The spacecraft was a long way from home.

I thought it would be a good idea, just after Saturn, to have them take one last glance homeward. From Saturn, the Earth would appear too small for Voyager to make out any detail. Our planet would be just a point [...]]]>
Video: Pale Blue Films; Music: Mogwai

The spacecraft was a long way from home.

I thought it would be a good idea, just after Saturn, to have them take one last glance homeward. From Saturn, the Earth would appear too small for Voyager to make out any detail. Our planet would be just a point of light, a lonely pixel hardly distinguishable from the other points of light Voyager would see: nearby planets, far off suns. But precisely because of the obscurity of our world thus revealed, such a picture might be worth having.

It had been well understood by the scientists and philosophers of classical antiquity that the Earth was a mere point in a vast, encompassing cosmos—but no one had ever seen it as such. Here was our first chance, and perhaps also our last for decades to come.

So, here they are: a mosaic of squares laid down on top of the planets in a background smattering of more distant stars. Because of the reflection of sunlight off the spacecraft, the Earth seems to be sitting in a beam of light, as if there were some special significance to this small world; but it’s just an accident of geometry and optics. There is no sign of humans in this picture: not our reworking of the Earth’s surface; not our machines; not ourselves. From this vantage point, our obsession with nationalisms is nowhere in evidence. We are too small. On the scale of worlds, humans are inconsequential: a thin film of life on an obscure and solitary lump of rock and metal.

Consider again that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it, everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you’ve ever heard of, every human being who ever was lived out their lives. The aggregate of all our joys and sufferings; thousands of confident religions, ideologies and economic doctrines; every hunter and forager; every hero and coward; every creator and destroyer of civilizations; every king and peasant, every young couple in love; every mother and father; hopeful child; inventor and explorer; every teacher of morals; every corrupt politician; every supreme leader; every superstar; every saint and sinner in the history of our species, lived there—on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena.

Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner. How frequent their misunderstandings; how eager they are to kill one another; how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that in glory and triumph they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the universe, are challenged by this point of pale light.

Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity—in all this vastness—there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. Like it or not, for the moment, the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. It underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the only home we’ve ever known.

The pale blue dot.

Carl Sagan, 11 May 1996

By that I mean that we humans have a peculiar physiology and psychology which can lend itself to certain perceptions which we casually describe as “religious” and, because these perceptions and experiences have yet to be scientifically studied in any significant fashion, we’re [...]]]> Though I think religion is total horseshit, I deeply respect the religious experience.

By that I mean that we humans have a peculiar physiology and psychology which can lend itself to certain perceptions which we casually describe as “religious” and, because these perceptions and experiences have yet to be scientifically studied in any significant fashion, we’re left with wholly-inadequate — if not wholly-inaccurate — explanations from the faithful or, more benignly, philosophers and artists.

Sam Harris is one scientist who’s been lobbying strenuously for research into the religious experience, to help explain, scientifically, what’s actually going on when we see an angel or travel down a corridor of light or feel a an irregularly huge rush of empathy and belonging. In The Four Horsemen, a deeply-engaging conversation between Harris, Chris Hitchens, Rich Dawkins and Dan Dennett, he makes his case:

I think there is a range of experience that is rare, and that is only talked about without obvious qualms in religious discourse. And because it’s only talked about in religious discourse, it is just riddled with superstition. And it’s used to cash out various metaphysical schemes which it can’t reasonably do. But clearly people have extraordinary experiences. Whether they have them on LSD, or they have them because they were alone in a cave for a year, or they have them because just happen to have the neurology that is particularly labile that allows for it, but people have self-transcending experiences. And people have the best day of their life where everything seemed, you know, they seemed at one with nature. And for that, because religion seems to be the only game in town in talking about those experiences and dignifying them, that’s one reason why I think it seems to be taboo to criticise it, because you are talking about the most important moments in people’s lives and trashing them, at least from their view.

