Tag Archives: crowd

Leaving Bayonne – The Gays

Personal Bits, Queer stuff, Travel

On a ship of 3300 passengers, you’d probably think that some were gay. If you subscribe to the 1 in 10 theory then there should have been at least 300 gay people. Three hundred butch fems or flamboyant floaters should not be hard to find in two weeks of sailing.

As we were in line for embarkation in Bayonne, I scanned the crowd to see if any sisters were coming on board with us. PING went my Gaydar and I spied two gentlemen travelling together and wearing near identical jeans, t-shirts and male pattern baldness. Dead giveaway. As our line to the check in desk snaked by them a couple times I made three official efforts to catch their eye and smile, with the hopes of striking up a conversation.

All three times was met with them turning their back to us after a cautionary glance. Snubbed, but not let down I started to look around for more family. Fuck you, dudes, we’re not cruising, we’re being friendly!

Our first breakfast in the main dining room had us randomly seated with two women in their 70s on a bus/cruise tour who asked me outright if we were brothers. SharkBoy was not part of that conversation so I said “Yes,” and proceeded to let that lie fester in their heads a moment. I wondered if they wondered what the hell two brothers in their 40s were doing out on a cruise…

Two other occasions we were asked if we were brothers by passengers. I would say yes and hold onto SharkBoy’s arm in a confusing/awkward display of affection.

By day 7 I had given up looking through the crowd for possible homo contact and turned off my Gaydar. SharkBoy says there were at least two other couples on board that he could tell (I never saw them) and one lovely lad who was taking his mother on a trip (questionable at best but that just stank of a Tennessee Williams play). There was a bespectacled lesbian we sat with a couple times at breakfast (rainbow tattoos on her forearms!) but she refused to offer up anything other than “hello” and “see ya!”, but I expect she was painfully shy. The two guys spied at the top of the cruise still refused to make eye contact and I decided that they were on some sort of relationship rebuilding vacation after one of them admitted to a terrible admission to sex addiction.

Not that I wanted to be on a gay cruise. If I wanted to be surrounded by my own I would have booked an all exclusive vacation but to tell the truth, I have no desire to run with my own. Sorry StevieB, but I’m what The Advocate calls “Self Hating”. After years of working in a bar I can’t imagine an all gay vacation let alone being trapped on a boat for any amount of time with rainbow beaded, whistle blowing, Aussie Bum wearing party queens. Sure I’ve travelled en mass with other gays and have even done Gay Days twice at Disney World but, for me, to “travel gay” is like living in the gay village – ghetto gets you nowhere. You really need to get out there to experience other things. That being said, I was missing a bit of the old catty banter that comes with a fruity drink in your hand and a good gay by your side. Especially since we were in such a ripe environment for ridicule.

As we left Antigua (after the Prickly Pear Island) SharkBoy and I were up on the top deck watching the boat leave the island. SharkBoy says “This is a really good vacation, considering.” I know he means that despite the uncooth masses, he (we!) were having a good time. And I thought to myself “It is. A bit lacking in the gay companionship department…”

Suddenly a crew member came and stood beside us at the railing. We started to talk and within moments he revealed that he had a boyfriend on another ship within the fleet and that they were considering moving their home to Toronto. We spend a very long time talking as the ship sailed out and he told us a lot of stories which I will not repeat here to keep his anonymity. Not that he was shy about his status and his partner, he offered first, but I’m not one to leave trails of career shattering evidence all over the internet. He had us fascinated and laughing at the same time with stories of ship operations and shenanigans. It was a nice gay island in the vacation of gaylessness.

Leaving Bayonne – The Jersians


A tame version of one of the many

How was my trip?

Before I start I just want to say that I’m going to write some seriously scathing things about a group of people in a broad and general manner. I do so in 99% jest. I do so because it happened to us almost every time we came in contact with this particular group of people. I do so because these fuckers nearly ruined a perfectly good vacation.

If you belong to that group of people I’m going to mention, if you have an open mind and you find yourself amused (hopefully), then we’re cool. If you’re from that group and you’re pissed, fuck off.

My trip was great except for the roving packs of New Jerseians that seem to not understand the concept of decorum or social graces. There. I said it. I officially hate most of the population of New Jersey. I know this hate-on for a single state of people is probably shared with quite a few New Yorkers, but it’s new to me. I’ve not been exposed to this kind of rabble before. Nor do I think I wish to do so ever again.

