I’m fascinated by SEO–the curious illusion I have in my head about the spider that crawls through the system, back and forth between laptop and computer, desperately looking for some pattern or connection worthy of his time.
I knew from the very beginning that this forum, stinkwallet, would most likely become a muddled mess of confusion. Like my very brain, I imagined this place to be a raucous of thoughts, pictures, and useless tidbits of information.
But SEO and all that it’s taught me about this new universe, has tonight taught me something about myself too. Out of all the tidbits, the crumbs, and the graffiti on the wall, this spider has found me to be a significant “not onlyer”. I won’t even write the two words directly beside each other if I can help it (“not” and “only”, that is), for fear that I might keep this spider well fed on the fuel that I’ve been feeding it.
But what does it say about myself? It certainly leads me to believe even more that I’ve no sense of my personal brand–that this place is more of an experiment in the ways of the internet, than something of any true value. It certainly has me believing more than that though.
The unconscious writing on the wall.
The writing that’s hiding behind the heavy, sloppy, oily graffiti.
The writing that’s begging for another me to suddenly show itself through the muck and the mud. That, dare I say it, I have been doing one thing while all the while looking for something else.
It all sounds frighteningly too familiar if you ask me.
Facebook keeps telling me in streams of status updates that Britney prematurely evacuated the GM Place this evening, but I’m more content with Beirut at the moment.
It’s comforting to know that the fellow has finally lifted his chin.
I’m shocked to find myself at home this evening, and amazed at the potential to actually use my brain in the morning. Free time can be a curse to a man who finds it hard to escape the sleeves, the cans, and the bottles of another mindless evening. But think of the potential? Think of all the possibilities that I could be shying away from. What am I missing out on? Keep yourself down Trevor, tied to your worn mattress, because you, are as worn as the weary springs and the wooden beams that seems to bend slowly, their bellies swooping closer and closer to the floorboards.
So, Facebook, once again you’ve given me something more to prop you up for. In a peculiar combination of keywords, you, Facebook, and that little magical googlebot, have directed all these silly readers my way.
Trying so hard to write for an audience that I’ve formulated in my mind, and all of a sudden I’m talking to a room that’s basked in shadows, wondering where all those ideal readers–the ones that I concocted in the bathtub, and on drunken smokey stoops– have all gone.
But I’m not afraid to take a diversion.
Granted, I’ve struggled with transition, and the thought of moving up and beyond anything, has kept me in one place or another longer than I would like to admit.
Thailand had me scared and shaking on its islands, eating pasta and bread from a woman who invited me in. And I wish I could admit like all the lonely old men that venture forth from their dingy Canadian basement suites, that I too had come to have found a Thai woman’s arms. But I was taken by her food, by the opportunity for anything that seemed familiar.
Maybe it was the bulldog, but I blame it on her bread.
Then the home at the back of the building, the one through the parking lot. The house we tried to make a home. It so easily became a prison, and I never would have guessed that I would have put myself somewhere with such little windows and such little ceilings that knocked down on me. And the ones upstairs that moved across the floor with a clunk and a scrape. Slowly dragging their imaginary walkers across their hard wood at all hours of the night and day.
And the bakery. The one where I woke at three in the morning just to arrive on time, back when I still listened to music in the chunky green discman. Back when I lived on the other side of the bridge, on the other side of the Georgia Straight. And it wasn’t the long walk that finally deterred me from coming back for more, or the cutting off of all those dreadlocks of mine (the ones that hung so low), and it wasn’t the lack of compensation, or the heat of the ovens in the middle of summer, and not the depression, or the fear that I would be stuck there morning after morning, under-rested and overworked.
Perhaps once again, it was the bread.
So what? Perhaps I’m stuck again, and although I trudge along, this week I’m lost in the bottle and the bars.
Free time can be a curse to a man who’s easily swayed.
And Facebook can be a most peculiar mate, who’s warmth comes less from the baking of bread, and more from the hum of all its funny little stories.
Hilarity overheard at the urinal in the bathroom at Celebrities Thursday night:
“Did you see Joel?”
“Ryan has pecs and abs, Joel just has pecks.”
“Well it’ll be one or the other, for sure.”