And, you know, he’s right. Trashing such experiences accomplishes little, but illuminating them… that’s how we can dispell the superstitions and discover some seriously exciting potentials for our evolved minds and brains.

Video: Animated representation of Brion Gysin’s Dream Machine

And speaking of illuminating, I’m currently enjoying, very much, Toronto filmmaker Nik Sheehan’s documentary FLicKeR, about one such way to trigger the ecstatic experience, Brion Gysin’s Dream Machine.

A host of ultracool artists appear in Sheehan’s documentary, too, but I’ll let you visit the official site for that. Certainly, some of the most influential artists of the past 50 years — William S. Burroughs, Brion Gysin, Kenneth Anger, Kurt Cobain and Genesis P-Orridge — are connected with the device. I’ve certainly been fascinated by the idea for over thirty years. Here Marianne Faithfull describes the experience and Gen P-Orridge describes its, um, genesis:

Video: Excerpt from the movie FLicKeR

Instructions for creating a Dream Machine can be found at the movie’s official site (link above). Thirty years of fascination alone is more than enough. Looks like someone’s going to be visiting second-hand audio equipment shops in the next week or so.

Though Champ and I never really did The Pride Thing in Toronto — at least, not together, and not for the past few years — we didn’t need to really discuss whether (or not) we were going to take in Vancouver’s festivities . We just knew, y’know? I mean, [...]]]> There really wasn’t much discussion about it.

Though Champ and I never really did The Pride Thing in Toronto — at least, not together, and not for the past few years — we didn’t need to really discuss whether (or not) we were going to take in Vancouver’s festivities . We just knew, y’know? I mean, Champ’s lifelong friend (and fierce-partying fire-dyke) Cindy Kampmeinert was named Honourary Pride Hero, so the parade was a given. And there’s no denying I wanted to check out the party because, hey, my two favouritest groups in the whole world are hippies and gay people, so it had that kind of built-in appeal, right there.

Toronto’s Pride has become a leviathan of scale with which I now neither enjoy nor even feel comfortable, so an expected crowd of half that seemed about right for me, about the size at which Toronto’s Pride in the ’90s balanced the city’s community, our neighbours and visitors from abroad. And, indeed, it’s at this point which Vancouver’s Pride committee will need to either scale back or expand to accommodate the crowds.

Friday Night’s street party on Davie saw two blocks of that avenue fenced off in what can only be described as Party Pens, because Canadian Anglos can’t be trusted with alcoholic beverages right out in the open where minors might accidentally brush up aginst them. But looking at a line-up of 45 minutes to get into one of the two Party Pens ($7 entry) and a line-up to get drink tickets and then yet another line-up of about an hour to get a goddamn drink? Uh, no.

With Ken and Champ (2 August 2009)

On Saturday we met up with our pal Ken, in town from Toronto for the weekend, and had some awesome sushi at the roundhouse in Yaletown while catching up. We set a date to watch the parade together and he took off for parts unknown while we went to a fireworks-viewing party in the West End and drank far too much, for which we apologize to our enchanting hosts. Any untoward behaviour, including shameless flirting, too. There were line-ups outside every bar and club along the route home. The gays love their bars.

Pride Day found us up early and eager to hit the parade. We met Ken and stationed ourselves at the corner of Beach and Bidwell, where we were treated to nonstop commentary from a Hippie Douchebag and unending jostling from the ever-increasing entourage of an Asian family who saw fit to bring one of their children’s bicycle to the front of the spectator lines. This happens with such regularity at Pride Parades — if not a bicycle, it’s a baby carriage which inevitable is pressed into the back of my legs.

And let me take this opportunity to tell those Hippie Douchenozzles and rude, straight gawkers out there: you may be a citizen of this country and therefore legally able to go anywhere in public, but THIS IS OUR FUCKING PARTY, ASSHOLES, not yours. You’re invited and you’re welcome to have a good time with us. But don’t you fucking ask to have pictures taken with complete strangers among us to make you look hip and cool. Because it demeans us and, most of all, WE ARE NOT HERE FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT. We are here because it’s our party, and if you do not like seeing fat dykes on motorcycles or old, wrinkly, naked fags with their junk hanging out, you can just keep your stupid-fuck comments to yourself while you are getting the fuck away from us, like, right now.

