Thursday, June 30, 2005

whatEVER

A couple of days ago I got my hair cut and to be honest I’m less than thrilled with the results. It’s half way between my desire to shave it off completely and the poser in me that doesn’t want to ruin my emo-cred. Today my roommate stopped in, on his way out of town and after looking at it for a few minutes he concluded I look like Ghey Hitler. I’d be insulted if it weren’t so true. God I can’t wait for it to grow back, I don’t care how hot it is in this weather.
Well punks I’m off to my summer villa for the weekend, to celebrate Canada Ghey, I hope y'all have a blast and a half! Drunk and stoned with my sister, yay.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

A Practicing Asexual

Why do people ask “are you seeing anyone yet?” And then when the answer is inevitably “no”, they respond with: “awww, don’t worry! You’ll find someone soon!” That is SO rude. First of all, don’t you think if I was seeing someone and wanted you to know I’d have mentioned it? Second of all, I never said I was worried, so heaping pity on me like that only makes me feel like there is something I should be worried about. And finally why is being single so greatly admonished?

I have definitely asked people about the status of their dating-life, but I feel like I am able to do it tactfully, without making the person feel like a freak, no matter what they’re answer. Even when a friend is bitching-and-moaning about wanting a boyfriend I usually don’t give in to that pressure to say: “you’ll find someone soon!” Not everyone does, and ‘finding someone’ doesn’t ensure happiness or that the person is right for them anyway. Why isn’t it possible for society to conceive of living happily-ever-after without a partner?

I can remember a recent conversation with a girlfriend who refused to believe me when I said I really couldn’t picture myself in a relationship. She got really defensive as if my saying that I might not be compatible in a long-term-relationship was somehow a personal attack on her. If I say that I’m single and I don’t immediately follow it up with “and I want to shoot myself” please don’t make that association. And even if I am unhappy being single, is there really any use whining about it all the time?

It’s like the series finally of sex and the city; all the women were conveniently paired-off. The entire show burst out the gate under the premise that women didn’t need men to make them happy and then within one hour they managed to completely refute that goal and rewrite the Carrie-and-Big-history in order to assure the audience: “Don’t worry! Carrie finds a man! Don’t pity her!” Sorry, I’m still really pissed off about that.

I think I’m going to start telling people I’m asexual and only able to mate with myself.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

Lemme show you how this Man-Boy flirts

This past Friday I spent a boring night typing up shit for work. It was fairly brainless-sport so I decided to treat myself with some new music. You should know that music is my one true love – don’t tell literature –I could see myself pursuing a job in the music-industry if not for the fact I have zero-musical talent. No line from a song more aptly describes me than the following from the Pet Shop Boys: “when you’re a boy/some days are tough/lying on your bed/playing punk rock and stuff”. Of course I mean the Avril Lavigne version of punk-rock, or at least the type of punk-rocker who owns and likes Pet Shop Boys CDs.

Anyway, I ventured to the mall – which is a big deal for me, considering how much I hate those constructions, in no small part because they are over-run by 12-year-olds wearing low-rise jeans – to make my big purchase. I know, I know, support your local music-stores blah, blah, blah. HMV has the kind of shit I like and it’s all of 10 minutes away from my home, which is really as far as I ever venture anywhere. Not to mention there are two really gorgeous Emo-boys who work there. In my fantasy they say something like: “I can tell you’re really boss by your taste in music, which is coincidently my taste in music”. I know we like the same Indie-bullshit judging by their clothes, because I’m superficial.

I bought Death from Above 1979’s first CD, they’re home-grown Canadian-talent. That’s either the best band name I’ve ever heard or else the worst. You can’t say it without feeling vaguely tool-esque. Their album is seriously AWESOME though, it’s just straight up fun rock music. Do you ever feel really boss? Where you just KNOW that your shit is bananas? I usually only feel really boss in my 2-dollar aviators [mostly because they are cheep and cool, like me] but DfA1979’s music makes me feel that level of boss with or without my shades.

My roommate’s boyfriend described the entire CD-experience “as just plain audio-sex” and I couldn’t agree more. The boys in this band are fucking dripping with sex. Not to mention the CD’s called you’re a woman, I’m a machine, that is just genius. I think that might be how I introduce myself: “Hi, you’re a woman, I’m a machine”. The ladies will be lining-up. I insist you check out their most bad-ass tunes: Romantic Rights, Blood on our Hands and Black History Month.

The album is just so much rocking-fun it almost redeems me for owning Spice Girls and Gwen Stefani albums. Almost.

