Thursday, April 12, 2007

I don’t own a set of Birkenstocks yet ….

Today’s New York Times had an interesting article about which cars are gay. I liked the Subaru Outback or in the lingo of me and my sisters the Lesbaru. It turns out that not only am I gay, I’m also a lesbian. I don’t date anymore because I’m married (oh god, my wife, what will I tell my wife?) but when I was an eligible lesbian I must have been an idiot not to recognize the fact that roomy = lesbian. All those flouncy loose was so obvious.

Considering I don’t even own a car should I be labeled completely in the closet or perhaps bisexual or even bicurious? When will I make a choice and stop hiding in my asexual pedestrian closet? There is so much of life that I am missing out on.

My second choice on the gay car list is the Volkswagon New Beatle. Now, buying this car would classify me “gay” in the man-on-man way and would force me to hand in all my plaid shirts.

Now since I don’t own a car I am wondering if I can configure my gender in a non-motorized way. In other words, I need to compile a list of goods that I buy/use/consume that can let me know where to put my tongue tonight. For this I will need your help in compiling my top ten gender defining consumable goods list:

What is the gayest cocktail (you know, the minute you even use the word cock-tail you’ve defined yourself)?

What is the gayest Pizza Topping?

What is the gayest Laptop Computer?

And of course

What is the gayest bank and/or bank machine?

Thank you for all your help and remember that the rainbow is everywhere.

Hala to my sistah’s


Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Hand on heart

Robert Altman has died..... I am sad.
I have nothing more to say.

Dexter, Rocky and other nightmares…

Last night I watched the most recent episode of DEXTER. This show is weird. How can a show bring me to sympathize and then cheer on a serial killer? Amazing! So amazing, in fact, that my wife couldn’t sleep after the show. She is haunted by Dexter. I am haunted by Dexter today. Is this the hallmark of good writing? That it stays with you for days? ? It’s the charm of Dexter. His needs are so universal: he fears intimacy, he is lonely and wants a friend to play with, he loathes his deep dark secret. And I feel like I can relate to some, if not all, of those. So he connects to me and then goes all woogy-boogy and kills people in a cold and connoisseur-like way. I am getting all freaky on this show. It is carving up my moral fiber and feeding it back to me with fava beans and chianti. If Michael C. Hall can be this intense as a serial killer, I wonder if he’ll ever go back to musicals. Ya we got trouble, my friend, right here, I say, trouble right here in River City….How can I ever watch this guy tap dance again?

Dexter’s world is strange but not as strange as this: ROCKY BALBOA is 60 years old and staging a come back. Yes sir, December 22nd brings us the latest installment of Sylvester Stallone’s ROCKY franchise. Now, I know what you’re saying: It’s pathetic, Sylvester trying to reinvigorate his career by resurrecting one of his only moments of quality. Surely, we all agree this franchise has been beaten to death? There are parallels in the story that jog along with Stallone himself. Rocky feels washed up and insignificant and Sylvester is probably feeling the same way. Although, Sly did rock in COP-LAND a few years back but aside from that he is in the StinkO file, that’s MR. STINKO to you, by the way. But the scariest thing about ROCKY BALBOA is not the baby boomer desperate attempt to be relevant again or the raping of a fiction franchise. No, the scary thing is that at 60 years old Stallone looks friggin’ better than I ever did. This alta-kacker, this geriatric can kick my ass. I watched one of the clips from the movie and I almost barfed from self pity. How the hell am I going to sleep with that on my mind?

Last, but not least, is Michael Richards on suicide watch yet? After his apology on Letterman I was thinking that maybe he needs a hug and lots of medication….lots. With Michael Richards’ screaming ‘Nigger’, geriatrics kicking my ass and Dexter killing his therapist…now I lay me down to sleep……

Monday, November 20, 2006

Yes, Master Milch I will watch your show...

David Milch, you freaky little fucker you. Milch fascinates and creeps me out at the same time. JOHN FROM CINCINNATI is a new series from the creator of DEADWOOD and according to the New York Times has birthed a new genre: Surf Noir. Did you hear me? SURF NOIR MAN! Oh yes…( I am shivering in anticipation here ooooh)Elements include: surfing, heroine addiction, a space alien and lawyers. All of this from a guy who lectures on his back propped up on one arm and gesticulating madly with the other. Milch is a cross between Jaba the Hut and Shakespeare and man, he makes me moist.

Deadwood made a huge impact in my life. For weeks after first viewing it, my wife and I lovingly referred to each other as COCKSUCKERS. It is an amazingly poetic, violent take on the western. It also put Ian Mcshane on my wife’s ‘list’ (You know what list I’m talking about, I know you do.). Now this crazy Mother-Fucker Milch is taking on the world of surfing. I LOVE THIS GUY. David Milch is on MY list god damn it.

