event horizon

Closed for renovations

2004-12-09T10:49:00.000-05:00

G'day all, What started out, I thought, as a neat idea sort of sputtered out in short order. This was largely my own fault. I don't think free-form access and publication works for an endeavor like this. Someone needs to be driving it, I think. Which I didn't do, in part due to lack of time, and in part because I imagined that this place might take on a life of it's own. There was certainly no lack of talented writers contributing. So I've decided to lock the doors for a little bit while I re-enginneer the idea. I plan on re-opening the creative doors to this place in the new year. In the mean time, many thanks to the people that contributed. Several of them, including myself, have their own personal blogs still running. Go see them. There's a lot of talent worth reading there: Aaron Dantallion Dave Jojo Myke Nicky Happy holidays and peace to you all. Dantallion

Submarine Creamed Corn

2004-12-01T14:47:00.000-05:00

Since we’re all coming clean, I have something to admit. I am, in fact, a single, relatively cute, thirty-something Jewish guy who lives in a beautiful downtown Toronto apartment with his cat Noudnic who talks very loud and throws his hands around when he gets animated; who constantly pisses off his friends for giving his opinion before it’s asked for, who works on contract (and who, incidentally, just found out that a major translation contract that would have paid rent for a couple of months has been cancelled, leaving him penniless now that rent has been paid until further notice); who aspires to making a living with the words he throws together; who has a major crush on Israeli singer Harel Skaat (even though he doesn’t like the music much); and who still hasn’t forgiven his friend Lightning Man who met said singer this summer and didn’t get his autograph; who will use every razor-sharp word he can find to put you several places below your place if provoked; but who will shower you with love and affection (and gifts finances permitting) if he finally decides he can trust you. So that’s about all you need to know. The rest you can infer. If you infer wrong, that’s too bad. If you infer right, that’s good too. Trust that others who they say they are is a question in this little circle these days. I state that, that although I admit I now have a slightly bitter taste in my mouth – it’s not just the fifteen cups of coffee – I don’t really care anymore. I have been magnificently entertained of late. Although I do feel bad for everyone, and I mean everyone, who feels let down and betrayed by anything they read in a blog, it’s just a blog. It’s a medium for self-expression however the writer sees fit to express. You can do what you want in a blog. It’s wonderful and freeing to write and write and not have to care about the consequences of your words. They are just words. It’s that weird cross between private and personal that drives us to take these fun little toys too seriously. I am very guilty of this. I killed my old blog when it began to take on a life of its own and locked me in the closet and wouldn’t let me out … and would only feed me Brussels sprouts! Aaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! So I snuck out one night when it was yelling at some other blog over differing opinions on the controversial debate over Canadian tariffs on American baby carrots (I am not making this up) and hit it over the head again and again with a tin of creamed corn. And then I was free. See? I can write stuff like that. Who believes me? Who thinks it’s important? I mean, does anyone honestly believe that I would have a tin of creamed corn anywhere near my apartment? It’s when you read that that you grew skeptical of the truth of my words, eh. Admit it. When I started blogging I never dreamed that I would start something visited, at its height, an average of 500 times a day. I never set out to make friends, but I am very glad for a handful of people I have met and would like to stay in contact with (including, the blogger I was a bit too blunt with about trust issues (or the lack thereof) a few short minutes ago – please write back to me, honey! I don’t bite). I am grateful for the friends I know on the physical plane whose names some if you saw drifting through the paragraphs the old blog. They keep me real when the words fill my head. I would be an empty, bombastic windbag without them. Actually, I would be nothing without them. All this makes me human. What sort of a human I want you so see is what I decide. That’s my right. Take it or leave it, but at least laugh, think, dream, fume, rant, and giggle with me. That’s all I ask. And on a tangential note, I am starting something new. The template is almost done and I’ll begin writing again soonish. It looks best in IE5 and up since some of the CSS features I employ don’t work in older IE, Netscape or Mozilla (although I’m assured it looks good in them too). I haven’t settled on a title, although I may just take the URL, which means ‘King of Atlantis’, and use that. Let me know what you think. This is what it’ll look like. Anyone who really believes I’m the King of Atlantis will have to eat an entire can of creamed corn mixed with Brussels sprouts.