In a 2-for-1 deal I also bought Stars album set yourself on fire which is okay, but I haven’t been as instantly taken with it. If I could describe it, I would call it Indie-music filtered through Enya, which is not a compliment at all. There are two main-vocalists, one a woman, the other a man. The guy’s voice reminds me of John K Samson from the Weakerthans – who incidentally is a homosexual – but not as good. The girl however has a very lovely voice. I’ll keep you posted on if it grows on me. I don’t like most CDs right out of the gate anyway, so in a month’s time I could love it.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

The one about the pink-track-jacket

Yesterday I went to grab some cheepy-undershirts that I could write on with clever slogans. While at the store I happened to notice this blue track-jacket that looked like something Adam Brody would wear, so as you can imagine I was instantly drawn to it. As it turned out it was 9-bucks, but as the shop-girl who was helping me commented “in the girls section”. She then informed me there were similar track-jackets in the men’s section but for ten-dollars more. So of course I was all “well no where on the jacket does it say ‘from the girl’s section’, soooooo why would I spend an extra ten-dollars to enforce your store’s gendered outlook on clothing?”

After I assured her that I was man enough to wear a “woman’s” track-jacket I bought it and the matching pants that came with it, which in all honesty I probably wouldn’t wear. After a few hours I decided I didn’t like the color that much, but there was an identical black one with a pink stripe. So today I went back to exchange my blue one for the black-and-pink confection I hearted so much. The same girl helped me and felt it necessary to SHOW me the men’s jackets which were too big for me anyway, and to point out that “the girl’s one” has a pink stripe. I couldn’t believe how hard she was working to get me to spend more money on gender-appropriate clothing, maybe it was a commission thing.

Finally I had to explain to her that I was butch enough to carry off a pink-stripe just fine, and that I in fact wanted a pink-striped track-jacket. And if it weren’t so fucking hot out I’d have worn my new kick-ass jacket home.

I answered 20 questions, and a bitch ain't one.

It’s Sunday and there isn’t much to do today so to kill some time I’m answering this 20-question biznaz I found on a site I semi-frequent:

1. Tell me something obvious about you.
I want people to think I’m funny.

2. Tell me something about you that many don't know.
I make a lot of self-deprecating jokes but I’m a fairly confident person. Oh, and I’m strong-like-bull. I don’t look it, but I am.

3. What is your biggest fear?
Dying alone and no one noticing/caring for weeks. It might be a direct rip-off of Bridget Jones but it is still something to legitimately fear.

4. Do you normally go the safe route or take the short cut?
Safe. I’m not adventurous in the least.

5. Name one thing you want that you can't buy with money.
Oh honestly, this question screams to be answered with: Love.
But I refuse.
So instead I will say: what it feels like to be a bear. And to have a beard.

6. What is your most treasured possession?
My journals, I’ve kept one since grade 8 religiously and reading journals from years ago is like visiting a really great old friend. It is probably the only place in life where I am as vicious, funny, kind and true as I really am.

7. What is the one thing you hate most about yourself that you do often?
I have the bad habit of saying really unfair things about people I love. I am trying to change that.

8. What is your favorite lie to tell?
“I don’t mind!”

9. Name something you've done once that you can't wait to do again.
This question only makes me think of dirty things.

10. Are you the jealous type?
Yes, but I’m ridiculously good at hiding it. Unless I’m drunk.

11. What is the one person, place or thing you can't say no to?
Lord Voldemort.

12. What is the nicest thing someone has ever done for you?
I can’t name a specific incident, but there are definitely more than a handful of people who have done really casually-awesome things for me, that has really solidified their presence in my life. They usually aren’t grand-gestures and that is how I know they’re genuine.

13. If you could do something crazy right now, what would it be?
I’d shave my head, despite the fact I look like a monk. That’s about as crazy as I get.

14. When was the last time you cried?
This past Christmas. Don’t you love super-happy-family-fun-time?

15. When was the last time you felt so good that nothing else mattered?
I think this past Wednesday night.

16. Do you feel comfortable in public with no shirt on?
I would have to be on several types of drugs to be shirtless in front of my own friends let alone in public.

17. Name something embarrassing you did while drunk.
I have the awesome habit of telling people that I’ve had a crush on that “I’m SO FUCKING IN LOVE WITH YOU MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN”. It always works out really well.

18. Name one person, past or present, with whom you’d like to spend the day.
Ugh, I dunno, there are a few. I’m going to say Natalie, because she moved to BC and I don’t think I’ll see her for a very long time. That or my sister, I see my sister a fair bit, but she’s definitely my best-friend and if I could see her everyday I would.

