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

My brother and sister-in-law are in town from San Francisco. Took them to Gorilla Food for raw, vegan eats. I know, right? But the smoothies rocked. Later, we went to the VPL:

Sibling Ribaldry: Champ and Me with Sis-in-Law and Bro

…where we saw… a wedding photo? Okayyy.

Goin’ to the Libr’y and We’re… [...]]]> 5 September 2009.

My brother and sister-in-law are in town from San Francisco. Took them to Gorilla Food for raw, vegan eats. I know, right? But the smoothies rocked. Later, we went to the VPL:

Sibling Ribaldry: Champ and Me with Sis-in-Law and Bro

…where we saw… a wedding photo? Okayyy.

Goin’ to the Libr’y and We’re… Gonna Get Married

It was a good day.

Cat and House Game (Yaletown, Vancouver, 5 September 2009)

Sparky (Vancouver, 9PM, 1 September 2009)

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

It’s bad enough that bigoted hags like Maggie Gallagher, who heads up the odious National Organization for Marriage, can get any sponsors for their events, but when one of them [...]]]> Full disclosure: I can’t stand Tim Hortons and their long line-ups for mediocre coffee and, worse, the smug, anti-elite posturing of their loyal customers. That said…

It’s bad enough that bigoted hags like Maggie Gallagher, who heads up the odious National Organization for Marriage, can get any sponsors for their events, but when one of them is among the most widely-recognizable names in Canadian culture? That’s just fucked up.

NOM Rhode Island + Tim Hortons

Please skip your Timbits today and contact them instead to tell them what you think about their sponsorship of an organization entirely devoted to taking away the equal rights of same-sex couples and to ensure that that inequality be enshrined in law. When I called this morning, Tim Hortons Customer Service office seemed a little thrown by the news and was unwilling to comment until they’d investigated to make sure the use of their corporate name and logo had been approved.

UPDATE: Tim Hortons responds in a good way (link courtesy Madge):

Recently, Tim Hortons was approached in Rhode Island to provide free coffee and products for a local event, as we do thousands of times a year across Canada and the United States.

For 45 years, Tim Hortons and its store owners have practiced a philosophy of giving back to the communities in which we operate. As a company, our primary focus is on helping children and supporting fundraising events for non-profit organizations and registered charities.

For this reason, Tim Hortons has not sponsored those representing religious groups, political affiliates or lobby groups.

It has come to our attention that the Rhode Island event organizer and purpose of the event fall outside of our sponsorship guidelines. As such, Tim Hortons can not provide support at the event.

Tim Hortons and its store owners have always welcomed all families and communities to its restaurants and will continue to do so. We apologize for any misunderstanding or inconvenience this may have caused.

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.

At one time I wanted to live in Los Angeles (and tried very hard to do just that). At another time I wanted to live in San Francisco (and tried very, very hard to do that, too).

Now I’m hard-pressed to think about even visiting California. Boycott? You’d better fucking believe it.

Hugs [...]]]> Iowa > California, for real.

At one time I wanted to live in Los Angeles (and tried very hard to do just that). At another time I wanted to live in San Francisco (and tried very, very hard to do that, too).

Now I’m hard-pressed to think about even visiting California. Boycott? You’d better fucking believe it.

Hugs to my CA friends and family (biological & chosen) who must be seriously disappointed today. There will be civil disobedience tonight. Arrests + processing + public defenders = one hefty bill for a state whose economy is in the shitter.

Some day (soon), the majority might rule that Spanish is the only official language of California.

Video: Dead Kennedys’ “California Über Alles”

I want to tell you a story about a teenager in Calgary, Alberta. A normal kid, smarter than most, bookish but enthusiastically into politics and culture in all its forms. Like most teenaged young men, he had a healthy (read: voracious) sexual appetite. He had an [...]]]> So, hey, it’s International Day Against Homophobia 2009 today. IDAH’09!

I want to tell you a story about a teenager in Calgary, Alberta. A normal kid, smarter than most, bookish but enthusiastically into politics and culture in all its forms. Like most teenaged young men, he had a healthy (read: voracious) sexual appetite. He had an appropriately-secret collection of erotica, having moved beyond the usefulness of the Sears catalog’s undergarment and swimwear sections. Of course, he was still a virgin. But he had plans!

He planned to get married and have a family and live in a beautiful house he designed (and built) himself. He would be happy and successful. He would have sex with his wife and, on weekends in the summer, he would join the other husbands and fathers in the neighbourhood for “bachelor” weekends at the cottage. Where they would be naked most of the time and spend a good deal of time wrestling around naked, too.

Don’t worry, Mom, that’s as explicit as I’ll get. Oh, right, I forgot: that teenager was me. And while smarter than most, he wasn’t very smart when it came to things like his own, burgeoning sexuality. “Delusional” might be the best word to describe it.

Of course, that was over twenty years before information/community (re)sources like the intertubes, and it was a time in which the only information on homosexuals was in the aberrant-psychology section of the public library and in hair-raising articles in TIME Magazine, with headlines like “Are Homosexuals Sick?”