An open message

2004-11-23T13:16:00.000-05:00

Taken from Dantallion's Canon. To those of you who may be different from me (which, if the current world population is 6,396,000,000 means the other 6,395,999,999 of you): I'm happy you're here. I'm happy that you have different opinions, likes, dislikes, values, cultures, and beliefs than me. I'm glad our hair and eye colour are not precisely the same. I'm glad you bring your own unique perspective to the table, and I respect the fact that you make different choices than I in life. After all, we all have choices to make. That's what life is. I may not always agree with you. And I may even think your opinion is ridiculous or poorly founded. But rest assured, I will always respect your right to have your opinion, your own lifestyle and beliefs, and make your own choices. However, for those of you who choose to hate certain members the other 6,395,999,999 inhabitants of the world (who are ALL different than you) for not embracing your opinions, lifestyle, religion, politics or belief system. For those of you who arbitrarily and violently enforce what you believe on others who bare you no personal ill-will. For those of you who think it's necessary to destroy the lives of other people because their thoughts and choices don't correspond with your own. For those of you who cannot understand that you can dislike another person and yet still have a healthy respect for their right to exist (as you do), please listen carefully: Leave. You don't belong here. You're not welcome. You may or may not get away with the stupid, narrow-minded and atrocious acts of hate or violence that you direct at others in the short term. But mark my words, ultimately, one way or another, you'll pay. And if it is so completely far beyond your mental capacity to understand the notion of respect for the other inhabitants of the planet (who have as much right to be here as you), then at the very least: Live and let live. And nobody should have to be telling you this, you stupid ass.

And That Which Kills Us Makes Us Dead

2004-11-22T01:46:00.000-05:00

For my years, I’ve seen a lot of death. I was out before AIDS and watched many people die – some good friends, one an uncle. I guess suicide would be second on the list and cancer third.

Many people remark on how strong I am. I’m not really - I’ve just survived my own demons and some health stuff. When I heard last week that my friend Frank overdosed intentionally, I was sad, angry and had a lot of questions.

A decade ago I wanted out desperately. My method of escape was enough pills that should have killed 3 of me. The doctors were amazed that not only I survived, but that I woke 24 hours later with little physical damage. Emotionally and spiritually, well that’s another story. How I survived is anyone’s guess.

A lot of work and therapy ensued. Despite the inward focus and attempts at understanding for several years, one thing I can’t know is why I’m still around while others are not. Some say I’m here for a reason – others that the body is stronger than we imagine. I’ve read about and heard a huge range of theories as to why some people succeed with suicide attempts and others fail. The worst is when someone who has never faced such a situation feels the need to tell me their feelings. I can’t help but resent their ignorance. When it comes to that dark chapter in my life, I am not very understanding of another’s need to explain away the situation even if I know their reason for trying is to make comfortable a topic that is not.

There is nothing comfortable about suicide. I can’t begin to imagine what a bullet through the skull feels like – my father does, well did, but he didn’t survive to clue me in on the subject. He had been suffering addiction and insanity for many years and I suspect the pain was unbearable, but I’ll never be certain.

This is the thing, when one wants to die he or she doesn’t really talk on the subject much. Everyone I know that has wanted to or attempted never clued anyone in to the feelings. There are those that play out the cry for help which is a different matter although some die anyway, the serious, “I’m outta here” ones are pretty silent about this.

Although I’ll never have the definitive answer as to why I’m walking around on the planet still, I tell myself this – I can at least use my experience to perhaps benefit others.

Sometimes I can’t though – as was the situation with my friend who has just died. A few weeks prior, he and I were in my bed having sex for hours, laughing, and being intimate. I hadn’t a clue of his inside struggle. He didn’t want me to or anyone else it seems. This is what makes his suicide so terribly difficult for me. Had I even a suspicion I would have at least attempted to hold onto him tight and keep him here with the living. Dead inside is easier to revive than a stopped heart or inactive brain.

Speaking of dead inside, I’ve been a bit myself. When those I love leave, a part of me goes with them, just as a part of them remains here with me. It does go both ways. This is where the grief comes. Lately my study of grief has increased, a week before my friend, my grandfather died. This summer was a year since my father.

My grandfather, unlike the other two, was simply ready to go after a full life. He died under the best of circumstances and seemingly peacefully. There is comfort in this.

Like Frank and my dad’s story though, this one I write comes to an end – no nice wrap-up – and no comfort.

