My throat is all scratches, and it seems that the thing that we’ve all been fighting has finally been let loose inside of me. It seems impossible to keep on top of everything. It seems redundant at times to try and keep on top of everything. I wonder if I truly do “walk the line,” like they say, or if I’m really balancing on some sort of tightrope. Communication would be that much easier, if only, all the cliches actually, really meant something.

But I’ve gone from one extreme to another this week, and it wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve gone all the way from dancing and dreams, late nights, and extreme substances, to tea and textbooks, yoga and bedtime.

And it wouldn’t be the first time.

It saddens me to think of all the “firsts” that I’ve had and will never have again. All the things that seem trivial to me now, were all, at one point euphoric, exhilarating, and entrancing experiences. The sex and the substances, the music and the early mornings, the way the air feels in a sweaty room, and the way it feels on the walk home in the early morning, all still for me, hold something special.

But things become so trivial. No less trivial than the countless math formulas that I, daily, have to struggle with, or the trip back and forth from work. And I’m not here to whine and moan about the state of the world, but that’s seems to be exactly what I’m doing this evening.

Perhaps in my sniffles and scratches, I’ve finally come back to earth.

Maybe I’m finally forcing myself to take a hiatus from all the suffering that I voluntarily cause myself. Amongst my monk-like behavior during the week, I’ve found an excuse to voluntarily extend it into the weekend as well.

Perhaps, some of us need a little shake from head to toe once in a while to realize exactly how we’re behaving. Perhaps once in a while our bodies deserve more than 6 hours of sleep, and a regular schedule.

I’m beginning to think that all my brain really wants is a decision one way or the other. It would like it if I just took a good look at both sides of the fence, and jumped down onto the solid stable earth below me.

Oh Stevie, you’re such a fox!

This had my heart all warm and fuzzy and had me asking: “why, again, am I not going to see Fleetwood Mac?”

Oh Yeah, I’m broke as hell.  For now I’ll just have to blame this whole ‘going back to school’ thing on my little old wild heart.

Or at least that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.

All of a sudden Vancouver became joyfully bearable again.  I opened up the windows of the house as quickly as I opened my gullet to the first bottle of wine of the evening.  The floors were cleaned and the stacks of paper were sorted and filed away.  Everything in due time, in fact, came due.  Everything has a course that it must run, and the mess that has surrounded me since the snows came in December, has finally been suitable dealt with.

Now my nose tickles and I wonder if it’s from all the chemical cleaners that were wiped and scrubbed across the surfaces of this place.  Back and forth like the tiny little lady bugs that in due time, have returned as well.  I can’t help but think that I’m getting sick, but I’m sure it’s the fever of another long week that is waiting on my forehead, just anticipating the jump back into the weekend.

We all come and go from this to that, and I wonder how Vancouver feels as it sits in slumber all winter, waiting for the first sign of Spring.  The city must know that there are months still ahead of us filled with rain.  The city must know as well as we do, that Summer is far from here, but it must also have noticed the sunlight coming back, and the way that it actually feels like sunlight again.  There is something cruel about the sunlight in the dead of winter, its color all muted by the clouds and the tilt of the Earth.  There is something much more gray about winter-sun.  But finally… finally, the winter-sun seems to be ebbing away.

Trying to keep the gays interested in something for more than 5 minutes is like trying to scare away a pack of wild wolves while wearing a 300 pound meat jacket.  This image keeps running through my head as I try and listen to the contestants of Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model on Thursday night.  Don’t ask me why, but above the clinking of glasses and the roar of voices, I can’t stop thinking about running through the snow with a rib-eye brazier and tenderloin in my arm pits.

The bottleneck of 1181 quickly becomes an over-crowded stuffy space and the acoustics leave much to be desired.  But then again,

I imagine the majority of the audience came more for the ass than the acoustics.

Just saying.

The always debonair Ryan Steele takes intermittent shifts on the microphone as each of the contestants takes their turn spilling their guts to the audience.  The theme of the evening–gossip, a favorite past time of mine becomes a game that the audience and the contestants are supposed to play with each other.  Each of the boys gets up and tells what is supposed to be a story one minute or less.  Unfortunately for all of our attention spans, this limit is sorely abused.  At least we know they can talk… and talk and talk.

