Nothing.

Including This. That. No Other.

A lot has happened since my last posts and I suppose an apology is in order for the broken promises to update here. I’m sorry. Stuff [...]]]> I’ve been uncluttering my life lately, tossing stuff into piles labeled “Need”, “Want” and “Discard” — alternately: “Love”, “Like” and “Lose” — and nothing escapes scrutiny.

Nothing.

Including This. That. No Other.

A lot has happened since my last posts and I suppose an apology is in order for the broken promises to update here. I’m sorry. Stuff happened. Some good, some bad, some downright awful. And all of it leads me to variations on a theme: The End.

In late November I was enjoying the delightful company of the denizens of Vancouver’s The Pumpjack bar and although I was hungry, I felt full. So, rather than enjoying further the company of one gentleman in particular, whose staggering hotness is matched by his ultrafirm handshake, I beat a hasty retreat home and then out for a dinner which I didn’t — couldn’t — really enjoy. I slept not a wink that night, running periodically to the bathroom in an attempt to expel, from either end, that which seemed reluctant to be expelled.

The next day was worse. Chills, sweats, fever, excruciating abdominal pain and much rolling around in the fetal position on my bed. I begged to be taken to the hospital where I was quickly diagnosed not with food poisoning but with acute appendicitis. This was something I’ve been dreading for, oh, 40 years or so, as my mother (and her father) had had nightmarish, near-death experiences with their appendix removals. Mine wasn’t close to rupturing; it had practically disintegrated. Once discovered, however, I was treated quickly and professionally and sent out the door a couple of days later to recuperate.

While I was lying in the Emergency Room in mind-shattering pain, thinking that I might actually see The End (of My Life) before the night ended, my relationship — the one which brought me to Vancouver — was secretly ending, too. I found this out a few days later, amends were made and promises… promised. Two months after that, it officially ended. There are some events from which no relationship can recover, I suppose, and without question we’re now both better positioned to pursue that which we separately want to pursue. I wish him well. Honestly.

So I am a man alone now. And I am much happier for it, for the record.

Recovery from the surgery was slower than I’d have liked and I was deeply frustrated at not being able to exercise at all. But I healed and got back into shape. And was struck down, again, by a nasty, four-week flu. Not that you need to be told this, but you seriously do not want to be assessing (and reporting on) your life while engaged in a flu-fight.

The Olympics came to Vancouver and it was pretty spectacular — recent official break-up notwithstanding — and I had a helluva good time. But… again I was feeling poorly. And I wound up, once again, in the Emergency Room. It seems I developed prostate problems as a result of a 35-year-old cycling injury. I won’t go into details but I will say that I’m really fuckin’ tired of taking antibiotics and I have two more weeks to go. And then surgery. But, honestly? I’m eager to have it done as, like my appendix, this inevitable surgery has been hanging over me for the greater part of my life, cropping up every four or five years and that, I hope, won’t happen after May.

So, yeah, The End. Of my appendix, my relationship, the last flu of the season and my recurring prostate issues.

And The End of this blog as you know it.

Since moving to Vancouver, the flavour of my posts here has changed quite radically, and its whole raison d’être — railing against the serious dysfunction in Toronto — seems moot. I’m happy here. Really happy. No city is perfect, but this city is perfect for me.

I started noticing, too, a growing, personal frustration at the fake compartmentalization of my life, a life in which there really isn’t much compartmentalization at all. My online existence is represented by four different and distinct personæ and yet… in real life there is but one. And the ranty, curmudgeonly, bstewart23 persona, which served as useful a purpose as, say, William Burroughs’ “routines” — which eventually became Naked Lunch — needs an overhaul. Concurrent with this deeply personal observation was the increasingly-incandescent, online self-immolation of a former confidant, who now seems incapable of slowing his descent into unintentional self-parody. I so don’t want to do that.

Over the past four months or so, I’ve been recommended Alan Downs’ The Velvet Rage, an exploration of the consequences of growing up gay in a straight society, by four or five people whose opinions I value greatly. I’d avoided it because the central premise — that all gay men are affected by the deep shame resulting from their differentness — doesn’t quite mesh with my experience; I don’t really exhibit any symptoms of shame (of which, of course, you were already very much aware, right?). I picked it up and wish I’d done so much earlier.

The Velvet Rage is a deeply-affecting work, and I cannot recommend it highly enough to all gay men, especially those older than 30. If you don’t recognize yourself within its pages, you will certainly recognize your friends and your lovers, past and present. And having your eyes opened to a significant cause of the truly shitty things we do to ourselves and others, we can set out on a path to authenticity.

Which brings me back to this blog, which had become increasingly inauthentic. So it’s over. Done. The End. Besides, the updates to the software seriously fucked the commenting system, so the whole damn thing needed an overhaul anyway.

