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.)

With J.D. (7 September 2009)

…bought an awesome new citybike, heard the seven trumpets:

The Seven Trumpets

…discovered that in Space, no one can [...]]]> Short week, lots of work done, busted my Craigslist cherry (sold a TV and a Betamax — oh, yeah!) and my Kijiji cherry (sold my old bike), hung out with the inimitable J.D.:

With J.D. (7 September 2009)

…bought an awesome new citybike, heard the seven trumpets:

The Seven Trumpets

…discovered that in Space, no one can hear you eat:

Space Lounge

…ate some hard strawberries:

Hard Strawberry

…had problems with scale:

Scale

…lusted after Doug Brooks on Leverage:

Doug Brooks in Leverage

…and we’re currently enjoying Friday Night Martini # 3 4, featuring garlic- and jalapeno-stuffed olives.

A good week.

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.

Wire is coming back again Elastica got sued by them When [...]]]> It’s no secret I’m a huge fan of The Dandy Warhols but it may not be widely known that The Beatles’ “Blackbird” is one of my very favourite songs. As it turns out, in the title track to The Dandys’ Welcome to the Monkey House, they sing

Wire is coming back again
Elastica got sued by them
When Michael Jackson dies
We’re covering “Blackbird”
And won’t it be absurd then
When no one knows what song they just heard
Unless someone on the radio tells them first
So come on come on come on
Come
Come on come on come on
Come on
Come on come on come on
You monkeys

Well, they promised, and they delivered:

Video: The Dandy Warhols “Blackbird”

Zia! Amazing. And so not a tribute, as many have mistaken.

Video: B-52′s “Legal [...]]]> Next to “Roam”, this is probably my fave B-52′s song*. Don’t think the grocers’ apostrophe doesn’t drive me nuts — they fixed it last year, with the release of Funplex — but self-identification is to be respected. The literal representation of the instruments cracks me up and, Cindy, you ARE my goddess!

Video: B-52′s “Legal Tender”

*No, wait, it’s “52 Girls”. No, it’s “Deadbeat Club”. Wevs.

File under: Stuff My Mom Thinks I’ll Find Important, 40 Years After It Could Possibly Matter

About six blocks from where I sit right now is a structure appearing in the Galactica universe as both Delphi (in BSG) and Caprica City Hall (in Caprica):

Oh, the abundant opportunities inherent in this post slug, to go off on flights of quadruple-entendre fancy, but, no, I’m talking about television and my neighbourhood, dear readers.

About six blocks from where I sit right now is a structure appearing in the Galactica universe as both Delphi (in BSG) and Caprica City Hall (in Caprica):

Sharon & Helo at Delphi / Caprica City Hall (mouseover)

It’s actually Vancouver Public Library.

A scant three blocks from where I sit right now is (probably) the most crucial location in the BSG mythos, which also happens to be Vancouver’s Orpheum Theatre:

Battlestar Galactica Vision / Orpheum (mousover)

And, indeed, you can’t go to any university in the Vancouver area without going all fanboy/girl in recognition of so many locations from the series and, especially, you simply can’t watch Caprica without giggling, Champ especially, at the number of Yaletown locations you’ll see.

And for so long I’ve been wanting to describe my two-months-in impression of the people in my neighbourhood, but got bogged-down in an overly-comprehensive catalogue of all the “types” you can encounter here, and how they compare to the “types” in my old stomping grounds in Toronto, and wound up feeling far too mean-spirited about Toronto since, basically, people everywhere are stupid, selfish and oblivous. The Toronto difference being that they’re stupid, selfish and oblivious, only really, fucking mean, too.

So there’s that. And then, when I was on the phone yesterday trying to convince the charming and effervescent ELeven to come on up for a visit after his next gig, I struggled to describe the guys here. And found my outdoorsy-athletic-collegiate-lumberjack description wholly inadequate. It struck me today, seeing a half-dozen different film crews (or notices of near-future filming, like Fringe, two blocks from my place, next week!), that the best way to describe the folks in my neighbourhood — the ones which catch my eye, at least — is to use television archetypes.

Come sundown, Champ observes (accurately) that the women in our neighbourhood most closely resemble the Kardashian chix — not at all unattractive, but seemingly convinced they need to skank themselves to the hilt.

And the men in my neighbourhood tend to be either Athletic Silver-Daddy clones — like in those American (not Canadian) cruise-vacation commercials — or the Sit-Com Best Buddy. You know, the best friend (or workmate) of the flabby, shlubby lead character — who’s inexplicably coupled with a cute, pert ‘n’ perky (but utterly competent) woman — the best friend who’s a bit of a loser but basically a good guy and a loyal friend. And then you see the best-buddy actor in Entertainment Weekly magazine or in some Battle of the Network Sub-Celebrities athletic competition and he’s missing that Ordinary Everyman look the producers cultivate for the show and shows off some seriously above-average handsomeness and an enviable physique, too.

The kind of serious handsomeness and enviable physique which would cause you to turn around after you pass him on the street and mutter, under your breath, “I’d so nail that,” and sometimes they turn around, too, and… hey, I really love my neighbourhood.

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.

Fragments: “Better than Crash“