I love you Lohan, your bad-streak this decade has brought me so much tabloid joy, I really should be thanking you. But Lohan, this piece of advertorial garbage, though it has brought me much joy, has brought it at your expense.
Pointy fingers, gun hands, skinny legs, sit down, stand up, look forward.
Kiss face, kiss noise, smack (did you seriously say smack? Sweetie, no). Fornarina.
The world might eat you alive for this one.
I can’t believe it took me so long to finally watch this.
I’m actually crying a little right now.
I recently received a comment on an article that I wrote a couple of months ago. This comment had me walking down Main Street, completely transfixed into the screen of my Blackberry. What I assumed was simple praise or criticism, turned out to be a whopping volume of words titled FUCKIN’ FAGGOTS!
I won’t copy the article itself, but if you would like to read it for yourself check out the comments at the bottom of this page.
Anyways, the comment referred to the bashing of Ritchie Downie in the West End. I quickly read the work that referred to the events that transpired surrounding this attrocity and reflected on the comment that was written at the bottom of my article. Although I was left with a sickening feeling at the pit of my stomach about the attack, there was also something unnerving about the comment itself.
Really, I was left flabbergasted, not by the events that caused such an expression into my comment field, but more by the tone of the comment itself. Of course I’m disgusted by the things that happen surrounding my life, and the lives of those in the gay community, I’m disgusted by any heinous crime. But I’m confused about what the comment is attempting to tell me. What is it about the article on Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model that inspired you to write this piece for me? Are you searching out every gay related website in Vancouver and sharing this piece of writing with them, or do you feel something about what I chose to write, or the way in which I chose to conduct my writing? I could have clearly mistaken the intention of the comment, but I somehow felt a little judged.
So maybe I’m lucky. Maybe I’m fortunate enough to have not dealt with a ton of adversity in my life. Therefore to some people out there who are older and more educated of the way the gay-niverse, I seem to run around taking advantage of everything that others who came before me had to fight to acquire.
I don’t know. I’m probably just looking way too deep into something that was more self-promotion than a judgment, but frankly I disagree. Shit happens, horrible, hateful shit happens all the time. Guns are fired, people are violated, and hate is disbursed upon its undeserving victims. I still value the city that I live in, and all the rights and freedoms that I have because of where I live. I still believe that we are all wrapped together in the fabric of this place and that sometimes there are holes. I am a firm believer that my sexuality does little to define me as a person, and perhaps this is why I have such a hard time reading something that comes from such a emotionally steady gay voice. I am not my sexuality. It has never and will never define me.
I understand your rage towards this occurrence of senseless violence. But, I will never let it fill me with such rage that I in turn become something that I’m not. I will never let my rage become me, and I defy your implications that it should.
After reading an article on homorazzi.com recently (which by the way is frieking awesome if you haven’t already checked it out), I was touched deeply. The article was regarding the “gay stigma”, and after finishing reading it, I was inclined to comment myself. I love comments, they’re a lovely surprise, and a welcome confirmation that people out there are reading and reacting to what you’ve written, whether good or bad, it’s always a nice surprise.
I suppose the lesson here is that I should never let the thoughts of others shape the work that I so desire to purvey to my audience. I’m sure the gay community has a lot to say about the ways in which I chose to live. And I in turn will continue to criticize the gay community. I have no interest in living in a world that is devoid of all fun, devoid of criticism, and devoid of the commentary that I hold dear.
You can keep your sterile world, and I’ll stick to the dust and the mud.
Someone recently questioned my sexuality. No, not whether I’m pitching or catching, or whose team I’m playing for, but rather my promiscuity. And I was immediately offended at the fact that this person seemed to be implying that I was a slut.
And I barely even knew the person. Outside of bed, that is (ha!)
But seriously, I never thought that I would be so set off by something as trivial as this. Maybe I was more offended by the thought that this person was not wanting to know more about me, and was rather imparting his criticism.
None the less, his warm hands on me would have been more welcome than his notes.
And as quashed as I was feeling about this person, and towards my own drunken behavior, it helped me realize something.
We are all being judged. Every minute of every day our appraised value is determined by wandering eyes. Eyes that look our bodies up and down, determine our physical worth, and search for our paychecks. We are critiqued by ears that listen to our insights, hear for the way we speak, and open themselves to the sound of our laughter. Even the lingering smells in our clothes after a long shift serving tables, and the booze on our breath are not immune to the keen olfactory cells of those around us.
So it makes me wonder about how it must feel–with the finale of Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model right around the corner–to be blatantly carted around for 4 months, to be stripped to your skivvies, and to be ushered to the front of a stage time and time again. All of it with the intention of asserting to your community that “you” are who you think should be deemed Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a complete introvert, in fact I’ve been known to take the stage at many an occasion throughout my exhibitory youth and young adult hood. I’ve dressed as a nun and sang at the top of my lungs, bounded around a theater in what was more a gigantic rag than a cat’s costume, and divulged my deep dark coming out story to a room full of Christians. All of these things I’ve done without the slightest of pitter-patters in my heart muscles. But there’s something completely different about my time in the lime-light and that is the displacement of identity.
