While we scramble to fix things, please enjoy this Robot Chicken clip that sums up Star Wars perfectly.

Shelly here kids! Hey, remember when you actually had to get up to change the channel? I don’t. But apparently there was a show called the Mickey Mouse Club that brought to the United States the innocence and youthful vibrancy of the 50’s and 60’s in all it’s black and white glory. Gee! One particular serial insert they would show during the broadcast was The Adventures of Spin and Marty, the story of two young boys attending cowboy summer camp. The complete first season is out now on DVD from the magical head of Disney.

Each episode was about 15 minutes long and features two boys creating a friendship within the confides of The Triple R Ranch. We meet the spur-up-his-10-year-old-ass, rich bitch Martin, and the slightly older, wiser wrangler Spin (don’t ask me why he’s called Spin. I suspect it’s a hip, kooky 50’s nickname thing) who admires Martin’s plucky tough exterior, even after they obtain a draw in a mock boxing ring, 24 hours after meeting each other (Martin was executing the weirdest, girliest punches I have ever witnessed, and I’ve seen a few at last call at Bar 501, my pretties).

Throw in a slew of 2 dimensional characters a la Disney, like the British butler who watches over Martin, a fatherly riding coach, a could-be-drunk-could-be-crazy open-shirted farmhand (looking alarmingly a lot like Colin Farrell after a post-Oscar party binge) and a whole cabin full of pre-prepubescent, just-read-it-from-the-script kids and this show is on! Yippie Eye oh, motherfuckers!

If this sort of show was to be created today with the exact script and characters there would be alarm bells going off at every level of the Censor Board. At the Triple R, a group of 40 boys are overseen by 4 laughing and smirking men (don’t forget that one who might be drunk or crazy!) in dungarees. Not one woman in sight. While this sausagefest is taking place, it’s fun to destroy the innocent chatter from the 50s by twisting the lines into the sickest pedophile joke by adding “…in the showers” to everyone’s lines. The show becomes a lowbrow comedyfest, fast.

As I sat there, like a blue nosed gopher, I realized I had seen this set up before. Wrestling? Cowboys? Men? Jeans? Horsies? Oh, that’s right! Brokeback Mountain trailers! The similarities were unmistakable: two men who first admire each other, then fall in love, try to reject their feelings by wrasslin’ yet come together in widely accepted male bonding.

Okay that last “widely accepted” bit was a stretch, seeing how I saw a fucking anti-gay loser on CNN last night saying BBM was yet another step in “the selling of homosexuality” to the US public. Shut the fuck up you bitter queen. Go back to your church assigned trophy wife. Fuck I hate anti-gays. Useless waste of a good dick.

Where was I? Oh yeah… They’re frigging cowboys, people! One fifth of the whole male macho iconoclastic tribe (the others are biker cop, construction worker…you get me from there)! To have a story written about guys sitting around in isolation and suddenly have feelings for each other (to whatever degree) is going to be pegged as homoerotic or outright gay.

Lets get back to the kids (stop snickering). The whole first disk played out like a vintage Hardy Boys book right down to the checkered shirts and the “golly!” expletives. The staging even had the feel of those illustrations from the same books you’d find every 30 pages. The Adventures of Spin and Marty was fun, but I recommend it for hard core Disney/Mickey Mouse Club fans only. I gave it 6 shells out of 10.

I should be making how much?! Scroll down to third from the bottom, Graphics Designer. And that’s USD$. I am no where near the mean. And that makes me mean.

Not that I’m greedy or anything. I just want to be able to buy my dad’s crap car.

Update: I just checked with Salary.com and got this tidbit for our Canadian readers:

A typical Web Designer working in Toronto, ON earns a median base salary of $55,724, according to our analysis of data reported by corporate HR departments. Half of the people in this job earn between $49,245 and $64,919.

So I am running about $20K less than the median! Holy slave-driving crap!