Funnily enough after the fifth or sixth apparently truthful tale about sex and booze, I start longing for someone to get up there and tell us a total crock of shit.  Perhaps it says something about the exhibitionist in all of us.  Maybe all of us homos have enough scandalously truthful tales of our own, that there’s no point in trying to make something up?  But where the hell’s the fun in that?  Granted, I’m no stranger to downing liters of vodka and all-night sex marathons, and maybe that’s the thing: it’s all been told before.

I mean, brothers, you aint talking to a room full of nuns here, and frankly you’re going to have to try harder than that to shock us.

But, I’m as guilty as the rest of you; blabbing about  my “walks of shame” and “guilty pleasures,” so I suppose I can’t be all that judgmental of your stance.

Mr. Steele pokes and prods the boys’ stories: like seams he tests for strength.  And finally Billy’s hairy gams are called into question.  I have to say the boy’s look is pretty epic: chili peppers on top and the leg’s of pan on the bottom.  The boys got some guts, or at least a warped sense of fashion.

Speaking of epic,  Joel F’s torso is something of an enigma.  Yeah I said it, it’s worthy, and yeah I said worthy, so what?  I can’t help but stand behind this fellow full-fold.  Maybe it’s my own experience with the rings and the pummel horse, or maybe it’s all hormones, but yeah I’m a little smitten.  I can’t help but nurture that little part of me that wishes I would have stayed on the mats, chalky hands and all, and ended up gaining a torso like that in the process.  Perhaps I could have found out what puts the “pummel” in pummel horse.

So amongst my mind wandering to meat jackets and pummel horses, I finally get what I’ve been seeking: a bloody lie. 

Stephen takes the stage and after some convoluted meanderings about Lance Bass and Facebook we finally hear a little bit about what gossip is supposed to actually entail: pure delicious falsness.

Surprising that it seems to actually take guts to tell a lie in the room.  Well Stephen, I commend you for it.

And with the end of the evening, the festivities take another victim.  Up on stage with Billy–our Facebook champion–Joel G, with all of his moxie leaves the game.

So perhaps I’ve learned a few things this evening:

• Sometimes it takes more guts to tell a lie
• 1181 is a sweaty bottleneck of grabby hands and gossipy queers
• I can’t stop thinking about wild animals and 300 pound jackets made of various smelly meats
• Billy reminds me a little of a hairy gammed Carmen Miranda
• Joel F has a lovely torso
• And, Ryan Steele has nice arms

That is all.

Till next time, check these out:

Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model

Up Your Alley

I half expected the walls of the grace-gallery to be utterly coated with love letters last night.  But far from coated, the walls were sparsely littered with the scrawlings of a broken hearted and love infested bunch.  As usual the gallery was packed to the rafters and the windows soon grew foggy from the inhaling and exhaling of the the group of beautiful people that came to read about love and oggle Wrighteous Designs‘ most amazing creations.

It was a stark contrast to see Dawn Wright’s creations on one wall and the anonymous letters on the other.  On one hand you’ve got a wall that sparkles: dangling rosaries made of crystals and onyx, with the tiniest of harmonicas adorning the point at which you’d expect a cross.  Dawn’s handiwork is a tangible and praiseworthy accomplishment, you can approach her, tap her on the shoulder and commend her for the stunning work in which she has created.

But on the other hand you’ve got a wall of anonymity:  love letters strewn above and below  the 52 or 60 or 99″ perfect inches that climb up the white walls from the floor.

Some letters traced the reader through an epic journey of emotion, others simply stated the facts in large clear letters.  Like a kindergarden student bringing home a crayon scribbled drawing from class, it was impossible to not sense the childishness of a letter written on construction paper, and the senslessness of relationships.

Perhaps if my imagination had been correct and the walls indeed had been covered in love letters people wouldn’t have taken the time to read them.  Perhaps there is something to be said about the fact that you don’t always need a volume of words to express to someone that you love them or that the love has faded away.  Perhaps that was Rachel Zott and Fiona Garden’s intentions last night.