Even though I may have confessed my sexuality to a room full of holy-folk, there was a third wall there, and I was never truly myself.
It is these things and more that would have me shying away from participating in even my favorite of reality tv shows. If Mtv were to call me up tomorrow and ask me to be one of the next 7 (or 8 now?) roomates on The Real World, I wonder if I could live with the thought of seeing myself on the screen. I wonder if I could watch myself picking my nose, or having a hissy fit. But what good it would do for me. If I could deal with all the things that others were saying about me, then perhaps I could finally become comfortable with all that I’ve become in these 26 years.
So maybe that’s why I’ve struggled to continue writing critically about a process that I don’t fully understand. I’ve come far from the guy who was talking trash about Vancouver’s Next Top Model.
And though it may never be appealing to me to take the stage and assert myself as the most handsome thing on Davie Street, it appeals to me to be a part of a community that can keep their attention focused on something for long enough to make it valuable.
I haven’t quite figured out how to get over my own self-consciousness yet. My strength and confidence still crumble apart at the most inopportune of times. Even when I think that I have transcended love and have settled into a confident life of success and self-motivation, I find myself to be as weak to the judgments of those around me as the next guy. Even when we think we’ve escaped pain and hardship, we find it coming right back around the corner again.
So, I didn’t quite accomplish what I set out to do. I initially wanted to draw attention to all the contestants in the Gay Top Model webisode below and perhaps find out how I could get into that bathtub with Aaron Ursacki… (anyone??) But sometimes life throws you a curve ball and the last thing you feel like doing is poking fun at a set of hairy legs, a frighteningly charming baby face, a confusing head of hair, or an extraordinarily tall fellow.
So you’re all out of the woods for tonight.
For tonight, I’m looking forward to seeing what will all play out in little over a week’s time at Celebrities, and perhaps then you will feel all of my judgy wrath.
Check check it out…
Waking up yesterday morning, I realized that I’ve been much too gracious to my liver.
Clearly it’s been almost a month since I spent all morning and early afternoon in bed. Clearly it’s been almost a month since I set out for my first coffee of the day in the early evening. But this was the entirety of my Sunday: setting out late and returning home early to spend the evening in pajamas on the couch, popping Advil’s and drinking water.
Speaking of clarity, I believe that it became crystal clear to me and a couple of friends, that I am at my absolute judgiest when I still have vodka coursing through my hung-over veins at 2:00 on a Sunday afternoon.
So, as many a weekend has tended to play out over the years, I’ve once again gone from Gene Kelly on Friday night, to Oscar the Grouch on Sunday.
But it is in this judgiest of judgey moods that some of the most ridiculous and hilarious things seem to escape my brain. And so I’m forced to wonder once again, where creativity comes from? I’m forced to wonder when I became such an asshole?
And I’m not ashamed, I’m just critical, exceptionally so at times. And its caused me to make exceptional friends and extraordinary enemies as I’ve gone about my days. It’s caused me creative inspiration and the courage to take a step in what I feel is the right direction and really stick to it. It’s caused me time and time again to take a look at my life and ask myself “what the fuck, Trevor?”
And maybe some day I’ll change, but for now, if you come into the coffee shop at 2:00 on Sunday afternoon with a frizzy pony tail on your head, and a face so made up your skin looks more like the epidermis of a tuber, then I just might call you a “turnip”.
All in the comfort of my close-minded little bubble that is.
Karma really is a bitch.
After writing a little piece a couple of months ago about a fellow student in one of my classes reaking of mothballs, the gods have decided to impart their judgement and it isn’t kind. In fact, it’s suffocating.
You see I live 2 floors above a rather “trashy” little family.
Stinky Stanky Mothball Me. I guess flies wouldn't be attracted to the smell of moth ball fumes, but it's more a demonstration of my artistic abilities. Stare in awe.
They leave their laundry in the machines for days, literally. They litter the lawn with their children’s toys, claiming ownership over an apparently communal space. And they yell and scream at their children and each other at all times of the day and night. But this last action of theirs is beyond forgivable, and fucking ridiculous.
After seeing a cockroach in their apartment, they have decided to put mothballs into the heat vents. The same vents that run through the entire house, and that all of us share. Awesome. So now, my little home at the top of the stairs reaks of mothballs, reaks.
The air is thick with the stuff, so much that it’s been giving Meghan and I headaches. And now in math class, I’m no longer haunted by the smell of mothballs following me, I am the one bringing the haunt.
The front row of Math 1118 at Langara is now completely saturated by the odor of an impromptu mothball posse.
Now when I get out of the swimming pool my towel smells, my retardedly expensive jackets smells, and my bed smells: all of it moth balls. I’ve even convinced myself twice now that people have moved seats on the bus because of the way I smell.
And to top it all off, apparently this little family two floors down is unreachable. Great.
