Diary of a gheypunk Literati

we begin again!

2005-08-15T21:07:00.000-04:00

Haven't you heard?
Ghey is SO yesterday!
Check me and my partner-in-crime out at Mean Queens!

well...I wont smoke THAT much...

2005-07-29T23:30:00.000-04:00

Fucking scrambling to find a dropped lighter while stoned is one of the scariest 5 seconds of your life.

Yes this is how I’m spending my Friday evening.
Why is being shirtless stoned such a mission impossible?
I can’t believe how paranoia-central it makes me. Who are these freaks of nature that walk shirtless on the beach or in groups of other people? So of course I’m chatting on the phone in front of an open window when two people walk DIRECTLY by and make eye-contact with my half-and-half naked self. I never did such an awkward duck in my life. Now I’m totally “that guy who spends Friday nights shirtless and stoned” of this geighborhood.
And seriously waiting the 7min + for water to boil 3 eggs is a triumph deserving of a metal. I had to eat three mini ice-cream sandwiches just to tide myself over. They’re mini so technically I’m still on the Zone.
---
UPDATE: contrary to the belief of a man who just e-mailed me I am not pleasuring myself in that picture. Nor was I completely naked. There were pants people. And I WASN’T touching it.

you're disgusting, and you're nasty

2005-07-20T19:06:00.000-04:00

Dearest My Bitches,
Unfortunately my home-computer is suffering from some serious plague, which will mean my posting will be sparse at best. I’m hoping to get it fixed sometime before the weekend but it might be prognosis-negative.
Until then, please enjoy this ghey tid-bit from my travels:

I am currently at an internet café and there is an exceptionally cute boy leaning over close-by, and like the pervert I am I keep checking out his bum. It’s very nice. Someone really ought to invent a patch for me or something.
May the ghey be with you.

the one about anal

2005-07-17T20:43:00.000-04:00

Fleshburt says:
who needs a boyfriend, when my girl-friend's have boyfriends who want to impress them by befriending their faggot.

Rock-Snob says:
That's a good point.
Rock-Snob says:
and I like how you refer to yourself as "Their faggot" as if you're a pet.
Rock-Snob says:
it's cute.

Fleshburt says:
I am a pet really.
Fleshburt says:
yeah, I almost didn't embarrass myself last night.

Rock-Snob says:
HA!

Fleshburt says:
dance remixes of the Scissor Sisters is the ghey-est EVER.

Rock-Snob says:
I can only imagine.
Rock-Snob says:
I really didn't think they could get any gayer.

Fleshburt says:
they DID.

Rock-Snob says:
apparently, I was wrong.

Fleshburt says:
oh god, I'm feeling ass-y today, I'm never drinking again.

Rock-Snob says:
you lie.

Fleshburt says:
Yeah I am, but fucking hell, I'm such a moron.

Rock-Snob says:
what are you talking about? You’re a comic genius when drunk.

Fleshburt says:
ugh, I’m such a whore.
Fleshburt says:
"backwards disco-tech" tell me that isn't about anal sex.

Rock-Snob says:
Aaah!
Rock-Snob says:
I'm totally calling anal backwards disco-tech FROM NOW ON!

Fleshburt says:
They sing some dirty-ass SHIT on this CD.
Fleshburt says:
Why is it only straight boys make me mixed CDs about anal sex??? Hmm, I ask you.

Ghey-Voice

2005-07-15T13:29:00.000-04:00

Ugh, so of course my internet at home is on the fritz for no apparent reason.
This will mean significantly less internet-trolling as the time I spend on the work-computers should probably have at least the pretense of being work-related.

I had the greatest moment with coffee-boy this morning. Coffee-boy is the man-boy who I buy coffee from every morning on my way into work or class. He's attractive and all, but I usually just lump him into the "man candy" section of my life, as he's too Fratboy-ish to be a ghey or intellectually stimulating [is that mean?]. In any event, I assume he just thinks I'm a random idiot anyway, as I usually stumble in still half-asleep with my aviator sunglasses on, hoping I look like
Mary-Kate or Nicole and not some asshole who doesn't take his sunglasses off indoors.

