Category Archives: Favorite

A Thanks to My Brother

Favorite, Personal Bits, Queer stuff

I’ve been reading and posting to lots of blogs both conservative and liberal about the Same Sex ruling. Here’s my two cents into the fray:

bro, second from left

See that? Second in from the left? That’s my brother back in the late 70s getting ready to go out into a cold Toronto winter night (note the ski gloves on one of the Sisters). He would answer questions regarding homosexuality, health, religion, and guilt. On the rare occasion, he would be chased, yelled at, belittled and on the rare occasion, threatened bodily harm. He did this to make the world he lived in a better place for lesbians and gays.

Last December, as fruits of his labours …ripened… he and his partner Mark got married. He is a shining example that change will happen for those with patience, intelligence and dedication. I’ve said before that I am greatful for his work and many gays, lesbians and transgendered owe him a rather unpayable debt.

While I am still quite confused as to why some gays would want to join an antiquated belief system that shuns them in the first place, I realize that this law is a way to pull the church’s rather obvious disregard for human rights into the public spotlight and illicit change. Despite the “Ew! I dont wanna!” clause built into it. For some homosexuals, this new law is an excuse to plan a party. For others, it’s a harbinger for further rights and acceptance in a heterosexual society. I’m in that camp. If I were to get married, I would have a small civil ceremony and then 6 weeks later, fleece Sharkboy for half is amazing movie collection.

Just kidding.

For the crazed, angry conservatives out there, I can only say: this morning, as I went to work I didnt pass any shirt-tearing riots, the earth didn’t crack open and swallow me up, there wasn’t any debauched llama-loving in the streets, or yakkety burning bushes. However, I did see a couple outside an office building kissing goodbye and parting ways before going off to their jobs.

Oh wait. That was me and Sharkboy.

But this time, I felt like I didnt have to feel anything other than the comfort that the kiss goodbye was meant to offer me. Just like you’ve enjoyed all your adult life.

Riddle Me This, Batman

Favorite, Personal Bits

What’s the one thing that makes you try to remember every little detail you experienced from shower to office desk.


Discovering your fly being down.

Like mine was, all morning.

No wonder that woman froze up when I sat beside her on the subway.

Well I’ve done more embarassing things. Like forgetting to take off that


…sticker off the leg of my new-bought pants.

Speaking of which: why do straight guys never take off the small white cotton loops that hold the tags on new jeans?

I Haven’t Mentioned This in a While

Celebs and Media, Favorite

The Black Hole on Great trivia. Bizzare explanation of the ending on the message boards. Geek Reading is Fun!

Disney’s first PG rating, indeed.

When I think of this movie, I’ve always imagined Disney as the struggling T-rex in a pool of tar as the little dinos sprouted feathery wings and flew away. However, as cheesey as it was, the movie had some impressive visuals. The Cygnus ship design was close to “science fact” with it’s supports and caged environments.

But I doubt that NASA will be putting in amusement ride tie-ins with their mission to Mars.

My Creeds Story

Favorite, Toronto

For the benefit of you non-Torontonians, the Creeds family created an empire for themselves through dry cleaning, fashion and however else you make money in this town. Back in the early 90s, they sold off their clothing retail arm of their company and scaled back greatly their properties for whatever reason. I dont care. At that time, they had a beautiful warehouse at Ave and Dav (Avenue Road and Davenport streets) that they had proposed to carve up into luxury condos. This is my story about viewing the model suite of The Creeds Building:

I enter the suite with my friend Rob, who is doing the actual buying, I’m just along for the ride. He knows this place is way out of his league, but he wants to get a sense of what’s out there as well as snag some happening fixtures ideas.

While Rob is fondling taps and cupboards in the suite, I start looking real close at a set of blueprints on the wall, loving the handwritten technical messages written in such perfect script. A door opens behind me and I turn to see the saleswoman stride purposefully towards me in a perfect Chanel suit. Her hair one solid piece, very much like the Battlestar Galactica helmets from the old TV show. She is the epitomy of “luxury condo saleswoman”. She engages me with welcomes and smiles.

And she smells of fresh fart.