And then the parade started and it was fun even if it was also far too long. And that fucking bicycle. And that Hippie Douche, with whom we’ll deal in a moment.

There were Dykes on Bikes, the traditional harbingers of Pride parades:

Hippie Douchewaffle behind us felt it necessary to say, at a volume perfectly-suited to someone utterly oblivious to his obnoxiousness, “so… a bunch of fat chicks on motorcycles? What next?” Stay classy, Hippie.

There were mounties, who had to endure chants of “Take! It! Off!” when they stopped briefly in front of our section. Hey, it was really hot and we were just offering a helpful suggestion because us gays, we’re nothing if not helpful, especially when it comes to wardrobe and costumes:

If they laughed, that made it okay, right? It was hot, people.

There was the dashing and handsome Ian Hanomansing, a newsreader for a television network, the name of which I’ve forgotten:

There was Grand Marshall Cleve Jones, whose door sticker seemed as concise as it was… limiting:

My dad showed up unannounced:

Hippie Douchebucket found this particularly distressing: “straight people can’t go naked in our parades, so it’s wrong to allow old gay people to do it,” which, when you think about it, is a statement fucked up on too many levels to bother with for any reasonable length of time. Like beyond the end of that last sentence.

There was a quartet of First Nations chicks fiercing it up to Tina Turner to get the crowd going (and it worked):

It was tough not to get choked up by the abundance of love and respect for Cindy “Big Cins” Kampmeinert by her fellow firefighters:

I understand Cindy was also a bit of a Vancouver Pride legend when it came to water fights. Do not fuck with a kick-ass lesbian who knows how to operate pressurized water, people. R.I.P., Big Cins.

We screamed for ice cream. Okay, ice cream vendors:

We accepted a sincere apology, even if apologies fall far short of actual retribution:

We got a giggle (and mild political arousal) from the PumpJack float, and made a mental note to go there on my Vancouver Gaybar Re-Un-Virgining:

We observed a touching moment of silence for fallen friends:

Hippie Douchewaste: “what a downer, man.”

Hey, by now you’ve probably established a mental picture of Señor Smartass, right? How close were you?

So hot.

And close to the end of the parade, my decision to not join Fitness World — despite their incessant, insistent phone calls to follow up on a single free workout at one of their facilities — was utterly reinforced by the bane of my gay existence: the sailor cap on a hairless, hot-pantsed go-go stud. People, for the love of all things good and sweaty, Let. It. Die. already.

Argh.

Following the parade, we traipsed towards Sunset Beach, where a whole bunch of vendors and volunteer agencies set up shop beside the — predictably overcrowded — single beer garden. Memo to the Pride Committee: next year? Think bigger. Like, maybe get rid of banking booths — who the hell opens a chequing account on Pride Day? — and stick in another beer garden or three. There are bears out there and they are thirsty.

I volunteered to model for checkhimout.ca, a gay men’s health website that looks, promisingly, as fun and sex-positive as it is informative:

And, no, that photo isn’t mirror-backwards. Hot, tired and thirsty, we headed back to a lovely BBQ at one of Champ’s colleague’s patio deck and then home to crash, happy homos, us.

Happy Pride, Vancouver-style, everyone.

It was a day very, very much like this day in Vancouver — hot, sunny — except it was in Winnipeg, and therefore much [...]]]> Can you remember what you were doing forty years ago? I can remember what I was doing exactly forty years ago. (Full disclosure: I usually can’t remember what I did last week.)

It was a day very, very much like this day in Vancouver — hot, sunny — except it was in Winnipeg, and therefore much hotter (and sunnier (and, it must be noted, mosquitoier)). And right around now I was exiting the Polo Park Cinerama theatre, having just had my 13-year-old mind blown by 2001: A Space Odyssey, a book I’d just read but was no closer to understanding after seeing Stanley Kubrick’s masterpiece of formalist freakouterry.