Today we actually had a little more banter than usual; low-and-behold Coffee-boy has a lisp. Now I've made the mistake before of confusing a lisp for "ghey voice" but I know now there is a subtle difference. I knew this guy who had a very definite lisp but was completely heterosexual. I'd need to talk to him more to determine definitively whether Coffee-boy had "ghey-voice" or not, but it was a nice morning surprise. Maybe I'm just the queerest ever, but I find lisps and/or "ghey-voice" to be incredibly sexy on a man. He was also sporting the popped-collar, which I have so many mixed feelings about. I mean there is a time and a place for everything, but I really don't think you need to be popping your collar every day for every non-event that you attend. It's weird how the popped-collar can at once be so Fratboy-ish and yet so faggoty. Time will tell which it is in Coffee-boy's case.

They really need to institute some sort of signal-system so ghey's can detect one another. I mean obviously it would have to be subtle, so homophobes couldn't catch on, but what if all gheys had a slightly blue-glow that only other ghey's could spot? Not that I'd do anything about it, as I'd only hit on someone if I was drunk off my ass, but it would be nice to at least confirm my suspicions. Gheydar is great and all, but there's absolutely nothing you can do short of asking the person which way they swing.

I ask the people of the interweb: what are some of the tell-tale signs that alert you to ghey?
Have a good weekend, peace out bitches.

PS - I reaaaally hope everything goes according to plan and Rock-Snob and I are able to get stoned proper-like this fine summer evening. I realize I say something related to being stoned a lot, but it's the weekend. I'm totally allowed.

Inside the Blogger's Studio: FVo edition

2005-07-14T13:41:00.000-04:00

In all honesty I've been suffering from a lack of inspiration as of late, so I thought I'd participate in this super-duper happy-fun game as presented on Viva Las VegASS. I have been asked 5 questions, and if you in turn would like to be asked 5 questions by me, for your own blog [no pressure] comment-as-such!
Here are my answers, bitches:

1. If you could do one thing for a living, what would you do? Explain.
Well, as much as I would like to be professionally the child of a rock-icon who made billions of dollars like Kimberly Stewart or an Osborne, I suppose I could be forced to settle for author-exordinar. I would love to be so internationally recognized that I no longer need a day job and can spend my time writing amazing works of prose that keep people in stitches for years to come. Of course, this might require I actually write something, but still.

2. Give your feedback as to why the hell "Will and Grace" is still on the air.
Oh, what, because I’m a ghey, I automatically have the inside scoop on that crap show?! What am I part of some Faggot Mafia?!
Jokes. I think its still on the air because the little old ladies who watch it have no idea that there are even queer people on it. They just think Will and Grace can’t get their shit together to make it work and that Jack is delightfully childlike or something. Seriously I fucking hate that show with a passion of a thousand suns going supernova.
I was so excited when it came out because I was finally going to get to see some homosexuals on television [I don’t remember if “Queer as Folk” had debuted yet, but I never related to that show, not being incredibly hot and fucking constantly]. Then I watched it and realize all “Will and Grace” is, is a big old tease! You keep waiting for something ghey to happen but mostly its just “aren’t gheys stupid?” kind of jokes. And frankly I make better ones, I don’t need to slum it by watching tacky celebrity-product-placements.
Karen’s funny, if they spun her off and got rid of the “gheys” currently on that show I’d be all over it.

3. Based on your experience, is it really necessary to wait an hour after eating to go swimming?
You know, I’ve never had a problem, when I was a kid they called me a fish because I was always in the water. Even after eating. I bet you thought I’d have something funny to say but I didn’t.

4. Is there one food that even the site of makes you sick? Which food?
Ugh, yes. Whip-Cream.
Some idiot in rez insisted we do “whip-cream” shot or something and I’ve never been able to look at that shit the same again. When people ask if I want whip-cream on my grande-super-duper-latte-mocha-frappa-shittah I look at them like they’re dense. Nothing could make me eat whip-cream. Except Seth Cohen.