19. Name one place you’ve never been and would like to go, and tell me why.
As a child I was obsessed by Vikings. I might like to visit Iceland to see if any of them still exist.

20. What’s the story behind your online persona/name?
Oh, because I think I’m hysterical. And I suppose it’s a vague-comment on the way corporate-interest has reduced peoples bodies and souls to little more than luncheon-meat in the great shopping-Mall that is our society. I’m deep like that.
---
Your turn. But only if you want.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Pride, Pride with Magical Fruits


Well, Pride-season is upon us and I wouldn’t be doing my job as a disaffected-queer-youth, if I didn’t do a little bitching and moaning over my people’s annual celebration of all-things rainbow-colored. I had never been to a Pride event – or any event geared toward queers really – until two summers ago. The fall before that I’d flown my parents coop and came out to just about everyone I know – with the exception of family, but that’s another post entirely. So there I was, a newly minted ghey and my posse of lesbians, ready to embark on some fun and frivolity.

I’m not sure how it works at most festivities, but in Toronto the Dyke March occurs the day before the big parade. As you can imagine, my wimmin-loving self felt it equally important to get my Dyke-on as well as my Pride-on. The Dyke March was fantabulous! I bumped into a girl I had no idea was a lesbo and added her to my traveling band of bent-women. The entire event was awesome, weed wafting in from all directions, fabulous women of all shapes, sizes, creeds and colors declaring their ghey. Sure, there was some gimmicky crap, such as beer floats, but the entire event felt so communal and safe, not to mention relaxed, what with the significantly fewer people.

The next day I was a wee-bit hung over, what with the chocolate-martinis that were consumed the night before, but me and my gal-pals made it to Pride anyway. And it was horrible. First of all, our group was split-up when one of my girlfriend’s other gay-male friends refused to leave the Subway station until he found the guy he’d decided he was going home with that night. Now, I’m a supportive person, I don’t favor the random-hook-up thing myself, but I try not to judge those that do. However, in this instance, a relative stranger asked to meet him at a random location in the Subway. Forget for a second how unsafe that is, did it not occur to him that he was being given the brush-off? Because it sure occurred to me. Low-and-behold said Mystery Stud never showed up.

Not to mention, that when we finally did get to the Parade it was so packed breathing – let alone moving – was made difficult. My girlfriend remarked: “I think there needs to be a law, if you know more than one gay person you should not be allowed to come to Pride, leave some room for people who need to be here.” I thought that was rather hysterical. The entire atmosphere had changed from the day before.

There was no sense of camaraderie at this Parade, and all the floats seemed geared towards giving gay men drinking problems – not to mention body-dysmorphia. It is true, that I will never be the type of boy that belongs in go-go shorts with my junk hanging out. I will never look right in sparkly-painted nipples. That does not mean I don’t support those men who do. I just grossly hate the culture that perpetuates such a narrow ideal of beauty, when the whole purpose of the Parade is supposedly about community and celebrating diversity.

I will not be attending Pride this year, because as far as I’m concerned the spirit of such events has very little to do with being Prideful about anything besides corporate-interest. And that is not something I’m particularly supportive of. However, I do plan on celebrating something else this weekend: my status as a straight-positive alley. A bunch of straight people are coming over this weekend to par-tee and I can’t wait. I hear straight is the new ghey, anyway. You heard it here first.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

I say 'shit' a lot.

Occasionally I make the mistake of thinking that some of my friends give as much of a shit about me as I do about them. I’m always very attentive to their bullshit boyfriend stories, so I always find it especially irritating when I reveal some personal tidbit over MSN only to get a ‘sad face’ emoticon-bullshit as a response.
I realize it’s my fault for trying to communicate over MSN, but still. A fucking cartoon face is not a response people. Especially if said tidbit is juicy, which it totally was. That’s like people who reply to everything you’ve said with “L-ho-L”, fuck, I realize I’m funny but I can’t be that much of a riot.

Tween-Beard



I felt it important to keep the people of the world abreast on all recent developments in my life. The most significant being my decision to grow tween-beard. For those of you unfamiliar with the term, tween-beards effect thousands of men everywhere, each and every day. Tween-beards are those beards that are too sparse to be considered a genuine facial-hair growth and are more-or-less a bunch of straggly random hairs sprouting from one’s face. Cursed with the inability to grow facial hair, I have decided to forgo good-taste and grow out my neck-hairs anyway. I challenge the people of the world to support tween-bearders by growing theirs out, or supporting those that can.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

Bag of Hammers? Can you get my coffee?



