Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

Courtesy Sheepy.

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.

Toronto’s only application for money under the federal government’s $4 billion infrastructure [...]]]> Far be it from me to ever side with the moronic bullies of Stephen Harper’s Conservative Party, but I had to giggle when Tory Transport Ministrix John Baird called out my soon-to-be-ex-city’s ineptitude in applying for part of a $4 billion federal infrastructure fund:

Toronto’s only application for money under the federal government’s $4 billion infrastructure stimulus fund was met with a profane dismissal by Transport Minister John Baird yesterday.

In an unguarded moment, Baird told aides Toronto stood alone in not meeting the technical criteria for federal cash, yet was complaining about Ottawa dragging its feet.

“Twenty-seven hundred people got it right. They didn’t. That is not a partnership and they’re bitching at us,” he said.

“They should f— off.”

I guess no one’ll be buying Baird a drink at Woody’s any time soon.

I love the photo which The Star ran to accompany the article, too:

John Baird in The Star

I have a feeling the image above will be one of my most enduring memories of Toronto, how it’s its own worst enemy and how the rest of the country treats it, for reasons far too obvious to detail at this juncture.

This Week in Stupidity, after the jump (warning: SFW audio will auto-start)…

Mama: I can see your dirty pillows. Everyone will. Carrie: Implants, Mama. They’re called implants, and every Miss California USA has them.

No offense, Carrie Prejean, but shut the fuck up. How would Jesus feel about your fake titties parading [...]]]>

They’re all gonna laugh at you, Carrie.

This Week in Stupidity, after the jump (warning: SFW audio will auto-start)…

Mama: I can see your dirty pillows. Everyone will.
Carrie: Implants, Mama. They’re called implants, and every Miss California USA has them.

No offense, Carrie Prejean, but shut the fuck up. How would Jesus feel about your fake titties parading around in a string bikini?

One block west of Toronto’s Yonge & Bloor intersection is some of the most expensive retail real estate in Canada. One block south of Yonge & Bloor is Charles [...]]]> Hey, you know what we haven’t done lately? We haven’t visited Toronto’s Yonge/Bloor district — aka the “Glittering Shithole of Toronto-the-Shabby” — lately! So, hey, let’s go!!!

One block west of Toronto’s Yonge & Bloor intersection is some of the most expensive retail real estate in Canada. One block south of Yonge & Bloor is Charles Street. Habitués of the neighbourhood will tell you that Charles Street’s potholes are among the most damagey in the city. They’ll also tell you that the combination of condo construction vehicles and general motorist assholery can reduce even the calmest pedestrian or driver to trembling rage.

At the northwest corner of the intersection of Yonge and Charles Streets is a recently-renovated coffee chain outlet, The Second Cup:

Second Cup coffee shops are ubiquitous in Toronto (and all of Canada, actually). A popular meeting spot in Toronto’s vibrant gaybourhood was lamely amusingly nicknamed “The Suction Cup”. Get it? Hilarious, right?

Anyway, back to Yonge & Charles. Nice façade, huh? Bold architectural statement, even if it is… oh, twenty years out of date. Let’s take a closer look!

Oooh.

Um, that’s kind of a narrow entrance, isn’t it? About fourteen inches? Looks like, er, the steps are crumbling a little bit, too. Good thing you’ve placed that fencing for safety, there. Wait a minute, that fencing… it’s made of… duct tape?

Not to worry. Duct tape is… pretty strong, isn’t it? And it almost matches the latticework on the other side of the regal entrance to this showcase for the Second Cup chain. A pretty good match, right? Hey, let’s check out that latticework!

It’s gorgeous! This latticework represents the best Toronto has to offer in terms of safety and décor! Yeah, I know, it’s kinda falling apart at the bottom, but it’s been there a whole month, so quit your bitching! And it’s quite firmly secured to the wheelchair ramp railing with… duct tape. Totally safe!

I don’t know why you guys are snickering. I mean, it’s only been like this for five or six weeks. This is Toronto, not New Fucking York or anything! In Toronto, you don’t need to wonder what’s going on when you encounter two out of three elevators in a typical downtown building being out of order, or three out of four new pieces of equipment at your gym being broken… “We’re waiting for parts!”

