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”

Dreaming (30 September 2009)

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

Well, the cause of the recent radio silence is that for the past two weeks I’ve been suffering from, firstly, one of the worst summer colds I can ever remember having and, secondly, following that summer cold, one of the nastiest sinus infections imaginable. It’s only looking backwards that I can really [...]]]> So, what’s new, huh?

Well, the cause of the recent radio silence is that for the past two weeks I’ve been suffering from, firstly, one of the worst summer colds I can ever remember having and, secondly, following that summer cold, one of the nastiest sinus infections imaginable. It’s only looking backwards that I can really understand just how out-of-sorts I was, as an improvement of, oh, 60% or so barely enabled me to lift my head off the pillow (or couch).

But that’s in the past.

I will say, though, that being under the weather enabled me to catch up on my Nurse Jackie and True Blood episodes, the former being the most richly-rewarding new series on television, with the added bonus not just of the always-awesome Edie Falco and the exceedingly-sexy Paul Schulze, but some of the most subversive plotlines on television, too. I mean, any show which causes noted blowhard (and professional a-hole) Brent Bozell to deem its lead character “a filthy degenerate” has got to have something going for it. And True Blood continues its over-the-top craziness, with next month’s season finale shaping up to be one bloody good — and good ‘n’ bloody — catastrophe.

Also on the docket was a lot of Brit-com fun, from the always-dark Nighty Night, featuring the deliciously evil Julia Davis, who happens to be romantically entangled with Julian Barratt (of The Mighty Boosh infamy). I’d much rather be watching Julia & Julian than, say, Julie & Julia. Barratt and his writing and performing partner Noel Fielding front the wildly inventive and absurdly psychedelic The Mighty Boosh which, in turn, leads afficionados to Garth Marenghi’s Dark Place and Snuff Box and back to some live Boosh to round out many hours of completely fucked-in-the-head giggles.

Less insane but almost as funny is the ITV series No Heroics, about English everyday superheroes and which, apparently, has been made into a pilot for American television starring Freddie Prinz, Jr., so you just know how that’s gonna turn out. Badly, yes.

I do not quite know how to introduce the clip below, other than to warn you that it’s pretty gay, probably NSFW and unquestionably the weirdest fucking thing you’ll see this week. So, like, enjoy:

Video: Ultimate Muscle Roller Legend

So Timber was in town this week for work and to say it was great seeing him again would be a massive understatement. Also, he got to meet Champ (and Champ him), after hearing about each other for so many years, so it was pretty terrific [...]]]>
Vancouver Harbour from the Convention Centre
9:30AM, 25 July 2009

So Timber was in town this week for work and to say it was great seeing him again would be a massive understatement. Also, he got to meet Champ (and Champ him), after hearing about each other for so many years, so it was pretty terrific all-around. And the weather couldn’t have been more cooperative as we hiked around Coal Harbour and the Convention Centre, heading back to our neighb for brunch before sending him back home to the Vancouver of America.

Seven Years (TBA)

I’m in the last 23 hours of the 23 years I’ve spent in Toronto.

If I had a soul, I’d say the past few days have been good for it, and there are a couple of people about whom I’m specifically talking here. They know who [...]]]>
Thank Management
(Yonge & Bloor Subway Entrance, 9AM, 12 June 2009)

I’m in the last 23 hours of the 23 years I’ve spent in Toronto.

If I had a soul, I’d say the past few days have been good for it, and there are a couple of people about whom I’m specifically talking here. They know who they are and I can’t possibly describe in words how my happily wistful departure is very much because of them.

I’ll miss Bay Street Video, the best DVD shop in Toronto. I’ll miss Soundscapes on College, its CD equivalent. I’ll miss all the great ethnic cuisine. I’ll miss sizzling summer weekends on the beach at Hanlan’s Point. I’ll miss the eyecandy, I’ll miss good acquaintances, I’ll miss tricks. I’ll miss cow-orkers and ex-cow-orkers. And I’ll really miss former boyfriends and former lovers, almost all of whom now reside in the same (and most crucial) category of those I’ll miss most of all: friends.

You guys, be good. Be great.

A Move (10 June 2009)

My (ridiculously attractive and articulate) blogbuddy Eric (sometimes known as “Sheepy”, and one of the many correspondents with whom I am criminally behind in my responses) wrote a few weeks ago:

I have no answers.  I only have questions.  Why is it wrong to cheat on someone, but fine to break up with them, when [...]]]> Dear Toronto,

My (ridiculously attractive and articulate) blogbuddy Eric (sometimes known as “Sheepy”, and one of the many correspondents with whom I am criminally behind in my responses) wrote a few weeks ago:

I have no answers.  I only have questions.  Why is it wrong to cheat on someone, but fine to break up with them, when the latter causes even more pain?  (This seems to come from contract law.  I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you, and that’s that.)