Why this sudden slamming closed of my open mind? I’ll start at the beginning, shall I?

SharkBoy and I get to the port in Bayonne, NJ and enter the snakey line into the security screening area for the ship. As the initial excitement of getting on board faded while we stand in line for the metal detectors, I begin to notice things about the people that we’ll be sailing with on the 3300 passenger ship:

  1. Everyone is grossly obese. I’ll talk about that later.
  2. The majority of the crowd was well over 55. This wasn’t so much a problem for socialization as it was for mobilization. Often during the trip we found ourselves behind slow moving flesh mounds that didn’t seem to care that they just walked in front of two guys who could manage a human normal gait. This usually happened in line for the gangplank or the buffet.
  3. And finally, I begin to notice a lot of sweat pants. A LOT of SWEATPANTS. I use to think that air travel was a great time to dress up in presentable clothes but in the last few flights I’ve had, I’ve been seeing sweatpants on travellers with increasing dismay. Imagine my horror when I started to see sweatpants on travellers that should be wearing sport jackets and ascots and jaunty hats.

Actually, there was one couple in their upper 70s who did dress like they were going on the QEII but we didn’t see them nearly enough. They arrived at port wearing pink, her in pink furs and he in a pink leisure suit. I would have loved to be sitting at their table every night just to see the 30 year old Bob Mackie gowns. These two were the exception. The rest of the ship dressed like they were going to fix cars or watch Monster Truck rallies or fix Monster Trucks.

My fantasy of fine travel dashed across the rocky shore of plebeian fashion.

The outfit of choice for the men were “World’s Greatest Dad!” or “…Grampa!” t-shirts that barely contained their medicine ball sized guts. There were a couple 9-11 firefighter memorial t-shirts (worn ironically because they looked like they couldn’t carry a single axe without a stroke) but for the most part, the men all had that look that their wives dressed them using the finest polycotton pulled from seconds bins from WallMart. Most men had a look of long suffering or dour disposition etched into their faces, as if their wives, work and life in general had pulled their cheeks down all these years.

The women were cankel-riffic. Post-children obesity was rampant with the ladies on our cruise. By Day 3 I had decided that they were all part of the “Titanic Tits” set. We’re talking G cups that rested like deflating dirigibles atop of fleshy mounds of c-section scars. These ladies were partying like they were 16 again and many had shrill voices that could cut titanium. Mostly yelling at their husbands to get them more food from some buffet.

“Why Dead Robot! How can you hate someone based on their body size when you yourself are 40lbs overweight?” I hear you sputter.

I don’t fart on elevators.

A few times we entered an elevator that had been gassed. One New Jersian did right in front of me. Unapologetic, she let one rip and then without even a bat of an eyelash. Then she straightened the back of her t-shirt across her polyester-wrapped, newly relaxed ass. She walked off the elevator without a look back or “HA! Got you!” Nothing.

I don’t talk with food in my mouth.

One lunch SharkBoy shared a table with two couples: a mother/daughter combo who, after a few moments of conversation, we dubbed the daughter “Basement Girl” because it was evident with her constant announcements that she just bought the DVD of House on Amazon.com on Black Friday, that she didn’t get out much. The other couple maybe had 5 teeth total between them. At one point all four of them had spat food from their mouth as they complained about their TIVOs working improperly. But Basement Girl won the Oscar for Most Dramatic Performance of Spitting Out What Isn’t Mozzarella Cheese At All. One taste of the offensive cheese and she wanted all of us to know that her dear mom had tried to poison her with Brie cheese with napkin and gagging sounds. Pleasant! Meanwhile the other couple at the table just spat food from their yaws as they complained that they didn’t “get” The Office.

I don’t let myself get so morbidly obese I can’t raise my leg further than my knee.

At one excursion to a secluded beach, one of the Titanic Tits ladies got herself hip deep into the ocean only to find that the 2ft drop off past the surf break meant that she was trapped, unable to raise her bloated ham sized feet higher than her mid thigh. The weight of her gargantuan flesh would make the sand shift under her as she tried to get her foot high enough above the drop off. She eventually got herself into a sitting position and hauled herself up over the drop off and shimmied her ass most of the way back to shore. Not pretty. Quite embarrassing to watch but fascinating at the same time.