Why is it that the same people who say things like “oh it’ll be faster if I do it” rather than training me to be able to do this or that oh-so-time-consuming task, are also the same people who make snarky remarks about how their workload is so much bigger than everyone else’s because – I assume people like me – aren’t pulling their weight? Being accused of being lazy – even off-handedly – has got to be one of my pet-peeves in life. Especially considering I’m working this job for the experience and the skills I’m suppose to be learning, not for the income. With what they pay, you’d better believe it’s not for the income.

I’m new! Of course I have no clue what needs to be done or the proper procedure to do it in. Had I been properly trained you can bet your ass I’d spend my office hours doing more than organizing paper-clips. I’m constantly talking during meetings, trying to catch the drift of everything going over my head and integrate myself into the work-load by volunteering to do all the menial tasks no one else wants to do. And yes, the girl who was hired on at the same time as I was appears to do very little, but I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone tell her what to do either. I especially hate when I make what I believe to be a helpful suggestion and everyone looks at me like I’m as dumb as a bag of hammers. At least I’m trying here people.

Ugh, office politics are hard.
It’s because I’m ghey isn’t it?
I joke, that office is crawling with homosexuals.
But I hate to complain, it really is a sweet job in many respects.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

I’m so Emo I’m Catholic

"1. Emo
Genre of softcore punk music that integrates unenthusiastic melodramatic 17 year olds who dont smile, high pitched overwrought lyrics and inaudible guitar rifts with tight wool sweaters, tighter jeans, itchy scarfs (even in the summer), ripped chucks with favorite bands signature, black square rimmed glasses, and ebony greasy unwashed hair that is required to cover at least 3/5 ths of the face at an angle.
::sniff sniff:: "The Demise of the Siberian Traintracks of Our Rusty Forgotten Unblemished Love" sounds like it would make a great emo band name. ::cry::
"
- Urban Dictionary says so.

For a more visual approach on what it means to be Emo make with the clickity.

Admittedly, when a guy walks by with hipster-doofus hair or wearing ‘Buddy Holly’ glasses my head snaps around quicker than Star Jones at a Payless Shoe Sale. I can’t help it, there is something irresistible about this type of guy; they’re so arty and sensitive looking. There is also something undeniably homosexual about the entire look. I swear, you could dress up someone I’m as repulsed by as Tom Cruise in emo-threads and I’d be all over that like white on rice.



Take a good long-look at my lover Adam Brody, the most mainstream example of emo-ery. He is so beautiful he makes me shed emo-tears. His choice of style makes me convinced at any moment Seth Cohen will profess his undying love for Ryan. Of course then Ryan will be confused, take off his shirt and everything will go back to normal. But a boy can dream can’t he?



At times people have commented that this is in fact the way I dress. I would argue that as I shop at Value Village – due to some vague-anti-consumer beliefs and a current lack of riches – I have no choice but to look like an emo. Cheep-old man clothes are all I can find, afford and desire to wear. I can’t help that I seriously ROCK old-man cardigans. It’s certainly not my fault that too-short pants look amazing on me. And can you fault me that I – like so many – believe Buddy Holly knew what he was talking about in eye-wear? And really without the glasses I’m unsafe on the roads, so basically this is a matter of necessity, not fashion.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Sooo Seductive


Just like every hip-happening 20-something, I spent my Friday night babysitting my cousins [that’s right I have the job of a 12-year-old girl and I refuse to feel any shame about it]. Because I am such a good babysitter I allowed my youngest cousin, Sam, to pick the video we watched, and like every girl her age she picked a Hilary Duff classic: Raise Your Voice. Now, I enjoy fluffy tween-movies just as much as the next guy but weepy-romantic-family-drama ones, are where I draw the line. But, I watched it anyway, and I assure you it was horrible. Within 20 minutes of the movie Hilary and her older brother snuck off to see a THREE DAY’S GRACE concert. If that doesn’t foretell of the suck about to come, I don’t know what does.

Forget for a second that Hilary Duff is playing a girl with a voice SO good she gets invited to an elite music-school, alongside kids who play actual instruments, the cliché-stock characters were just too much to bare. We had the Angry-Black-Female roommate, who as you may have guessed, gets off to a rough start with dear Hilary but manages to grudgingly befriend her along the way. Then there was the ‘mean girl’ who makes Hilary feel like she’s not good enough, but of course Duff overcomes it and said mean girl gets her comeuppance. There’s the overly-invested teacher who frankly creeped me out.

The Dad with the ‘bark bigger than his bite’, who initially doesn’t realize how much ‘talent’ Hil actually has. Then we have the kooky-hip Aunt who helps her rebellious niece and apparently has no life of her own. There’s also the pseudo-straight guy friend who can’t seem to get the girl, even though the audience knows this kid grows up to be gay.



