The Free Thinker

The execution was haphazard at best. I'd planned to save up a few grand over the summer to execute the move in proper style, but that was my first party summer, and there just never seemed to be enough money. I saved $1,000 in May and June and virtually nothing more by the end of September.

As a result, plans had to change. Instead of having $3,000 saved, I had $1,000 and a fresh new VISA. Instead of an apartment, I was staying with a "friend" I barely knew until I landed a job. Instead of moving in the traditional sense, brought two suitcases and two knapsacks, with everything else thrown into storage in Ottawa.

Usually this is the sort of half-assed plan hatched by starry-eyed 19 year-olds, who end up giving up and moving home once they've blown through their savings and their parents' generosity. In my case, there was really no home to go back to.

Everything I considered home was in Ottawa, and the apartment I had there was gone. Even if I wanted to move back, as a dirty unilingual I'd never be able to land a job that paid as well as the (awful) one I left behind. That's why I had to leave in the first place. It was all fucking scary, because failure would mean moving to a dying town of 500 with my grandparents who, while loving, would rather play golf than take care of their 23 year-old grandson.

I left for Toronto in late September. Six very long weeks, and countless job interviews later I landed a job that paid less than I was making in Ottawa, but didn't make me want to die, and an awful bachelor apartment I could afford. By the time February rolled around I decided it wasn't worth living on my own if I could only afford a shoebox, and moved to a nicer place with roommates.

I didn't have the money or the logistical ability to move all my crap from Ottawa until the ex moved here as well. From September 25 until May 1, I lived out of those two suitcases. By then I'd almost forgotten that I actually owned any furniture and it felt like Christmas to bring all this niceish Ikea crap into my apartment. In essence, it took me seven months to move to Toronto. In the interim I was in purgatory.

This isn't a sob story. Those long, dark moments. The stress. The loneliness. It was all worth it, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. More than a testament to me, it's a testament to Toronto. My life here isn't perfect. I still make less than I made in Ottawa. The financial outlook isn't what it should be. But it's hard to be pessimistic in this city. There's an energy, an optimism here, as if the city is telling me to hold on and everything will be alright.

Because now this is my city.

A toast to you, Toronto. I don't regret a thing.

Image courtesy of sandrino.

Re: Excessive Ice

Dear Starbucks,

I have enjoyed your drinks for many a year. During the summer, my favourite has always been your iced coffee. The fusion of your usual euphoria-inducing, caffeine-loaded coffee mixed with a soothing cool temperature is just perfect for those hot summer days.

Alas, I've noticed lately that you've been going heavy on the ice, and light on the coffee. I don't know when this happened exactly, but it seems I finish a grande a heck of a lot faster than I used to. I've attached a picture of last Saturday's coffee after consumption, for illustration.

As you can see, the ice takes up a little more than half the volume of the cup. Now, let's consider for a moment what the ideal amount of ice in an iced coffee would be. The purpose of the ice, of course, is to keep the beverage cool on the aforementioned hot days. So, ideally, the ice should be completely melted by the time I'm finished drinking. I understand you brew the iced coffee more strongly than your regular coffee, such that as the ice melts to dilute it, it will match the strength of a standard warm coffee. If this is the case than a drink left with excessive ice can be considered a failure, because one of two things has happened, neither of which is desirable:

1. The consumed coffee was too strong because all of the ice, compensated for during brewing, did not melt during consumption.
2. All the ice was not compensated for, so the ice is taking up volume that could be used for more crack...err, I mean coffee.

Now don't get too upset, Starbucks. This isn't a Dear John. I'm not mad. We're still friends. I'm just letting you know, as I might notify a friend of their bad breath or a stray booger. Your staff are friendly and personable. Your washrooms are clean and convenient. But no relationship is perfect. Just make it right, and all will be forgiven.

Sincerely,
Adam

Seven weeks. Forty-nine days. One thousand one hundred seventy-six hours...since I’ve had sex.

Oh sure, I’ve gone this long before. But I don’t think I’ve ever gone this long without trying. The more observant, homosexual and Canadian among you may notice that Montreal Pride was seven weeks ago.

Let’s just say that I did something...out of character. Something a lot of gay men do. But it wasn’t me.

I haven’t dwelled on the event itself, but it made me feel like such a nasty, carnal beast that I resolved to make myself feel human again. It worked.

But something unexpected happened. Going chaste seems to have *gasp* made me happier. See the thing is, sex can be great. But most of the time it’s awkward, or rushed, or sloppy, or just plain awful.

But I kept coming back for more. Because I went out, I took too much G, and suddenly getting laid seemed like a mission. But the truth is hunting down sex is fucking stressful. And with that stress out my mind I have the emotional energy to actually enjoy my life. There’s also some satisfaction that comes from knowing I’m in control of my hormones.

Not to worry gay world, I am far from done with intercourse. But it would seem that, for the time being, I’m done with random intercourse. If somebody really wows me I’ll go for it. But the bar has certainly been raised.

I look back on the people I’ve been with, and even the people I’ve wanted to date, and I wonder what the hell I was doing wasting time with those losers.

Screwed over once again by hopeless romanticism. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to head off to the gym. When the time comes to re-break my man-hymen I want to be ready.

Image courtesy of tim_d.

Alright so I broke my promise. I'm so sorry blogland. You just can't compete with summer.

But since today is a holiday in the US (where all our clients are), but not in Canada (where we are), I am at work...with nothing to do. What better time to get back in the groove? However, I'm going to stay away from the heavy stuff until I'm back in better blogging shape. I therefore bring you: the signs that I go to a gay gym.

Now just as there's more to being gay than really liking penis, there's more to a gay gym than having a primarily gay clientelle. No, the gay gym drips in gayness, even without any homosexuals present.

My gym is gay because:

• It has three calf machines that see almost no use, yet three ab machines and an ass machine that are in near-constant use. My last two gyms had neither ass nor ab machines.
  
• It has a hair gel dispenser and two handheld hair dryers in the change room.
  
• It has a separate women-only weight room to keep all the pussy out of the sausage party.
  
• The few straight guys that come always bring their girlfriends...and kiss them constantly to reinforce their heterosexuality.
  
• It is, quite literally, right behind Fly, the most gayest gay club evar.
  
• Everybody there is in really good shape. As if they bulked up at a "normal" gym first to prepare themselves.
  
• To work out there is to checked out non-stop...and to like it.
  
• The change room has ten showers with doors and one without. Guess which one gets used the most.
  
• Last month a bunch of posters went up trying to sell personal training sessions. The tag line: "Get in shape for pride!"
  
• Guys are constantly pulling up their shirts to check out their abs.

And finally:

• There's not a sauna, because, well, do I really have to explain this one? A gay gym with a sauna would soon end up being used as a discount bathhouse.

That's it for now folks. Let's hope I can get back in the habit!

In case anyone has been wondering, I'm not dead or anything. Life has been...hectic. I promise to update you all on my latest hijinx by the end of the week.

