Three windows open, three different conversations:
To PauLa: I miss you guys. Hows the house?
To dumb-fuck: I think dim sum is one big metaphor for life really
To scotfrot: mines a bit more involved. I would jerk off into them a couple times …then wash n wear them. I would get off on fantasizing about them doing their laundry…
I was going to qualify each conversation but I think I like them just as they are.
Sharkboy and I are on the patio of the Eagle playing our “Here’s Your Husband” game. Ive heard of many variations on this nightclubbing pastime but ours is as follows: The third person to walk by/come through that door/limp past you from the right, is your husband. The uglier the better because it garnishes all sorts of cruel comments from your friends. Hot guys that walk through usually are met with “That doesnt count” style grumblings. Yeah its childish and pubescent but we do it to stay young.
As I said, we’re at the Eagle. The last leatherbar in Toronto that doesnt enforce a dress code so you could be in your finest cowhide while standing beside twink tourists that just want to see old fat guys in their finest cowhides. Its Sharkboy’s turn and we’re counting guys coming through the doorway to the patio.
1… 2…
#3 steps through. Its Scott Thompson of Kids in the Hall fame. He almost timidly sits beside me on the patio bench.
Ive had two instances of contact with Mr Thompson. The first was when I was actually working as a doorman at the Eagle a few years back. My job was to ensure that patrons didnt bring drinks into the bathroom, so I was guarding the bar’s liquor license by standing in front of the loo doors and stopping people going in with bottles or glasses in their hands. One night I stopped Mr T (ha!) and said in my best Assistant Director voice: “Im sorry Mr Thompson, Ontario law now states that liquor is not allowed in non licensed areas.” Quite the mouthful to say to someone hell bent on wizzing.
He looks at me like I just asked him to pull a cat out of my ass.
“Im the Toilet Nazi. No drinks in there,” I condense.
He laughs. I made Scott Thompson laugh!
The last time was on the set of Prom Queen but that wasnt really contact.
Mr Thompson is sitting beside me and I turn to him and say “I loved you in Prom Queen.”
His eyes widen. I am pretty sure the best way to an actor (or blogger’s) heart is to mention the obscure stuff. We chat a bit and I introduce Mr Thompson to Sharkboy like we were Ryerson Acting School chums or something. “He’s your new husband,” I offer. Confusion. We explain our game to Scott and we turn our attention to the door again as its my turn to get married off. I wanted to go even more obscure on Scott’s head and say his voicework for RoboRoach was sublime but some guy went all ooglelygooey over Scott being in a leather bar (“I loved you man!”) and meanwhile my husband walked onto the patio.
Lets just say I won.
Airports at 6am are the most loneliest places on earth. I think thats when Brian Eno got his inspiration for his Album Music For Airports. I hated sending off Sharkboy to FLA for his weeklong cruise but with the death and weird monetary set backs I would not have been able to go (or at least I would have been a “laugh riot”, fer sher).
Wacthing Sharkboy try to check in and leave his wallet and passport on the counter was worrysome. He’s usually much more clearheaded than that and has probably travelled more than I. I hope he has a good time. I was pleased to hear that the company he works for upgraded his room on the cruise from an inside cabin to an outside cabin with port hole! Yay! I gave him strict orders to find me a lacquered frog.
Stepdad passed away last night. The bugger insisted on no service but Mum will be having a remembrance party sometime in the spring when things calm down.
So that’s my weekend salvaged.
Oh please. I’m kiddin.
Quite the kick in the gut today. Apparently my stepdad has the Big C.
Now…thats not all that much of a surprise really. He’s been smoking since he was 16 and he’s 83 now, and I feel bad for him, sitting in a hospital bed right now hooked up to morphine. But I feel even worse for my mum.
My mum. We’ve never been close her and I. When dad came out, she was cool to the kids and she turned to the man that would be pushing that morphine button right now. Her attitude towards me while the divorce came about was definetly hands-off. I was “my father’s son,” she told me once with a hint of malice in her voice. I dont blame her for anything really. She grew up Italian Catholic in 1930s Toronto (she would tell a story of having to learn how to ring chicken’s necks – ones they kept in the dirt floor basement in their Keele and somewhere-out-there house). Her parents were total immigrant Italians: proud, hardworking, alienated by their grandchildren who didnt speak a stitch of Italian, and expected the best for their children. They were so angry when mum announced the divorce but I dont think she went as far as to explain the true reasons why. Mum is exceedingly strong. Stubborn to a fault. And prone to the drama moment as moms are wont to do.
