I folded shirts for THE CRUISE last night! So far the t-shirt count is hovering at about 8. That might go up.

Underwear: 9 pair
Socks: 8 pair
Swimwear: 3 pair
Pants: 0
Shoes: 3
T-shirts: 8
Dress Shirts: 3
Ties: 2
Suit: 1

If you would like to buy flowers, champagne, or colouring books for our arrival on the boat, you can do so at Royal Caribbean’s online shop (Oh come on! People post their “Amazon Wish Lists”, secretly hoping that some bored and/or lonely late night internet surfer comes across their list and says to him/herself “Golly! I think I will toss money at this stranger…”! How is this different?)

No. I will not stand at the bow of the ship and do any stupid Titanic impersonations.

Again, we wake to crummy weather, but that didn’t matter to me. I have been tossing and turning (with the boat) all night worrying: “Am I going to loose it on the zip lines? Oh maybe the bad weather will cancell our excursion! Oh lordy pleeeease!”

We’ve signed up to do “The Belize Jungle Adventure” which entails zip lines at about 200 ft off the ground, through the jungle canopy, just outside Belize City. If you watch Survivor at all, you saw that one team got to do this very same thing as reward for one of the challenges. Not being a fan of heights, I had started to worry about it the day before. I was keeping mum about my fear, though.

We had a few hours before making port so we went up to the gym and did our only workout during the entire cruise. It was lovely to hit the treadmill near the bow of the ship. Very inspiring. We cooled down by walking the upper level outside and watched as the ship moseyed up to the reef that blocks cruise ships from directly accessing Belize City.

Our tender got us to the dock and we waited about 20 minutes for our bus to arrive and found that we were going to do this excursion with a pair of dinner-mates: The Firefighter Mike and the IT Professional, Cathy. We chatted as we waited and I jokingly said that Cathy was brave to do this and she might deserve a present for conquering her fears and made a motion to the jewelry store we were waiting outside of. Zoom! “Come get me when the bus gets here,” Cathy yells back over her shoulder, with glitter in her eyes. I get a “Good lord, Thanks Ted” look from Mike.

I asked Mike if he ever rescued a cat from a tree. Much to my surprise, he had never. Apparently they don’t risk highly paid employees to climb trees. Which makes sense. Call Animal Services. Or just put a plate of food down. Pussies always come down on their own. I snickered.

The bus comes and we are driven in a bit of a round about way through Belize City to the highway. I could see Cathy sitting just ahead of me with her forehead against the glass and I was under the impression that she was either worried about the excursion, like I was, or she was upset at the tremendous poverty Belize seemed to be mired in. Like I was. It wasn’t disgusting or anything, just… poor. The houses in the city were for the most part, windowless and had shutters to cover them. All the “yards” had some sort of refuge in it, possibly left over from the hurricane the month before, who can say.

The road from the highway into the jungle was incredibly bad. Bouncy-headachey-bad. All the way down the highway, past the broken homes and shacks I was silent and worried about the heights. From over the seat comes the dreaded “waiver form” that stated that we must be able to stand on a 2ftx2ft platform, 300 ft off the ground, comfortably. I nearly lose it. I look up at Cathy and somehow, she forgot to sign her waiver and it came back to her when the guide did her tally. Sorry C.

We were given a rest stop 2/3rds the way there, just outside the jungle and they sprayed us down with OFF, which smelled different. After a pee, a juice and a spray we were back on the bus, winding our way into the damp jungle. Most of the people on the bus got off at The Jungle Canopy Tour, which turned out to be a double-decker bus like vehicle with monster truck tires. I was glad we weren’t on that tour as that it was raining pretty hard by then.

We arrive and have to walk through a big cave to get to our gear-up point. Beautiful. They strap us into the harnesses and yell “DO NOT touch any of the straps. Doing so jeapordizes your safety!” I keep my arms perpendicular from the harness. After a few photos (“This feels like a regular Saturday night at the Eagle,” I whisper to Sharkboy) we start our long haul up into the jungle.

Straight up.