A lot of my friends have been sucked into the Facebook black hole. Quite frankly, I find it merely okay. It's nice for screwing around for 10 minutes, but that's about it. Of course today it's been more interesting than normal. My Facebook inbox had a nice little note from some dude I don't know, who presumably messaged everyone in the Gay Toronto group I joined for no reason in particular. Take a look at this thing:

HOTEL PARTY REMINDER
OVER 100 FUCKIN HOT DUDES


Hey…we are having another party!!!! …this one will be at a downtown hotel….we are just finalizing the hotel and will let everyone know the hotel and location tomorrow……over 100 fuckin crazy hot horny guys…guys gone wild!!!!… The last house party was awesome, with over 40 amazing hot horny guys…this one over 100 guys…if you’re up for a fucking hot anything goes night this is IT…. We will see you at This Friday Night’s Party at 11:00 P.M.!!!!

GUYS…. BE REAL! BE 19 to 40, BE DECENT SHAPE (height/weight proportionate), BE COOL, BE FUN, BE OPEN MINDED & BE READY to bust loose & have fun...

Cool Fun hot crazy horny guys…gay, bi dudes hanging out, chilling, beers, drinks…420….and doing anything guys want to do….its up to you!

Always a good idea to bring anything you may want to drink. Have a few beers here for guys who didn’t pick anything up….

A great way to meet some real cool fun guys…get into some real hot man on man……THE HOTEL LOCATION WILL BE RIGHT IN THE DOWNTOWN CORE

We will send the hotel info, address, directions and all the details..........upon check-in on Friday around noon we will send out the actual room number or call our cell contact number for a recording with the room number….

See you on Friday for an unforgettable fucking awesome night!!!

Yeah I'm afraid I'll have to send my regrets. Blind dates are bad enough, but blind hotel orgies? Sounds like a scheme for a bunch of old overweight creeps to lure a few fit, naive youngins over, get them smashed, and pass 'em around. The relative unattractiveness of the host underscores the danger in attending such a sordid affair.

I'm extremely curious about the identity of the kind gent who's financing the hotel room though. And extremely sorry for the poor cleaning lady that will have to clean up after this thing.

This is why I reserve orgies for trusted acquaintances only.

* Just kidding, I really am more of a one-on-one guy. The ride may run frequently, but there's only seating for one.

I broke a promise to a close friend this week.

See, way back in the day Meaghan made me promise that I would never, ever date another Adam. I guess having her friend Ryan dating another Ryan was stressful enough.

I'm so sorry Meaghan. But he's just too hot. However, I will admit that it takes some getting used to. I'm usually one to say a partners name during intimate moments and, well, needless to say I won't be doing that in this instance. In my brain he sort of...has no name. And every so often I'll remember his name is Adam and consider how weird it is.

Anyways last night we had a date and it went pretty well. In fact, isn't this more likely to go well because we have the same names? That's like Harding's Law or something, right?

Having the same name led to a very cute event at dinner last night, at least. He was checking his phone, then turned it and showed me that he'd named me "Cute Adam" in the phonebook. Then I pulled out my phone and showed him that I'd named him "Hot Adam." It was quite the little moment.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to found a gay Garden of Eden. All we need now are a couple of Steves and a really hot straight guy to act as the forbidden fruit.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Grinding is very accurately named. In fact, it's a lot like the picture on the right. Take something benign looking and put it through the grind, and the result is something nasty looking that nobody needs to see.

Now some of you might remember that it was scarcely a year ago that I scandalously took a trick I met at Stereo (who is now a close friend, incidentally) and essentially dry fucked him on the back stage. However, today I'm a more mature clubber and I'm here to tell you that it ain't right.

Now that I can actually dance worth a crap I'd much rather dance with a guy. And, truth be told, if he's got some good moves I'm going to be much more attracted to him anyways. If he grabs my waist and tries to pull me toward him he'd better be smoking, because that's two strikes right there.

Sometimes I can tolerate it. Grinding at Fly is just a fact of life. And at Pride, well, it's all about boys. But keep grinding out of my beloved Comfort Zone. It's a dancer's club people! It's not a pickup club. We don't need to see groping on the dance floor, let alone a five-person grind sandwich like I saw this past weekend.

I'm not even saying you can't have your fun at the Zone. Hell, there are seats and dark corners everywhere. I've been known to partake myself. Have at it.

But the Zone is a mixed club and you're giving our people a bad name when you act tactlessly. Why not show off some of our stereotypically impressive dance moves instead?

Image courtesy of Secretly Ironic.

Gossip is a standard part of any community. Inevitably as people get to know one another they start passing on rumors about each other. The Comfort Zone gay subculture is one such community, with the hardcore comprising perhaps 100 people. I guess sooner or later people were bound to start talking about me.

I'm sort of used to being in the background. I guess I've never really thought of myself as gossip-worthy, save during the big outing of 2001. Well dear readers, I've hit the gossip scene with a bang. I was chatting to someone last night when the bomb dropped.

"I heard that you're doing porn now."

Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat!? This is worse still because it came from one of the few people in Toronto whose opinion I actually care about. Let me go on the record now to state that Adam has not done porn. Boys who work full-time and do porn do not have empty bank accounts. In fact, if things were THAT dire I'd probably start selling drugs before I'd do porn. But don't worry, it won't come to that. It's sort of a which-limb-would-you-lose type of situation. Neither option is particularly appealing.

So where the hell does a rumor like this come from? I'll admit that with my hair now at visible-scalp level shortness I do have a generic, if popular look. Perhaps a case of mistaken identity? Or is someone deliberately trying to sabotage me?

The worst part is, it makes me look back at people I saw a lot of potential with whose attitudes suddenly changed and wonder if maybe they heard it too. This is the kind of rumor you just can't quash. I can't very well go around asking everyone if they heard my false porn rumor and really truly honestly it's not true and please tell everyone because it's just really embarrassing...can I? It'll just make things worse.

So essentially, I'm getting all the negative stigma of doing porn with none of the benefit$. Gay Toronto 69, Adam 5.

1. His verbal diarrhea is suddenly replaced by verbal constipation.
2. His internal monologue is suddenly externalized. He's heard muttering to himself throughout the day.
3. When asked how his weekend was, he emits a loud moan and goes back to what he was doing.
4. He glares at his coworker when "Manic Monday" comes on her radio.
5. The bags under his eyes are large enough to double as change purses.
6. He's 10 pounds lighter than he was on Friday.
7. He fell asleep on the subway to work...standing up.
   
8. His voice sounds exactly as you'd expect after yelling for 16 straight hours.
9. He's constantly texting some random dude he met over the weekend.
10. He slightly alters the lyrics while singing along to "Sexy Back"
    
11. He absentmindedly puts his water bottle in his back pocket as he walks about the office.

"Adam doesn't fit in."

I am a perpetual outcast. Until age 19 or so this was largely due to extreme social immaturity and high-level loserdom. Today I've come to realize that I'm sort of a scene-spanner.

In high school I was too keen while everyone else coasted. In university I was too blasé as everyone else was keen.

Too pragmatic for the intellectual scene. Too intellectual and introspective for the club scene. Too trusting to be in Toronto.

The bottom line is: people just don't get me, especially here.

I'm an individualistic person in a very cliquey city. I dance my ass of at the pick-up club. I'm too wordy, too thoughtful, and above all else, too honest.

Toronto I am so sorry that I refuse to play the game. To sit back and look disinterested. To never smile. I'm sorry that I tell people when I like them, that I'm honest about myself. I'm sorry I refuse to pursue someone all night, and instead just tell them they're cute. I'm sorry I'm real. I'm sorry that I thought that, just maybe, people might like a friend that's not exactly like them.