Can you imagine the cojones you need to take a dark twisted look at dysfunctional family life through the eyes of surfers? It’s something you joke about to your friends when you’re stoned but Milch, Milch makes it happen. I have no idea if it will be a hit. I have no idea if it will even be good. But I just want to applaud anyone who can pitch this show and make it fly. Honestly, here in Canada you would never see a network taking a risk like that.

Thank you HBO!

Thank you DAVID MILCH!

Bring on John from Cincinnati and do to me what you will!

Saturday, November 18, 2006


I wonder about what kind of a writer I am and if, in fact, I can actually wear that label without sounding like a total hypocrite. My spelling is awful, grammar too. Jesus, I will use a semi-colon just ‘cause I think it looks pretty. I have never had anything published. I have only had one script, in my entire life, produced and even though I am currently in development with a network on a series, I feel, on a daily level, I write about as little as humanly possible. I rarely explore my own thoughts beyond “what is the soup of the day today?”. So, all that being said, how do I claim the mantle of writer? And how can I sit at my desk, reading scripts of other people’s work that is being produced and be so critical of it? How and what, in my experience and daily practice, puts me in a position to judge. Fucked, if I know. Seriously fucked. But man, some of the dreck which comes across my desk my makes me want to jab a pencil through my eye.

I am currently in development hell. I have a series that has been in development now for over a year. A lot of network money has been spent. Scripts have been written. Offers have gone out to creative types to sign on board. Now, we wait…and wait….and wait… It fells like its going to get a green light but I tell you, I am overwhelmed with doubts. And one of my biggest fears? What if it does get made and it’s crap? What if it’s as bad as all the other pencil-inducing-stabbing scripts that have come across my desk in the last few years? What if I am as big a hypocrite and faker as I fear?


PlayStation 3


I WANT IT. Oh god! So black. So sexy. It's like Halle Barry in a box. I am shivering. I haven’t owned a gaming machine since I played Mad Bomber and Defender on my Atari back in the 80’s but my thumbs ache for the Playstation 3. Maybe it’s the mid-life thing. I can’t afford a sports car and I am probably too fat to be comfortable in one anyway, but this, this, calls to me in the night. It is the waistline expanding couch-potato’s grail. Through the veil of sexual-kink fantasies, the curtain parts and the Playstation 3 takes centre stage. My wife has banned it from the house. I want it even more now. Why? What is it that makes me want it so badly? Playstation 3. Play. Play with myself? Masturbate? Is it all about the joystick? What's missing in my life....I am pathetic. Gimme !

Saturday, October 14, 2006

The Morning After...

There is something truly disconcerting about waking up and my first impulse being to have a bowel movement and brush my teeth at the same time. Why do I do this to myself? I roll over and look at the woman next to me. Yep, that’s my wife. She’s gorgeous. Cuddled up against my ripples of flesh…How can she stand me? Okay, self pity time is over…I have to accept what I did, again. I fell off the wagon, the trough. I can’t brush the taste out of my mouth and I can’t crap out the guilt. I have a food hangover.

I am obese. I thought I was morbidly obese but I just looked up the dictionary definition which is:

“The term morbid obesity refers to patients who are 50 - 100% -- or 100 pounds above -- their ideal body weight. Alternatively, a BMI (body mass index) value greater than 39 may be used to diagnose morbid obesity.”

Damn I don’t even qualify for the majors! I am only 25% over my ‘ideal’ weight. FUCK ME! Maybe I can have those pancakes this morning after all.

I used to envy people with eating disorders. When I say eating disorders, I mean young thin girls who can puke at will. Oh, Marvin, dare to dream. Years ago when I WAS morbidly obese, coming in at over 400lbs, I used to try and ‘purge’ but all I did was bust a blood vessel in my eye. I tried to tickle my uvula into a vomitous bout of hilarity but instead I almost swallowed my toothbrush. Alas, my stomach has an iron clad hold of whatever enters. Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. I am the fort knox of consumption, the Guantanamo of digestion…if it goes in, it ain’t coming out until it’s bent, twisted and tortured through the entire intestine.

Okay, so I am not as bad as I used to be. In my early 20’s I weighed in at over 400lbs. I am not sure what the actual weight was because most scales don’t go past 400 but I was over, WAY over. Now, I am a feathery 265. I did make it down to 230 at one time but that was during a relationship break-up, where I couldn’t afford food and had to bike everywhere to get around. Oh, sweet depression! Why have you forsaken me?

The 230 mark was 4 years ago and since then 30lbs of flab have managed to move back home. I now know what parents must feel like when their children move back into the basement. It’s a lot of extra weight that really doesn’t fit well with a new life style. Get out! Get a job! Leave me be…but I miss you…come and visit, bring pizza…it’s a seriously damaged relationship I have with myself.

So, why write a blog about my battle with food and weight? Why keep a journal of my war against the bulge? …. I’m procrastinating going to the gym.

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