We both acknowledge the smell cloud between us by not acknowledging the smell, but its there in our manner towards each other. I am sure my eyes are screaming “I don’t believe it! Miss Perfect tooted!” while her manner towards me suggested that I should be emptying the office trash cans, not inquiring about marble finishes. I diffuse the situtation by directing her to Rob, the reason for being plunged into this embarassment. She leaves me happily, making me wonder just how many suites they’re going to sell with a stinky salesperson like her.

As we’re leaving Rob says: “Did you smell the one I let go in there?”

First Driving Lesson

Favorite, Personal Bits

The first car I ever drove was a 1977, two door LTD V8 with two-tone silver stripes not trying at all to be a Starsky and Hutch rip off, no. Pimps would have gotten out of the way with a respectful wave of their ostriched-plumed fedoras. The tires came up to my nipples. Or at least at my age, I thought they did. It had more buttons and gauges than Dad’s last car, who’s only memory of I have is sleeping in the back window. The front seat still went all the way across but half the front seat folded forward for kid access into the back.

I am sitting on Da’s lap, eyes barely over the steering wheel. We’re on the road back from the cottage and Da is working the pedals. I can remember squealing with delight, demanding more speed. I jerked the wheel back and forth like a parody of driving and Da stops the first lesson fast.

Of course the first time Da ever let me completely drive without the aid of a lap or long adult legs, I slammed so hard down on the gas that gravel flew from the back tires, rooster-tailing into the sky and achieving LEO status. Laughing, I looked over at Da and his outstreached hand, clamped tight onto the passenger dash. Thus the long and difficult relationship between my Da, his car and I, started.

I’m not a bad driver. No accidents since getting my license 22 years ago. Not even a speeding ticket. But I have forgotten certain parking tickets that showed up when Da went to renew the plates. And I’ve had his car towed due to not reading the street signs. Twice.

One time Mike and I “borrowed” Da’s car to drive from Brantford to Brockville, a 5 hour trip one way at a good clip, just so we could get Manols Fish and Chips. We were back that night after a long, butt-numbing drive.

In the flashy late-80s, Da had a new Nissan 200SX so fresh off the lot that he had all distinguishing markings removed so people were forced to ask him what kind of car it was. The little two seater was red with fold-in lights and had vanity plates that read “MY XS”. One interesting feature was the slightly Japanese voice that would inform you when your door transmorgified from a “door” into “a jar”. I would pop open the door on the highway just to hear the tiny schoolgirl voice “Doh is ajar!” I would try to run out of gas so that I could hear what she would say when fuel was low, but chickened out every time. “Excuse please! You will be walking to the nearest gas station if you please!” I fantasized about talking to that car and having her answer me back. Hey, it’s better than road rage.

My car indiscretions didn’t stay with one parent. When I was 15 I took my mother’s massive Buick out for a spin with my school chums. Not entirely comfortable with a V8, four door beheamoth, I hit a right turn so hard the back end fishtailed and squealed like a pig… but not in delight. We were on a Cobra Hunt, which meant we had a dozen egs and were bombing parked Camaroes, IROCs and Cobras with much mullet-hating contempt. When we got home and fell out of the Buick laughing, I noticed one of the hubcaps was missing. Visions of the hub rolling off into someone’s garden and an after dinner phone call gripped me: “My goodness! This looks like Rita’s hubcap!” (Brockvegas was small. Everyone knew everyone else’s business).

What to do? It was too late to go back and look for the cap, Mum was going to be home in minutes. I did what every kid with three older brothers had to do: I said John did it. John, at the time, was a bit of a hellion and Mum had no problem believing that one. Whew! I wasn’t around for the fallout, but I am sure he or Mike got the brunt of that one.

Codine, Saviour or Scourge?

Favorite, Personal Bits

This hacking cough I’ve picked up has made me resort to cold medications at night so I can get at least 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep. However, the codeine in these meds make me as jumpy as Michael J Fox in a paint mixer, so I try to avoid them.

Last night, after a big explosive cough that semi-woke me up, I said to myself “I just swallowed a .JPG!”

Ah. I think I need to stop taking these pills.