I was rushing home from 2001 on that day-after-my-Mom’s-birthday so many years ago, so that I could watch the moon landing on television. I loved all things space, and from that point until my second year in the University of Calgary’s astrophysics program, I wanted to work for NASA, I wanted to fly to space and I wanted to be a part of the first space colony.

I still want that last part, if for no other reason than it will now be possible to live and work in an environment in which all the mythologies of the millennia have been reduced to mere history, intellectual curiosities. I wonder if it’ll even happen within my lifetime? I can’t see Halliburton getting involved in anything so beneficial-to-science or unencumbered-by-greed, so prolly not.

Anyway, my parents couldn’t have pried my eyes from our television set that night, so they kinda gave up and let me stay up until well past 1AM to watch the moon walk itself. Are there any comparable events today which brings a family together around the television, filled with hope and fear and excitement, as much as did that event? I think: no.

Lately I’ve been digging through my old Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention CDs, ripping them to my iPod — while it’s still not a crime in Canada — and rediscovering the musical brilliance and cheeky, peurile polemics of this towering figure of American 20th century music. He was a [...]]]>
Your Host in 1973

Lately I’ve been digging through my old Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention CDs, ripping them to my iPod — while it’s still not a crime in Canada — and rediscovering the musical brilliance and cheeky, peurile polemics of this towering figure of American 20th century music. He was a fierce, unyielding advocate for free speech, butting heads with Tipper Gore (!) in Congress concerning lyrical content in popular music. (Later, as he was dying, Tipper sent him a sincere get-well message).

During the search to complete my Zappa collection, I ran into this video from 1986′s CNN Crossfire, featuring the inimitable Robert “Asshole” Novak bloviating about morality and the power of words. Zappa not only holds his own against the censorial blowhards, but his words are as powerful and relevant today as they were 23 years ago.

In about a month I’ll be as old as Frank Zappa was when he died from prostate cancer.

Video: Frank Zappa on CNN: Crossfire (1986)

Oh my God. This was, um. This was not an easy film to make. First off, I have to thank Cleve Jones and Anne Kronenberg [...]]]> Academy Award-winning Milk screenwriter Dustin Lance Black makes a promise to the lesbian and gay kids of America, while the crustier queers among the millions watching wipe away a tear:

Oh my God. This was, um. This was not an easy film to make. First off, I have to thank Cleve Jones and Anne Kronenberg and all the real-life people who shared their stories with me. And, um, Gus Van Sant, Sean Penn, Emile Hirsch, Josh Brolin, James Franco, and our entire cast, my producers, Dan Jinks and Bruce Cohen, everyone at Groundswell and Focus, for taking on the challenge of telling this life-saving story. When I was 13 years old, my beautiful mother and my father moved me from a conservative Mormon home in San Antonio, Texas to California and I heard the story of Harvey Milk. And it gave me hope. It gave me the hope to live my life, it gave me the hope to one day live my life openly as who I am and that maybe even I could fall in love and one day get married. I want to thank my mom who has always loved me for who I am, even when there was pressure not to. But most of all, if Harvey had not been taken from us 30 years ago, I think he’d want me to say to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they are less than by their churches or by the government or by their families that you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value and that no matter what anyone tells you, God does love you and that very soon, I promise you, you will have equal rights, federally, across this great nation of ours. Thank you, thank you, and thank you God for giving us Harvey Milk.

ADDENDUM: I’d be remiss, of course, if I neglected to add Sean Penn’s wonderful acceptance speech for his breathtaking work in Milk:

Thank you. Thank you. You commie, homo-loving sons-of-guns. I did not expect this, but I, and I want it to be very clear, that I do know how hard I make it to appreciate me often. But I am touched by the appreciation and I hoped for it enough that I did want to scribble down, so I had the names in case you were commie, homo-loving sons-of-guns, and so I want to thank my best friend, Sata Matsuzawa. My circle of long-time support, Mara, Brian, Barry and Bob. The great Cleve Jones. Our wonderful writer, Lance Black. Producers Bruce Cohen and Dan Jinks.

