On Internet dating

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve walked the dark and depressing road that is Internet dating. It’s not something I’m proud or ashamed of, really, but it’s common to the point that pretty much every gay person I know has used it for one reason or another. It’s part of the culture now. It provides a venue outside of the clubs to meet people that are a little more day-to-day normal and not already plastered or flying on however many lines of coke they just did off the toilet seat.

There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. I’m guessing heteros get their share of freaks, but there’s something about the emaciated, over-plucked, over-pierced gayboizzz that make me fear for the gay online community in general. More vain than any slutty teenage girl, the 20-something boi’s photo gallery consists of more Photoshopping and airbrushing than an issue of Cosmo, and all so he can look even skinnier, so his pink hair can be that much more vibrant, so his piercings look more like independent sources of light than just metal piercing flesh. This is the ideal that I’m supposed to be getting all hot and bothered for.

That, or would be Abercrombie models who are way out of my league. 9s and 10s, as it were.

Or the dime-a-dozen “average” guys to which I probably belong.

It’s disheartening to see this shit in action, and unsurprising. You gotta flash yo shit to get any attention, and even negative attention is better than none at all. All so you can hope that you can culminate some kind of passion for someone that you met on the Internet, which you’ll downplay to all your friends anyway, because who wants to meet the love of their loves on a free internet dating site?

And, not to brag, but I’m not saying this out of spite because I haven’t got any hits or anything. There is a ping to your ego when you get messaged by someone who seems potentially interesting, but chances are it won’t work out and you’ll just have to start all over again. The inevitability of it all just makes me grit my teeth.

This blog is getting to be bitter to the max. 100% happy times for my next post.

 

I knew it.

Nothing like a little literary HoYay to make my day. Say hello to Dr. Watson’s Inner Monologue, the least self-indulgent slash fiction I’ve ever seen:

Now all I need to find is some James Joyce slash fiction and my life will be complete.

 

Post-birthday blogging

Another year has passed in the life of Paul. I’m 23 now, I had a glorious weekend and I’m using this as a bookend for my more excessive ways. I had a goal this weekend to not get too intoxicated at my birthday party, which of course failed because I’m still figuring out this whole “say no to alcohol” business. As far as I recall there were no injuries physical or otherwise on Saturday night, to myself or any of my guests, so I dodged yet another bullet and hope against hope that I wasn’t too irritating/embarrassing.

The traditional grandparents’ dinner was surprisingly less awkward than usual. My grandfather and I remain politically opposed to each other, with his habitual conservativism conflicting rather fiercely with my rampant liberalism and queerness. We kept it pleasant for most of the evening, but of course the recent election came up and I was feeling pretty scrappy, so we ended up debating a bit while the rest of the table tried to talk around us. I respect my grandpa a lot, but we have a pretty typical old school/new school relationship that just makes me roll my eyes most of the time. My grandma’s inevitable reproach is the only thing that keeps me from asking my grandpa straight up if his gay grandson should have the right to marry whichever corduroy-wearing, Neruda-reading hipster artfag that finally melts his cold, socialist heart.

Speaking of which, where are all the queer men at? Oh, that’s right, Toronto. Saturday was lovely for the no-pressure aspect of the evening. No gay men in sight = Paul acts like his normal (drunken) self. But, y’know, the possibility of a birthday hook-up that doesn’t require making arrangements prior via e-mail would be fucking swell. And thus:

Game plan: Get the fuck out of St. Catharines as soon as possible.

Method: Obtain job -> work relentlessly -> save money -> find job in Toronto -> find apartment -> move.

I’ve been listening to the Savage Lovecast lately (like, 20 episodes in the past few days) and Mr. Dan Savage keeps telling his closeted gay listeners to move the fuck out of their conservative towns. It’s about time I did the same, I think. I’m still operating, essentially, as a closeted gay man. I’m not taking any chances with my life, really, and it’ll be too late soon enough. I’ve been burned in the past by my “big city” relationships, but I never really considered cutting the cord of the natal home and just living how I want to live. The Korea thing was a potential step, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it’s not what I want. Moving into a conservative country with no gay scene at all? No thanks. I don’t really fucking know what I want at all, to be honest, besides writing for the rest of my life in some capacity, but I’ve been in this city for my whole life and I’ve yet to stumble upon anything that has me truly fulfilled.