We’ve all had this happen. We grew up on a story or book that in some way has touched us. We put the book down and our lives are changed. Our perspective is solidified for most of our lives due to the written words on a page. Thus it was for me with the book I, Robot by Isaac Asimov.

I read a site almost daily called Dark Horizons (dont bother…spyware galore) which isnt the greatest in new media reporting. The author is from Australia but he seems to get some juicy tidbits every so often. When I saw the first report that I, Robot was bought and in pre-production I was happy yet apprehensive. Im still sore from Bicentennial Man and A.I. (Kubrick should haunt Spielberg for 10000 years for that crap ending), so when I heard that this book…this marvel of short stories dedicated to human condition and logistics…was going to be made into a movie I got worried.

The first indication that this movie will be bad is that its being filmed in Vancouver. Oh Vancouver friends and lovers, take no offense, but your fine city is not the model city of the future even with all the street dressing in the world. Maybe Chicago or some place dirty would make a good near-future villa (heee! Evil Panda). I am sure the movie is going to resemble some cheap assed Paul Verhoeven sci fi film (see: art direction for Total Recall).

The other indication is that Will Smith is starring. Okay… Ive read I, Robot a few times. There aint no black lead character. I seem to remember a Susan Calvin as a character that is re-occuring throughout the book. An introverted woman nerd. Not a black male music artist.

The final indication is that early set reports have Will Smith as a police officer. WTF? There’s a reporter who is never identified but no police in any of the stories. So its safe to say theyre deviating from the stories somewhat. Can you read the sarcasm, kids? Mike (from Vanc.) tells me that the set was admonished the other day because of gunfire at an early morning shoot. Gunfire. Im flipping through the book. Nope…other than a massive raygun blast that levels a mountain there are no firefights in it. I may weep openly.

So Im sad. As more stuff comes out from the set I will keep you posted about my utter disgust.

The Mr Toolbox Bear contest was so dreadful I left half way through. The microphone was hooked up to a crappy speaker and combined with the M/C’s accent I couldnt understand a word he was saying. And Hamilton Terry was there.

Let me qualify some things here: I work in a leather bar doing promotions/website/ads and I have limited contact with customers (not as much as the bartenders). For the most part I like our clientelle but as always in group dynamics, theres always someone who rubs your fur the wrong way. Terry is one of them. I find him annoying. He opens his mouth and its all I can do to keep myself from walking away or yelling at him to shut up. You know the type… it doesnt matter how nice they are to you or how shitty they are…their personality is your nemesis-personality. Your anti-matter personality. Thankfully he lives in Hamilton so he’s not in often. Anyway he was there last night talking all the way through the first part of the contest while I was trying to listen to what was being said on stage, which was a chore due to their crappy p.a. system.

I guess I was expecting more from the night. I got nothing. I had a dream this morning that I was back at my first job out of Media school. But I was so ignored/forgotten that I could walk into any boardroom and sit in on things without anyone questioning my presence. I went back to my desk and found it a dumping ground for old computers, manuals, my cubicle fodder, and…insult to injury…my chair was gone. At that point, OldGrannyShakes, the lady in the office who would complain about everything came up to my cube and told me to avoid the Ham. She felt sick since lunch. Which was weird because we didnt have a cafeteria. Then Lady Penelope woke me.

Things I learned at this summer’s last long weekend:

1. Spiders are huge at the end of summer. Especially when there were tons of mosquitoes
2. Moo Moos (mu mus?) are very comfortable. I can see why fat people wear them
3. It’s bitter to see someone discover a place he loves and have to give it up
4. It’s laughable to see arrogance in a gay trailer park
5. Mr X plays some good tunes
6. Garage sales are much better in rural settings

I would like to take a moment to say to Scott and Mike (lovingly called A and B behind their backs) and “Puddin'” that it was a pleasure meeting you all and I hope that you don’t have to leave. You brought fun to the place.

Pics are huppa here!

Why are people afraid of change?

I dont mean the “stand in front of a tank, waving your arms wildly as the world watches” kind of change. I mean the coinage in your pocket kind of change.