All of that I bore through clenched-teeth and inappropriate laughing fits – like the point where Hilary’s creepy older brother WONT STOP VIDEO RECORDING HIS SISTER, sure he was sending the school a video of her ‘talent’ but it definitely came off with way more incestuous over-tones than any Duff movie should have. The part I absolutely drew the line at was when my cousin proclaimed Duff’s love-interest to be cute. The boy had a MULLET. If her parents don’t steer my cousins down the right path in life, it will have to be me. I declared in no-uncertain terms that she was never to describe a boy with a mullet as cute EVER again, I don’t care how post-punk-ironic his mullet was intended to be, it was a creepfest.



The best part of the movie was the ‘anti-drinking’ campaign, sure to draw in the parents of the tween-demographic, this movie was otherwise intending to target. Sheesh, way to give under-age drinking such a bad name mullet-boy, now no one will think it’s cool.
After the movie we watched music videos when my ten-year-old boy cousin proclaimed how cool Fiddy Cent was. I changed the channel immediately and told him there would be no liking of tacky-rap on my watch.
“You just don’t like rap music” he said, because earlier that night I’d made fun of the fact he likes that god-awful “Switch” song by Will Smith.
“I don’t like BAD rap music” I informed him. “There is cool rap but anything sung by a guy whose been shot 9 times doesn’t register as cool to me.”
My boy-cousin proceeded to tell me how being shot is actually cool.
“WHY in god’s name would being shot be cool?” I demanded of him, hoping to figure out how Fiddy’s marketing genius had worked so well on my suburban tween cousins.
“You wouldn’t understand” he said “you’re too emo.”
He’s got me there.

Friday, June 17, 2005

Weed 4 Waifs

Dear Nicole and LLo,



I’ve decided that it’s HIGH time [oh I slay myself] that someone take responsibility for the two of you and that someone is me. You are both one of my favorite celebutant-actresses and as such I am on a crusade to get pot into your hands. Medicinal ‘mary-do-you-wanna’ is not just an intoxicant used by art-majors and hippies, it also saves lives. Nothing solves the problem of protruding bones quite like the munchies.
Blonde Lindsay, do you remember Lohan version 1.0? She was so busty and curvaceous, who didn’t fall in love with her bad-girl antics? And Nicole? Please, you MADE the Simple Life, Ms. Hilton may have been more famous but without your sass-ery Paris would have mostly just stood around droning: “that’s hot”. I am willing to commit myself to bringing you back to your former glory even if that means tagging along for your toking-sessions.
Besides, you’re rich, just imagine the fine super-grass you must be able to get a hold of! I’ll bring my Pink Floyd CDs, you bring teeny-tiny baggies and whichever snack-food you can remember last enjoying.
Get better girls, get stoned!

Love,

Fleshburt

Thursday, June 16, 2005

My, My Metro Card!



Meterosexual, a word derived from Latin, roughly translated into English to mean: one who is filled with ghey, to be revealed in a few-years time.

I realize the term ‘meterosexual’ expired around the point Ricky Martin was exposed to be a cultural-phenomenon with the shelf-life of a dairy product, but I was recently reminded why I hate the word so much. About two years ago I met my current-roommate, Isobel’s childhood friend, who at the time proclaimed himself to be a straight-meterosexual man. Forget all the tell-tale signs, such as the frosted-tips in his hair, the gay-boy tight-T-shirt and the lisp; he spent the rest of the night using his heavy-drinking to excuse his constant touching of my then-male-roommate’s biceps. About 5 seconds after he had left the party I proclaimed loudly – and drunkenly I might add – “that bitch is SO gay”, much to the chagrin of everyone who knew him.
Cut to this past fall when our paths crossed yet again, this time in tow was another Abercrombie-&-Fitch-twinky male “friend”. Once again I informed Isobel that he was a butt-pirate and A&F-twink was his love-slave, once again she had her doubts. I explained to her that when it comes to gay men if he looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, he’s a fag. Finally, last week Isobel messages me on MSN to inform me that I was correct all-along; not only is he gay but the guy I’d met last fall is indeed his boyfriend. This seems unfair to me, given that I am currently dating no one and have been openly gayer, longer. Now I’m not saying I necessarily want – or need – a boyfriend but I believe queerdom needs to adopt a ‘first come, first serve’ policy. No budding.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Oh HELL no!


When a roommate and his mother show up out of the blue to spend a week at an apartment he pays rent for there is nothing you can do. There is also nothing you can do when said mother proceeds to CLEAN YOUR APARTMENT for her spoiled son. However, I am more than entitled to feeling insulted that she so clearly thinks I’m some sort of slovenly house-keeper. Which I am not. The apartment is certainly cleaner than the way he left it.
PS - the soap-dish goes on the RIGHT, don't mess with my shit.