I can hold onto a conversation even if it means going down to the base level of discussing the weather.

Each breakfast or lunch that SharkBoy and I had in the main dining room meant that we were randomly sat at a large table with other shipmates. At every sitting we managed to get a few New Jersians with us and they never once started conversations with us. Did they know we were homosex lovers and could not bear to start a conversation with us? Or were they just socially inept that they couldn’t start a pleasant talk? I may be paranoid but I think it was a healthy dose of both. In every instance, SharkBoy instigated discussions with a deflating “This is my husband! I suck his cock nightly!”

No. He didn’t. But you could imagine my fantasy of that: To watch the table devolve into pandemonium, screaming and “Oh my lord!!”-isms. No this only happened in my head when the awkward silence we had to endure so many times during a meal suddenly loomed over the table. Sure I could have started some pleasant chit chat but I can only badmouth weather (something so out of our own control) for so long.

I don’t complain about everything under the sun for the sake of complaining.

On one excursion two heffers heaved their fat asses into the bus that would take us up the side of a mountain to see twin waterfalls of Trafalgar. The first thing out of the husband’s mouth was a long loud rant to the driver about how dirty the windows were. They weren’t, in fact, dirty at all. They had slight dew stains and dust but they were still viewable. Not that you wanted to see the edge of the road that led up that mountain. Yikes. This is only one example of the constant flow of complaints. As we walked the halls or swam in the pools we were privy to many conversations that compared the ship, the food, the weather, the floorboards to other places that were so much better than where we all were at that moment. After 12 days I am convinced that New Jersians like to complain about anything at all.

I know how to behave in a restaurant.

We had one nice dinner in the smaller restaurant on the ship called Portofino’s – extra charge is expected and there is a strict suit and tie dress code. There is one waiter per table so the service is personal and attentive. Half way through our wonderful meal they walked in. He was about 300lbs of back street muscle stuffed into an ill-fitting suit. She was wearing a Vegas whore black dress. They sat them two tables away and we could hear her drop F-bombs like the waiter was Hiroshima. I swear I can’t recall when the word “fuck” was used as an adjective, verb and compliment all in one sentence. I knew we were in for eavesdropping gold when she couldn’t pronounce “calamari” yet that fun faded to pity as she told the waiter to just bring her a “fucking margarita”. Her conversation poured over to the table next to us when she said “I saw you getting a massage! Your face was ORGASMIC! I was all like ‘I want what she’s fucking getting!'” The restaurant literally stopped. She didn’t. Near the end of the evening (we cut our meal short), the entire room learned that they were to be married on the beach the next day in a small eloping ceremony. I placed a silent bet in my head that the husband would be banging the babysitter inside a year.

I could go on. Know that I wanted to get through this post without using the word “class” because we all know that those who mention “class” usually have none. But I’m going to do it. New Jersians have no class. They may be the hard working backbone of the Eastern Seaboard, but they’d crumble in an audience with the queen.

More later.

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:


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!


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.


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!

Halloween 2008

Jedis By RodTO

Jedis By RodTO

Halloween on Church Street. You will never find a more retched hive of scum and villainy.

The evening started out good with a group of us getting together at Casa RoboShark, slapping on layers of makeup while we sucked back beers during rounds of Guitar Hero and Mario Kart Wii. It sounds very involved but it was pretty relaxed. I wound up doing Dollar Store cuts on a few guys but the wax wounds didn’t last too long after leaving the apartment… I blame sweat and not having a proper sealant to make it stick. That and they wrinkled their faces too much. NO LAUGHING!

Here’s where I apologize for not taking any pictures this year. My lightsabre for my Jedi costume was a two hander. RodTO (Photog 2) took some amazing shots, as usual. Go see them and praise him highly.

We left the house at 9 and got to the street in full swing. It was busy as usual. SharkBoy felt there were too many drunk Ryerson students, but I thought it was a typical Halloween night: packed, pictures everywhere. Our outfits weren’t as attention grabbing as last year’s Luchadores, but with the Force FX sabres, we were well lit and did get into some photos. Here’s where I mention that lucha masks were out in force this year. We’re trendsetters.

We met up with Da, the Xbox Boys, FrankenSteve (nice fairies!) and got to do one circuit of up and down the strip before going home. Some of the costumes were amazing, some were the usual “Throw on a boa and I’m done” kind of WTF kind of effort. In all, I would say that a lot more people are getting into the spirit of dressing up, even if it’s just a dollar store jumpsuit with a cheap plastic lead-based mask. I say “bravo” for trying!