Maybe saying I love you to a person is just that: saying “I love you.”

But succinctness has never been a quality I’ve embraced, and if I could look back at all the love letters that I’ve written over the years you would see that not one of them was laid perfectly on the one side of an 11 by 17.  Not one of them truely expressed to someone exactly how I felt.  But then again I’ve always had an easier time balancing on the fence of ambiguity then just letting the truth out of my lips.

I guess the point that I’m trying to make is about the respect that I have for each and every one of us.  There are the things that we create, the art we paint, the books we write, or the rosaries that we put together with our two hands.  For these things we reach out to those around us and receive the bounty of praise that we deserve.  We are all creators of something tangible and flexible, touchable, smellable, or feelable.  But there is something in the things that we create in private too.  There is something about the shoebox, or folder, or drawer full of letters that we keep with us wherever we go, and the letters that others have of ours.  There is something in telling the truth to someone or at least giving it the best attempt possible.

I’m thinking more and more that the truth is the kindest creation any of us can give one another.

So perhaps for some of us last night the show left us feeling lighter and softer.  Perhaps for some of us it had us believing in love again, or hating it more than we did before we arrived.  For me it confirmed the reality of everything that I’ve struggled with pertaining to love.  It confirmed how fucked up and amazing love can be and how easily it slips away from us.  So perhaps I’m struggling to find a true connection with someone, or maybe I’m not even interested anymore.

But at least I’ve tried.  And if I could read all those letters that I’ve left along the way, maybe I could trace a map back through all the mistakes I’ve made and learn something.

Maybe I could finally see just how lucky I’ve been  in these minuscule 26 years;  these minuscule 26 years of grace… and ease.

I’ve always taken myself to be a man with loads of common sense: I moved out young, struggled to pay my bills on time, traveled through Asia, and learned what it meant to be lonely and in love at the same time. But, year after year the daunting task of paying my taxes comes knocking on my door and I can’t help but run for the hills.

I’ll admit freely and openly that I’ve fallen on my parents year after year. I pass off the task to their accountant and impatiently wait for the return to roll in. But, this year I’ve put my financial foot to the pavement and taken on the task.

I wonder sometimes if this whole process was something we all learned in school while I was smoking a joint behind the Subway or slumbering on my desk. Is this the vocabulary of the learned only?

“Exemptions”

“Deductions,” and

“Refunds”

All I’ve taken notice to over the years is the money that magically materializes in my chequing account.

Has this become the financial right of passage for our generation? Circumcision, bar mitzvahs, and tattoos all feel secondary to something so daunting. Is a man not truly a man until he can find “line 150” on his 2007 tax return?

If so then the state of my shoebox, full of a plethora of bills and forms all written in words that might sooner be hieroglyphics than the English language will give you the answer:

I’m still a starry-eyed, pre-pubescent boy with his first pubes, staring at the construction workers across the street unknowingly about to get his fore skin chopped off.

Taxes, be good to me.

I have just now recovered from the most splitting headache I’ve had in months.  The momentary glip in thought and breath that tends to come to some of us is for today, my bedfellow. I’m not the headache type, so instead I blame it on the gigantic bowl of quinoa and beans I just consumed, perhaps sprinkled with the countless hangovers that should be mounting up nicely on the back burner from the weekend.

It seems that slim traces of the partying that occurred in buckets are coming back to get me.

Most people when faced with a split in the cranium would probably turn to silence, advil, or perhaps a hot bath, but myself have decided to sit as close to my computer as possible, writing silly words and flipping over a friend’s pictures of some gay summer event in some long-faraway land called America.

Even at the worst of times, I can’t seem to separate myself completely from my electronics.

But anyways, now that I’m recovering nicely from my momentary blip in sanity and good health.  Now that my brain has returned itself to its normal wavelengths or what have you, I seem drawn to old ponderings of mine on sexuality and sanity.  I seem drawn to dig up old dirt, if for just one moment and wonder what it means to be a gay man.