Oh wait, no I'm not. Fuck you Toronto.

So dear Jeff asked me how the weekend went, and I figured I might as well just throw together a post.

It was really freaking fun. It wasn't particularly busy, but by Fly standards th DJ was quite good. I danced my ass off, and brought a boy home. It was my first drug sex in a while. That's unfortunate because drug sex is amazing, but fortunate because it makes me want to die the next day.

If you've never had sex on E, you really owe it to yourself to give it a shot. A back massage on E is better than sober sex, so you can imagine what the sex is like. Just don't plan on doing anything, feeling anything, eating anything, caring about anything or talking to anyone the next day.

Did you ever see that episode of Star Trek: TNG where Data keeps dreaming about the crew with straws in their brains? That's sorta how I feel right now. Like someone is sucking my brain out through a straw.

It also doesn't help that my work is a nice oven of unbearable humidity and stagnant air today. It's one of those lovely 70s era buildings has no circulation and is probably growing mold like Vancouverites grow pot.

Regardless, the weekend served its therapeutic purpose, for the most part. Of course it's hard to feel attractive when you keep visualizing yourself vomiting, but I'm closer than I was on Saturday.

Taking next weekend off would be advisable, but I've got a friend coming from out of town. Then the weekend after is Easter and a friend's birthday. In other words, I've got another couple of rough Mondays ahead of me.

What a depressing thought. Now where did I leave that extra pill?

Image courtesy of Star Trek episode guides

Mirror mirror on the wall
Tell me why you make things fall
Mirror mirror look at me
Tell me why we disagree - The Wild Strawberries

I, like most people, spend a decent amount of time looking in the mirror. Here's what I've come to realize: When I look at other people I see what is physically there. I can tell what looks good and what doesn't. I can spot improvement or neglect. But when I look at myself in the mirror, what I see is more a reflection of how I feel about myself than anything.

Today I'm depressed. And when I look in the mirror I feel ugly.

There's not an ounce of rationality in that feeling. Which is why it's pretty much impossible for me to change it. I'm not a Vulcan.

Now on to the good part: As a druggie I can engage in a practice called self-medication. It's the proverbial patients running the asylum. Or, giving the prescription pad to the hypochondriac.

Is this a good thing or not? In the past it's been a good way to let off some steam and I'll feel better for a while after. In other cases I come home and crap on myself for doing drugs for the wrong reasons.

Of course a lot of people lose themselves in the cycle of drugs and depression, but I've managed to dodge that so far and I'm not nearly as stupid as I was this time last year. The danger has passed.

So I have access to a drug that will make me happy, pretty much no matter what. Whether it's good or bad, once you have the option it's difficult to turn it down.

Hell, I've been well behaved these past few weeks. I'm going to go out, dance my ass off and feel good. I can weigh the moral implications tomorrow.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

Oh man I loooove making up new words. So let's say you're a gay man who's sleeping around a lot. Like, a lot. You're not using protection, and of course you're in Toronto so that's pretty much begging for HIV. What are you?

You're a suiskank.

Genius! Now I'll just sit back and wait for the honorary degrees to start rolling in.

So I noticed I'd lost my VISA the other day. I've lost my driver's license and my debit card many times, but this is the first time I've lost a credit card. Anyways, assuming this was no big deal I rang up CIBC to let them know. They started running down the charges on the card.

"Did you go to Cracker Barrel in North York?"

"Uh, no." Whoa, what the hell is going on here?

"The movie theatre for $20?"

"I don't go to movies?" A light panic starts to set in.

"La Senza?"

"I have never in my life set foot in La Senza." Apparently CIBC doesn't realize that I'm gay man who is not a drag queen.

That's right, somebody stole my VISA and decided to go on the lamest shopping spree in fraud history. I mean, is it really worth the risk of going to jail so you can save $20 on the latest Sandra Bullock movie? La Senza raises a whole other raft of questions. Is this is a woman? If so, are the clerks not noticing the very male name printed on the card. Maybe it is a drag queen after all. Although I'd expect some charges to Mack in that case.

The silver lining is that CIBC isn't making a stink over it. I've had credit with them for almost six years now, and really, who's going to lie about shopping at Cracker Barrel? So they're reversing the charges, and they're going to mail me an affidavit to sign. Easy peasy...so far.

That's right, I'm saying good things about a bank. I feel dirty now. If only I had some frilly black lingerie to cheer me up! *shakes fist*

Image courtesy of babasu.

A photo from behind, who'da thunk it? After taking a look at this photo I'm not entirely sure if I like my back or not. Not that it really matters. I never have to look at the damn thing. Oh and what the hell is with the veins on my arms? They don't usually look like that, do they?

Look forward to next week when *gasp* I might provide a side shot!

Well looks like my pays-too-little but easy-going job is crapping out some fringe benefits. A client of ours from New York has asked my employer to fly me down for a little event she's doing.

As someone who's barely been anywhere his whole life, this is wet my pants level exciting.

Now comes the hard part: I have to get my freaking passport. I have six weeks or so. Should be okay, I think. But I'll have to pay extra to get it rushed.

The event is on a Thursday, so I'm going to ask them to book my flight back for Sunday. You know what that means. Party weekend! I'll have to arrange my own accomodations for the weekend, so I'll probably go for a hostel. More money for partying, right?

Anyhoo, if any of my dear readers can recommend some good clubs in the big Apple it'd be greatly appreciated. Requirements:

• House or trance music
• Hot, shirtless, gay men in my age bracket. It doesn't necessarily have to be a gay club. New York's answer to the Comfort Zone would be the bees knees.
• Must be a drug club where drugs are easy to get relatively inexpensively
• Must be after-hours

Stiff requirements, to be sure. But if I'm going to go all the way to New York, I should go somewhere at least as good as a club in Toronto, right? Just because I'm in New York doesn't mean I'm going to have fun listening to hip hop with a bunch of uglies.

Perhaps this is something I could address to the author directly, but since his commenting system is utterly broken I'm going to publicly lash my fellow blogger over this post. Essentially it details his efforts to find Urban music in the village. Allow me to tenderly remove the juicy bits:

With a daunting line up at Crews, a friend and I made that long and painful walk to Zippers, we got in and there was no line up(surprise?) and almost immediately we were greeted with dance remixes of all the cutting edge showtunes available. We got our drink, went to dance, got bored and went to ask for some Urban music. I was told and I quote ‘No, not a fan, not a fan’ and the look I received, if that slight attempt at acknowledging my existence upon uttering the phrase R&B could be considered a look) alone told me that I both had no right to ask, and that I was obviously in the wrong for thinking a DJ would actually play what people who(albeit got in for free) were patrons of the club wanted to hear.

That said, I somehow doubt it would have gone over well to hear anything but the dance versions of songs that had their ‘original’ mixes recently top the charts worldwide, I digress. too literal?Realizing we weren’t so welcome, we happily left for another experience.

The Crews line up seemed even longer so we went to Vice, and lo and behold, a dance remix of The Pussycat Dolls “Buttons” welcomed us on the way in. After a drink and a bit of dancing, I ask if they’re playing any urban music, surprise surprise I was told no, but not just no, upon asking what the problem the ’strip’ had with Urban music I was told that perhaps I should start my own club if I have a problem with it, wonderful!

After that they gave up, waited in line for Crews and lived happily ever after.