If you’re a feminist will you have lesbian babies?


Much like any day that ends in Y I had a coffee date with a sassy gal-pal; in this case it was Margo, an alum from one of my favorite literature classes a few semesters back. We got to talking about the last time we’d met up and how she’d found it hysterical that I referred to gay men as “my peoples”. She told me she’d shopped this concept around to some of her other friends, and much to her surprise people found “my peoples” offensive. They argued that anyone could be “my peoples” and to classify people as such was close-minded, I was thereby cutting myself off from everyone else. Surely anyone you got along with could be considered “my peoples”, not based on something as arbitrary as sexuality.
At first I felt bad about it, I certainly hadn’t intended any offense by it, I’d only meant to use it to accompany a clever observation I had made about gay men. Until, upon my request, she told me the demographic of who she’d poled: Predominately straight men. Of course straight men have no concept of what I’m referring to because society was constructed, maintained and operated with them alone in mind. They get all of the perks and then have it naturalized for them so they never even have to see how those perks are constructions. Not wanting to insult her friends I kept my feelings to myself.
Yes, I do refer to gay men as my peoples. It’s true that I find most gay men obnoxious, rude and repulsive, but they are still my people because as a gay man I can appreciate they’re struggles and experiences in society. Yes, I do refer to all queers as my peoples because as a fellow queer I can appreciate the obstacles they face on a day-to-day basis. And yes, I do refer to feminists as my peoples, because nothing excites me more than finding out someone I already liked identifies as a feminist.
Of course I am not saying I necessarily get along with anyone I ‘arbitrarily’ identify as my peoples; most of my friends are not gay men, queer persons or self-identified-feminists. In fact, a large percentage of the time I’m not terribly impressed that I’m associated with the gay-male community anyway. And certainly all labels are problematized by various intersections with other markers of marginalization such as: class, race, ability and other forms of oppression I can’t fathom, but choose to – at the very least – acknowledge. However, that does not stop my desire to create a community for my fellow marginalized-humyn [ha!] where we can gain strength from our mutual distaste at how society is constructed to our disadvantage.
So what do you think? Is ‘My Peoples’ part of the problem or the solution?
-
PS – the title of this post comes from a question asked of my sister’s teacher, when she told the class she was a feminist.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Ugh, you're on my hair!


There is absolutely nothing quite like bumping into a girlfriend you haven’t seen in a good long while only to have her reveal more to you in 5 minutes then you needed to know in a lifetime. Gina has always been the type of girl who said and did things I wouldn’t have expected a person to do outside of Wild Things, and admittedly that has partly been my attraction to her friendship. She’s always so delightfully lewd and shocking and therefore a necessary element when one is indulging in some “mary-do-you-wanna” or vodka. However, as much as I tell myself I’m an open-minded person I’m really not. Yes folks, I’m a judger. I judge left, right and centre and as much as I try to restrain my urge to judge I can’t help it.
“I have so much to tell you Fleshie!” Gina said in her breathy-sexy voice. “I had a threesome.”
Now my first reaction was: wow. Actually, my first reaction was: yeah right. Followed by: ew, THEN, Wow. But no matter.
I’m not sure why but whenever I hear a story about something that I don’t see on a day-to-day basis in my own life [like, say, a threesome] my instinct is to think it’s a lie. My sister and I have discussed this at-length; we are non-believers in the strictest sense. I can’t help but think that type of behavior only exists in bad screenplays and dirty jock’s fantasies. I mean, who just SAYS that after not talking to a person for half a year? Maybe start with something along the lines of: "A lot has changed since we last hung out". Start small, start small.
As she proceeded to give me the briefest of details I began to wonder why I was being so harsh. Certainly a threesome isn’t something I’m ever, EVER going to do, but what do I care if she does? She said the couple was attractive, nice and good friends, and if you can’t have a threesome with your good-looking friends I’m not sure who you can have a threesome with. We exchanged our new numbers and I look forward to the subsequent coffee-date that will follow. She’ll tell me about adventures in sex and I’ll tell her about my indecision with what to do with my hair.
All in all I’ve learned a valuable lesson here today: I’m never EVER going to have a threesome, but Gina can go on with her bad-self.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Free HDu


I believe in my heart and soul that Hailey Duff needs to give it a rest. Let poor little Hilary have some solo time in the lime-light now and again. I understand Hailey, it was your dream of Hollywood glamour and success that led Hilary to where she is now but latching on and forcing her to take you everywhere out of a sense of guilt is just not cool. At some point you have to strike-out on your own terms or else quietly fade away; this business of following your younger sister around just makes everyone more painfully aware of how little you do to earn your photo-ops.