Over the course of the weekend I was privy to school books and cider, kareoke and crab cakes.  I was the guest of many a house and my time left sleeping was little to be desired.  But amongst all the traveling from here to there, the singing and the school work, I was left with a couple souvenirs of the weekend, namely a hand-drawn map of the vagina in my back pocket.  I know precisely the circumstance in which it came from: a circumstance that has been had on many of occasions before, but I’m forced to wonder if maybe it really is that easy.

Maybe as my friends Malissa and Kris lead me to believe, there is a possibility for me and the female persuasion.  Everything will be coming up poontang if I just grab up my vagina map, jump on the back of a unicorn, and go on my sexuality altering journey.

Watch out ladies!  Here I come!!

For a while after coming back from Asia, my roommate and I were lucky enough to receive Men’s Health every month. Addressed to some long-gone member of the house hold, this little treat of a magazine was often as well worn as my favorite pair of cons.  Pages curled and crispy from over use, it’s no wonder that after seeing this, I knew that I had to take a perhaps not so temporary sidestep from my usual blah blah blah-ging.

I first fell in love with Ryan Reynold’s body when I had the privilege of watching Blade 3.  Aside from the most satisfying equation of vampires+explosions+terrible music, was the most titillating equation of Ryan Reynolds tight body.  And damn was it tight.  So if any one out there wants to make my nocturnal masturbatory fantasies even more fulfilling, please, please, please pick me up a copy of this bad boy.  My only regret is that they have him all over-made-up-plastic-faced and fully clothed on the cover, but mystery is always hotter than the obvious anyways.

I can’t wait to see what’s inside.

After waiting nearly 45 minutes for the bus, I only have time to sit here and wait for the soup to boil before rushing off to work.  So in pure frustration I cast letters on the screen, and they are directed solely at you TransLink.

I love this city, I really do.

I have a lot of criticisms and frustrations about certain aspects and certain corners; the dark smelly alleys of the beast that is Vancouver you could say.  But more and more, transit is beginning to drive me to points of utter insanity.  With the schedule that I keep, and the tasks that fill up my to-do lists, I really don’t ask for much:

• A night once a week where I completely let go.

• Nourishing, satisfying eats and drinks to fill my belly.

• A good book to keep by the bathtub when I just can’t look at one more textbook.

• But mainly a solid group of friends to stand by me.

All these things I have completely.  I am fulfilled on a daily basis about the good in my life and the joy that all my extraneous influences bring to the table.  The inspiration I receive from the music, the words, and the people of my life fills me.

But when something stands in the way of these things, I have a tendency to rage.  So when I’m stuck at a bus stop for 45 minutes, and I know that I could be reading that book beside the claw-foot, be with my friends, or be having a little dance somewhere, everything goes pear-shaped.

So fuck you transit!  I don’t know where your buses magically disappear, or if someone just decided to take a break, but figure the shit out!  I’m sure I know very little about the delicate workings of a transit system of our size, but dammit! I really don’t give two shits.  This boys got things to do and places to be, and for Christ’s sake, my soup is burning!

I’m begining to think that I’ve pissed off the dish gods.  The pile of dishes grows and leans from side to side and when I go from bed to sink in the middle of the night I can swear I hear the thing breathe.  The gentle salty wisps of breath that move past the remnants of dried garlic and brown rice, all hopelessly cling to the sides of bowls and plates and cups.

But as much as I may have angered the gods of pots and pans, the deities of forks and spoons, it seems nothing compared to the fiery fury that has erupted over traffic signs in Illinois and Texas.  Hackers have found their way inside road signs intended to warn drivers, and have managed to change the warnings of construction and detours to that of zombies and raptors.

It is comforting in today’s day and age that there are still humans out there concerned for the greater good.  Amongst falling and bouncing dollars, political unrest, and complete environmental saturation there are people willing to risk the $250 fine and take a couple minutes out of their busy schedules to do what matters most:

KEEP US ALL AWAY FROM THOSE FUCKING ZOMBIES AND RAPTORS!!