Christ I look like Klaus Nomi on acid.
Thanks to Rochelle for finding this.
I Don’t Get It. But I Love It
Especially love the panties that overtakes the spyplane with a blast from it’s afterburners. Seriously.
Something Brotherly
Now boarding...
My oldest brother, Dan, is almost 9 years my senior. Needless to say, growing up we were never really close. Mostly he ignored me outright while he was dealing with his homosexuality as he grew up in a backwater East Ontario town of 20,000. I remember Mom calling him an “outsider” when he was a kid and I don’t recall him having many friends.
I’ve always looked up to him so it’s safe to say he was instrumental in me becoming the geek I am today, by introducing me to science fiction. He “liked” the movie 2001 because of it’s music (he was the only person in the house who would play our baby grand piano with any semblance of skill) and I fell in love with 2001 because of the future it promised. Because of the age difference and our lack of communication, he was a stranger living in our house and like any childhood mysteries I had to investigate. I use to sneak into his room just so I could play with his Pan Am Shuttle model from the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey (hell I use to sneak into all my sibs rooms and touch their things). Which resulted in a beating or getting ratted out to some parent.
He also taught me that drawing could evoke laughter. I remember finding a small, folded two page card made by him of a crudely drawn cat. The front caption saying “Rita the cat says…” and the inside flap revealed “…fuck off.” I think I laughed for hours. I still love that level of low brow, near non-sequitur humour even today.
Dan was the reason we all had to send in samples of poo to the Canadian Government. While on one of many class trips to the USSR, he picked up a nasty unidentifiable intestinal bug and brought it back to Canada. For a week, Da had to capture the entire family’s leavings on newspapers that were balanced across toilet seats, bottle them up and then ship them off to some bunker near Ottawa. We were worried we would be quarantined for some reason and yet it was an odd family bonding moment. Probably the last.
I was the last to know that Dan had ran away.
When I was 7 or 8 years old, Dan, at the ripe old age of 17, took off to the comfort of Toronto to live with his 21 year old lover. His sudden departure was explained to me with great detail: “Dan’s moved out.” Later it was further expanded into a life lesson that “everyone moves out eventually” successfully avoiding the whole homosexual thing. But my relentless onslaught of questions as to why he left led my sister to explain to me that Dan was “just like Jody, from the TV show Soap” Effectively, Dan’s true reason for running way left me a beacon as to who I was.
Dan fell in love with Russia as a teen. He speaks Russian fluently, which lead to his studies in Russian history. Specifically Gay Russian History. I’m simplifying it because his actual field of study is a bit more involved than that – the only clear record of homosexuality during the last 100 years in Russia are archival medical documents regarding social/medical anomalies during the Soviet era, so his doctorate has some pretty fancy schmancy words explaining it (one of my favorite article title he has written is ‘Masculine Purity and “Gentlemen’s Mischief”: Sexual Exchange and Prostitution between Russian Men, 1861-1941’). To keep it simple, I just call it Gay Russian History. He would send me postcards/emails of his adventures of digging around musty archives, looking for documentation of comrades who got whisked away to re-education camps, collecting images of before and after shots of Siberian lesbians while outfoxing bee-hive haired archivists by smuggling out Xerox copies. Pure post Cold War intrigue.
He now teaches at the University of Swansea and my mom positively bursts with pride when you say DOCTOR Dan Healey.
Tell Me Tuesday
It’s that time, kids! You control the vertical! You control the horizontal!
[poll id=”7″]Voting ends sometime tonight. Click away!
The Panty Game Continues
You might recall SharkBoy and I are locked in immortal combat in a contest forever known as Who can hide the panties the best. We’ve lost the Spongebob undies somewhere – one of us hid them too well for the other to find it. The funny part is that neither one of us can recall who’s “turn” it was. I wonder if someone out there in the big wide world is opening a used lunchbox bought in some garage sale and come across this poor rag.
