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.

And scariest of all…

Aptly-Named Beach, Vancouver, 21 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… [...]]]> 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)

I’ve never been through its doors (and if you haven’t, either, you can [...]]]> Anyone who’s spent a night out on the town in Vancouver in the last 30+ years has at least heard of Dick’s on Dicks (or Richard’s on Richards, for the less-vulgar). Surprisingly, it’s not a nonheterosexual club, despite its perfect name for such.

I’ve never been through its doors (and if you haven’t, either, you can take a virtual tour here). And a virtual tour is all you get, now, because this:

Dick’s on Dicks (July 2009)

…has become this:

Bricks on Dicks (September 2009)

So Dick’s on Dicks’ neighbours have traded drunken teenagers bellowing “I’m fukkin’ DRUUUUUNNNNKKKKK!” at 2AM (and the occasional stabbing/shooting) for noisy construction equipment throughout weekdays. Fair trade? Tough call.

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.

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.

Vancouver, 9:13PM, 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 [...]]]>
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)