And if this photo suggests that you’re thinking of dating Benji, the B-celebrity of the Madden brothers, that is just WRONG. Whether your relationship is based on actual feelings or not, B-celebrity parings that blatantly copy their A-celebrity sibling’s pairing, is just creepy as sin. Stop now before anyone’s feelings get hurt, like say mine.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

Hey baby, can you bleed like me?


Seeing Garbage’s new video Bleed Like Me on Much More Music’s top-ten list is not as exciting an experience as you might think for this Garbage-fan. Shirley Manson of course looks amazing with her gorgeous skin and sexy – but tasteful – outfits and I do enjoy the song. However, MMM plays the likes of the new Backstreet Boys video and creates much fan-fair for the arrival of Shania Twain and Dido. The whole station reeks of syndrome I like to call: “SO five years ago”.
Garbage is just too cool to be played on my mother’s music-video station.

RANTthis.

"I'm sassy y'all!"


While vacationing at my parent’s summer retreat I decided to watch the local cable station for shits and giggles. One particular show that I always seem to come across is RANT, where real local teens discuss local-teen problems hosted by a sassy – yet relatable – hip 20-something redhead would-be fashionista.
Today’s discussion was on whether or not girls ‘dig’ the bad-boy type. The one boy on the panel was representing the ‘bad-boy’ contingent and apparently misguided attempts at thug-couture. He claimed that girls simply love his bad-boys ways and if he cheated and lied well, that’s just part of his appeal. His prime example being the time he was arrested while on a date, something he claims did not dissuade his date from lusting after him. Now, even if I believe he was actually arrested on a date – that’s some wild life he leads at the ripe-old-age of 19 – how likely is it that his date loved it?
Despite my better judgement to just change the channel I decided instead to watch the remainder of the show and allow myself to get worked up about his perpetuating the idea of violent-males and women loving them. Not to mention disappointment that the host – who is suppose to act as the voice of reason I’d hope – failed to jump-in to point out what a massive knob he was being. Finally one of the teen girls on the panel stood up as being only interested in boys who treated her with respect and like the lady she is.
“Yeah right” Jackass replied “I can see it in your eyes you’re into me!”
The host giggled encouragingly: “Yeah I can see it too! Especially in your left eye!”
My new teen icon responded deftly: “Then I’m gunna have to go flush my eye out.”
Ha! If you need any help, I’d be honoured to hold your hair back.

Friday, June 10, 2005

I’m not sure if I want my MTV

Award for Worst 'Dress'-Shirt Ever Goes to:

Last night I watched the MTV Movie Awards because it’s important to stay on top of youth-culture. Well, no, it’s not, but for some unknown reason I want to know what Lindsay Lohan and her cohorts are doing at all times. Frankly I'm not sure why I wasn't invited, I have just as much a right to be there as Nicole Ritchie. The fact that Jimmy Fallon was hosting was another selling-feature, he’s cute and was funny on SNL. Then he had to ruin everything by making the most misogynistic jokes and skits that went on WAY past their prime. That skit with Jimmy Fallon and Sandra Bullock, whether pre-planned or not was frankly uncomfortable and in poor-taste.
Why Jimmy? It’s like the writers were too afraid to make jokes that challenged anyone in the least so the lowest-common-denominator seemed like a better idea. I suppose that’s nothing new, but still, all I wanted was to sit in front of the TV and giggle followed by oohing-and-awwing over pretty celebrities. Instead I spent the whole night bitching to my sister about what-the-hell was wrong with the world. Not to mention feeling old, my god I’m only 21 but it is so clear that MTV’s target-market is horny 12-year-olds.
What was with the awkward moment where the lovebirds from the Notebook made a way too over-the-top kiss in order to accept their awards? As one person quite accurately shouted after the 10th minute of them being on the stage: “SAY SOMETHING”. I really didn’t need to see that gratuitous faux-display of affection. My sister on the other hand disagreed.
“Would you just shut up about this ONE thing, I love him; you’re ruining it for me!” She shrilled. Whatever.
And the musical performances? Mariah Carey music is just too sappy and goopy to be listen-able I definitely had to channel-surf at that point. Yellowcard ruined that classic song, for shame! Eminem? I get that maybe you were trying to poke-fun of the way women are objectified in rap-videos but could you have possibly accomplished this goal in a slightly LESS creepy way? And finally the Foofighters; I just don’t care anymore, sorry.
Then Katie Holmes appeared on the screen. Good, lord NO. First of all, she’s just as deathly-ill looking as the rest of them and secondly, as my sister quite accurately pointed out, “dropping to one-knee to praise the lord for your boyfriend is never a good sign”. Free Katie indeed.
I can’t think of a more fitting way to sum-up my brief recap than with another brilliant quote from my sister: “MY GOD! They are all just SO drugged up!”
Truer words have never been spoken.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