If there’s one thing that I’m not, it’s a visual artist. I can’t draw and I struggle to paint unless it involves little more than pouring gobs of acrylics and just spreading it around a palette as though I’m icing a cake. It’s not my sense of color that’s the struggle, but rather the conveyance of anything life-like or even reminiscent of some thing. Anything. It’s the problem of getting the visuals of my mind to translate to the canvas.
Sure, in saying that, I set myself up. I have absolutely no authority to say the things that I’m about to. And some might wonder if I should. Is it fair to throw stones at a media campaign whose only intention is the betterment of society? Probably not, but I can’t keep it to myself any longer.
And all in all, this shit is really so bad, that it’s pretty awesome.
Exhibit A:
what-it-takes.org's capaign for awareness?
I first noticed this poster on Davie Street a couple of weeks ago, and since then have seen 2 other varieties in various locations around town. I was so dumbfounded by the thing that I had to stop for a moment and take it all in.
First off, obviously enough, it’s blatant. Obviously. What a better way to sell gay men something then have it regarding sex and nudity. But it’s not the blatant suggestions of sexual intercourse and bondage that bothers me, it’s just about everything else. Perhaps it was the bizarre proportions of everything in the picture, or maybe the fact that Tarzan looks more like Kenny G than an apparently attractive hero.
Was this some organization’s attempt at re-creating the stimulation that house-wives feel when they pick up a Harlequin Romance at the grocery store?
What really got me about this poster was more in the subtle details: I had to actually ask myself if the monkey in the background was trying to free the fellow on the tree, or if he in fact was the one doing the bondage. What does the panther have to do with anything? It’s almost like the artist is saying to us, “I can draw a panther!” “Look at my monkey, he’s pretty.”
And why does he have only one shoe? and… are you serious? Do those sequoias really have testicles??? You’ve got to be kidding me.
So maybe they’ve done what they set out to do. Perhaps What-It-Takes.org’s intention was to capture the imaginations, and attentions of us “high risk” individuals who wander the west-end. And, well, it worked. And I can’t say I’d turn away the opportunity to frolic around some mythical garden of Eden with a handsome fellow, or wait in a tree for Tarzan to swing in at-the-ready, but really??
It just goes too far.
It’s not like they don’t have something important to say. Honestly check it out. The message is vital to our community and the world. For myself though, the message is too fucked up.
I’m sick of having sex thrown in my face.
Maybe I’m alone on this, but the most stimulating thing to me still, is the intrigue and mystery in the long looks across the room before you’ve met someone? And am I the only one left that loves the biting tension before you have sex with someone?
Apparently. Sheesh.
And with that, I leave you with this. Don’t even get me started on this one:
Exhibit B:
Up until now I’ve only used this blog as a forum for my uncensored thoughts and feelings, my bitchings and anguish, and my loathings and distaste, all for a world that I love and loathe. I never thought about the possibility of providing free PR for products that weren’t directly related to my city, my neighborhood, or my friends and family. Until now that is. And it was this silly little product that spurned me to write beyond my sphere of influence.
Amusingly enough, it starts with this: Canada Dry’s Green Tea Ginger Ale.
That’s right, I’m writing about Ginger Ale.
For all of you who know me well, you’ll know my love of all things bubbly and delicious. It started early with my obsession with Coca-Cola, and when my tummy just couldn’t take the stuff any longer, I went through years and years avoiding everything with sugar and bubbles. Until about a year ago, when I re-discovered the joys of Club Soda and Ginger Ale. Perhaps it was my discovery of the lack of caffeine in these bubbles, or maybe it was just the simple delicious bit of refreshing delight in the middle of a shift at work, but I’ve come over the past year to be a solid backer of everything gingery and bubbly.
I first heard about Green Tea Ginger Ale from a friend of mine who had discovered it in the Langara College cafeteria, and needless to say, I have been selling them out of the stuff for weeks now. A long-time lover of green tea, and a new found friend of the ale, I couldn’t find this shit more delicious. Who ever thought that they could take ginger ale to another level? But damn Canada Dry, you’ve done us all a gigantic favor.
Take a little ginger ale, add the antioxidant benefits of green tea, with a little kick of caffeine, and you’ve certainly made a friend of me.
While reading yesterday’s Metro at breakfast this morning, I not only realized that I am perpetually one step behind the times, but also a very interesting tidbits about my lesbian counterparts. Apparently lesbians are more prone to cancer than heterosexuals, hmm.
At first glace, I took it to just be another meaningless piece of journalistic blubber, but then I got to thinking.
With all the articles written about the dangers of coffee , eggs, or red wine, that only switch to profess the very opposite news the next day, it’s becomes harder and harder to find the true meaning of things in the news.
The article states that lesbians are more likely to have a higher body mass index and are less likely to use the medical system, thus less likely to get a mammogram, or pap, or what have you. I immediately thought to myself: “Where do you get these stats? This is ridiculous.”
But then it occurred to me, and I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t thought of it previous:
Who hasn’t in their lifetime met an overweight man-hating lesbian who hates doctors?
And suddenly it all made sense.
All of a sudden our smart phones and our clocks know quicker than we do that it’s in fact 3 in the morning.
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