Anyhow, enough whining. Watch this video for “Sleepyhead” by Passion Pit. The song is fucking rad.

 

Fucking ARGH

**SPOILER ALERT FOR WEEDS SEASON 4**

I’m not an avid TV watcher. There are very few shows that I follow regularly, and I usually download them so as to avoid commercials. As such, I only really stick to shows I really love, and one of those shows is (or was) Weeds. In the first few seasons, the skewering of upper-middle-class culture was superb, and the performances, especially from Mary-Louise Parker, were a treat to watch.

That being said, I am very disappointed with the last few episodes of the latest season. Gone is the hilariously suburban setting of Agrestic, in favour of generally racist interpretations of a coastal California town on the U.S.-Mexico border. The knowing jabs at SUVs and “keeping up with the Joneses” have been replaced with inept commentary about the struggles of Mexicans trying to reach the U.S. in an attempt to realize the American Dream. If it was handled with any kind of tact or realism, I wouldn’t have a problem, but the storyline is so amazingly ethnocentric and amateurish, relying on racist jokes for cheap laughs, that I can hardly handle any of the scenes involving the two “coyotes” (people who lead others over the border, for those not in the know), Doug and Andy. Sure, Doug and Andy were culturally insensitive beforehand, but their bluntness used to be charming, and they were so often brought down a peg by their own stupidity. Now, both characters are completely vile: Andy because he has no personality anymore, and Doug because he’s a whiny asshole. Enough with this storyline. Try something else.

The OTHER thing that bothers me about this season? Queer representation. Okay, we’ve got Sanjay, who I find funny for the most part (probably because he plays Jonathan in 30 Rock). I was pretty unimpressed with the whole forcing him to have sex with a woman so he could “have the gay fucked out of him” and subsequently getting her pregnant thing. But the Clinique/Sanjay moments have been humourous (if horribly stereotypical, both in its representations of gay men and African American women). So far, not so good. Now, this season, we have Capt. Roy Till of the D.E.A. revealed as a queer character, and we are then introduced briefly to his partner (in a professional and romantic sense), Agent Shlatter (no first name given). It the most recent episode, Agent Shlatter busts the Mexican smuggling ring that Nancy was helping to front, with Nancy being the one to disclose the location of the tunnel through which the drugs, firearms and young women were being transported. The Mexican drug ring, displeased with this turn of events, proceeds to kidnap agent Shlatter and then torture him horribly by removing his skin with a power-sander. Once he rats out Nancy (and I imagine that’s how he’s going to be perceived, being a minor [minority] character that leads our portagonist Nancy to her doom, and being a cop that betrays his informant), the man torturing Shlatter, Cesar, executes the agent.

Really? REALLY? Fuck you guys.

The writers of this show introduced Shlatter and Till as lovers in an “OH MY GOSH HE’S GAY” moment as a lame character development shortcut for Shlatter, because they had to create some sympathy for him in the brief time he appeared on screen. So yeah, let’s do so by making him Till’s lover instead of flexing our writing muscle and giving him some fucking personality. Then let’s fucking fridge him. I can pretty much guarantee that this will set Till off on some insane rampage that will probably end with him getting killed too, but even if he doesn’t, it’s the Women in Refrigerators trope with artificial gay flavouring.

Oh, but it could have happened to a straight character, you say?

It didn’t.

And it doesn’t.

Queer characters in performance art; stage, film, television or other; are disproportionately victims of violent deaths and this is just another Tara from Buffy or Martha from The Children’s Hour. Just add Agent Shlatter to the list of queer characters who get killed in a particularly brutal fashion, ’cause really, that’s all that he was there for.