I swear I didn’t make this up just to have something to post about



Last night I had a dream that while at some chic down-town loft Lindsay Lohan burst in with a baggie full of weed.
“Fleshie!” She said coyly “I KNOW you want some!”
I replied that of course I did, because of course I do, always. I don’t remember whether we toked-or-not, but if dream-me is anything like real-me then we probably did several times. This is my solution to LLo’s coke-orexia: Pot. No one can be anorexic on the ganj, trust me I’ve tried. We just need to set up a little Out-Clinic section of my apartment where Lohan, Mary-Kate, Nicole Richie and all the other anorexic pixies we love can get their toke-on and eventually their munchies-on.
See, pot does cure everything.

oh, Mischa


I came to the OC late in life.
Okay, that's not true, I watched it from the beginning but stopped about half-way through the first season because the writing is so painfully bad. Anyway, like many of you, I hated Mischa at first. She's skinnier than you, prettier than you, has more money than you at a younger age, blah blah blah, she's easy to hate.
But something has happened recently, after starting to watch the OC again due to Adam Brody love my opinions on this waif has changed. Her near-attack by Trey and her courageous fashion-choices have cumulated and I've given in to loving her profusely.
I don't even mind her boyfriend, he's kind of cute really. That cross-thing is weird, but maybe he just has a thing for 80's Madonna or something.
In conclusion, Mischa is no longer the Donna of the OC. She's definately the Brenda: fun to hate-on but the show would crash-and-burn without.

“I didn’t quite catch that can you bend-over again?”


A couple of days ago Rob, one of my roommate’s boyfriend, came over to ‘take a look-see’ at some plumbing issues we’re having in our washroom. I was home-alone when Rob arrived in his work-smock; when I answered the door he announced his presence by making some comment about being the stripper-gram I’d ordered. Ha!
He was all sweaty and work-y and of course I had no idea about any of the problems he was walking me through. I made the appropriate grunting noises of understanding but really I was looking at his butt. He has a nice one. I always feel flattered when straight guys assume I have the beginnings of a clue about what they’re talking about.
I find straight men vaguely disconcerting as I’m never sure how they’ll react to me. I’m fairly low-key and most of the time they think I’m funny. Besides the fact I usually only come into contact with one of them through one of my girlfriends, and she has usually already weeded out the potential homophobia. However, I’m always surprised when one of them seems to genuinely enjoy hanging out with me.
It’s like a Doberman, you know they have the potential to bite-through your jugular so when they don’t it’s a pleasant surprise.

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

the Ghey is strong in this one.

"Ugh! Asth if y'all!"


I am not one of those people who thinks that just because a celebrity male is well-groomed and handsome he must be ghey. In fact, I fully believe BPi cheated on Jennifer with Jolie. However, this might just be the gayest photo taken of anyone. Ever. In the history of time.

A Story about Pee

I am one of the few men who understands the discomfort associated with urinary-track infections. I’m not just an advocate, I’m also a member. For whatever reason, God has cursed me with having this particular insight into what it must be like to be a woman. Today I went to the free-clinic to give them a ‘sample’ [urine in a tiny-bottle for the un-initiated] in order to see if I’m currently extra-yeasty. So there I am at the counter attempting to drop-off my little package when this ridiculously hot guy saddles up, presumably waiting to talk to a nurse as well. I quickly hid my pee-filled cup, smiled and looked away, hoping that my Jackie-O glasses had properly disguised my identity.
Suddenly the nurse appears and proceeds to shout out my name to every other nurse in the building and talk-quite openly about “my urine sample”. As I discreetly attempt to pass it to her she starts making various jokes about whether or not I’d tightly sealed the cup, everyone’s a fucking comedian. No, I thought it would be hilarious to give you an open-container of urine to splash all over yourself; I’m the next Tom Green over here.
Of course the hot guy was probably not going to be my future husband anyway, but I could have done without him knowing about the state of my bladder thanks to a couple of loud-mouthed nurses.

gheypunk?

"A homosexual that refuses the commercial and superficial label that mainstream gay men perpetuate."
- that's a Flesh-ism so don't steal it without credit, bitch.