But no fear, we have found a new participant: green ugly and lyrca. Go take a look at SharkBoy.ca. I have escalated this war.
RELEASE THE KRAKEN!!
(Update: Site has reverted. Link still works)
Scrumpadoocious!
Booze unCanny
Speaking of my life in crime, Rob reminded me of a small misdemeanor I did a few times when working for that notorious Toronto leather bar – I attended after hours Booze Cans.
Back in 1997, close to the second weekend I was working at the leather bar, I was hanging around cash out at 3am, waiting for my cut of the tips from the bartenders when the staff suggested that I tag along to a booze can around the corner from the bar.
“After hours drinking? You can do that?” I naively ask. I had got a 95% on my Smart Serve certificate.
“Erm. No. But it is $5 to get in!”
Even though it was closer to 4am when we set off for the ‘can, I wanted to keep going on my natural high of working a really busy night around the bar. Plus I had a crush on one of the bartenders who insisted I party with him. The promise of a snog from this handsome fellow, coupled with the night was in my veins led me along like Pinocchio off to Pleasure Island. It also didn’t help that I had a fist full of cash in my pocket.
We arrive at the Booze Can – a stand alone house surrounded by vacant trash heap lots, giving the solitary dwelling an atmosphere that it was rejected for location shooting for the movie Se7en. A large metal door greeted us. “There’s a nice door,” I say, the Inner Martha Steward boiling up past my lips.
“It keeps the cops out,” says my Stygian co-worker, shutting my pansy-mouth good. “Don’t give the guy at the door your money, give it to the guy at the top of the stairs. Also, if the doorman doesn’t like you, don’t argue, turn around and go home.” He makes a fist punching a fist motion. Message received!
I really should have given this a second thought, but at 4am, I wasn’t thinking, really. I do know by this time I was eager to see what went on behind that door.
We got in after some slight hesitation – I was a new face and treated with distrust but the cute bartender co-worker vouched for me (sigh! such a cutie!), and paid our fee. Beers were $5 each (at the time, a beer was $3.25 so this was a bit steep) and the music was loud, whatever it was.
Basically it was a John Hughes movie house party come to life. The living room was decorated in a depressed University student style: legless couch, milk crate coffee table, carpet as stained as a Hollywood starlet’s limo’s back seat. The windows were taped over with dark fabric, the reason for which I would learn later. And people were draped over every surface imaginable. Not doing lewd things as the LCBO would have you believe. Just having a good time. Mostly it was other bar staff from the gay village, letting off steam from a busy night. I can say I didn’t see anything illegal other than the beer being sold for astronomical prices.
This night also held another first – talking to my first Drag Queen. I was introduced around as “The New Guy” from the bar and when it came to meeting the towering drag queen in the corner I admit I blubbered a bit. I’ve never actually talked to one before, other than shouting at them from the audience. I decided to speak to her considering her just above “sister” status and somewhere below “monarch”. I asked about performing and the Toronto drag scene and where she got her outfits. Basically I went George Stroumboulopoulos on her padded ass. She loved the attention.
The rest of the evening was spent chatting and drinking. When the money ran out (I bought drinks for my co-workers a couple times) it was time to go home. I discovered the reason that the windows were covered were to keep people partying, despite the inevitable sunrise. And here I thought it was to keep the neighbours from getting an eyeful. Coming out of the house to full sunlight was a shock to the system. The drunken Walk of Shame seemed less shamey, probably because of the alcohol.
Over the next couple years I visited 2 other booze cans within a few blocks of the Village. They lost my interest when I realized that coming home drunk at 8am was really not healthy, mentally or physically.
And the cute bartender moved on from me being fresh meat at the bar and found himself a new bus boy to take under his wing. Meh.
All are torn down now except for the grey metal door house, which was reno-ed into a duplex a couple years back. Now the house has a normal wood and glass front door like everyone else.
Lenzr Update!