5. If you could go back in time and "get in the head" of a writer during the creative process, which writer would it be and what work would he/she be creating?
I would totally want the inside scoop on Oscar Wilde’s writing experience of the picture of Dorian Gray. I know it’s so ghey of me, but never has a book so perfectly captured what I felt. It was just beautifully written and incredibly interesting. I wish I could say more about it, but mostly I’m just in awe, I hope one day I write something half as meaningful to someone as that book was to me.

boys will be boys

2005-07-12T13:59:00.000-04:00

Here is a conversation that illustrates why our female roommates should not have left us alone for the summer:

Roommate: What would you do if I just stabbed you in the chest right now?
Me: You couldn't stab through my rib-cage, there's no way. You'd have to stab me in the stomach or something.
Roommate: I totally could.
Me: How the hell could you stab THROUGH my rib-cage? My ribs would deflect the knife.
Roommate: What if I turned it on an angle, then it would slip right through, like butter.
Me: I doubt you have the skill to do that. Besides you'd need to take a couple of stabs at it and I'd ninja-kill you before you could get your 2nd stab-in.
Roommate: I bet I could.
Me: Fine, lets try it in the kitchen, the floor is easier to clean up. You first.

practice makes perfect

2005-07-10T13:36:00.000-04:00

A recently-single girlfriend and I were having a discussion on love and sex, as you inevitably will do. She mentioned that having had sex on a somewhat regular basis while dating her ex, she now felt her libido had been ‘activated’. Despite not really being interested in reentering the dating-market she has been feeling extremely sexually frustrated in a way that she had never felt when still a virgin. That made sense to me, it must be easier to miss something you’ve developed a taste for, like cocaine or brownies.

I made an off-handed joke that in our culture if you didn’t want to cook you could order-in fast-food and that if she wanted no-string-attached sex, I was quite certain she could find that too. She thought I meant a male-prostitute to which she replied: “I’d rather have sex with a guy I met at a bar than pay for it”. I found that rather interesting, because frankly I think I’d prefer the opposite. I’ve never paid for sex, and I probably would never [I wont say ‘never’ having developed a taste for alcohol and weed after having claimed to be “straight-edge” in grade nine] but the idea of paying for it seems entirely more favorable to sex with a stranger.

I would like to preface my reasoning by saying that in no way do I mean to degrade sex-workers. While I wouldn’t want anyone I love to be involved in this industry, I definitely respect a person’s right to do what they want with their bodies, so long as it is their choice. Here is my reasoning:

* Automatically there is no-string-attached, because it’s a business deal. I feel like there is less chance of hurt-feelings or one person wanting something the other person doesn’t.
* You don’t have to worry about the person not being into you. I mean I imagine prostitutes do turn people down but probably not on the basis of “you’re not my type”.
* I would imagine sex-with-a-stranger would be quite awkward and mismatched having had no experience with the person. Practice makes perfect and all that jazz. A sex-professional would probably know what they were doing.
* Finally the issue of safety. Maybe I’m deluded, but I feel like a stranger who invites you to come over to their place to have sex is more likely to hack you into pieces and keep your brain in the freezer for a midnight snack than is someone making a living off it.

I really hope my parents never ever read this.

14 for the record

2005-07-08T15:12:00.000-04:00

1. I am suppose to be doing shit at work right now, but the printer is jammed and the boy that I usually get to come fix it wasn’t very friendly to me when I asked him the first time. So instead I am reading back-dated entries in Gwen’s journal and spiting him for leaving me with a printer-problem I can’t fix. What a bitch. We get it, you just broke up and crap but that is not my fault.

2. I pretended not to see this girl on the way into the office because I find her baby-doll voice annoying, not cute. Go away.

3. I’m at a crossroads in my life and I’m too lazy to choose.

4. I am at once lonely and bored of people. I want company and to be left alone. I may have started my period.

5. I had this awesome idea for a book last night on my evening continental* that I will probably never get around to writing.

6. When reading about the goings-on in London I felt scared and numb at the same time.

7. I want to get drunk tonight but probably no one will want to get crunked with me.

8. I want to get stoned tonight, but my source will probably stand me up. Where is that bastard anyway?

9. Part of me wants to get stoned with my mother and and sister on saturday, as my sister is going away for a while and I’m going to really miss her. But to do that I would have to admit I smoke pot and I don’t know if my mother would be cool with that.

10. Last week a girlfriend told me I give off ‘snob-vibes’ when I meet people, especially men. She is right, but it’s annoying because generally it really is shy-dom and not that I’m a massive-bitch. Although, admittedly I do have my days.

11. I am annoyed Alanis is so happy because I could really use some good new man-hating songs right now.

12. Liz Phair is underappreciated.

13. I’m hungry but I didn’t pack a lunch.

14. I’m bored, who will fix this fucking printer?

* I told my roommate I was going for a “continental” last night, but I meant a “constitutional” and he was all: “what is that?”
And I was all: “you’re so stupid, it’s a walk, major DUH.”
Then when I got home and looked it up I realised that in fact I’M stupid. I live in fear of when he will call me on it.