Now here's the thing: Anyone with a decent knowledge of the scene knows you're not going to get urban music at Vice, and especially not at Zippers, a piano bar for crap's sake. There's also the fact that DJs generally stick to their own genre. Do you think every DJ in town carries around house, trance, R&B, hip hop, top 40 and jungle just in case someone comes in and asks for it? This is the clubbing equivalent of going to Staples and demanding that they make you a sandwich. And how dare they refuse to cater to a paying customer!

I'm sorry you didn't want to wait in line at Crews, but when the lineup is too long at Fly I don't go over to Crews and demand that they play house music, do I? No, because everyone else is there to hear the kind of music they play at Crews.

I think in the past month I've sort of gone soft on the blog, leaving behind the offensive posts of the early days. Well it's time for a rennaisance my friend, because you are getting the jackass award!

If anyone wants to suggest someone else who deserves an award, just drop me a line. The bitch is back!

Okay so this half-naked Thursday thing is all a little new to me. I was supposed to take care of this yesterday, but life had other plans. So either you can pretend it's Thursday or you can't look. Sound fair?

Sorry about the graininess, I couldn't find the flash attachment for my camera phone.

Oh and I have a hard time smiling in pictures. That's why I'm sporting the scowl. Does somebody out there want to coach me? It makes me look sort of angry and heterosexual, and some guys go for that, right?

Anyways, enjoy...I hope!

It may not be apparent with all the half-naked pictures and drug talk, but I'm a life-long computer geek. How hardcore am I? I once told a friend that if I accidentally dropped my computer bag into the Rideau Canal when it was barely above freezing I'd be hopping in after it. And I would too.

You're looking at someone who has hugged his computer on more than one occasion. I even named it after a Queer as Folk character I had a crush on. It's a terminal case, folks.

But hell, have you seen an iBook? It's an adorable little white chicklet. And how many people can say their computer always does exactly what they want?

I could, until yesterday. I came home from work after a tough day and Mac OS X needed to install an update. I said "go for it"...and something went wrong. The update program crashed. Then no other software would start. So I tried rebooting, and she never came back up. For someone who would rather go without food than his computer, this was not acceptable.

Long story short: I have to get me some install disks and it'll be fixed shortly.

It's funny though. Apple advertisers Macs as a trouble-free alternative to Windows, but my friends still seem to have a lot of problems. Mac users are just a lot more forgiving.

Let me put it this way: running Mac OS X is like being married to a really wild woman. She's dressed to the nines in designer clothes and when you're in bed you get the feeling you're in it together. She knows just what you want and she's happy to oblige. Once in a while she flies off the handle, but how could you stay mad when the makeup sex is this good?

Running Windows is like being married to...a bitch. She looks alright, but instead of buying designer clothes she shops at Winner's. She carries a clearly counterfeit Louis Vitton bag. She doesn't get upset any more often than the firecracker, but when she does she rips up all your photos and throws your clothes on the front lawn. You spend as much time trying to coax her into sex as you do having it, and she acts like she's doing you some big favour. She gets the job done but leaves you secretly bitter that she makes the simplest of tasks complex and stressful.

Have I carried that metaphor far enough yet? And thus ends the geekiest blog post I will ever write.

Nobody that reads this will ever sleep with me.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

I've been talking to this 18 year-old guy online lately. Don't worry, it's probably not going anywhere.

Last night we were talking on MSN, and for some reason I made a joke about the Marcarena. To which he replied:

"What's the macarena?"

I feel like an antique.

Image courtesy of Tostie14.

So there was a big ecstasy bust in the city yesterday. When you're measuring the take in kilograms, you know it's a big deal. Hell, that's enough to supply a few hundred people for life, probably. Are they looking for anyone to guard that evidence locker?

Anyways, why do the police insist on grossly exaggerating the value of the drugs they seize? Are they trying to impress someone? 'Cause nobody in this city pays $40 for a pill. It's not 1999, for crying out loud.

If any of you, my dear readers, ever gets busted and brought up on charges, I will gladly appear at your sentencing hearing pro bono. As an expert witness, I'll testify about the over-inflated value of your beloved cargo. Of course, if you could introduce me to your "successor" as a thank you, it'd be all the better.

It's funny, when you really, really get into the drug scene you learn to treat yourself like one big chemistry experiment. You learn to manipulate your body and mind to make them do what you want, when you want.

I want to act like this. I want to feel like that.

And of course the "health food store" has everything you need to counteract the side effects of the other stuff. Take this to avoid depression. Take that to help you sleep.

Finally the scientific community is recognizing all the great, uh, work I've been doing. A friend tipped me off that CAMH is doing a study into whether ecstasy causes brain damage. So of course I was right on top of that shit.

It's sort of like those studies where they give you some experimental drug to see what it does to you. Except I've been voluntarily taking it for the last 8 months.

Of course there's always the risk that this place has the same owners as my evil gym, and they're just trying to get me in so they can sell me some expensive rehab or something. Let's hope not.

The downside: the thought that I might have brain damage. The upside: at least I can make some cash off of it. The irony: funneling the money back into the drug budget.

I left a message, now I'm just waiting for a call back. Wish me luck!

PS Forgive me for being so flippant on the matter, but I've read up a great deal on the subject, and previous studies have found it causes no permanent damage when taking non-insane doses.

Totally clever picture of a guinea pig courtesy of Just A Screenager.

We already know that children can't hear the word scrotum, but did you know teenagers can't utter the word vagina?

That's right, three otherwise well-behaved high school students were suspended for reciting a few lines from The Vagina Monologues at a school event. For shame!

The school administration argues that it was an event open to the public, and there could've been children there. Oh my god, children might hear the word vagina! You know I've known the word vagina for a really long time, way back before I really knew what it entailed. Since I didn't even learn where it was until age 20, there were 14 or so years that I knew the word but couldn't find it on a...map.

And yet somehow, with this shameful word in my vocabulary, I managed avoid turning into a serial killer, rapist or pedophile.

I'm just shocked that this kind of puritanism still exists in our society. I mean, you can make a logical argument for why children shouldn't be exposed to sexuality. I'd say we usually go overboard, but the argument is there. But maintaining that the very name of their body parts shant be uttered is downright ridiculous.

Maybe the principal is sexually frustrated or something. Buy him a blow up doll and let's move on with our lives.

PS While writing this post I found the best list of vagina euphemisms ever!

My roommate was watching TV when this came on. I thought it was going to be another lame Steve Jobs parody, but it was freaking hilarious. The first couple minutes kinda suck. You have to be patient, trust me. My roommate isn't geeky at all and he was cackling as much as I was. Enjoy!

I met a friend for brunch today and somehow we started talking about the big blackout in the summer of 2003. For my generation, it's one of those key life moments, like September 11, Woodstock, or Expo 67, except more universal and in no way depressing.

Everybody remembers what they did that weekend, and everybody had a blast. And all weekend you knew you were going to remember it, because it was such an exceptional event.

People ventured out into the streets. Friends gathered and just spent time together by candlelight. It's like life decided to pull away all the things that keep us apart and said "Now you'll realize that you still have everything that matters." Nobody cared that the TV wouldn't turn on. After a while people stopped complaining about taking the stairs. Internet withdrawals faded as old friends met in person for the first time in ages.

I ended up going to the Lusk caves in Gatineau Park with a bunch of friends. Everybody came. Nobody was too busy and nobody was tethered to their cell phone. It was a freaking blast.