Past vines. Past bottomless pits. Along ledges that hang over hills deeper than Riverdale Park. Past “wild” orchids in their natural habitats. Keep moving please.

We get to a kind of rock cave open on both ends with a demo zip line set up. One guide hooks himself on the line and shows us proper hand placement. I am somehow closest to him and expect I am first to try the demo line.

Nope.

I am first in line for the first run.

Holy.

Shit.

Sharkboy sees the fear in my eyes and offers to go first. At this point something welled up in me and said “You’ve preached not to be afraid pretty much for the last chunk of your life, time to practice what you preach.” I hold my head up high and step up to the platform. I could sense that Cathy (and probably the rest of the group) were glad that someone else was going first.

The platform, by the way, wasn’t actually 2ft square. It was a bit larger. I think they were just weeding out the nervous nellies.

Click. Click. Click. “You’re good to go. Don’t bother braking for this leg. It’s too short.”

Go!

“AAAAAAGGGGGG!”

Over way too fast to really enjoy it. I tried to look about but wound up slowing myself down somehow and stopped about 20 ft from the platform. I had to hand-over-hand to get to solid ground.

The jungle was beautiful. I can’t express the colours and the awesomeness. And the thrill of the ground dropping out from under you while your crotch is tethered to what could be described as your mom’s old washing line, was exhilarating. I have no other words to go on.

If you ever get the chance, do it.

Then came the time to rappel over the side of a platform, stuck into the side of a cliff, about 75ft up. Thankfully Mike the Firefighter was in front of me and went first as that it involved a huge leap of faith to step out off the platform and hang there a moment while the guides prepared you for the quick drop. I don’t think I could have done that first.

Again, the rush was exciting and fun. Again!! Do it again!

The day was over within an hour and it was the best excursion of the whole trip. We were punch drunk high after the harness came off with much slapping each other on the back and hooterin’ and hollerin’.

The bus ride back was even more bouncy (if that was possible) and we met up with the Canopy Tour group and listen to them gripe about not seeing any wildlife. We snickered to ourselves over our good fortune for picking such a great excursion.

Dinner and the evening was a blur again. Coming down after such a great day was like the best sex ever. I felt like Barbarella rolling around the back of the Ice Guard’s sleigh, singing a tuneless tune. There was a midnight buffet that had my head saying “OH GOOD LORD STOP EATING!” and my stomach saying “6 more sushi? Why certainly! Oh and could you pile on some cheese too? Thank you” It was all very decadent and midway through my meal in the cabin, with the tv on and the boat rocking I got a bit sad that we were headed into the last day of our trip.

The next day we spent sleeping in and having breakfast in bed via room service. At the first sign of sun (it certainly was a holiday miracle we got some sun on the last day of the trip) we high-tailed it up to the pool and got two chairs for ourselves. And again, we got sandwiched between a newlywed couple who talked over us while we tried to sleep. Next time, we take end seats. At 1pm, we went an ate (duh!) and wandered the ship until dinner. Or so it seemed. We napped, we did the slot machines for about $40 each and then had our last dinner with the gang.

I liked our dining compadres. They had great stories and nary a complaint. They laughed at our jokes and told us some themselves. The food was terrific and the company was great.

Since the weather was far to horrid to go walking out on deck, we went and dropped another $40 in slots and I swear to you, I figured out a pattern and managed to keep going for about an hour, or at least until our backs gave out from sitting on stools for so long. It’s all in the wrist, kids.

Next time, my final thoughts on the cruise (oh thank god!!) and an invitation.

The Final Gallery.

After a long weekend of reverie, I am warmed to see pigeons eating the corn from puke left on the sidewalks from parties the night before.

Bless these winged sanitation volunteers!

I discovered that I had not transfered all my old blog before deleting it off the server. I showed my boss the WayBack machine at Archive.org and thought to look in on my old stomping/griping ground “mytorontoapartment.com”. I am sitting here at work, slowly adding to the archives. Feel free to scan them. I’ve had to edit them slightly only for broken links and long gone images. So no ‘unfeasably larged testicle raccoon animated GIF’ anymore. Sorry.