I will watch the season fimale to see how it pans out, but this show is spiralling into some seriously damaging cliches. And the fact that Mary-Louise Parker is given practically nothing to work with and her scenes have displayed her as some near-catatonic headcase and we have a trifecta of bullshit that is making it hard to tolerate this program. If it doesn’t pick up by next season, I’m out.

 

“What the FUCK.”

Okay, tell me again why the Olympics, a symbol of international unity, are being held in Beijing?

I know in an earlier post I sort of defended China, but that was due more to terrible media coverage pegging them as backwater hicks with no sensitivity to people with disabilities. Well, it seems China is at it again, forcing bar owners in the city to sign pledges not to serve black people. Outrageous, no? Well, read that article and tell me if your blood doesn’t boil just a little bit more.

As an English major, I learned to dissect texts. Sometimes I do it more often than I should, but that article made me burst out in the explicit exclamation that is the title of this post. This is the part that got me:

“Beijing police have been visiting bar owners in the popular Sanlitun area and asking them to sign pledges agreeing to not serve black people or Mongolians and ban activities including dancing.

Bar owners said that police have been clamping down on black people and Mongolians, who are sometimes implicated in drug dealing and prostitution, as part of an Olympic clean-up campaign that they and locals fear will make for a secure but sterile Games.“

Fuck me blind, did you REALLY need to tag that part in? Because the Beijing “locals” (implying native Chinese and not any ethnic subdivisions that might be in the city) have nothing to do with any of the prostitution that might be going on in their own city, I’m sure. And, as the title of the article suggests, the biggest concern people have is that the Olympics aren’t going to be “fun”. Fuck you. Blacks, Mongolians and gays are being denied basic freedoms, and the biggest problem you have is that it might take some of the fun out of the Olympic experience?

Debacle. I hope the Olympics bomb this year. Sorry, amateur athletes, I realize you’ve worked hard to get where you’re going, but if you can abide this then you’re kind of missing the point, right?

ARGH.

 

On Facebook’s targeted advertising / On ass-shaking

I found this post on Feministing’s community blog pretty interesting. I had been aware of Facebook’s advertising techniques, choosing mostly to ignore them via AdBlock. However, after reading about how gendered the ad targeting is, I wondered what my ads are like now. Answer is: *EYEROLL*. Seems that Facebook can’t really decide if I’m actually interested in men, what with being a man myself, and alternates between “GAY VIDEO CHAT” featuring two perfectly toned Greco-Roman wrestlers locked in a love-hold and “HOT CANADIAN SINGLES” featuring a big-tittied cam-whoring tart with a bad blonde dye-job, or variations on either. Apparently my sex being listed as Male automatically translates into “I would like to put my penis inside many vaginas”. “Five girls in five minutes”? Sounds like a five-fold disappointment to me.

On a more melodramatic note, I am DYING people. Tell me exactly where in this God-forsaken city is a good place to get one’s dance on. I discovered a one-time revival of the Friday night Indie night I used to frequent at the Red Square, but I’m guessing this will only give me a brief taste of what I’m after. I can’t trip to Toronto every weekend, unfortunately, and the desire dance to music generically categorized as “Alternative” is causing me stress. Ah gots ta dance, peepz.

 

Before I head off to bed…

As I was walking home from the bar tonight, I had a near pants-shitting experience when some douchebag howled something at me out of the side of his friend’s (probably friend’s mom’s) minivan. I had my headphones in and they were just loud enough for whatever the hooting mongoloid shouted at me to be completely unintelligible (not that I was going to be particularly enlightened by the sloped-forehead popped collar crowd, but I digress). So anyway, I was totally startled and nearly jumped out of my skin, and as my fight-or-flight response kicked in I felt a bit violated.

It’s just really rude, is all I’m saying. I don’t really understand what compels people to do this and really, it’s such a brief, stupid thing that I couldn’t imagine it being at all satisfying as a prank.

And really, as a gay man with an over-active imagination, a liquored-up fratboy screaming at me from a car window makes me think I should haul ass before I get curb-stomped.