It’s that time again kids! I write a blog post, I get paid. You don’t see any Google Ads. Long one tonight so let’s begin:
Backyard Party Events Photos on Lenzr
Backyard Party Events is a photo contest which eerily reminds me of my days in catering where I was fed like a king but ate on milk crates in the back alleys behind the eyes of guests and clients. The sponsor for this particular contest is a Toronto party rentals company who are demanding pictures of people who stay at home and do it themselves, ie: renting tables, chairs, tents, wet bars, stages and fences for their own events. The photo contest is designed to immortalize the people that have rented the big stuff and made a memory that will stand the test of time.
These guys have warehouses that’s absolutely stuffed to the rafters with party making stuff. This place is a party bomb waiting to explode on somebody’s backyard. Check out the Toronto party rentals sponsor profile on the Lenzr blog.
The prize for the Lenzr member that uploads the highest ranked picture is a spiffy new 10×10 Popup Tent, and $500 Gift Certificate for anything in Absolute Tent and Event Services catalog. Got a wedding coming up in the spring? Get clicking!
Fire and Ice Photo Contest on Lenzr
The Fire and Ice photo contest on Lenzr is (okay… breathe…) the most spectacular (wheeze!) most incredible (gasp) most incomprehensible prize ever (wheezzeEVAR!) given away on Lenzr!
Okay time to filter out the hyperbole and get down to facts: Steve Hamoen of ZoneLife.ca is is a is a geothermal installer. What does this mean? He’s a guy that brings to you cooling or heating solutions from our own mother Earth. Bless her soul. He finds solutions to regulating a blast of hot from lava or a soothing cool glass of water from the middle of Lake Ontario on a hot summer day. To me, it’s magic but he gets the job done somehow for home application.
The Prize is GeoAir PCO air purifier. Photo Catalytic Oxidation (PCO) is an “advanced air purifying technology that unlike existing air cleaning systems that rely solely on ultraviolet light, the GeoAir PCO device integrates a titanium dioxide semiconductor to leverage photocatalytic oxidation allowing it to vaporize indoor air pollutants, including those that cause odors, and break them down into non-toxic products like C02 and H20. Bacteria, viruses, mold spores don’t stand a chance and are destroyed when they come into contact with the system’s 187 square-inch Ti02 grid. All volatile organic compounds (VOC’s) are destroyed. The system is cost-effective, maintenance-free and provides maximum energy efficiency with negligible resistance to airflow.” Meaning – crap goes in, good air comes out.
The contest is to capture contrasts in temperature: a hot fire in a snowbank, a poptart in a snowbank, an underwear model in a snow filled bus stop, etc. You get the picture.
How Green Are You? in Lenzr Photo Contest
The How Green Are You? photo challenge hopes to collect one sentence stories and snapshots of eco friendly notions submitted by Lenzr users that could be readily adopted by society in general. The organizers are hoping that the contest captures some great suggestions and becomes a repository of green ideas. Photographers are asked to be generous and share wisdom inside environmental theme images and art.
This contest is sponsored by a solar powered grass cutting business in Toronto Ontario that offer sustainable, organic services that is also a relatively silent; their Neuton battery powered lawnmowers are very quiet. This service is just cutting into the GTA (geddit?) and needs this contest t o achieve some prime publicity. Good cause, say I.
This sponsor is competing in the 2010 Green Innovation Awards. Every year the Toronto Community Foundation donates up to $50,000 to help green businesses get established in the competitive Toronto marketplace.
The prize winner gets a Neuton CE 6 Battery-Powered Mower with DURACELL® battery technology. There is no gas or oil to spill and no engine emissions to pollute the air, making lawnmowing as fun as an Xbox360 with fireworks sticking out of every port. Not really, but it certainly saves on dirty trips to Canadian Tire.
