I want [...]]]> The title of this post is cheerfully ripped off from the Richard Brautigan poem “All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace” — a typically-whimsical, typically-Brautigan meditation on a future devoid of labour and filled with connectedness, via technology, to all of the natural world — but it’s really just the title I’m stealing.

I want to tell you some stuff you already know.

Our physical selves are, stated dispassionately, nothing more than finely-crafted machines, or an aggregate of thousands of tinier machines, perfected through countless generations of evolutionary R&D. To move your arm, a signal is sent from the brain to elicit an electrochemical surge in the machines of our muscles, which respond by contracting, but only to the degree meted out by the information received by your eyes or by touch to those centers of the brain which will, in turn, stop sending the signal to move when the operation is complete.

And over thousands of years, Evolution Inc’s R&D Department imbued higher species with consciousness. And self-awareness. And since evolution is, functionally, nothing more than insurance that each species will continue to pass along genetic materials to generations following, conscious minds developed a complex, hyperintricate set of protocols not unlike the programmed circuits running practically every machine we use today. These protocols work to guarantee the survival of all sentient species by establishing bonds with or barricades against individuals (and families) within that species. And between species.

It’s hard to speak of these protocols, these emotions, in a dispassionate fashion. I won’t even try. Hey, take a look at the greatest, most perfect music video ever crafted:

Video: Björk + Chris Cunningham, “All is Full of Love”

A number of friends and web-correspondents have been trying to find some peace, some grace, in their emotional selves following recent — and even longer-term — disappointments in their romantic lives. I have, too. We rage, we despair, we achingly long for an end to those sleepless nights, to that soul-corroding loneliness, to that overwhelming fear of connecting with another and being hurt again or, worse, we fear never again being able to connect with another. I have no tangible solution to offer to you. Or to myself.

But the world only spins forward.*

And we are still human. We’re still machines which need to move and fuck and eat and shit and feel. We can’t not. It’s how we’re built.

We’re built to experience exhilarating joy, impenetrable sadness, debilitating fear, warm contentment, searing hurt and the gentle embrace of love. We can’t not eat, we can’t not move and we can’t not feel. We’re programmed that way, we electrochemical-machines. We emotion-machines.

So, go. Do. Feel. Accept with grace that it’s never easy, never painless and never without crushing disappointment. But it’s also undeniably built into the very fabric of our bodies, of our consciousnesses. To deny that is to deny our humanity. We machines of loving grace.

Nothing.

Including This. That. No Other.

A lot has happened since my last posts and I suppose an apology is in order for the broken promises to update here. I’m sorry. Stuff [...]]]> I’ve been uncluttering my life lately, tossing stuff into piles labeled “Need”, “Want” and “Discard” — alternately: “Love”, “Like” and “Lose” — and nothing escapes scrutiny.

Nothing.

Including This. That. No Other.

A lot has happened since my last posts and I suppose an apology is in order for the broken promises to update here. I’m sorry. Stuff happened. Some good, some bad, some downright awful. And all of it leads me to variations on a theme: The End.

In late November I was enjoying the delightful company of the denizens of Vancouver’s The Pumpjack bar and although I was hungry, I felt full. So, rather than enjoying further the company of one gentleman in particular, whose staggering hotness is matched by his ultrafirm handshake, I beat a hasty retreat home and then out for a dinner which I didn’t — couldn’t — really enjoy. I slept not a wink that night, running periodically to the bathroom in an attempt to expel, from either end, that which seemed reluctant to be expelled.

The next day was worse. Chills, sweats, fever, excruciating abdominal pain and much rolling around in the fetal position on my bed. I begged to be taken to the hospital where I was quickly diagnosed not with food poisoning but with acute appendicitis. This was something I’ve been dreading for, oh, 40 years or so, as my mother (and her father) had had nightmarish, near-death experiences with their appendix removals. Mine wasn’t close to rupturing; it had practically disintegrated. Once discovered, however, I was treated quickly and professionally and sent out the door a couple of days later to recuperate.

While I was lying in the Emergency Room in mind-shattering pain, thinking that I might actually see The End (of My Life) before the night ended, my relationship — the one which brought me to Vancouver — was secretly ending, too. I found this out a few days later, amends were made and promises… promised. Two months after that, it officially ended. There are some events from which no relationship can recover, I suppose, and without question we’re now both better positioned to pursue that which we separately want to pursue. I wish him well. Honestly.

So I am a man alone now. And I am much happier for it, for the record.

Recovery from the surgery was slower than I’d have liked and I was deeply frustrated at not being able to exercise at all. But I healed and got back into shape. And was struck down, again, by a nasty, four-week flu. Not that you need to be told this, but you seriously do not want to be assessing (and reporting on) your life while engaged in a flu-fight.

The Olympics came to Vancouver and it was pretty spectacular — recent official break-up notwithstanding — and I had a helluva good time. But… again I was feeling poorly. And I wound up, once again, in the Emergency Room. It seems I developed prostate problems as a result of a 35-year-old cycling injury. I won’t go into details but I will say that I’m really fuckin’ tired of taking antibiotics and I have two more weeks to go. And then surgery. But, honestly? I’m eager to have it done as, like my appendix, this inevitable surgery has been hanging over me for the greater part of my life, cropping up every four or five years and that, I hope, won’t happen after May.