And I’ll admit that I was sitting on the same fence as these two fellows. I arrived to the party thinking that the competition would clearly come down to Ryan and Joel. Perhaps my distance from the judging process had me at a disadvantage. Possibly I was looking more at the faces and bodies of the competitors and less at the character behind them, or maybe I misunderstood the power of popularity.
So as per usual, maybe I’m just late to the party.
I mean, I had every intention of writing something sooner about the finale for Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model, but something just didn’t click. In a room full of ex-boyfriends, maybe it was the alcohol that took over, or the fact that my favorite sweater got lost amongst the countless homosexual knees and feet, and the floor. Hands down, I was somewhat astounded by the results of the evening. Not simply because I thought that Ryan and Joel had nicer arms and abs than some of the other contestants, but more because of the overwhelming influence that knowing the right people has.
Every year when The Best of Vancouver in the Georgia Straight is released, it proves for an entertaining read. And I’m not alone, many have agreed that the survey very poorly represents what is actually the best in the city. The winner of Vancouver’s Next Top Model was decided by a process that involved 50% judge decided and 50% audience decided votes. I don’t mean to imply that Calan didn’t deserve the top spot, this little ginger really rocked it out the whole time. He was just the underdog that I didn’t see rising to the top of the competition.
I suppose it’s always a surprise ending that takes the audience in the fiercest way possible. And I suppose that endings are always anti-climatic.
For the performer, an ending can be an uplifting experience. Finishing shows in high school I was always relieved that the rehearsals were over and I could finally go back to drinking coffee and bitching about the world every night. But to the audience, and ending can leave you wanting more, or feeling a little dissatisfied.
In my case I felt a little bit of both.
So, although the competition is over and I have written much less that I first anticipated and written it much later than I should have, I am contentedly leaving this competition behind me. Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model has shown me everything from the glory of well-funded camp to the importance of knowing a lot of people with cell-phones that can show up and vote for you. It has also taught me a lot about what it means to be on display, to be a part of a community with big opinions.
Most importantly, it has reinforced the integral opportunity that self-marketing yourself can have. Stepping out on a limb with confidence can be the most important thing that any of us can do for ourselves. In a competitive world, it sometimes seems impossible to believe that we have the potential to do anything beyond the limited scope of our worlds.
In this increasingly competitive world of ours, some of us manage to rise to the very top, even if just for a moment…
I have to admit I’ve had a really great time experiencing Vancouver’s Next Gay Top Model.
What started as an experiment and a learning experience about the going-ons in the gay community, has translated itself into a genuinely-healthy writing exercise.
And more than that, I’m actually a complete daze to the outcome. I genuinely have no idea how the whole evening will pan out on Thursday, and I’m really excited to experience what chalked up to be an apparent circus of chaotic fun last year.
Will it be Stephen? Who at 6’6″ actually towers above me, something at 6’4″ I don’t often experience,
The witty Adam, that seems to have a whole “load” of stories left to tell us.
Or, Micheil, whose unique look, and experience in the industry could set him apart from the others when it finally gets down to it?
What about Morgan, the techie whose undergone the most drastic transformation of the bunch (thank god!)?? Could Morgan, who’s gone from question marks to exclamation points take the prize?
Will it be Reese, the merchandiser whose merchandised his way into the audience’s hearts more than once?
Or perhaps the only ginger of the bunch, Calan? I must say those gingers intrigue me and make me feel a little funny. I’ve convinced myself that gingers are the key to some unknown eventuality of planet earth. More than once I’ve found myself daydreaming about leagues of gingers marching through the streets. Beware, the allusive ginger! Especially the ones that are good in front of the camera.
And let’s not forget Ryan, the industrialist. This race car driver and construction-savvy fella is taking the gay stereotype under the welder and completely transforming it.
Let’s flip-flop to Joel, the resident gymnast, whose more than once grabbed the attention of the audience with his broad shoulders. Will those muscles of his be enough to grab the attention of the audience on Thursday night?
And last, but very not least, there’s Billy. He’s been the brunt of most of the criticism and jests that I’ve thrown at the competitors, and I must admit that this hairy-legged Carmen Miranda has taken everyone of them with a smile and a laugh. Joking aside, Billy has taken a firm grip of his place in the competition, and will be holding on to his chili peppers till the very end of the competition if he has anything to say about it.
So for now we’ll have to continue the drudgery for another day, and await the camp, chaos, and cacaphony of tomoorow evening.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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