The thing that did mar the evening for me: I verbally abused a drunk asshole in a rather (un)Jedi like manner. We were walking in the crowd and came upon a small pocket, empty of people and I had stopped to wait for the other guys to catch up. As I did, a drunk guy came pushing out of the crowd, past me, screaming like a 9 year old child. “No! NO!” he was hollering. Chasing him was another drunk partyer who was making noises like he was going to catch him. Upon seeing my lightsabre, he lunged at me and yelled he needed it to “get that faggot.”

“Uh no,” I said and turned slightly from him.

He drunkenly clawed at the toy. (okay, the $130 toy, none the less)

“Fuck off!” I said. I was shocked: I don’t say this lightly in public, to strangers. But his total disregard for my personal space and property was appalling.

“Oh chill,” he said and tried to go for it again.

“Fuck. Off.” I said, stronger. And the surreal part was that I had my hand out, pointing a finger at his face. Like the Force was going to save me.

Exit drunk queen, muttering something, trying to catch up to “that faggot”.

Gay Jedi

Gay Jedi

There were other extremely drunken exchanges that bewildered me, like the 60-some year old woman wordlessly trying to grab SharkBoy’s lightsabre by the tube and me yelling “Lady! YOU DON’T TOUCH A JEDI’S STICK!” (yeah I said “stick” but she muttered “dick” back). Or the three Ryerson tarts wanting to play with the sabres for themselves and when we refused, asked for a kiss. Wha?

I love Halloween, but I was kind of cheesed off by the overly rowdy drunks. We were out pretty late and the worst of it did happen well after 11pm so I shouldn’t be surprised, really.

Next year, more thoughtful planning, I should think. Something not so attention grabbing, yet attention grabbing.

Battle In Seattle

Celebs and Media

A “docu-drama” of the 1999 WTO protest, so Americanly named the Battle In Seattle, seems a bit appropriate as the current economic melt down ripples through everyone’s savings right now.

Go back with me to November 1999. Everyone is already crazy with Y2K, so when greedy capitalists decide to meet at a highly concentrated liberal city on the west coast, VW vans are fired up and everyone who has an opinion about poverty and money converged on Seattle. Social consciousness groups came together in a peaceful attempt to “stop” the convention which turned into one of the largest riots the US as seen since the 60s. Somewhere, someone got pissed off and the riot ignited like a Spike Lee movie ending. You might remember video of riot police casually coating a passive, sitting crowd of protesters with a fire extinguisher sized can of mace. Or countless images of rugby scrums with black armored cops hunched over cotton/hemp wearing youths. Whoever you side with, it was a violent few days.

What makes me curious about this movie is that it seems to be “Crash”-like in its structure: multiple viewpoints, perspectives and storylines converging to one point: downtown Seattle, just in front of the riot police. But in reading reviews from it’s TIFF showing, the movie hammers home it’s hatred for the WTO within the opening sequences, so it seems biased more towards the protesters. Another clue is that Woody Harrelson plays a cop. I think his acting default is set to “Villain” lately so he may be swinging a truncheon with abandon.

I’m also curious about the Massive Attack soundtrack. But that’s probably another blog post. Battle will be playing in limited release in Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver October 17th.

Not Laughing At You. Oh Wait. Yes I Am.


“Ma’am? Miss? Excuse me?”

The barista is hanging over the counter trying to get the attention of the woman at the creamer counter. Someone in the fairly longish line steps out and taps her on the shoulder.

“What?” she snaps.

“Your card is short by $2,” the barista says somewhat quietly over the crowd.

“You rang it through twice. I know there’s at least $5 on it left.”

“I can give you a print out of your purchase…”

With a huff she turns back to the front of the line and with weighted flourish, dumps her purse on the counter. She gets the bill and in hushed tones, tries to reason with the barista why she thought there was more money on the card. Finally, angrily, she hands over the remaining cash.

“This is the longest I have ever had to wait for service,” she offers as punctuation to her $4 coffee purchase, and storms off.