Dickens sucks Donkey-Dick

2005-07-07T13:18:00.000-04:00

Perhaps I am a hypersensitive bastard, but there is something I find vaguely disgusting about the way my postcolonial studies class is handled. While I applaud my prof’s desire to expose the class to authors of backgrounds that have been traditionally marginalized, such as ZZ Packer and Pauline Johnson, the way he goes about teaching them seems to only do a further disservice. He will spend about an hour of the class audibly masturbating over the likes of Joyce, Faulkner and Dickens, without criticizing their work at all. He fails to mention that these are white upper-middle class men who are canonized in no small part because of who they are not NECESSARILY what they did.

Then he will take the remaining half-hour to discuss these marginalized female authors in comparison to their male-counterparts. He will make comments about various ‘inconsistencies’ he sees in their writing, and comment that perhaps such-and-such a passage would have been better had the author chosen to “show us” rather than “tell us”.

Essentially what he does is open up these ethnic “other” and female writers to criticism and debate, while male-canonized authors are made to seem beyond reproach. I’m not suggesting that we shouldn’t analyze and criticize an author’s writing because of their background, but I do think it’s irresponsible to create such a blatant and time-honored divide between who has something of value to say and who is open to debate. We should either criticize all or none, but this very blatant division only reinforces the idea that some people have a greater right to their opinion than others. And that sucks ass.

Whoa, that lovin’ feeeeeelin’

2005-07-05T16:49:00.000-04:00

I think that I am going to write to the PM to see what he can do about banning crushes. It is my personal belief that crushes and acne should cease to be a problem once you’ve turned 18. If once you hit 18 you are considered adult enough to vote, protect your country in the armed forces and serve alcohol [at least in Canada], then it is wholly unfair that I should also have to worry about so-and-so liking me.

Couples should be determined based on lottery, and whose genetic make-up society would most like to see combined [not in a eugenics sort of way or anything]. I haven’t worked out all the details, but surely some reality-TV executive could figure out a way to make the process fun, fair and far less tween-y than it currently is. Because I’m about sick to death of feeling like a 13 year old girl going through puberty all the time.

Alias is the new Banking

2005-07-04T12:46:00.000-04:00

I was at the bank today in order to pay my bills before heading into the office. I use this bank all the time, and while the teller I went to was new to me there were tons of faces I recognized. About half way through the process she got me to sign something only to examine it like I'm Sidney from Alias and finally asks for some form of identification with my signature on it.
At first I couldn't find anything, finally it dawned on me to show her my driver's license.
"You're signature has changed" she said.
"I was 17" I said, by way of explanation.
"Well do you think you could sign this like you did then?"
So there I was forging my own signature when it struck me, there is a picture of my FACE on the card, is that not enough? I certainly haven't changed that much.
I've never had that problem before, surely she could have used her computer to look up the number of EXACT same transactions I'd made at that branch and deduced I wasn't some impersonator trying to get free hydro and phone-services.
Not to mention I'd just waited in the longest line ever in front of this very pushy old lady who felt it necessary to stand DIRECTLY behind me every time the line moved up. She was totally invading my personal bubble.

whatEVER

2005-06-30T16:56:00.000-04:00

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.

A Practicing Asexual

2005-06-29T15:25:00.000-04:00

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.

Lemme show you how this Man-Boy flirts

2005-06-28T01:05:00.000-04:00

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.

The one about the pink-track-jacket

2005-06-26T17:16:00.000-04:00

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.

2005-06-26T16:41:00.000-04:00

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.

Pride, Pride with Magical Fruits

2005-06-24T00:07:00.000-04:00

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.

I say 'shit' a lot.

2005-06-23T23:29:00.000-04:00

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

2005-06-23T12:02:00.000-04:00

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.

Bag of Hammers? Can you get my coffee?

2005-06-22T00:42:00.000-04:00

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.

I’m so Emo I’m Catholic

2005-06-21T00:00:00.000-04:00

"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.

Sooo Seductive

2005-06-19T16:54:00.000-04:00

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.

Weed 4 Waifs

2005-06-17T15:46:00.000-04:00

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

My, My Metro Card!

2005-06-16T16:33:00.000-04:00

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.