Tonight is laundry night. I forgot to go to the bank at lunch to “legally” get change. That is, to get change without guilt, attitude or question. So armed with a twenty, I had to scour the neighbourhood to get some laundry machine fodder.

The first place I came across was Dominion up by where I work. I ask the Service Desk drone politely if she could break a $20. “A roll of quarters and ten ones if you have it.”

“Loonies come in $25 rolls,” she tells me.

“You dont have any loose?” Nope.

I take the roll of quarters optimistically and head to Lawrence subway station.

I hand over the ten I now have. “Can I get some change?” I ask the goof in the booth. He’s fat. And short. Perched high on a barstool like chair so that his nipples are just level with the counter. Without comment he’s tossing me quarters, a couple loonies (yay!) and a twonie and a fiver. As this barrage of change is coming at me, I try to push the quarters back in and say, “Can I get like, $5 in loonies?”

He says nothing. I take the singles and leave the rest. “Can I get all loonies for this?” I ask again.

Arms crossed. Looking at the change. Looks up at me and without a word of a lie, a look of disgust comes across his face, like I’ve just asked if I could poop on his chest while he sings Britney Spears. “No,” he says.

I angrily take all the change and deliberaly drop a token into the slot. There! Take that you rude fuck!

I hoof it to Lawblaws by my apartment. It’s not the most stellar store. The produce is never fresh, there’s always a spill in some isle and the last time I went there, the checkout guy stayed on his cell trying to iron out the drunken haze that was his weekend. The phone never left his face as he swiped my purchases. Not even a thank you. You get my drift…the place sucks for customer service. I am not hopefull. I am downright dejected and ready for defeat. In my head I start to cut back on my laundry.

While I waited for the Service Desk drone, I avoided the stares of all the people in line for the 1-8 items line who all gave me dissaproving looks as if I was trying to jump the line. I wondered when asking for change became such a guilt ridden activity.

The drone arrives and I ask, waving a fiver, “Can I get five singles?”

“Singles?”

I had just broke some Canadian law by not saying ‘Loonies’. “Loonies,” I clarify.

“For…?” he leads.

“For this $5?”

Oh! his face says. And promptly gets me some change. Irony.

Squishy the rat died today
A horror I can’t stop replay
So to ease the pain in my mind
I just happen to have a great new find
She’s tall, she’s thin, she’s delicate
And no my friend, she’s not a rat
Squishy is dead, Squishy has died
Squishy the orchid lives, I have not lied

–Sharkboy, 2005

Long Live Squishy!!

Much like Lucy and Desi in The Long Long Trailer, Sharkboy and I spent 10 solid days camping it up at The Point (not entirely work safe due to slight old man nudity) and we invited along Andy and Paul (Andy is an old friend of mine from pioneer days of GAB).

I found it amusing how technology has infiltrated the campground. On a couple nights we watched movies on LCD projectors beamed up onto the sides of trailers or on laptops in prefab gazeboes in the middle of the woods. One camper had a few illegal downloads of exceptional quality and we tried our best to shun this heinous activity (pfft!). Meanwhile most of the drunk campers were wearing some sort of LED bracelette or bauble on the rec hall dancefloor, like the 90s rave thing never ended. The most complicated device we had at Camp Robotic Shark was… well… a robotic shark! While walking by The Source in Tillsonburg, I spied the hottest geek employee ever. His rugged good looks and bald goatee’d head commanded me to buy a remote controlled shark that scooted around the pool for all of 5 minutes before needing another charge. Dick purchase, really.

Our greatest purchase was this (note the “52” keg – kept our drinks cold all day long in 32C heat).

A major portion of the week with the boys was spent by the pool. We never really got our asses into gear to do day trips into the surrounding area. I suggested the Casino in Niagara or the Farmer’s Market in Kitchener (albeit a day late), someone suggested Skidoos down at Turkey Point. Yet all suggestions were ignored as we floated lazily in the pool. I feel somewhat guilty about that but I think the boys did have a good time regardless. They had their own car so it wasn’t like they were hostages and could have gone off on their own. There. I feel better after that justification.