I did my drunk Bob Villa impersonation the other day. Nobody laughed. Damn.

Today I spied a new Church Street Icon in the making. The “tranny truck”. Its a truck, one of those new four door jobbies than has a short back end for sake of the cab. Its navy blue and drives very slowly because….ITS FULL OF TRANNIES. Without a word of a lie. Ive seen it twice in three days. And they’re not pretty trannies either. We’re talking “we use to play football” trannies. Big arms, tight clothes and mannish faces. Beep beep! Here comes Terry the Tranny Truck and the Good Time Cabin krew!

I really wish I had the balls to deface ads on the subway. Im too good. Every day there are three or four ads I would want to draw moustaches on the models, dinks on the sports stars, and “Oh GROW UP!” across gay circuit party posters. I was jammed up against an ad today that just made me confused. It was so pixilated that if I were to create an ad like that at my last or current job, Id be fired on the spot. How did it get there? Who said “Yeah that looks ok, I guess” Goddamn that “graphic artist” is walking around with a cheque in his/her pocket and Im eating KD!! Fucker! Here is Evil Panda’s List:

• Current CD in player: Made in the USA:Pizzicato 5
• Current book beside toilet: Lying liars…:Al Franken
• Current Game in PS2: no PS2. In the PC it’s Neverwinter Nights
• Current favorite cat: Lucifer (Mom’s kitty)
• Current Gameboy Game: n/a I do play Breakout alot on my phone, tho
• Current Fave food: Eggplant Parmesan from the little Italian Trattoria down the street
• Current time I find myself cursing myself for not going to bed sooner: 12:30 a.m.
• Current gauge: n/a
• Current voltage: low

Evil Panda is a good cyber friend whom I met real time last winter for the first time after meeting him on a web board years ago (he brought his boyfriend, relax). Hes ex-Navy. Sexy. I want him to come up to Canada (again) and bartend at the Eagle for a weekend. He would get laid big time. He loves Egyptian history and is always calling me Mummy. Okay that was a bad one. Im groping here.

Seems like Blogspot has become the Geocities of the New Internet Boom, loaded with rabid assholes looking to make a buck by chucking their links out into the Net. I had to put them on my Anitspam list because dickwads are using this free service to spam blogs with “eatmyshorts.blogspot.com” and such nonsense.

Brother Down, Big Fat Hairy Living and From A to B might have some problems linking to me. I apologize for this inconvenience and will resume your links as soon as the attacks stop.

Yours Bloggingly,

Dead Robot

Update: It seems my antispam works too well. All the Blogspot users comments have been wiped too. I apologize for this glitch. This is no slight in any way to your comments, just poor clicking on my part.

I suspected something was going to happen when I saw Sharkboy swerve his bike, small and sharp, at the bottom of my steep driveway. Thankfully he didn’t try to cut to the right or left and just let himself follow through into the slide. His mistake was hitting the front brake in the sandy gravel of the construction site across from the driveway.

He was going at a fast clip when his bike slid out from under him and veered left while his body mass continued, uninterrupted, straight on towards the big pile of sand. Heavily, his body landed on his keys and money in his pocket, making an indentation on his right leg. At this point he was fully free from his bike, chest down on the dirt and pavement, like some errant mother thinking she could regain her youth by bellyflopping down a Slip N Slide. He starts barking out short Ow’s even before he fully stops.

“Are you ok?” I ask as I dismount my bike. Why am I such a stupid dummyhead? The blood is mixing with the dust on his arm and he hasn’t stopped saying Ow. OF COURSE HE’S NOT.

There’s a certain degree of frustrated despair when you watch someone you love have an accident and you are powerless to react. Its like being reminded that the one you love is not eternal, mortal, human. Once I watched my Da slip at McDonalds and land right on his ass.

Sharkboy was more embarassed than anything else. So I held off on the “Neeeyaaahahahahah!!!” until later while we were cleaning his wounds.

“I have no clue what that is.”