So, yeah, The End. Of my appendix, my relationship, the last flu of the season and my recurring prostate issues.

And The End of this blog as you know it.

Since moving to Vancouver, the flavour of my posts here has changed quite radically, and its whole raison d’être — railing against the serious dysfunction in Toronto — seems moot. I’m happy here. Really happy. No city is perfect, but this city is perfect for me.

I started noticing, too, a growing, personal frustration at the fake compartmentalization of my life, a life in which there really isn’t much compartmentalization at all. My online existence is represented by four different and distinct personæ and yet… in real life there is but one. And the ranty, curmudgeonly, bstewart23 persona, which served as useful a purpose as, say, William Burroughs’ “routines” — which eventually became Naked Lunch — needs an overhaul. Concurrent with this deeply personal observation was the increasingly-incandescent, online self-immolation of a former confidant, who now seems incapable of slowing his descent into unintentional self-parody. I so don’t want to do that.

Over the past four months or so, I’ve been recommended Alan Downs’ The Velvet Rage, an exploration of the consequences of growing up gay in a straight society, by four or five people whose opinions I value greatly. I’d avoided it because the central premise — that all gay men are affected by the deep shame resulting from their differentness — doesn’t quite mesh with my experience; I don’t really exhibit any symptoms of shame (of which, of course, you were already very much aware, right?). I picked it up and wish I’d done so much earlier.

The Velvet Rage is a deeply-affecting work, and I cannot recommend it highly enough to all gay men, especially those older than 30. If you don’t recognize yourself within its pages, you will certainly recognize your friends and your lovers, past and present. And having your eyes opened to a significant cause of the truly shitty things we do to ourselves and others, we can set out on a path to authenticity.

Which brings me back to this blog, which had become increasingly inauthentic. So it’s over. Done. The End. Besides, the updates to the software seriously fucked the commenting system, so the whole damn thing needed an overhaul anyway.

I hope you’ve been well. I’ve missed you. And I’ll see you here soon. New, improved, more authentic. I’m really fuckin’ excited. No, really, you guys. Life is good. I’m working on “Love”, “Like” and “Lose”. And it’s great.

Love fearlessly, y’all.

That’ll change. The past two months have been introspective, busy, fun, scary, sexy, stressy, wonderful and, ultimately, totally necessary.

See you early in 2010. Promise.

Underworld, “Two Months Off”

And scariest of all…

Video: Sarah Silverman, “Sell the Vatican, Feed the World”

And before those there were [...]]]> Oh, bygone eras of sublimated male eroticism! Before there was Xtube there was newsgroup photo-sharing and before those there were dirty videos (βeta!) and magazines. And before those there were International Male catalogs and “fitness” magazines and before those there were the swimsuit and underwear sections of Sears and Eaton’s catalogs.

And before those there were Ivory soap ads:

“Ivory soap had a good many unusual experiences during the war…”

“Not the least of the pleasure of a hard game is the bath that follows it.”

I believe it’s safe to say that I’ve devoted the latter part of my life to being 0 ⁵⁶/₁₀₀% pure. And I can’t help but think that ads like these got Mad Men‘s Sal into advertising.

(From Divine Caroline via MikeP.)

Dreaming (30 September 2009)

Three days ago, to be exact, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention it (at least in passing). We all mark significant milestones in our lives, and 22 September 1979 was one of the most critical in my development. Not unlike a majority of gay men of my [...]]]> Oh, hey. I turned “30″ this week.

Three days ago, to be exact, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention it (at least in passing). We all mark significant milestones in our lives, and 22 September 1979 was one of the most critical in my development. Not unlike a majority of gay men of my generation, the moment we pass from acknowledging our attractions to acting upon them can be tumultuous, distressing, earth-shattering and wonderful.

Thousands of men later, many thousands of experiences later… and yet, that particular “birth” was more than sex. It was entry into Otherness. Outsiderness. I cherish and celebrate that singular moment, that birth, in every encounter, on every new day.

Happy Birthday, me. Thirty years. Ho-LEE.

I hope every gay kid reading this, but not yet having had the moment of birth of which I speak, knows that those who’ve come before you — heh — will always be your brothers.

Peace. And Love. Lots and lots of Love.

Video: The Dandy Warhols, “Godless”

(Thanks, Bruce.)

I don’t think I’ve got a good body. And that’s not cause I want you to say I have. I don’t look in the mirror and go: ‘Fucking hell Benny, good body.’ I look at it and [...]]]> Rugby star — and TTNO fan-fave — Ben Cohen strips for Attitude mag and says this about his physique:

I don’t think I’ve got a good body. And that’s not cause I want you to say I have. I don’t look in the mirror and go: ‘Fucking hell Benny, good body.’ I look at it and go, actually, I need to lose some more weight, I need to do some more work and I’ll go into the gym and I’ll try, I don’t really think I have a good body. If people do than fair enough. I think it’s my genetic make-up. I don’t really have much of a say in it.”

I’m sorry, Mr. Cohen, but they simply do not make ‘em much hotter. Predictably, more after the jump (underwear shots, possibly NSFW)…

Courtesy Towleroad.

Important Reminder: The “Green on Thursday” series always reveals very much more about your host at This.That.No Other. than it does about any of the featured personalities.

Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

Courtesy Sheepy.

Video: The Whip, “Trash”

Thanx to MikeP…