The only daily ritual we had was cleaning the pool. To get Mr X free of his volunteer cleaning of the pool and get our asses to breakfast faster, we assisted with the organizing, vacuuming and skimming of the pool. It was a Tai Chi-like exercise swirling the sucker along the bottom of the pool as the sun rose, sucking up sand, grass and bugs while Sharkboy would replace the deck chairs to attractive patterns. This was pretty much a Sisyphussian activity since only moments after we opened the gate, the chairs would get dragged around to suit people’s groupings. Still, it did allow us to reserve the best seats in the pool.

Midweek, The Busdriver showed up and immediately made a connection with Paul as that they both loved slagging conservative US politics. We then ordered The Busdriver to make-over the Chicago Boy’s contribution to the Great Burn: Condoleeza Rice was transformed from Secretary of the State to booty momma with backcombed big hair. Gambling Addicition Barbie was magically made over from groovy 60s chick to Mullet Sportin’ Midrift Showin’ Trailer Barbie. They went up nice, especially when we sprinkled crushed sparklers in their hair. Vids coming soon!

We convinced the Chicago boys to stay on an extra day and they only got to experience the “build up” to Bear Weekend at The Point. At least two US Bear groups were in attendance and they started to roll in (ha!) on Thursday/Friday.

At this point, I really should have been carrying around a small notebook to record all the rediculous things I overheard while floating in the pool. The best was a bottle blonde bear sauntering into the pool area while we were setting up for the day and sitting beside someone who looked like he had spent the night out in the woods. He leaned in close to his friend and said: “I have a long memory and I won’t forget what you did last night.” I was straining at the bit not to ask what the hell he had done to garner this bear’s ire but good sense won out.

The only downer from the week was Sharkboy getting a couple phone messages from family members informing him of his godmother’s passing. It didn’t interrupt our week, however.

One of the highlights of the week was discovering that an extremely shy, yet very attractive older Bear was interested in tussling with both Sharkboy and I. Very flattering. The darn dirty shame was we only discovered this within the last hour of our stay at the park.

Coming back to Toronto was truly surreal. Everyone was wearing clothes. People were rude and strangers didn’t wave hello to you as you passed them on the street. Attitude abounded, even as we strolled along Church Street. We spent a couple hours fantasizing about how we’d fix up The Point if we had won $1 million.

We’ve booked for Labour Day but might go back for a night before then.

UPDATE: Pics are up here.

My initial reaction to MLT’s eleventieth Ball was one of “same ol’ same old” but after a few drinks I did warm up to it.

For the last few Leatherballs (tee hee!) at the Opera House, they’ve been moving the DJ around to different places within the venue which changes things up a tad but Saturday’s dance had the DJ on the stage. He was under an impressive well lit scaffolding with demos and go go boys as accoutrements, but this set up was a bit “pushy” since there was some distortion on a few tracks. New equipment? Was it the acoustics? Who can say. The music was good and a couple tracks had me bopping.

I love the Opera House. It’s a personal space and much more interesting/intimate than The Guvernment. Unfortunately the sound does seem to bounce around like the tweeking child that insisted on dancing (?) beside me (on me?) for the better part of the evening. Which brings me to…

When we got there, we shuffled to our favorite spot, dead centre of the middle tier. From there you can see everyone coming and going to the dance floor. Unfortunately about 8 guys were already there and their E had kicked in a bit too early, making them jostle around and touch each other like tactile zombies. One complained that he probably didn’t time it right and he was going to crash about 6am. Wow. Too bad. We had a few drinks by that time so I can’t preach about drug use within the gay community, but I can say (again) that I don’t understand the whole drug culture thing. If I start kissing you, am I kissing you because you want to or that some chemical tells you to? I’d rather kiss a toaster and have the certainty.

We left fairly early, just around 1am. In all, I would give it a C.