That’s not something you want your doctor to say. Especially when he’s digging around your buttkus. It’s my annual check up 2 years too late. A couple months back, I got a lump down there which I thought was a second “man pooter grape” growing slowly in the soil that is my constant sitting job.

He’s got me over the paper bench and asks me to hold my cheeks apart. I refrain from the old Jim Carrey talking ass joke. He pokes. He prods. He hits it like a punching bag and gauges my reaction. He calls in the receptionist and the janitor and asks their opinion. Negative.

He sends me to the Rudd Clinic of colon probing fun. I kid you not. Rudd. I have a 40 day wait to see a doctor.

In that time every so often the words “cancer!” or “wart!” or even “herpes!” flash across my thoughts like some black and white, 40’s war movie montage. I didn’t sleep well these last few days.

Into the clinic I go. To my astonishment, there’s about 25-30 people in the waiting room and about 7 receptionists. Are bum-clinics always this busy? I’m given a clipboard with about 10000 questions on it regarding where the “problem” is located, complete with small simple anal illustrations where you were to mark an X as to where the Specialists should be looking. I wanted to draw a smiley face. Or a dotted line to a treasure map “X”. I look over stealthily at my neighbour to see where her ails are. She catches me looking over and covers her sheet like it’s grade 9 French class. I return the sheet and settle in with a Toronto Fashion magazine from 2003. I look around the waiting room and the average age is about 65, evenly male and female. There is one other guy about my age and he looks like he’s going to puke. I assume he’s straight and nervous as hell about what was going to happen to him. Thankfully my years of gay anal sex has steeled me to the fact that in a few moments, a stranger will be rooting around my nether-parts. Sort of like a night at the Black Eagle. Ba-zing!

After an hour wait, I am ushered into a room with a plesant East Indian doctor and Rubenesque assistant. And the dreaded paper bench. Trousers off. Face down. Butt up. With me in a Superman position across the bench, it’s raised up to chest height as the two joke about the Doctor’s ability to correctly operate the raising pedals.

In they go.

“Oh yeah,” says the assistant.

“You see?” The specialist says.

“Yup.”

Suddenly a rubberized finger zips so fast into me it brings back memories of my first date.

“Guh!” I grunt.

“Oh sorry. Just inserting a probe to see if you have any more hemmeroids,” the specialist says. Dig dig dig.

“Want me to get rid of that hemmeroid?”

“Will it hurt?” I ask, childlike.

“No.”

“Go for it!”

“I’m done!” he announces after a few seconds of nothing. “I froze it. It will fall off in a few days.”

“And the other…” I prompt.

“Skin tag. Removing that will hurt. Needle, cutting and no stitches. At this point, I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Yay.” I croak as the table is levelled. The scary 40’s film montage fades to my bright smiling face with sunbeams behind my head.

I wander out of the clinic whistling Beyond the Sea by Bobby Darin.

We rented Death Race 2000 and Last House on the Left and without knowing it, Martin Kove was in both. Eeeerieeee dooo doo doo doo! He’s like Jon Erik Hexum but alive. And old. Seeing this guy in two movies from the same decade wasnt much of a stretch since he’s done so much. I guess I’m a sucker for 70s boufy hair and a cleft chin.

I loved DR2K. I thought it was brilliantly sly and incredibly formaggio. The production quality was like watching season 3 of V or the worst episode of Buck Rogers.

Saw The Island as well. Fummm. Typical summer movie. Turn off your brain and smile as it rambles along. Sure there were glaring logistic errors in the story (why the elaborate hologram? Why not just put them on a frigging island somewhere?) but I accepted that as SciFi summer fun. Like getting sun burn. The only thing I didn’t like was the blatant product placement. Two lingering shots of beverage labels just before a character took a swig from it. Not cool. I can accept ads in the background as that it’s inevitable that you will see product during your regular day but movies are starting to beat this crap over our heads. So reject Aquafina and Michelob. Please.

I got my copy of Steamboy last weekend and got a pleasant surprise:

Someone in Japan knows about Coronation Street!