I hope you’ve been well. I’ve missed you. And I’ll see you here soon. New, improved, more authentic. I’m really fuckin’ excited. No, really, you guys. Life is good. I’m working on “Love”, “Like” and “Lose”. And it’s great.

Love fearlessly, y’all.

Oh, cripes, when I was sick last week I totally missed the brouhaha over several Coors’ billboards in British Columbia, allegedly dissing Toronto with the slogan COLDER THAN MOST PEOPLE FROM TORONTO and, I hafta say, as one of those people from Toronto, I’m deeply offended at the inaccuracy of [...]]]>
Coors Billboard in British Columbia

Oh, cripes, when I was sick last week I totally missed the brouhaha over several Coors’ billboards in British Columbia, allegedly dissing Toronto with the slogan COLDER THAN MOST PEOPLE FROM TORONTO and, I hafta say, as one of those people from Toronto, I’m deeply offended at the inaccuracy of such a claim. Seriously, if they wanted to honestly draw comparisons between their mule-urine product and the people from Toronto, MORE TASTELESS THAN MOST PEOPLE FROM TORONTO would be a helluva lot closer to the truth.

And, for real, reading the comments following The Star‘s story on the phony controversy, one has to wonder whether Toronto’s problem is its “coldness” or its residents’ unwavering capacity to strenuously defend their city’s abundant — and obvious — shortcomings.

I like them. A lot. They’re fun, they’re fresh, they have [...]]]> You either dig Toronto’s Hidden Cameras or you do not dig them. You either find them hopelessly mannered and naïve or you do not. You either find their music refreshing in a DIY/low-art-gay-churchy kinda way or you find it predictable in a samey-same kinda way.

I like them. A lot. They’re fun, they’re fresh, they have an expansive theatricality and they inevitably find their way onto my iPod within days of release of new material. Like their latest song, “In the Na,” released a couple of weeks ago as a tease for the upcoming Origin:Orphan album release next month.

I won’t deny I have a thing for head Camera Joel Gibb and that was cemented when I met him when he was wearing naught but a wrestling singlet and I was in boxers, dress socks and black wingtips at a friend’s party. He wouldn’t remember that, I’m sure. But, anyway, that’s none of your beeswax.

Hidden Cameras’ live shows are ridiculously fun. They don’t make it to Vancouver nearly as often as they should, though. Like, the last time was 2006? And on my very street? Dear Joel: change that, okay?

Video: Hidden Cameras “In the Na”

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.

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)

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.

Into a home stretch of a different sort — packing up my old home, 8/23 of my time in Toronto (most of it spent downtown) — and preparing for my new home on the west coast, in Vancouver’s  overly-yuppified Yaletown. Cripes, I hate packing to move.

Soundtrack: Peter Gabriel’s [...]]]>
West Ribs: Toronto, 8 June 2009, 6AM

Into a home stretch of a different sort — packing up my old home, 8/23 of my time in Toronto (most of it spent downtown) — and preparing for my new home on the west coast, in Vancouver’s  overly-yuppified Yaletown. Cripes, I hate packing to move.

Soundtrack: Peter Gabriel’s Passion soundtrack.

(Soundtrack: Henry Cow, Leg End)

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

But for reasons to be revealed in a post or two, I won’t be bothering you with the decrepit craptitude of Toronto’s streets for much longer. For now, though… enjoy!

Remember how I was telling you about the incompetent pothole repair crews:

On the two most recent occasions I’ve witnessed pothole repairs, [...]]]> Okay, so maybe I don’t promise.

But for reasons to be revealed in a post or two, I won’t be bothering you with the decrepit craptitude of Toronto’s streets for much longer. For now, though… enjoy!

Remember how I was telling you about the incompetent pothole repair crews:

On the two most recent occasions I’ve witnessed pothole repairs, the crew consisted of two workers, shoveling shitty “asphalt” from the back of a pick-up truck, stepping on it, then tamping it down with the back of their spades. Use a roller to smooth it over? As. IF.
Making matters worse is that not enough asphalt is used to even fill in the holes completely. Within hours, the edges of the repairs are pressed back down into the potholes.

Well, I was lucky enough to capture a cellphoto of a pothole repair just minutes after a crew of “asphalt artisans” did their deed, Toronto-style:

Toronto Pothole, Yonge at Shuter

Note, please, that the fuckers couldn’t be bothered to press the asphalt into the pothole. Any pressing was accomplished by cars driving over it. That’ll end well.

And here’s one, scarcely a quarter-block east, right across the street from Toronto’s historic Massey Hall, in the bike lane, fercryinoutloud!

Toronto Pothole, Shuter East of Yonge

Yeah, I know, it looks like it was cut for some purpose but, whatever, right now bikes (and cars) are free to ride right over the hole, perfectly designed to puncture tires with protruding, rusty-steel rebar! And Toronto has the gall, the unmitigated, fucking gall to suggest they give a good god damn about cyclists?

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