Deep down, I hope the people in charge of fixing the problem were incompetent, so we can have another blackout weekend. What did you do when the lights went out?

Image courtesy of GirlReporter.

Trying to take the weekend off of the club but still need your House fix? I've got you covered.

Welcome to my first mix of the week. This week I found a kick-ass set from Brookes and Bown. One thing that bugs me about a lot of sets is that the start or end is too...mild. I've got a quite a few where the first 6 minutes is nothing but a drum, or it peters out toward the last 15 minutes. Not this one. The start and end both have great tracks, with a bunch of excellent stuff in the middle. It's got a fair bit of variety too, mixing the gay anthems I'd expect to hear at Fly (Toronto's gay drug club) with the dirty beats you find at the Comfort Zone (the all day party with a mixed crowd). Highly recommended!

Get this set now! You can listen to it without signing up, but to download you have to get a free account. For some reason you click the "Podcast" button to download. Somebody explain to these people what a podcast is. Anyways, enjoy!

Today the man that brought you sketch out and poutine queen is happy to present the latest word to emerge from his top-secret alphalab: vicey.

While not as original as "poutine queen," I think turning this oft-used noun into an adjective is very appropriate. I'm a vicey guy, and if anyone can think of another adjective that conveys the same message so succinctly, I'd like to hear it. There's sketchy, but really sketchy conveys a certain lack of trustworthiness. One can be vicey without being a bad person. Just look at me: Filled with vice but also generous, friendly and a really good lay.

So there you have it folks. I predict vicey will follow truthiness to become 2007's word of the year. Start saving up to replace all those dictionaries!

I was going to post something light-hearted today, but then I found this story. Get ready for something a little...heavy:

A man who once weighed well over a half ton left his house for the first time in five years Wednesday -- wheeled outside on his bed to greet neighbors and see a mariachi band.

"The sky is beautiful and blue and what I want is to enjoy the sun," said Manuel Uribe, who had once been certified by doctors as weighing 1,235 pounds.

Though still unable to leave his bed, Uribe has lost 395 pounds since he began a high-protein diet a year ago. He now weights about 840 pounds.

To celebrate the milestone, six people pushed Uribe's wheel-equipped iron bed out to the street as a mariachi band played and a crowd gathered. Then, a forklift lifted him onto a truck and the 41-year-old rode through the streets of San Nicolas de los Garza, a Monterrey suburb.

Now, as I've written before, I have a fascination about the obesity epidemic. The great thing about this guy is that he's so freaking gigantic that I can write whatever I want about him without offending any of my readers. No matter how fat you are, blog visitors, you will never make me throw up in my mouth like dear Manuel nearly did.

I was reading the comments on the Digg story and people were posting things about genetics and all that. I'm willing to accept that we all have different body types and metabolisms, and I've got it easier than a lot of people. But you cannot use that argument to explain this freak. Quite simply, if you're eating a normal 2,000-3,000 calories a day, there's no way for this to happen. If your body could manufacture 1,000 pounds of fat out of nothing it'd be violating the laws of thermodynamics!

Just for fun, I ran this guy through a BMI calculator. For those not in the know, BMI is a rough estimate of whether you're at a healthy weight. It doesn't factor in fat vs. muscle, so it is a blunt tool at best. A healthy BMI is from 18.5-24.9. Obese is over 30. Assuming he's six feet tall, Emanuel's BMI was 167.5 at it's peak. In fact, for Emanuel to have a healthy BMI at 1,235 pounds, he'd have to be 15'7" tall!

How the hell does this happen? I mean the guy didn't leave the house. Somebody was buying groceries for him. Somebody was probably cooking for him. Why not offer to bring him nothing but fruits and vegetables? We're not talking about sticking your nose where it doesn't belong here. We're talking about a person who's eating enough to feed a grade four class. Don't you think it might be time for a little tough love?

Kudos to him for dropping all that weight. In the past year he's lost almost 400 pounds, or 2.75 Adams. But somebody should have intervened a long time ago. When your friend or family member no longer fits through the door, it might be time to give them a salad or something.

Image courtesy of WSB-TV Atlanta.

After a month of cancelled appointments I finally made it into the gym for my "fitness consultation" today.

Going to the gym for a "fitness consultation" is sort of like going to a used car lot for a "transportation consultation." No matter what your circumstances, you absolutely, positively should buy one of these lovely rustbuckets.

In this case, instead of slimy salesman trying to hawk me some piece of crap Buick, he was trying to sell me personal training.

I have no problem being asked if I'm interested. It's a service that every gym offers, and certainly a legitimate one. But my gym forces you to go in for this goodamn sales pitch just to get your membership card.

It started out well enough. He asked what I was doing, what my goals were, and so forth. Measured my body fat, took me upstairs and checked my form on a few exercises. Then we went back to the office and he drew up a suggested program.

The weird thing is, the program he drew up would've had me spending six weeks working on my "core strength" before I moved up to a more advanced program. By more advanced, I mean the program I'm doing right now.

Quite frankly, it's a gay gym, and this represents a fundamental misunderstanding of why gay men go to the gym. Does a guy ever say "Wow, check out the core on that guy!" No. So we don't care. We're a very superficial people. Actual strength gain is secondary to improved appearance. Know your audience.

If you really want to sell the program, tell me I'll have a six pack, and rock hard chest and ass in six weeks. Make me feel like I'm going to get laid more thanks to you. Not that I'll be better able to balance on a fucking rubber ball.

Of course after he was done designing the program, just as fellow gym members had warned me, the axe fell. "Now if you really want to get the best results, it's important that you have a trainer with you."

I feigned poverty to no avail. Just $75 a month! You'll make so much progress! I told him I like working out alone, which is true. And frankly personal trainers annoy me. They're so artificially upbeat and they're always making this forced go-nowhere small talk to appear personable.

Anyways, it took me a good five minutes to convince him he wasn't going to sell me anything. I should've just told him the money would cut into my ecstasy budget. That would've shut the bastard up.

Once he'd finally got the message his friendliness suddenly vanished. He took away the paper with the program he'd just drawn out, and filed it away. Isn't that a little bastardly? Like let's try to maintain the illusion that we're going to help you whether you pay for sessions or not. Apparently at this place you don't get the bait unless you bite the hook.

That wasted a good hour of my time, and by the time it was done I was so hungry that I just headed home and didn't get a chance to actually work out. The funny thing is, he acted like I'd just wasted an hour of his time. I didn't even want to do the fucking thing, I just wanted to get my membership card already.

Of course they don't care if you're pissed off or not, because they've got you by the balls with your contract. It's like the cell phone industry. Except Rogers didn't make me attend a session on the benefits of picture messaging and mobile web browsing before they let me use the phone.

I'm already a paying member of your gym. If you're going to pout because you can't sell me extras just leave me the hell alone.

Image courtesy of Xtreme Simpsons.

The ex would tell you I have a lot of trouble setting priorities. He'd be right.

I've been pretty much living at the gym for the last week and a half. Before that I was going steadily, but this whole three-hours-a-day-every-day thing is more excessive than I'm used to. And you know what? I can't stop. I'm getting into that state where if I miss a day I'm going to be very cranky.

I guess I've sort of replaced partying with exercise, for the time being. Of course I'll continue replacing it with sex whenever possible, but I don't have as much control over that.