And particularly, as all, as actors know, our director either has the patience, talent and restraint to grant us a voice or they don’t, and it goes from the beginning of the meeting, through the cutting room. And there is no finer hands to be in than Gus Van Sant. And finally, for those, two last finallies, for those who saw the signs of hatred as our cars drove in tonight, I think that it is a good time for those who voted for the ban against gay marriage to sit and reflect and anticipate their great shame and the shame in their grandchildren’s eyes if they continue that way of support. We’ve got to have equal rights for everyone. And there are, and there are, these last two things. I’m very, very proud to live in a country that is willing to elect an elegant man president and a country who, for all its toughness, creates courageous artists. And this is in great due respect to all the nominees, but courageous artists, who despite a sensitivity that sometimes has brought enormous challenge, Mickey Rourke rises again and he is my brother. Thank you all very much.

I’ve spoken before about Cabaret Voltaire and the brilliant minds behind it — Richard H. Kirk and Stephen Mallinder — and here’s an opportunity to sample Kirk’s work under one of his many pseudonyms, Al Jabr.

Some [...]]]> Cripes, what a busy week it’s been, and my bad for the limited posting here. So, by way of apology…

I’ve spoken before about Cabaret Voltaire and the brilliant minds behind it — Richard H. Kirk and Stephen Mallinder — and here’s an opportunity to sample Kirk’s work under one of his many pseudonyms, Al Jabr.

Some say Richard H. Kirk’s various guises have facilitated his enormous output without overloading fans or testing the mettle of label executives. I dunno. But it’s amazing what a fistful of LSD and heroin can do at 5:30AM in your home studio.

(I’m guessing.)

From Al Jabr’s One Million and Three (1999), “Burn Out on Precinct 13″:

Turn It Up!

(Audio NSFW)

Tears, streaming down my face. I’ve watched this video eleventy times and each time it gets even awesomer. Royce an Marilyn are… beyond. More about them here.

(Thanks to timber for the tip).

Your Host as Homo erectus, from “Devolve Me”, Courtesy Open University

Happy 200th, Mr. Darwin.

Some of the scratch-pads still work. Or maybe it’s just scents-memory.

I miss Divine. I miss Edith Massey. It must be hard for John Waters — another of My Dream Dinner Party attendees — to watch his landmark movies now. They’re almost all gone, those iconic Dreamlanders.

While most of my Toronto contemporaries were making the trek to NYC and getting completely fucked-up for this party or that party, I was intoxicated by a different kind of celebration: ACT-UP, Outweek and Queer Nation.

We sat behind Martin Balsam and his wife at Millennium Approaches. He cried as much as I did, [...]]]>

While most of my Toronto contemporaries were making the trek to NYC and getting completely fucked-up for this party or that party, I was intoxicated by a different kind of celebration: ACT-UP, Outweek and Queer Nation.

We sat behind Martin Balsam and his wife at Millennium Approaches. He cried as much as I did, if I recall. Below, the playwright, and one attendee at My Dream Dinner Party:

Those Were The Days

On the heels of similar blogbuddy posts — here and here — I paid a visit to The Hero Factory and crafted my own, superpersonalized  superhero. Some parts of him are off and some dead-on. I’ll leave it for you to decide which are which.

I acknowledge [...]]]> Never let it be said I’m not a follower.

On the heels of similar blogbuddy posts — here and here — I paid a visit to The Hero Factory and crafted my own, superpersonalized  superhero. Some parts of him are off and some dead-on. I’ll leave it for you to decide which are which.

I acknowledge in advance that my shoes do not match my backpack (though my kneepads do). And, for the record, I apparently have no control over the comic’s title.