I can only imagine what women feel in the same situation.

 

On faggotry

(Note: The squeamish may want to skip this one. It’s not graphic, but there is frank discussion about GAY ANAL in this post, so proceed at your own discretion.)

I was a bit at a loss for writing topics this week, but a random urge to bust out my Lit Crit textbook allowed me to stumble upon an excerpt from Guy Hocquenghem’s Homosexual Desire. So, queer theory it is.

Hocquenghem’s thesis, which I’m commenting on from a single reading and thus cannot be held accountable for any glaring inaccuracies, is that using Freudian psychonanalysis to examine homosexual relationships imposes a binary relationship upon homosexuals that presumes that 1) gays have to feel guilty every time they have anal sex and 2) the gay man CANNOT enjoy anal sex because of that guilt, even if he’s feeling a pleasurable physical sensation. Essentially, psychoanalysis forces gay men to play out an aggressive/passive or sadist/masochist dynamic because Freud outright denied the possibility of a Third Gender and thus everything is Oedipus and castration and men vs. women. Charming.

Now, this got me thinking about my brother’s post (we’ve really gotta stop reading each other’s blogs, I swear) about anal, and the discourse that surrounds it. Now, obviously, heterosexual men don’t all have a problem with anal sex as a rule. It seems, actually, that hetero men see anal sex as the “final frontier” and a point of masculine pride to penetrate a woman’s pooper (pardon the alliteration). Now, ask these same men to picture two guys pillage the fragrant village and the rage and disgust you incite is sure to leave you a bit shocked. The binary is so tightly woven into the fabric of our culture that even the mere thought of two men sexually pleasuring each other is enough to cause a physical, deeply visceral reaction. While I was reading Hocquenghem’s essay, I rolled my eyes a few times, thinking to myself that we as a culture are so far past this nonsense.

Then I remembered that the real world and the world I inhabit when I’m gleefully reading Literary Criticism at 1am aren’t the same thing.

I think what these men need to realize, and I hope one day they do, is that it isn’t about one guy being the “chick” and one being the “dude” (and fuck TV, the worst offender for perpetuating this ridiculous myth). Hocquenghem, in his essay, talks about the “Pick-up Machine” and how even in the sketchiest of pick-up spots, the sexual connection between two men is about “plugging in” beyond just on a who’s-on-top? basis. Hocquenghem romanticizes it a bit (okay, a lot), and the top/bottom binary in gay culture still thrives, but think ol’ Guy had the right idea. Even if it is a purely physical experience, sex is an exchange. At its base level, I think it should be a mutual satisfaction of a physical urge, one that doesn’t involve an “understood” shaming of one of the parties involved.

And really, that’s not just sex, but relationships in general. By definition, I’m apparently a “versatile” gay man in that I enjoy both giving and receiving anal sex. I don’t think in my sexual experiences I’ve ever felt that guilt that I’m supposed to feel when having sex, and I tend to avoid situations where my sexual role is immediately defined by the person I’m seeing. I once dated a guy very, very briefly who practically tripped over himself to open doors for me in an attempt to present himself as a gentleman. Who. The. Fuck. Are. You. Kidding. Holding a door open for someone is common courtesy and should be done when possible. By practically knocking me over to get to the door first, you are forcing me into the role of the submissive. You are perpetuating a ridiculous binary system. You, sir, are part of the fucking problem.

And no, I never slept with him. Thankfully.

So yeah, anyhoo, I’m not a flamer because I like to shop and I’m not a bro because I love comics and action movies. I think people try to peg homosexuals one way or another to make it easier. Stop it. You’ll be a better person for it. You’re basically dumping all your hetero bullshit onto our doorstep. Gays have enough to deal with, thank you very very much.

 

A few things of note

1. Tila Tequila, do not even fucking joke about being responsible for the legalization of gay marriage in California. Your attention-whoring ways are easily the best case AGAINST same-sex marriage I’ve ever seen considering the people who get “A Shot At Love” are practically a step down the evolutionary ladder. Gay rights activists lobbied and protested for decades to get want they wanted. You used your questionable bisexuality to land an MTV reality show. See the difference? Thank you.