I’m totally sure there simply aren’t any patio bricks left in the largest city in Canada. And, besides, don’t we use asphalt to repair everything here?

In any case, if the 14″ front access through the “lattice” fencing is such a big problem for you, just go around the fence and take the steps at the side:

I kinda have to agree with the commenter, above. This is how we roll in Toronto. Who feels like a latte?

Oh, yeah, having failed at mobilizing the horny, borderline-retarded white guy vote with the McCain/Palin ticket — and the “horny” part I’m referring to the allure of the second half of the [...]]]> Was there anything funnier this past week than Republican National Committee chair Michael Steele laying out the bold, all-up-in-yo-grille future of the Republican Party?

Oh, yeah, having failed at mobilizing the horny, borderline-retarded white guy vote with the McCain/Palin ticket — and the “horny” part I’m referring to the allure of the second half of the Republican offering, please! — the GOP are now all OG/P-Diddy. Fo’ shizzle, Mike Stizzle!:

Newly elected Republican National Committee Chairman Michael S. Steele plans an “off the hook” public relations offensive to attract younger voters, especially blacks and Hispanics, by applying the party’s principles to “urban-suburban hip-hop settings.”

[...]

“It will be avant garde, technically,” he said. “It will come to table with things that will surprise everyone – off the hook.”

Does that mean cutting-edge?

“I don’t do ‘cutting-edge,’ ” he said. “That’s what Democrats are doing. We’re going beyond cutting-edge.”

Can’t fucking wait. Beyond!

Lesbian news goddess and Princeton’s always-awesome Melissa Harris-Lacewell (see also) have some much-deserved fun at Steele’s expense:

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

Bear: “You know, you really shouldn’t be wearing that shirt.”

Me: “How’s that?”

Bear: “Well, for the simple reason that you’re not a Bear.”

Me: “I thought ‘Bear’ was more a state of mind.”

Bear: “Well, you’ll confuse people.”

Me: “Really. How’s that?”

Bear: “Well, you say you’re a Bear and you’re not.”

Me: “Actually, my shirt has the word ‘Bear’ [...]]]>
Grrr.

Bear: “You know, you really shouldn’t be wearing that shirt.”

Me: “How’s that?”

Bear: “Well, for the simple reason that you’re not a Bear.”

Me: “I thought ‘Bear’ was more a state of mind.”

Bear: “Well, you’ll confuse people.”

Me: “Really. How’s that?”

Bear: “Well, you say you’re a Bear and you’re not.”

Me: “Actually, my shirt has the word ‘Bear’ on it, I didn’t say anything. I could see how it might be confusing if a vision-impaired person was walking with a friend who read my shirt aloud, but in that case it would be incumbent upon the vision-impaired person’s friend to add that I am not — physically, that is — actually a Bear.”

Bear: “So you admit that you’re not a Bear.”

Me: “If it bears admitting, yes.”

Bear: “Just as long as we’re on the same page about you not calling yourself ‘Bear’.”

Me: “My boyfriend’s nickname for me says you’re wrong.”

Bear: “Well, your boyfriend’s wrong.”

Me: “So now you’re bringing my boyfriend into this? Because you don’t want to be bringing my boyfriend into this.”

Bear: “I don’t want to cause any trouble, it’s just false advertising. You say — your shirt says ‘Bear’ and you’re really built more like an Otter.”

Me: “Technically, I’m a Wolf, but I appreciate the Otter compliment. And I urge you to investigate the concept of Irony. I’m concerned, too, regarding your need for me to actually be a Bear if I’m wearing a shirt that says ‘Bear’. Would I need to be a Maple Leaf if I wore a shirt that said ‘Maple Leafs’?”

Bear: “Now you’re just being silly.”

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.