Eric’s essay is, as always, a thoughtful meditation on the search for meaning we all undertake, consciously or not, in this case the search for meaning in relationships.

But Eric’s words have haunted me, these past weeks, dear Toronto, and if ever there was an example of a camelback-breaking straw, those words were it. I’ve been unfair to you for a few months, and though this might be hard for you to read, it’s long overdue.

We’ve been living together for 22 of the 23 years we’ve been going steady, Toronto, and, as you know, I told you at the outset that I was prepared for no more than a ten-year relationship with you. That was my plan. But I fell in love with you, Toronto, and ten turned to fifteen turned to twenty. And so on.

These sorts of letters are never easy to write and even harder to read, so I’ll be as brief and concise as I can: I’m not happy. I haven’t been happy with our relationship for at least six years, maybe more. Probably more. I could go into all the reasons why I’m no longer happy with you, why I no longer feel you’re the right one for me or me for you but… it’s over.

Toronto and Me, Summer 2005 (Happier Times)

All of the things I loved in you — you being the center of Canada’s cultural, political, gay and business scenes — I no longer love. I’m sorry to be so blunt. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to point fingers. I don’t want to say “you’ve changed” because I’ve changed, too. The things that were once so important to me are now… well, I don’t want to say “unimportant”, but they don’t mean as much to me. When I go to sleep at night I feel no connection to you. When I wake up to face the day — to face you — I feel even less.

I’m sorry if that hurts you. But I’ve hurt, too. I’ve watched you pursue the frivolous at the expense of quality and taste. I’ve seen you embrace shabbiness and call it “grit”. The streets I once loved I am embarrassed by now. You’re cold. And you’ve stopped taking care of yourself. I’m worn down by it. I’m too old for it now. You are, too, but I said I wasn’t going to point fingers, didn’t I?

So it’s over.

I divorce you, I divorce you, I divorce you.

It’s over and there’s nothing you can do to change my mind. And I’ll be packing my things and moving out in a month, so as not to make this too painful. I hope when you see me on the street we can smile and nod, like in the old days. You’ll always be one of my favourite cities, but we’re done, you and I.

And, yes, you will find out I’m moving in with another. But you need to understand that you and I ended long before Vancouver — for that’s his name — and I ever became close. I wish you only the best, Toronto, and will remember only the good times.

Be good. Be great.

All the best, always,
bstewart²³

Hey, did I ever tell you I was a DJ? Oh, not the glamorous kind of DJ that elicits a slavish devotion from crystal-addled partiers, the other kind of DJ: a radio DJ.

When I was coming of age in Calgary, Alberta, there was a small and relentlessly cool downtown art [...]]]> (Intro: 12 September 1983)

Hey, did I ever tell you I was a DJ? Oh, not the glamorous kind of DJ that elicits a slavish devotion from crystal-addled partiers, the other kind of DJ: a radio DJ.

When I was coming of age in Calgary, Alberta, there was a small and relentlessly cool downtown art gallery gallery called Off Centre Centre. And in the back of Off Centre Centre, in a room no bigger than a walk-in closet, was a tiny cable radio station. The cable distinction was notable because, at the time, broadcasting through the cable system (and not over the air) meant that silly things like Canadian Content Regulations needn’t be observed. So that meant if the DJs didn’t feel like playing Canadian music, they simply… didn’t.

And what better name for a radio station in the back of a gallery called Off Centre Centre than “Radio Radio”?

Radio Radio Most Played for May-June 1983

For up to three hours every Monday evening, for three years, I played the music that was turning me on at that precise moment, even if “turning me on at that precise moment” meant three back-to-back remixes of Pete Shelley’s “Homosapien”. Every show started with “you’re listening to 2D on Radio Radio one oh four point five, broadcasting live on your cable FM on a Monday night in the city of the dead”, a not so sly shout-out to Ultravox (the Brian Eno-era Ultravox, not that New Romantic stuff).

Radio Radio DJs’ Top 5s

You can see my 2D “5″ at the top, right, in the image above. We didn’t get paid for our shows. Oh, no, in fact we threw $25 each into the kitty to pay for the privilege of spinning on the undergroundest radio station in the (most-defiantly) least-cultured city in Canada. I’m trying to remember if I picked anyone up on the streets of Monday Evening Downtown Toronto and took them to the back room to make out. I’m gonna go with “probably”.

In digging through (and rinsing off) the dirt of my past, I managed to find this record of that time as well as some tapes from my show. Here’s the playlist for 12 September 1983:

2D Playlist for 12 September 1983

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)

Top 5 Cities (Wordwide, Quality of Life)

Top 5 Cities (Worldwide, Infrastructure)

Top 5 Cities (North America, Quality of Life)