I call the hospital and get Stepdad’s room. Mum picks up and instantly is crying before I can tell her who’s calling. Stepdad is not expected to be with us by the end of weekend. Mom is strong but you know she’s hurting and I start blubbering and cant form intelligent words. I think I said “I dont evny you right now.”
Yeah I know. I can be pretty heartless sometimes.
I remember meeting Stepdad for the first time. I was so angry and mad that this guy was coming into our house and pissed that mom could be so insensitive. You got to remember that I was raised by TV so the whole thing was playing out like Family and I was Kristie McNicols. He is a tall man, shock white hair and craggly face. Thick English accent – he flew for the RAF. Widowed and probably bonded with mum on that level. Tried real hard to be nice and won me and my sibs over, but we were adults that came attached to mum and he showed us typical English affection. God bless ‘im for not opening his mouth when mum and I fought. He makes my mum happy and that made me happy. Both of them are smoking enablers. When I think of visiting my mum with Stepdad, I think of overflowing ashtrays and crossword puzzles in a sprawling semi-bungalow outside of town. He never ever spoke up about da. The closest he got was when I announced my homosexuality to them and he said something like “good on ya!” or somesuch encouraging phrase. I know he was uncomfortable but he was accepting.
Is. Is accepting. I havent got the call yet.
So my sister is in Brockville now with mum and she is in full on control, much to the relief of the rest of the family. She works for the Calgary General and speaks the lingo. Mum on the phone: “Your sister speaks a different language! I am greatful she’s here.”
As am I.
The first line I ever had on stage was:
“We wear no leggings because it is spring.”
I delivered it with similarly dressed fidgety actors in equally degrading outfits: a big yellow 2 ft diameter cardboard flower encompassing my face and green tights. The “flower section” stood simultaneously and addressed the audience with a flat monotone that is only found on bored “what the hell is a stage” preschoolers.
I was 32.
Actually I was 7 or something. The last time I was officially on stage was as the Cowardly Lion in grade 12. I did well, but I am certainly no singer. Ive been on stage for other things like the Eagle’s foreskin contests or tough nuts contest but that was all ad libbed and spontaneous.
I was thinking this morning that well over 1,000,000 people saw me this summer swing a flag, rub my crotch with a pink pom pom and/or completely mess up Donna Summer’s Last Dance with dual swing flags for ROTC. If any of the twirlers had told me that I’d be in front of that many people wearing the ugliest clothes ever before our first parade left the blocks, I think I would have laughed nicely and quit on the spot.
It was heaven.
Fauxhawks are the acid washed denim of the hairstyle industry.
Who will save us now?
I just got all the pics off my digital cam from Pride Toronto and ROTC parades and Ive got around to optimizing the ROTC pics. I will get to the Pride ones soon.
Pride in Montreal was great. It almost made me want to go to more Pride celebrations (almost…I am not too great in crowds and drunk stoned people just make me roll my eyes). The crowd loved the routine, even the Bring it On cheer, which I thought most wouldn’t “get”.
I would like to direct you to this blog: Joe. My. God. Read it. Its all that I wish I was as a blogger. Sometimes maudlin, always funny. And he’s a sexy motherfucker too.
Okay…other stuff:
Im in “Out on the Street” looking for my new fave lube, standing in front of the display not seeing the phallic bottle, vaugely embarassed yet determined. This lube is good, folks. If it allows a dork up my shoot then its worth standing there in front of the lube display having 50s housewife shopping anxiety. Out of nowhere an arm shoots past me. Time halts like a slap in the face:
The arm is sleeveless up to mid-forearm. The forearm has rivets of muscles under the skin, shooting out of the shirtsleeve. Its covered in a light brown hair. The hair trails down to just above the wrist. The hands are wide. Meaty. Fingers are hairy to the first digit. The nails are intact. My eyes travel up the arm…
Hello.
Eye contact. Time starts normal again. Actually time seems to speed up like a bastard since it took a few moments off.
He’s grabbed the lube Im looking for.
Holy. Shit.
Porno scenarios are playing out in my mind with fractal clarity. I grab the lube and make my way to the counter. He’s signing his credit card reciept by that time and his stroke is firm and short.
I smile. I put my lube down on the counter as the clerk bags Mr Nice Forearms’ lube. I am smiling like a dork. Both clerk and Mr Nice Forearms look at me. Smiling like a dork.
“Cant keep this stuff on the shelf!” I offer. Like a dork.
Shoot me.