This is good, and it's bad. Obviously it's good to exercise. But, as always, I've taken it too far. You're looking at someone who can find three hours a day to spend at the gym, but struggles to find 90 seconds to take out the garbage. Somebody who would rather cancel coffee with a friend than miss the gym, if he had to work late. Somebody who is now completely antisocial on weekdays because he's too busy lifting weights and doing crunches.

I've stopped returning calls promptly. I've reduced my daily social time to a few minutes on MSN before bed. Every time I show up to the gym, I fear the attendant will utter those awful words, "Sir, I think you've had enough."

But I don't see myself having enough until I can replace the weights with a cute boy. You're looking at a life-long gym junkie. Who wants to be my methadone?

Image courtesy of midiman.

Virgin Vacations has posted their picks for the top 11 subway systems in the world, and I'm sad to say I'm not surprised to see no mention of dear old Toronto. It was a little surprising to see Montreal on the list at number eight, right behind New York City. Here's what they had to say:

The Montreal Metro is a modern system that was inaugurated in 1966. It is a small (37.8 miles reaching 65 stations on four lines) yet unique and modern system that was inspired by the Paris Metro.

Highlights: Diverse, beautiful architecture and unique station art (each station is designed by a different architect). Pleasant riding experience (smooth rides: the trains run on a rubber surface to reduce the screech of train cars). Trains are frequent and fairly comfortable.

The Toronto and Montreal subway systems are the only two I've had the pleasure of exploring, and I have to say there's good reason to give Montreal the nod. As someone who spends an hour on the Bloor line every day, I'll give you one word to describe the experience: depressing. Pretty much the whole subway system is a little lacking in aesthetics, but the Bloor line is especially bland, with the same cream coloured tile everywhere, now covered in filth, and nary a bright colour to be found.

The Montreal subway might not run nearly as often, going down to 15 minutes at night, but it's a hell of a lot more pleasant. The stations aren't so dull and claustrophobic. If you've ever been to the breath of fresh air that is St. Clair West station, that's what the Montreal Metro is like.

The sad thing is it seems the TTC will never, ever bother to make these stations more aesthetically pleasing. Hell, even bringing the Bloor line up to the level of the Yonge line would be a major improvement. The people in this city spend a good chunk of their lives underground for Christ's sake. Shouldn't we make it as enjoyable as possible?

Images courtesy of Duchamp and sillygwailo.

Well it was needlessly painful, but I've finally replaced the template on this sounding board of the damned. I like it. It looks...grown-up. I looked at a cached copy of the old version and I can't believe how long I put up with it. It looks so gaudy by comparison. Take a look and compare for yourself.

Today's lesson: Google is not infallible, 'cause Blogger ain't all it's cracked up to be. Regardless, I whipped the bastard into shape and now I'm calling the shots.

If only I could alter my appearance as easily as I can alter that of my blog. I'd give myself bigger...everything. Of course it'd be a little embarassing to walk around with my nose on my ass because some idiot fucked up the HTML, but at least a fix would be just a quick edit and refresh away!

I'd have to say "vice" is among my favourite words. Not only is it the name of a very entertaining magazine, it's the name of the only non-drug-oriented gay bar in Toronto where the music is tolerable and the clientele isn't repulsive. But most of all, vice is a state of mind. A way of looking at the world and saying "fuck you societal norms, I'm going to have a good time!"

Today I'm proud to say that I'm completely vice-ridden. It's very liberating. Embracing vice means not only engaging in taboo behavior, but it means refusing to feel guilty or hide it.

For example, the weekend before last I had to drag a friend who'd gone overboard at the club back to my place. He couldn't even stay awake. Thank god there were three of us to carry his ass up to my apartment. Someone in the elevator was like "It's 7 PM!" To which I replied "Yeah but he's been going since last night. He's just had too much GHB."

Cue shocked faces. The rest of the elevator ride was pretty quiet. Neighbours meet reality. Reality, meet neighbours. There goes my nomination for the tenant association.

So, obviously, my usual vice is drugs and partying. However, I'm starting to notice an interesting trend. Whenever I take a break, I revert back to a much older vice of mine: promiscuity.

***TMI ALERT! FAMILY MEMBERS MAY NOT WANT TO READ BEYOND THIS POINT***

This first became apparent back in January, during my first big break since I moved here. I hadn't gotten laid since the move in September. I'd had some encounters, but no full-on intercourse. Then I took some time off of partying and I ended up laying three guys in a week. Yeah. Way to make up for lost time, Adam!

Not to be outdone by January Adam, I managed to line up two guys last weekend. Thank god Mr. Sunday was a bottom, because I was still sore from Mr. Saturday.

Just like I refuse to be ashamed of my partying, I will not be ashamed of my promiscuity. It's very Toronto to go around pretending to be chaste while you lay the whole city, or to just be an all-around cock-tease. Not this guy. I go for the prize, I don't play games, and once I've "won" I don't keep it under wraps.

I'm planning on taking two more weekends off of partying, so who knows what the next 17 days will hold. Then it'll be time for another vice-swap and you can all look forward to reading about more of my weekly club disasters.

Judge me if you want. I'm too busy having fun to care.

Image courtesy of ! SamuraiGhost.

Forget the witty intro. I'll let the picture speak for itself:


Not only are these lovely Elvis busts readily available one block from my building, it's a 24 hour convenience store. It's stuff like this that makes the big Toronto move worthwhile. After all, where else can you get your jailhouse rocks off at 3 AM, along with a pack of cigarettes and some porno mags? That's right, nowhere.

Me? I'm holding out for a Gavin Rossdale bust. In my mind it will always be 1995.

For those of you living under a rock, last night the Oscars were on. And you'd have to be living under a rock, because I have absolutely no interest in the celebrity circle-jerk, and I still got slapped in the face with the thing several times.

It's kind of funny, actually. I take no more interest in the Academy Awards than I do the Super Bowl. In both cases, I found out incidentally the day of that the event was on. In both cases I was apathetic and found something better do. If given a choice, believe it or not, I'd probably pick the Super Bowl. Wouldn't Dad be proud.

As usual, some movies I've never heard of won a bunch of awards. The only movie I've seen in the last year is An Inconvenient Truth, and believe it or not, Al Gore did a better job of holding my interest than most Hollywood blockbusters do.

I just don't like movies. You have to sit there for like two hours, staring at a screen and absorbing. There's a dearth of interaction that just ruins the appeal for me. TV has a similar problem but the time investment is a lot lower. And even then, I watch very very little TV.

If I want an engrossing story, I'll read a book. Quite frankly, I think movies suck as a storytelling medium. They're good with visual things, but for character and plot development I'd rather have the author speak directly to me.

The funny thing is, I can screw around online for hours on end. but at least then I feel like I'm contributing in some minor way.

And honestly I think movies make for a crummy social experience. I would never, ever take a date to a movie. Isn't a date supposed to be about getting to know somebody? How the hell am I supposed to do that when I'm staring at a screen for two hours?! If I'm going to spend two hours not talking to a guy, it should be because he's got...erm...something in his mouth.

Same deal with friends. I don't have a huge amount of time to spend with my friends. I'd rather spend it conversing. There are lots of activities, like shopping, playing games, and, of course, clubbing, that let you be social at the same time. So why resort to sit-and-stare? There's no excuse unless you've got nothing left to say. And those of you who know me know that's not likely to be an issue anytime soon.

