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

Soma time

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.

La frauda

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 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!

New York, baby!

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

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.