B and E

Favorite, Personal Bits

I get the call at 9:20pm:

“Hey! How are things?”

Sharkboy: “Not good…”

Sharkboy was just finishing up Pirates of the Carribean when he heard a noise coming from his bedroom. Flicking on the light he looks up to his small window (the small, basement-sized one that is just above the roof of the adjacent building next door, yet right at the top of his wall) to see a guy with a screwdriver poking at the latch on the window frame. Both men freak. Both run to the back alley. Sharkboy chases after him in his bare feet (in hindsight, this was probably not that bright, but in the heat of the moment…) and yells “I’ve called the police!” Would-be robber gets away.

Then he calls the police.

6 cops show up, take the screens for fingerprinting and then case closed. Damage done: one broken window, two shattered apartment-dwelling human’s nerves.

When I lived nearer to the Village, I was broken into while I was out . My roomies were at home at the time, “occupied” in their bedroom. The roomies thought the noise in the apartment was me bumbling around, when it was really two kids shoving stuff into their napsacks. It wasn’t until one of the robbers opened their bedroom door to get an eyeful of hot gay action did they realize they were being burgled. They chased one of the kids out the front door and heard the second leave via the back patio.

I come home to an apartment full of cops. They ask me some questions then ask me to see if any of my stuff is missing. One of them follows me up into my attic bedroom and as he crests the stairs he exclaims: “Holy! They really did a number up here!”

I am notorious for not putting dirty laundry in its hamper, nor do I put clean laundry away. I generally live the slob life.

“Yeah,” I say slowly, “A real number.”

Damage done: my Nintendo 64; $30USD I was saving for a trip to Kentucky; a pair of GAP chinos, which I took as a compliment towards my fashion sense, and my big city livin’ virginity. It took me a full 2 weeks to realize they went through my sock drawer.

Cold Blooded Mountain Or Why I Love Sharkboy (Part the First)

Celebs and Media, Favorite, Personal Bits

Sharkboy and I are watching the Cold Mountain DVD:

Sharkboy: “This is a great movie!”
Deadrobot: “Yeah, surprisingly. They did the editing on a Mac.”


Sharkboy: “It was shot in Transylvania or somewhere.”
Deadrobot: “I heard that. They had a real problem with vampires flying in during shooting. (My best Nicole Kidman Aussie accent) ‘Ah kint werk with these constant inneruptions!'”



Ice Sculptures

Favorite, Toronto

The Mailman, Sharkboy and I emerge from Sears into Dundas Square, cultural centre of Toronto, smack dab into some ice sculpture contest, sponsored by some culturally sympathetic corporation. The crowds are tremendous and aggressive as free events in the downtown core of Toronto usually are.

“Watch this,” Sharkboy says. He pushes through the crowd up to the first sculpture’s barracade. A 6 ft ice statue of a human figure is melting nicely behind the fence, its arms stretched out in icy brotherly love. People are straining to see over our shoulders as The Mailman and I jockey in behind Sharkboy.

Long pause. No expression. “I dont get it,” Sharkboy says loudly and turns from the statue. People look at him as he leaves as if he’s mad. Its an ice sculpture of a man!

Sculpture #2 is a mermaid, suitable for any wedding table centrepiece. “I dont get it,” he says louder and pushes past.

“It’s the Littlest Mermaid. I think I see the Disney Store sign back there,” I loudly join in. The Mailman is stunned and is trying to avoid us as we jockey to the next booth. In his horror to get away from our shenanigans, he stomps on a woman’s foot.

At the next booth a big wind god head with flowing mane and pursed lips sits atop an icy arch as it oversees a vignette of some sea expedition…or tragedy. Viewing ice sculptures during the day without the lights behind them sort of makes them flat and unreadable. The sign proclaims this booth was sponsored by “T-One” (or it was the title of the sculpture, we never figured that one out). “T-one? Tone? Trone?” Sharkboy muses loudly.

“Tron!” I offer. “This one HAS to be sponsored by Disney!”

A shortish woman in front of me turns and says “What is that one?”

“Tron,” I say without missing a beat.

“Ah. I thought so.” And she’s gone.