Obsolete Office Equipment
Obsolete Office Equipment is another dynamic challenge you can do around the workplace. Photograph the antiques that are still being used in today’s offices – which won’t be hard to do with everyone coming out of a recession. Water cooler shots of ancient co-workers not valid, ok? Show us the obsolete objects that are still relied upon by frontline staff and backroom employees and the people who manage them. I’m thinking of the 10 year old Mac mouse (the round hockey puck kind) that is above my desk, hanging like a trophy of dead technology
However if you have any rotary dial telephones, punch clocks, obsolete measuring devices and such, preferably with more wires coming out of it than Turing difference engine, that’s all the more better.
The prize courtesy of an office phone systems provider S.E. Telecommunications is a 4 Line business telephone AT&T Model 1070. This state-of-the-art technology piece has 4 line speakerphone & answering system capability. With Caller ID / Page / Intercom / Call transfer / Expandable to 16 stations / 32 # speed dial / 3 party conference. Perfect for someone starting a business or wanting to play Uhura on Star Trek.
Tom Hanks. Yellow Queen
Sunday Cleaning.
Up For Adventure
I’m going to relate to you a tale of intrigue and danger. A tale so Bourne Supremacy that you will urinate in your pantaloons, right where you sit!
During our recent cruise, after our tours and such on the island of Dominica, SharkBoy and I decided to wander the markets close to the dock and look for loud Caribbean shirts for the dress up dinner.
Know my state of mind at this moment of shopping: I just drove through some pretty depressed areas around the island. I witnessed people in less-than shack like accommodations by the side of a dusty mountain road. I saw armed security guards shove back riotous cab drivers a few hours before, shouting their displeasure at the shore administrators who would not let them near the ship’s disembarkation area. I felt guilty.
As we’re looking at shirts, a woman comes up to me and she casually asks “Can you go buy me two bottles of “RED” over in the duty free? Since I’m a local, I’m unable to buy it.”
Poor dear, I thought. And agreed. She handed me the US dollars (exactly $32?) and I wandered over to the shop. SharkBoy reluctantly in tow.
We find the bottles and I take them to the cash. The clerk asks for my ship pass.
Alarm one. I’m tagged!
The clerk takes my pass and enters it into the computer. My name comes up. She types something. My bowels turn to ice. I realize too late that I am recorded into the ship’s system that is somehow linked to this shop on shore and they know I am bringing liquor on board. Which I won’t be. Too late to cancel the transaction, I take the two Johnny Walker Red bottles over to the stall. As I approach, the woman yells over the heads of her customers, without making eye contact at me, “Pretend you’re shopping and leave the bottles behind.”
Alarm two. SharkBoy takes off like a lightning bolt.
I begin to think this wasn’t a great idea. A paranoia flows over me like a wave on a nice white sandy beach. I wonder if we’re being watched by any number of armed guards that patrol the streets. The thought that she herself might be a plant for the police slams into my head like a tour bus full of fat New Jersians.
Calmly, I bend down to look at a trinket near the front of her stall. I place the bag of liquor on the ground and pick up a carved mask. “How much for the mask?” I ask.
I’m fully expecting an extremely low price since my life and safety has been compromised by her seemingly innocent request. “Mask?” she says.
“Mask!” I repeat. I point.
“Maa– OH! Face!” she says a bit too loudly like she’s not sure where this game of intrigue is going to go. “If you wanted the face, you should say face! $25!”
I’ve seen better acting at a 9th grade winter pageant.
“Oh ok, thanks” and I walk away, sans bag. I’m pissed she didn’t give me the maskface at a good price. I’m too frightened to barter, regardless.
As I head for the mouth of the alley I’m waiting for the restraining hand on my shoulder, the shout to stop, the bullet in my back. It doesn’t come. When I finally meet up with SharkBoy again he’s got the lie all worked out: “You went to an internet cafe and it was stolen from you as you checked your email.”
Plausible.
Oddly enough, when I boarded the ship, nothing was said by the guard on the check in computer. Later we had 45 minute wait before we sailed form Dominica and every time the ship announcement bells went off we jumped, expecting a call to guest services to explain myself.
Nothing came of it. And it will never happen again, I assure you.