Image courtesy of Wikipedia. I love you Wikipedia.

My dear friend Sarah O is quite the whiz with the camera. Honestly, I've been puttering around with my camera phone and it just doesn't cut it. It takes decent pictures, but I don't get to do all that artsy stuff the "real" photogs do, with exposures and shutter speeds. I'm trembling at the very thought!

Anyways, until I can find a sugar daddy to buy me a digital SLR, check out Sarah's unbelievably amusing cat vs. squirrel photos. This might have been a bloodbath if there hadn't been that glass between them. But luckily it was, and hilarity ensued.

I think there's good money to be made in constructing a large box with glass in the middle, buying a bunch of animals, trying different pairs, and YouTubing the results. Anybody want to offer me some venture capital? First up: poodle vs. a dozen iguanas.

Every so often at work I have to pretend it's 1989 and saunter up to the fax machine. As I approached the discoloured piece of arcane technology yesterday I leafed through the small stack of junk faxes, as I often do.

Honestly, why are people bothering to send this 20th century version of spam? Do people trust some random ad they get through their fax machine. I mean, at least with email you can reach millions of people pretty quickly. With a fax you can send, at most, one per minute per phone line. Wow.

Anyways, as I was idly perusing the junk yesterday, I spotted something a little more entertaining than the usual vacation packages and Nigerian scams. Take a look at this (click to open full-size):


I don't even know where to begin poking holes in this thing. But let's give it a shot.

They increase their odds of winning by playing "intelligent numbers"...umm, what? As in some numbers are more likely than others? That's fundamentally not how the lottery works. They're all equally likely, stupid. The only way to beat the lottery is to rig it, or get unbelievably lucky. It's not a charity, folks.

It's said that the lottery is for people who suck it math. I say this is for people who suck at life.

They're pretty smart about the way they present it though.

WE HAVE ONLY 20 POSITIONS LEFT !!!!
YES! OVER 80% ARE FILLED
DON'T LOSE OUT FOR EVER

See the whole limited-time offer thing is smart. Creating a sense of urgency makes people act before they think.

Now the problem is thus: It costs $10,000! I would really like to meet the person who has $10,000 yet is stupid enough to fall for this half-assed scam. If you have ten grand in the bank and you can't see through this, you don't deserve that $10,000.

In fact, I'm not even going to condemn the scammers, because the holes in this are so obvious that anyone who falls for it must be blinded by greed or incredibly stupid. I bet if they made it $1,000 to enter they'd get a lot more takers.

Regardless, it's nice to see some home-grown Toronto scams for once. At least the money's staying right here, am I right? That's gotta be good for the local economy!

One final word to anybody thinking about contributing to this "plan." If you're going to flush $10,000 down the toilet, at least do it in style. Rent some hookers, order some blow, and take it all on a flight to Luxembourg. Go on a bender to end all benders. Then you can look at your empty bank account and say "I may have wasted a ton of money, but at least I can't remember a fucking thing!"

That's right, now it's time for you to do something for me. You didn't think all this compelling prose and smarmy social commentary came without a price, did you buddy? Wrong! Now get your ass in gear!

I think things over here at The Free Thinker are going well. I should probably try to curb the gratuitous use of italics, and the words "gem" and "whack," but beyond that it's all gravy.

Except for this template. Sure, it was alright when I was just starting out. Really, at first I just wanted to focus on content. Now that I've got that down the presentation needs some work. Using one of the templates that comes with Blogger just screams "amateur," don't you think?

Can anybody suggest a nice template for me? Something a little flashy would be nice, although I'd consider something more simple if it was eye-catching. Double points if it comes in a three-column version. Also remember that a lot of the templates out there were made for the Old Blogger™, and won't very well with the fancy New Blogger.

As an example of my taste here's one I really like. Unfortunately it's for Old Blogger. Even a link to a decent template site would be appreciated. Googling mostly found older stuff or small sites with 2-5 templates at most.

While I'm soliciting feedback, is there anything else about the blog that could use a change? Sick of me throwing random Flickr images next to each post? Should I change my picture to one with my freaking shirt on? Let me know!

Completely superfluous image courtesy of lu6fpj.

From the Puritanism-is-alive-and-well file, we have news that librarians are freaking out over this year's Newbery medal winner. Why? Because it has the word "scrotum."

I'll wait a few seconds so you can recover from this ghastly noun........

Ready? Okay. Anyways, isn't it about time we got over this societal obsession with teaching children "cute" names for their naughty bits, rather than the actual word? Is it honestly going to damage a child to call it a penis, rather than a ding-dong, peter, or whatever?

But of course this is just the beginning of the repression that continues when we're taught that sex is a very serious matter that leads to strong emotional connections, and that promiscuity is something we should be ashamed of. Now it's not quite as bad as "abstinence only" programs south of the border, but there's still a lot of cultural taboo against casual sex, even though a lot of us (and the vast majority of we fags) practice it at some point in our lives.

This is a sitatuion that makes the Toronto gay community particularly annoying, because all the sluts try to pretend they're chaste. You ain't fooling anyone paco.

So I guess what I'm saying is, start teaching kids to call it a penis, scrotum, clit, vagina etc. and future Toronto homosexuals will be able to sleep around with ever-so-slightly-less hassle. If global warming doesn't kill everyone off by then.

Image courtesy of Storeyland.

So after three months of dragging my ass into Etobicoke every day I'm finally getting some benefits at work. I dropped off my form at the one-woman HR department today and she noticed I didn't fill out the beneficiary for my life insurance. So I grabbed the form and wrote down a name.

My ex's name.

I realized a while ago that's it's weird to best friends with somebody you dated for 36 months, lived with for 22 months, and had cats with for over a year. I asked around a bit, and apparently putting your ex on your life insurance is pretty whack.

Now let's not blow this too far out of proportion. I'm 24 and, despite this stupid nasal infection and my heavy partying, I'm in good health. Plus it's just my work insurance which won't pay out much cash anyways.

Regardless, it does send a strong message. But hey, when I think of who knows me well, who I trust, and who could arrange for a gorgeous funeral he's at the top of all three.

The funny thing is, he's still my first and only ex. Maybe not being jaded from other relationships helped me leave on good terms. Maybe leaving before things got bitter was a good idea.

Or maybe, unlike most relationships, we were both good people, and neither of us were assholes or whack jobs.

Anyways, I've given him the relevant instructions: If I bump off tomorrow, throw my body in Lake Ontario and spend the money on a kick-ass party. I'll see you there!

Image courtesy of germanyengland.

Since I hopefully won't be going out for a few weeks, I figured I'd share some interesting, and sketchy, photos I captured this weekend. There'd be more, but you get yelled at for taking pictures at The Zone.


I went shirt shopping a few short hours before Sonic and discovered this gem. The plan was to wear it and hope somebody noticed. Instead, in true loser fashion I went around ordering people to read my shirt. It was still fun.



A nice photo of the upstairs bathroom at The Zone. Notice the countless number of discarded baggies and vials. Trust me, they're all empty. I looked.

And last but not least:


Comfort Zone mittens! Wow man, that is freaking HARDCORE. At least it's less conspicuous than the let's-advertise-that-I'm-a-sketchbag Comfort Zone shirt.