Today, 27 January, is Lewis Carroll’s birthday. Now, normally I don’t do intertube memes, and I certainly don’t do LiveJournal memes, but this one — the fifth anniversary of which is today — has both literary and social appeal:

January 27th is the birthday of Lewis Carrol [sic], author of ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. Alice [...]]]>

Today, 27 January, is Lewis Carroll’s birthday. Now, normally I don’t do intertube memes, and I certainly don’t do LiveJournal memes, but this one — the fifth anniversary of which is today — has both literary and social appeal:

January 27th is the birthday of Lewis Carrol [sic], author of ALICE’S ADVENTURES IN WONDERLAND. Alice fell down a rabbit hole into a place where everything had changed and none of the rules could be counted on to apply anymore. I say, let’s do the same: January 27th, 2005 should be the First Annual LiveJournal Rabbit Hole Day. When you post on that Thursday, instead of the normal daily life and work and news and politics, write about the strange new world you have found yourself in for the day, with its strange new life and work and news and politics. Are your pets talking back at you now? Has your child suddenly grown to full adulthood? Does everyone at work think you’re someone else now? Did Bush step down from the White House to become a pro-circuit tap-dancer? Did Zoroastrian missionaries show up on your doorstep with literature in 3-D? Have you been placed under house arrest by bizarre insectoid women wielding clubs made of lunchmeat?

Let’s have a day where nobody’s life makes sense anymore, where any random LJ you click on will bring you some strange new tale. Let’s all fall down the Rabbit Hole for 24 hours and see what’s there. It will be beautiful.

You don’t want to know what we’ll do if we have to ask you a third time.

Sign Overkill, Manulife Valu-Mart, Toronto (23 January 2009)

Vatican: ‘Homosexual behavior’ on decline

WASHINGTON (AP) – A Vatican office that evaluated U.S. Roman Catholic seminaries says the schools have made improvements in halting what they call “homosexual behavior” among students.

The Vatican also says seminaries are doing well in teaching about celibacy and are generally effective in screening candidates for the priesthood.

The [...]]]> From the Associated Press:

Vatican: ‘Homosexual behavior’ on decline

WASHINGTON (AP) – A Vatican office that evaluated U.S. Roman Catholic seminaries says the schools have made improvements in halting what they call “homosexual behavior” among students.

The Vatican also says seminaries are doing well in teaching about celibacy and are generally effective in screening candidates for the priesthood.

The Vatican ordered the seminary review in response to the clergy sex abuse crisis to see whether the schools had contributed to the problem.

The Vatican also directed evaluators to look for “evidence of homosexuality” in the schools.

Some Catholics blame gay clergy for the abuse scandal. Experts on sex offenders say gays are no more likely than others to molest children.

Homosexual behaviour’s on the decline? Crap, and I was just starting to get the hang of it. Time to find something else with which to disappoint our mothers.

FFF (Public Image Ltd., from Album (aka Compact Disc/Cassette, 1986))

Farewell my fairweather friend. Senseless reasoning. You believe what you want to believe. Farewell my fairweather friend. On you no one can depend. Bad times, now they must end. Whatever you want it to be, for you that’s what it will be. Honesty to you is arbitrary. Logic is lost [...]]]>

FFF
(Public Image Ltd., from Album (aka Compact Disc/Cassette, 1986))

Farewell my fairweather friend.
Senseless reasoning.
You believe what you want to believe.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
On you no one can depend.
Bad times, now they must end.
Whatever you want it to be, for you that’s what it will be.
Honesty to you is arbitrary.
Logic is lost in your cranial abattoir.
Shallow, empty inside.
Sly-witted and full of snide.
Bad times, now they must end.
The shutter-speed of your thinking process is small, too small.
Too full of pride.
Bad times, now they must end.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Bad times, now they must end.
You used to be nice, now you’re twice as nice.
You used to be good, now you’re too good.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Bad times, now they must end.
Used to be nice, now you’re twice as nice.
Used to be good, now you’re too good.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Bad times – they must end.
On you no one can depend.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Logic is lost in your cranial abattoir.
Shallow, empty inside.
Sly-witted and full of snide.
The shutter-speed of your thinking process is small, too small.
Too full of pride.
Lost in a storm.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Bad times, now they must end.
Bad times – they must end.
On you no one can depend.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Farewell my fairweather friend.
Farewell my fairweather friend.