The Free Thinker

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

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!

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.

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*

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.

Damn, I was doing so well. This weekend seemed like a slam dunk. Since I've been sick all week I thought it'd be easy to avoid going out. And it was. All week it was the last thing on my mind. And then something terrible happened.

I got better.

If I'd been sick just one more day I would've been home free. Where the hell is all that antibiotic-resistant bacteria when I need it?

Anyways, I went out to a bar Saturday night with a friend and had a decent time sober. Got home at 2 AM and went to bed. I set the alarm for 6 AM, got up, showered and headed you know where. It was funny, actually. I felt like such a fine, upstanding citizen walking down the street at 7:30 AM on a Sunday.

So I got there at 8 AM and started having a pretty good time. I figured I'd leave around four or so. Then it was five and I still didn't feel like leaving...Then one "sketch hour" later it was 9:30. And before I knew it was 2 AM. I was at the club for eighteen friggin' hours, smashing the sixteen hour record set the weekend before. I swear there's a rip in the space-time continuum in that dank basement of joy.

I had a blast, and I don't really regret it, but let's not make a habit of it, okay self? Regardless, a few lessons learned:

• If you buy drugs in bulk to last you a few outings, you'll go out at every opportunity because in your mind you only have to pay for cover.
• That mega-sketchy girl you remember from the first time you went to the Zone doesn't want to talk to you.
• Don't lend your driver's license to somebody to crush up something, then forget about it and wander off.
• Do take a picture of yourself with the sketchy bathroom attendant and show it to everyone.
• People who would normally ignore you or be absolute pricks will turn sweet as sugar if you offer them gum.
• Deko-ze is too busy when he's spinning to notice you blowing him kisses.
• The club is way more fun in the late afternoon when there's actually room to dance.
• Going out from 8 AM to 2 AM when you work at 9 is a bad idea, but you can pull it off if you really want to.
• Of the people you'll meet in a night, at least half of the conversations will start in the bathroom.

That's all I can think of at the moment, but at least I didn't get gum in my armpit this time. Oh, and I can almost see my abs now. I've got washboard-mostly-immersed-in-water-but-still-barely-visible abs!

It'd probably be a good idea to take next weekend off, but unfortunately I've already bought my ticket for Rauhoffer, so that won't be happening. Looks like I'm going to have to go home the weekend after just to break the cycle.

So I'm at the club Sunday afternoon and I go to take off my shirt. I turn and there's a string of gum going from my armpit to the shirt. That's right, I got gum in my armpit. This raises two key questions:

1. How the hell do you get gum in your armpit?
2. Whose gum was it?

That's right, I didn't even get the consolation of knowing whose gum was stuck in my armpit hair.

I swear this crap only happens to me. Not only that, in my altered state I felt like going around and telling everyone. I was almost so excited to have the funny story that I was glad it happened. But in retrospect it was even more embarassing than the time I ran around Stereo with Kit Kat on my face for 90 minutes...and nobody told me.

They say when you club a lot the weekends start to blur together. Luckily for me there's always a minor disaster to make each one special.

So it appears I may be out of the loop. I managed to get through the weekend without going out. Going to a bar, drinking, and dancing for an hour doesn't count as going out anymore, right?

It's kind of a nice feeling. I feel like I'm in control. Or more in control. Or something. And I can like make rent and stuff.

Of course, I only got through this weekend by constantly reminding myself I was going out next weekend. But at least it worked. Can I have my cookie now?

Well the workday is just about done and I'll soon be catching the bus to Ottawa for the weekend. Did you know it was once the coldest capital city on earth, but is now a close second?

In case you were wondering, I won't be behaving during the trip, although I haven't really misbehaved since New Year's. Anyways not sure if I'll be blogging much whilst I'm there, but when I get back on Monday I'll be sure to post again so we can see if the sketchiness drains me of my trademark eloquence.

As many of you know, the last eight months have been fairly tumultuous. I've been partying a lot. I run on a weekly cycle:

• Monday, regret. "I feel like crap. I'm definitely taking next weekend off."


• Wednesday, recovery. "I feel so much better. I don't want to go out this weekend and mess that up."


• Friday, the itch. "I really want to dance. Besides *blank* is spinning this weekend, I can't miss that!" Which is why Toronto is great: almost every weekend there's some big DJ you can hitch your habit to.

And so the cylce continues

Since July I've skipped maybe six weekends. Pretty good, eh?

Which makes me wonder: where do you draw the line? How much is too much? Surely many of you would say that popping a couple of pills and dancing for eight hours every weekend is excessive. But by many Toronto standards it's not. It seems like every twenty-something I've talked to had some period of years where they were messed up four days per week. There's really a culture of mutual enabling here: keep everyone else in the cycle and you don't feel so bad about yourself. And what's the best way to do that? To remind them that no matter how bad they are, there's someone worse.

The problem is that there will always be someone worse.

Knowing when you have a problem is a hell of a lot harder than TV and the media make it out to be. The line between having a lot of fun and self-harm is fuzzy. Most people out there partying aren't messing everything up. Most of them are holding down jobs, are on good terms with their families and are not the messy pile of wasted flesh represents the stereotypical addict. It'd actually be a lot easier if that were the case. Because addiction is a slow decline to that state. Slow enough that it's hard to notice. Like global warming for the soul.

If you haven't noticed yet, I really don't know what the answer is. I don't know where the line is, or where I sit on it. Sure I didn't go out this weekend, but I did way too much K at a little party last night. I don't even like K. Why did I do it? Because it was free.

That's not a good sign is it?