TIME Magazine, 31 October 1969
(Homosexuals == Scary, Pink, Sugar-Bowl-Emulatin’ Freaks)

Of course, ten years after that issue of TIME, a teenager no more, I met and kissed (et cetera) the man who’d be my first boyfriend. And I learned in short order that being true to who and what I was was far better than those childish fantasies, which today even don’t exist in the dreams of… anybody. Almost a decade after that I met and fell in love — real, passionate love — for the first time in my life. And I came out to my friends and parents. It wasn’t easy but it was necessary. And, man, did it feel good.

And in the thirty (!) years since that time, when being honest to both myself and the people who purported to love me unshackled my spirit, I’ve traveled the world, fallen in love dozens of times, have had relationships as deep and meaningful as anyone could hope for, engaged an insane amount of ridiculously hot (SAFE) sex, buried lovers and boyfriends and tricks and friends and friends-of-friends during The Plague Years, been on television and in print and have made friends the world over. I’ve marched in parades and stormed government buildings, here and abroad, written politicians and worked for equal-rights groups. And I’ve never been happier or more alive in doing so.

And none of those things — not one — would have occurred had I not followed the first rule of Fruit Club. TIME Magazine told me when I was entering puberty that I’d wind up sad and lonely, because my “abnormality” and the homophobic world — though they didn’t call it that back then — would make me sad and lonely.

And that’s my wish for all the young people in small towns who are afraid because people are mean and stupid and hateful, and those people want to hurt you and make you go away: come out.

Come out.

It’s the first and most crucial thing you can do to become… yourself. It’s the first and most crucial way to fight homophobia, by shedding your own homophobia. Come out.

Move to a city, no matter how scary that prospect might be, because in a city you will find love and community. (Preferably, move to a city where your vote for marriage equality will tip the scales, okay?) Fight the homophobia you hold inside you and then you can fight the homophobia in others, alongside your gay brothers and lesbian sisters. Come out!

Happy International Day Against Homophobia, everyone.

17 May 2009: International Day Against Homophobia
(featuring vintage, 20-year-old Queer Nation Tee)

It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking shabby and inept and [...]]]> This is the entrance to the Bay at Yonge and Bloor Streets in downtown Toronto. It’s also the entrance to the most-visited subway stop covering the two most-traveled transit lines in the city. This is how we roll in Toronto:

It would be funny if it wasn’t so fucking shabby and inept and disgusting. And typical.

Happy Mothers’ Day!

May 10, 2009, Yonge & Bloor Streets, Toronto

had to be uncommon + had to be monosyllabic (so as to never be used in the diminutive form)

and she pretty-much succeeded on both counts, [...]]]> I was named by my Mom after her dad and mine. At least, that’s where I got my middle name. My first name was devised from the following formula:

had to be uncommon + had to be monosyllabic (so as to never be used in the diminutive form)

and she pretty-much succeeded on both counts, as my name is, indeed, unshortenable and nestled between “Rusty” and “Dewey” in terms of popular monikers in the year of my birth. Go, Mom!

I’ve put my Mom through a lot over the years, and she’s supported me unwaveringly (despite my penchant for scandalizing her at every opportunity). On my most recent visit, a month ago, I vowed to next visit have a spiderweb tattooed on my neck. She responded: “what kind of spider, dear?” Did I mention she’s the best Mom I could ever have? It’s impossible to love her enough. Lucky me!

Michael Geist writes often (and relentlessly) about the absurdity [...]]]> Bill C-61 is an absurd new law, touted as “made in Canada” but crafted by greedy American corporations and brought to the table by Canadian legislator — uninformed fools who, for want of a better expression, don’t know shit about fuck (that would be Stephen Harper’s Conservatives).

Michael Geist writes often (and relentlessly) about the absurdity of this proposed law and I’ve mentioned it here, too. To refresh: digital format-shifting — i.e. ripping a CD or DVD which you purchased to your iTunes and then to your iPod and then merely backing up those files to a DVD — will be an offense, as will keeping an episode of Fringe on your DVR beyond a “reasonable” length of time. Want to go back and watch the premiere? Tough; it’s not yours to keep. But the wrongness and FAIL doesn’t end there.

Your absolute best resource is Michael Geist’s site, but this recent film will, in 11 minutes and 20 seconds, explain succinctly Bill C-61′s affront to creativity, culture and, well, common sense. The majority of Canadians will become criminals under the proposed law, and while you may whinge that there’s no way in hell they could possibly enforce such a law, the potential for selective enforcement looms large.

And we know how that “selective enforcement” thing usually goes (*cough*bible*cough*)… Check it out:

Video: C-61

(via Doctorow at BoingBoing).

You, of course, may [...]]]> Of all the… wrongness of this advert — the wanton disregard for the environmental impact of the flushings, the gigglesome image of crapping out a short story consisting of magnetic letters — I hafta say it was with the dog food that a line was crossed — The Line of Hilarious!

You, of course, may go with “no, it was with the hot dogs that the line was really crossed”.

(via Andrew Sullivan)

Maybe some wit (L) rubbed off on the other guy (R).