I’ve known the barista for some time. Not much fazes her, but you can tell that cow got to her somehow. At my turn at the counter, she takes my order and I stand slightly to the left to wait for my tea. I’m going to tell her that she’s doing a great job… that it’s a great day… something positive. Suddenly a soccer mom with daughter in tow stands directly in front of me and orders. And orders something else. And complicates something (I wasn’t paying that much attention). The barista places my tea on the counter and while I wait for her to take my money, tries to smooth out the soccer mom’s order, which she does, except for…

“Can you give me my coffee now?” the snotty soccer mom asks.

I make eye contact with the barista. I roll my eyes and make a “mah moo mive me my moffee mow?” face behind the soccer mom’s back.

Both of us laugh. Try not to. Then snort hard. Try not to. I give up and laugh and look at the stunned soccer mom. I drop a $1 tip into the box.

It’s just coffee, people!

Fan Expo 2008

Hobbies, Toronto

All the pics I took here.

This year I wanted to take a more subtle look at the Fan Expo (one of the largest Comic/Game/Fantasy/Horror conventions in Canada) as opposed to my usual freaked out, get-that-shot-now, kind of photo hunt. And I found it intriguing, humourous and somewhat unnerving.

I Find Your Lack of Faith Disturbing

Raw Shark & Ozzy mandus

Intriguing in the sense that there are people who spend hours and hours on a single costume to wear maybe twice a year (three times if they’re trying to make a viral video. Some cases, these people are like-minded as myself – so in love with the culture that they need to express themselves in cloth and plastic, but I can only stare in awe at the detail, but then I thank god quickly that I have a life. Seriously, kudos to the great costumes out there.



I mean come on. If you’re going to wear it in public, then you better be prepared for bitter, angry people like me to take your picture and post it to the web in ridicule. Chubby Vader? Cute! WTF-costume that makes me scratch my head, shrug and hit the shutter on my camera? I can guarantee there are 4 more like me just behind me with their cell phone cameras ready.



Finally there are people who go to the Expo just to wear what they like and be “accepted” in a crowd. Much like wearing a tube sock over your dick at Pride. For the most part, we really don’t need to see your outfit, but hooray we live in a enlightened society. Case in point, first picture, can you find the odd princess out in the group of Disney heroines?

The Dark Knight – a 20 Second Review

You Stupid Dick

Hey Kids, Shelly here!

At the 2 hour, 20 minute mark I thought to myself, how would Bollywood handle this? I concluded that other than the musical numbers, the effects would be much cheaper, but just as “real” and the bits where drama crossed over into melodrama would be a bit sharper and noticable. My mind only started to wonder this because right at the Joker’s biggest, last monologue, we had to endure a theatre staff scanning us for camcorders. Why I went to Bollywood, I don’t know – I guess I noticed a bit of overacting on Gary Oldman’s part? But otherwise, the movie lived up to 90% of the hype.

Yes Heath is as good as you’ve heard but as a supporting actor, as SharkBoy pointed out. His Joker was new and vile and had all the “love to hate” qualities that make a good villain. But he was nothing unless he was doing something to someone. Even at his highest comical moment, he’s inflicting damage on someone else. Without the other characters he’d just be a rambling psycho.

The story is engaging and smart, going beyond expectations for our basic comic book movie. It’s tense and loose where it needs to be and has more twists than expected. And thank god Batman can turn his head in that cowl now.

At this point I want to give a message to ScotiaBank theatre managers: fuck off. You heard me, twats. I am not a criminal, stop treating me like I am. I know that stealing a movie is a crime. Do you see the OPP standing on the side of the highway stopping us individually, telling us speeding is wrong? No, you don’t so you can stop with the asinine trailers about it. And tell the poor minimum wage drones you order into the theatre to scan the crowd for camcorders that doing so right at the biggest monologue moment in the show makes going to your theatre like watching a movie at your grandmothers. Oh and fix that fucking escalator, you lazy dicks.

So in all, a 5 out of 5! But don’t go see it at ScotiaBank.

Another Pride Video

Queer stuff, Toronto

Too tired to upload this one last night: Kids on TV’s Roxanne Luchak and John Caffery dance up the crowd at the south stage beer garden with MEN at the laptops (who did a great job, by the way).

You can see the kind of energy KoTV bring to the stage. Yesterday they gave a fun show, but the sound was really off. No beats or bass for most of the set. Whadapwitdat?

Oh and I want to say again: The Mayor felt up my husband. I’m still blown away by that.