I look forward to bringing out more sketchy pictures in seventeen days or more *checks watch then looks around nervously*

This just in: people love talking about sex. I'd say I spend around forty-five times more time talking about sex than I spend having sex. Yes, I'm including oral.

So in the spirit of keeping it up (teehee), take a look at these 21 things you didn't know about sex.

Now, to copy the list, add a little flair, and call it a day.

According to the Kinsey Institute, the biggest erect penis on record measures 13 inches. The smallest tops off at 1 3/4 inches.

I am terrified to report that I've fooled around with someone close to that lower bound. If you can call that fooling around. Really, I felt like a pedophile and he was my age. Should I call Guinness?

The most common fantasy is oral sex.

This is a pretty sad state of affairs, isn't it? Is it really that hard to get one of these in 2007?

8% of us have regular anal sex.

I'm guessing 7.9% of those surveyed were gay men. The other 0.1% were women saving the good stuff for marriage.

60% of men and 54% of women have had a 1-night stand.

40% of men were lying.

Women buy 4 out of every 10 condoms sold.

Because their partner insists on buying the extra-large magnum condoms to impress the cashier.

In 1609, a doctor named Wecker found a corpse in Bologna with two penises. Since then, there have been eighty documented cases of men similarly endowed.

I spent four seconds thinking about whether I'd want this, then vomited all over myself.

Men say the average erect penis is 10″. Women say it’s 4″.

Maybe if you took care of yourself it'd get up to full size, sweetheart.

A female orgasm is a powerful painkiller (because of the release of endorphins), so headaches are in fact a bad excuse not to have sex.

On the other hand, back hair remains a powerful deterrent.

56% of men have had sex at work.

Quite frankly I don't see the appeal. Unless you're a stripper or something.

Among the Mangaians of Polynesia, 18-year-old couples make love an average of three times a night, every night, until their thirties, when the weekly average drops to a mere 14.

Sounds like somebody's been putting Viagra in the water supply.

1 in 3 of us have had an extramarital affair.

Never getting married. Seriously.

62% think there is nothing wrong with affairs.

Including me. I'm my father's son.

The maximum speed at which erotic sensations travel from skin to brain has been clocked at 156 miles per hour.

I want to read the grant application for this gem.

A honeymooning couple are suing Holiday Inn for ten thousand dollars, claiming their sex life is now dysfunction because an employee mistakenly walked in on them on their wedding night.

...And caught them dressed as furries. Seriously though, if your sex life was that fragile something was bound to fuck it up sooner or later.

At least 500 Americans die each year from asphyxia in an attempt to lessen oxygen flow to the brain in order to induce a more powerful orgasm.

Suddenly the fact that I have 90% of my sex high seems less perverse.

England’s King Edward VII, a man of considerable heft, had a special table built so that he could comfortably engage in sexual intercourse.

With the way the obesity epidemic is going these are going to be en vogue very soon.

29% of us are virgins when we marry.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA...yeah. Did they conduct this survey in Utah or something?

The average sexual experience lasts about 39 minutes.

"We wanted to go longer, but some asshole kept banging on the stall door!"

58% like dirty talk during sex.

Yup, count me in.

22% rent porno flicks at least once.

People still pay for porn!?

Given today’s average frequency of sexual intercourse, it would take the typical American couple more than four years to try every one of the 529 positions described in the Kama Sutra.

Honestly I still don't have a thorough understanding of how vaginal penetration works...And I hope I never do.

I always go out one too many times.

I need to smarten up and know when to say enough is enough. In the last three weekends I've been out around 48 hours. Forty-eight. I think I'm going to have to limit myself to two consecutive weekends maximum, and stick to every other weekend whenever possible. I've lost enough weight, I've depleted enough serotonin, and I've spent enough money.

Unfortunately it seems I can never have enough fun.

When you go out all the time, it's too easy to let everything else in your life slide. Back when I worked at the evil bank, I pretty much lived for the weekend. The only way I could get through my horrible day was to think about popping pills and dancing on the weekend.

I'm not nearly that bad now, but in the loop it's a lot easier to forget about the fact that most of my stuff is still in Ottawa, that I need a new bed, and that my financial situation is moderately dire. No matter how bad things get, I can have a blast every weekend and forget about it all.

There are some many lost souls at Comfort Zone. It's sort of like The 6th Sense: they don't know they're lost. Except they're in their late 30s, in go-nowhere retail jobs, and living in some shitty apartment with second-hand furniture. But damn do they know how to have fun.

I think it's time to try sleeping every night for the next couple of weeks. I have to learn to have fun doing other things again. I'm not going to stop partying anytime soon, but there needs to be a balance between partying and real life.

If only real life didn't suck so much.

I suck at hair. If hair was a game, I'd be in last place. If hair was a performance, I'd be boo'd off the stage. And if hair was sex, I'd accidentally fuck your ear.

I'm that bad.

To people who've known me in real life, this isn't news at all. Things have improved from my younger days, when I'd just let it grow until it got in my eyes, then head over to the Aunt's house for a fresh bowl cut. But it's still pretty bad.

I just don't know what to do with it. Do I spike it? Give it that messy look? How the hell do I get it to do those things anyways? My hair never seems to do what I want it to. If I want it up, it goes down. If I want it down, it goes up. It reminds me of when I couldn't control my erections in high school.

The funny thing is, I can clearly spot a guy who has nice hair, but when I'm trying to style it myself all my objectivity goes out the window and I can't tell the difference between Flock of Seagulls hair and something worthy of Tobey McGuire.

As a result I just leave the "fuzzball" most of the time. Unless a friend who can style hair is around. Then I make them do it. Of course this isn't a sustainable way to manage one's hair.

So what the hell should I do? Is there a class I can take? Does somebody want to mentor me?

In the meantime I took my usual cop-out. I took my hair, which I've been dutifully growing since Hallowe'en, and had the nice lady buzz it down to the height of an M&M. I've got that Ewan McGregor in Trainspotting look. Except it's not the eighties.

Anyways, I've won the battle for now. But the war isn't over until I'm bald or I can coif as well as the stereotypes say I should.

Image courtesy of Drawings Of Light - Paul.

As if you needed another reason to avoid Georgia, the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals has upheld a Georgia law banning the sale of sex toys.

Seriously, what year is it in Georgia?

I mean even if you think it's gross. Even if you think it's reprehensible. Even if you think it's unbelievably wrong it's still a freaking waste of time to pass, enforce and uphold laws like this. Honestly, of all the societal problems we're battling right now, I'd have to say sexual depravity is pretty low on the list. Now I can't claim to understand the unique challenges facing this backwater bigothole. But I can tell you that getting between women and their vibrators ain't gonna solve 'em.

So now you're going to pay Georgia. I will not visit your state. I will not watch sports featuring your teams. I will not speak kindly about your southern hospitality. And worst of all, I will not travel via your beloved airport hub. Of course I've never done any of those things anyways, but thanks for keeping me on course.

First man to mail the governor a butt plug gets a hand job from me.

I can dance for hours at a club, sober even, and not give a crap what anyone thinks. So why is it that when my roommate catches me dancing in the living room I'm embarrassed as all hell? It's my living room. It's my music. And my dancing isn't as...erm...broken robot-esque as it once was.

Besides everyone dances at home, right? Right? *chirping crickets*

Image courtesy of genewolf.