2. In the introduction of Sanders and Birk’s reimagining of Dante’s Purgatorio, there’s a quote that irked me, and I imagine it might be overly-sensitive of me, but still:

“A discussion of the Purgatorio is incomplete without some consideration of Beatrice. She was the angel of Dante’s poetric inspiration, and perhaps her greatest gift to humanity was to inspire his Commedia.”

This introduction by Michael F. Meister does acknowledge that Beatrice was in fact a woman, a real live woman, but Meister seems keen on completely dehumanizing her (maybe as much as Dante did). So firstly, she’s worthy of some consideration, and next she’s an angel. I don’t know about y’all, but equating people with angels doesn’t strike me as a “true” way of describing a person. It’s shorthand for a completely superficial examination of a person, and really, if we took into consideration all of the biblical stories about angels, we wouldn’t be so quick to consider it a compliment. And finally, the whole “her greatest gift to humanity was to inspire” nonsense really fries my cheese. To me, it really trivializes her existence and the life she had led as a woman, as a person, for she is nothing more than the muse, the tool of inspiration for the genius (and I’m not denying that he was a genius) of Dante Alighieri. AND, her depiction in Purgatorio is at best a mixed bag, what with her being a merciless harpy when she’s bitching out Dante for his lust and then a nigh-mute, indescribable love goddess when her veil is lifted and her true beauty is revealed. Just…urgh.

3. “Thank you for holding, you’ve been transferred to Paul. I’ll be confirming the activation of your Mastercard today.

May I please have your home telephone number so I can look up your account?

And your name?

And your mailing address with the postal code?

Great! And while I’m activating your card, I’m going to enroll you in our optional credit protector program. What this does is cover you in the event of losing your job through no fault of your own, we’ll cover your minimum monthly payments up to $500 so your credit rating is never at risk. Or, in the event of death or dismemberment of you or your spouse, we’ll pay your full balance for you up to $10,000 so your family isn’t let with any outstanding debt, and all this for just 1.1% of your balance at the time your statement prints. So we’ll just enroll you and activate your card, okay?”

I just typed that shit out as fast as I said it. This is my script for my job. I say this over 100 times a day every day for at least 5 days a week. Do not get a call centre job if you value your sanity.

What’s worse is that depending on race or gender, there’s a pat set of answers that the customers give as well. You almost wish they would yell at you to break up your day a bit. Well, not almost. I’m pretty sure I pushed a guy into verbally abusing me so I could stay awake near the end of my shift, but I could also have failed and been dreaming at the time. Call centre madness, indeed.

4. Lollapalooza is like, 36 days away. I WILL see Gregg Gillis naked. It is my dream and my goal. Also Radiohead.

 

Post wherein I explain/gush about the Top 10 most played songs on my iPod

I was clearly reaching for ideas.

In reverse order:

#10. “Broken Homes” by the Sleeping Years

I’m surprised this isn’t higher on the list. It’s a gorgeous, melancholy folk song. Dale Grundle’s bizarre-yet-beautiful vocals almost sounds like they’re struggling against the swell of the music, while the cryptic lyrics about loss, collapse and restraint simply beg to be heard. I wouldn’t be surprised if this album (We Are Becoming Islands One By One) made it into my top 5 at the end of the year.

#9. “Little Bit” by Lykke Li

A simple, almost Asian-inspired synth beat combined with Lykke Li’s Swedish purr, with coy lyrics and a hook to die for copped straight from the Pixies (“but only if you’re a little bit in la-la-la-la-love with me”). Great chill-out song, with a dash a romantic longing.

#8. “Gold Digger” by Kanye West

A hold-over from before I went to see Kanye live. Once I start listening to this song again, it’s hard to stop. Amazing flow, trademark Kanye humour and a Ray Charles sample combine for a move-bustin’ good time. I don’t think anything on his new album quite matches the catchiness and fun of this song, but then, the new albm is better as a whole.