JT

2004-11-17T22:30:00.000-05:00

The following is a reprint of a post I made some time ago at Dantallion's Canon. I reproduce it here in honour of a dear friend. I met JT in the spring of 2001. I was wandering around my new neighborhood on a mild spring evening, and ended up in the park right in front of my home. He wandered in as well, we struck up a conversation, and spent the next 4 hours or so chatting and laughing. I learned a lot about him in that first meeting. He and his partner of 10 years lived just about a block away. At 30 years old, he was wildly successful professional with his own business, well respected, a large circle of friends, and (as I later experienced first hand), a very tight-knit family. It was a truly pleasant experience getting to know this good looking, sharp-minded, always laughing (bordering on mischievous), and well traveled, energetic guy. We became fast friends. It wasn't long before we were calling each other every day, going for walks, movies dinner, going out with his partner and friends. With time, he began to talk to me about other things. I soon realized that he had been battling some pretty extraordinary and deeply personal demons. He maintained a pretty positive attitude about it, but he clearly wanted to talk. Apparently, he had never spoken to anyone about these things until I wandered along. Not even his partner. We spent hours talking about all of it. He was incredibly frank and matter-of-fact, and with time, I suggested that he seek counseling just so that he could talk to someone unbiased, who might give him some perspective on it. He eventually agreed, and we made the arrangements. Our friendship continued to evolve throughout that period and after, and he flourished even more as he got a clearer perspective on things. I was overwhelmed by how thankful he was to me for the talks we had had. In August of 2003, I had started experiencing a bit of a (professional) rough patch of my own, and spent the better part of the next three months working things out. In that time, I withdrew a fair amount, rarely going out, and effectively distancing myself from friends and family, whom I didn’t communicate with nearly as much as usual, JT included. I tend to be a bit of a hermit when life gets silly, until I can sort things through. By November I was starting to come back out into the mainstream. JT took his own life in November 2003. His partner came home and found him. Friends, family, and even work colleagues swear up and down that they never saw it coming, that there had been absolutely no signs. JT had left a note, instructing us all not to look for reasons why he’d done it, that he wanted those reasons to die with him. He also made it clear that there was to be no funeral under any circumstances. He simply wanted to vanish quietly. Family and friends finally decided to compromise, and we had a gathering at a hotel, where we could all reminisce, look at photos, etc. While I was there chatting with people, it became very clear to me that even those in his closest entourage had no idea about the problems he had experienced. They were all searching for a reason. It seemed impossible to everyone that someone like him could do this. I was really torn, and feeling terribly guilty about having not really been around the past 3 months. I could have talked to his partner or family about what I knew, maybe helping them to get some insight into ‘why’. I ultimately chose to say nothing, out of respect for his wishes, our friendship and the trust he’d given me. To this day, I honestly don’t know if it was the right thing to do. November 17 2004 And now, at the anniversary of his loss, I'm still not sure that ultimately it was the right choice, knowing what I know about how his partner and family have fared. But I do find some solice in the knowledge that I respected a dear friend's wishes. That loss, coupled with my experiences in the past little while, have reinforced in me certain basic truths. Like the importance of reaching out to people, not being afraid to let them know that you care about them. Making people realise that they're not alone. That they don't have to carry the load themselves. That no matter what happens, there will always be someone there to help pick up the pieces. Not because it sounds good, but because you genuinely care about people. And because losing just one person because they couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel is one of life's biggest tragedies. WYSIWYG never had a better application. I miss you.

Can you imagine?

2004-11-10T13:01:00.000-05:00

(Copied from my site) I know. I'm not supposed to be here. But this is really important. I need a favor. I need you to imagine something for me. I mean really stop and imagine this clearly in your mind. Don't just read ahead to see what silly point I'm trying to make. If you're in a hurry, don't read this now. Read it when you have a few precious moments. I want you to think about a person that you really love. REALLY think about them, and how they make you feel when they're around. Say their name to yourself. Right now. This second. Appreciate what they bring you in your life. Let the warmth of that feeling wash over you. Now imagine someone swooping in and taking that person away from you. Right now. Think about how you'd feel RIGHT NOW if suddenly that person you love was no longer there. And you're not sure if you'll ever see them again. ******* Now I want you to imagine your home. Doesn't matter if it's a shithole apartment in the city, a duplex in the 'burbs, or an Estate in the country. Imagine the space where you live. Climbing into your bed. Perhaps even cuddling up to the person that you were thinking of above. Imagine playing with your children, or cooking a meal with your lover. Enjoying a glass of wine or hot cocoa on a cold winter night. Celebrating a holiday. