we left after SharkBoy dropped $1000 on new frames, lenses and contacts. Ow.

Radio City partyThen off to Church Street for breakfast again (I know I know), but huge KUDOS for The Churchmouse for not gouging their customers, just reducing the amount on the menu for faster service. So far I can say I have never had a bad meal there. Various early morning freaks abounded.

Off to a mid-day party at a friend’s at Radio City. These guys own a condo on the 9th floor who’s patio is as equally large as their condo. It was fantastic! Met new people and got a bit wet with some waterfuns.

Home for a drunk nap, then onto the street to try to catch TransX and Dragonette. Line up was impossible, so we stood outside the beer garden and while we could still hear them, bopped by ourselves. Home to bed.

Sunday was possibly the most relaxed Pride I’ve ever had. Breakfast in bed with Coronation Street (as usual) and then off to the Coach House for some real food. Then we wandered the street, chatting with people and taking the odd photo. This year I didn’t really have the heart to take pictures of weirdos and freaks like I’ve done in the past. I’m bitter about being bitter.

Mayor in da house!We got to see Kids on TV after a great set by two DJs who’s names I didn’t catch, but they played Black Kids, and we danced like 21 year olds. Then, we see Mayor David Miller. In a queer beer garden. Name any other mayor who’d do that. As Kids on TV are waving around a dildo-encrusted blow up sex doll, The Honourable David Miller was moving respectively and chatting with people around him, allowing photos to be taken and having a great time. He walked right by us and I guess SharkBoy had huge saucers for eyes (because the Mayor is like, you know, his boss, sort of) because The Honourable David Miller smiled wide and said to both of us WHILE PLACING A HAND ON SHARKBOY’S CHEST: “Happy Pride!”

Man has my vote.

Back home for a powernap and to tend to SharkBoy’s burning scalp. Poor dear. Overcast skies CAN burn you. Anyway, we went back to see Jully Black and SharkBoy wore his ThinkGeek Equalizer shirt. Which was a bit of a mistake. By 10pm, 99% of the people in the street and beer gardens are pissed to the gills. Wearing a shirt that flashes light in sync with sound for a couple thousand drunk people was asking for abuse. He drew attention to himself above and beyond what he’s use to and I was seething with jealousy. I’m not often out-gadgeted by SharkBoy. He was getting stopped every 2 feet and was chatted up which made me dance harder or hoot at the music or juggle plates. At one point someone waved at me. Gladly I wandered over and the person said “Can you move over? I want my friend to see that guy’s shirt.”

Mostly people swore at him: “THAT’S A FUCKIN’ AWESOME SHIRT!” “FUCK! COOL!” and “HOLY FUCK HOW DOES THAT WORK?” while they pawed his chest. One woman got a nice Indian burn on her wrist from not getting the clue of “no touchy!!” Poor drunk dear. Video below:

In all, a subdued, yet most enjoyable Pride! Yay!

Pride Tips for Out of Towners

Queer stuff, Toronto

Hello tourists!

Thank you for taking an interest in coming to Toronto Pride – Unified! . It will be a great honour to have you visit our humble city!

Here, for your amusement, are a few tips you should consider while enjoying our little fete:

The Parade:

perchFirst of all, know that there are two: the Dyke March on Satuday and the Pride March on Sunday. Currently the Pride committee is petitioning humanity to create a new day, “Smunday”, to put the Bisexual, Transgendered, Transexual and People Who I Left Out Parade on that day (until further notice) – Happy Unity, Everyone!

If you’re not lucky enough to get a Yonge Street perch on one of the many store rooftops, then you should consider arriving at least 45 minutes to an hour before the parade starts. Bring lots of water. And elbow pads. Other non-homosexual tourists consider it their right to get to the parade route 5 minutes before it starts and shove their kids in front of you, after you’ve been waiting the hour. Be firm: you were there first and don’t need to be the “polite Canadian” at this point.

Don’t forget to hydrate. If you faint, you will lose your spot. Or fall into the arms of a date. Up to you. Waterguns, once a fashion must on the parade route, are on the way out. Unless the Conservative party decides to place clueless reps in the parade again this year.

Half way through the parade, the crowds lessen for some reason (“Hey the beer garden must be kind of empty right about now…”) and you can relax for the rest of the show.

The Street:

Afraid of crowds? Avoid at all costs the half block between Maitland and Alexander on Church Street on both Saturday and Sunday. Right in front of Woodys and the city owned parking lot converted into a beer garden, is a small strip of road that is un-supervised for crowd control. Yearly this strip of street providing access to north and south stages manages to clog hard with aimless gays, camera obsessed Asians and incomprehensible dick heads who insist on bringing strollers/bikes/carts into the fray. You can avoid it by using the back alleys just east and west of Church. Love crowds? Dive in! You’ll get into that particular beer garden at noon and will probably not be able to leave until Sunday 11pm. Or later. Or until they scoop the passed out drunks off you a la Soylent Green.

Beer Gardens:

Best bet for shopping/drinking/entertainment and not getting crushed would be the Wellesley Street Beer Garden. Mel C is headlining on Saturday and MADO is performing at 5pm on Sunday. Don’t discount the South Stage (by Maple Leaf Gardens) either – Kids on TV are there at 3pm. Expect “Drag Times” to set these people back a bit, but lately the organizers have been pretty punctual.

The laws governing the purchasing of beer at one of these events are as bizarre as the lesbian poetry performers you’ll be subjected to by the north stage. Purchase a ticket, take the ticket to the untrained, sweaty volunteer who is sick of seeing drunk people (I kid! I kid because I love) and they will hand you a plastic cup of lukewarm beer. So English! Best to buy the maximum 2 at a time to avoid lines. Beer gardens, despite the lines and crowds are always the best way to meet someone. The combination of beer, sun and dancing always manages to combine people in a fun way.

Bars:

MomsBe forewarned that every Pride has been marred in the past by the Ontario Licensing Board in the form of bizarre charges laid on bars that might or might not have violated laws like over crowding, over service or over fun. Lines will be long to get in as that every establishment is frightened of having these gestapo order everyone out of a bar for a headcount. It cuts into sales, you know. While air conditioned, I doubt you will find fun people. Bars usually hold the old regulars, phobic of crowds and meeting new people, like you would at beer gardens. Try to hit them all on Friday night and you have a satisfying cross section of them all.

Food:

Avoid at all costs eating in ANY restaurants on Church Street. O’Gradys will fuck you without lube and shove you out the door without a kiss. It’s pretty much like that for all the restaurants: set menu, price hikes, forced tip, small portions, get the fuck out of the way for the next guy. Best to eat off the street (Daybreak at Church and Carlton, Chew Chews at Carlton and Sherbourne, for cheap and cheerful) or just eat a smog dog – plenty of vendours down Wellesley or up by the 519 Community Centre. I repeat: DO NOT EAT AT ANY RESTAURANTS ON CHURCH.

Seriously.

Don’t.

I warned you.

Partying:

Don’t ask me. I don’t go out anymore. Go to the Beef Ball if you want leather/bear/overtly macho. Any other kind of gays you might be hunting can be found at all the other $75-$100 ticket events. Check out the over-the-top graphical posters on the street. All parties will provide sufficient amount of bump (!) and grind for your clubbing needs. Personally, I will be staying on the street, finding a perch and watching people go by. It’s the best way to see it all and save some money. But I’m old, judgemental and don’t drink.

Scoring

Enjoy!!Toronto gays and lesbians are some of the most attractive people in Toronto, yet are not the most open individuals out there. After a few drinks, sure, they’re as loose as Tila Tequila in a Turkish prison. But if you make eye contact and signal your intention that you’d like to sex up one of these elusive homosexuals, you might scare them off. See, most Torontonian homosexuals during Pride develop the “bus stop” syndrome. Meaning, in the throngs of tourists that come into the city, they might see you and might find you hot, but they’re waiting for the next one along who may be hotter than you. Know that Toronto gays and lesbians are still mired in their fear of sex, not like Montreal or New York. You need to go slow and steady. And have beer at the ready.

I hope you have a great time during Pride!

End of an Era

Personal Bits, Tech

…I’m speaking to a Mr Robot?

I’m back from the store. My roommates gather around as I reveal with a flourish: the four head VCR. It cost me close to $500 on special at Sears. Cheers and back slapping ensue for a solid minute. Quickly we hook it up to the TV and settle in for a marathon of movies.

Yes. Can you tell me that figure again?

I’m waiting in line at the College. I see a girl run out of the registrar’s office in tears. I’m worried that that will be me in a few minutes. After supplies and rent and a decent week’s worth of food, I’ve got enough to play a fist full of video games in the common area.

Certainly. After the three payments of $535, $410 and $437 made in the month of May…

I’m staring at my first computer in the dark cave of my living room. I’ve made my first piece of digital art on the tiny 15″ screen: a combination of a picture of myself that I’ve applied a Peter Max type filter and some warped text over my head. I found it easy to do.

…I guess you did your taxes in one go for three years, Mr Robot?

My first web page I did as a joke (much like all my web interactions). It was a hommage to Jon Erik Hexum: All the images I could find combined with a sad midi file; uncontrollably embedded into the page; animated GIFs of torches bookended a 20 second poem I had written. My teacher laughed at the tackiness of it, saying I “grokked” the Web. But he didn’t understand why Jon Erik.

Yes. I did. Which leaves me with…?

I’m standing in the student book shop, wondering if instead of paying the $10 for another pad of newsprint for life drawing class, I could flip all my drawings from the last month over and use the back, meanwhile I could eat cheap pork chops and still have enough to go to Katrinas and have at least two drinks with my friends (who all have paying jobs) this weekend.

Well it looks like we’re showing a balance of $411.05. I guess you’ll be paying this off within 30 days? Just add $3 for the interest.

And with that, the albatross that has been around my neck for the last 20 years flies away.

I have paid off my student loan.

England Memory #4 – Knife Fight Edition

England

My first weekend in London, my brother and his boyfriend invite me down to their neighbourhood to experience my first English pub, outside the touristy Earls Court area. The Prince of Wales pub, just outside the tube station at Brixton (now closed down, I think) was smoky, loud and packed. My brother forced me to buy a round of drinks from my fast dwindling finances, just so I could experience bar service in London.

I had 1000 questions, like “Is the beer really warm?” (yes) and “Do I tip?” (is the barman sexy?) and “Am I going to have to buy all the rounds, every time?” (no, maybe, yes, how drunk are we?), but instead my brother just thrusted me towards the bar and let me experience it as it was.

Which was really why I was in England, really. I was a 21 year old green kid fresh from Ontario, living in England on advice from an OCAD recruiter, who thought if I was serious about being an artists, I needed to get away from my middle class life (I wasn’t accepted into their school, BTW).

Over the din of the bar, I shout the orders at the barman. He shouts back. I falter. I have no clue what he just said. The noise and his Scottish accent throws me. My first real Scotsman! He has a red goatee! I tipped him.

I went back a few times to get rounds for our table. 11pm came way too fast and I wound up spending most of the evening chatting up the barman, which lead to us making plans to go back to his place after they closed up the bar. My brother was upset that I had been in London for a week and managed to “tap off” so quickly.

We get back to the barman’s place via a cab that travelled deeper into the south of London (more south than I’ve ever been). Lovely house. Could barmen afford houses in south London? Did I care? We run upstairs, enter his bedroom, shucking clothes like they were on fire. Did I notice that the bedroom was full of cardboard boxes? Did that matter?

We’re about to get into the real meat and potatoes of shagging when the frond door the floor swings open.

“Stay here,” he says and grabs his shorts, leaving the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. Naively, I lay back and wait for his return, not even wondering why he would stop our coupling to go talk to his “flat mate”.

Muffled noises come from beyond the bedroom door. Louder muffled voices. Louder muffled voices punctuated with breaking furniture. Glass breaks. Shouts.

At this point, my pants are on and I’m heading for the top of the stairs. The barman is on his way up, with his chest covered in blood. I don’t see any cuts on him so I don’t ask where it came from, but he offers up an explanation of sorts: his boyfriend (“You have a boyfriend?” “Donnae everyone?” “Were you going to tell me?”) came home unexpectedly and after discussing their current living arrangements, had somehow managed to shove himself through the French doors that lead out from the dining room. As I descend the stairs, I can see that most of the furniture is at 90 degrees to whatever angle it should be at. No sign of the boyfriend, thankfully.

As the front door closes behind me, I manage to ask: “Where is the nearest minicab from here?”

Slam.

I did manage to find a cab. And relating the story back to my brother nearly got me shipped back to Toronto.