#7. “That’s Not My Name” by the Tings Tings

I’ll agree with Pitchfork on one thing: this album blows. I barely got through an entire listen. I have an 80G iPod full of good shit, and if I want pop pastiche there’s many a better band I could go to for it. However, “That’s Not My Name”, I just can’t get enough of. Handclaps and a jump-rope chant slowly merge with a monotone male vocal and swelling pop rock instrumentation. Definitely guilty pleasure material, but highly danceable and a great singalong.

#6. “I Love You All the Time” by Oh No! Oh My!

This one reminds me of Chad VanGaalen’s “Clinically Dead” in that it’s the one mostly-electronic track on a primarily folk album. However, unlike Infiniheart, the rest of Oh No! Oh My!’s self-titled album doesn’t bore me to death. “I Love You All The Time” starts off with a synth riff and a skittering electronic beat that suddenly switches over to frantic guitars and dramatic confessional vocals (“I love you all the time/except when you are mine”), then suddenly switches back to the synth/beat combo. A surprising album highlight.

#5. “Still Alive” by GlaDOS

I admittedly got into this song because of Rock Band, since I haven’t played Portal yet. This song plays at the end of Portal when you beat the final boss, GlaDOS. It’s a sweet pop song with some twisted-ass lyrics about being set on fire and the importance of scientific progress. Glorious fun to sing to.

#4. “XXZXCUZX ME” by Crystal Castles

Can’t seem to let this one go for one reason or another. It’s a 2-minute clusterfuck of Atari (the video game system, not the awful band) samples, thumping beats and Alice Glass’s trademark screaming vocals. I adore when she takes it down for a few lines in the middle of the song (to talk about ROBOTS of all things! soooo good) only to get all worked up again and take it home (“Just because we don’t feel flesh, doesn’t mean we don’t fear death!”) Love.

#3. “You Want That Picture” by Bonnie “Prince” Billy

The best song on an amazing album. Anyone who knows my musical taste knows I’m a sucker for boy/girl vocal exchanges, and this pretty much sums up why. Ashley Webber and Will Oldham both ponder each other’s reactions after Oldham’s character breaks up with Webber’s in a letter (ouch, cold), and in doing so, both find comfort in the same realization about life’s impermanence (“I knew some day I’d die, and that everything would be alright”). The vocal performances are both incredible and the guitar that punctuates the midpoint of the song is absolutely stunning. Go download/buy Remain In Light right the hell now.

#2. “Good Arms vs. Bad Arms” by Frightened Rabbit

More folk-y lovin’, this time from across the Atlantic. This is the song I got the title of my blog from (“Leave the rest at arm’s length, keep your naked flesh under your favourite dress”). The chorus of this song makes me want to grab a partner and dance. The lyrics are hardly romantic, but the delivery is astounding, and the harmonies combined with that catchy guitar makes for some great tune-age. This song is beautifully dense, and I notice new things about it every time I hear it. Midnight Organ Fight is also a highly recommended download/buy and should be listened to if you ever want me to take you seriously as a music lover. Go. Now.

#1. “This Charming Man” by the Smiths

Ah Morrissey. To think I used to despise you for those awful things you said about David Bowie (BOWIE of all people). But, like many people, I just can’t stay mad at you, no matter how much of a fucking prick you are. And sometimes that translates into me listening to “This Charming Man” over and over and over again. What’s to be said about this song that hasn’t already been said? The guitar riff is catchy (love you too, Johnny Marr) and fun to set off Morrissey’s typically beautiful, morose vocals. That the song is about being unable to relate to mainstream gay culture is just icing on the cake really. The lyrics kind of destroy me: “I would go out tonight, but I haven’t got a stitch to wear / This man says it’s gruesome that someone so handsome should care.” And then that ending, oh my, when it all comes together and Morrissey finishes with “He knows so much about these things!” Gosh. Gives me chills every time.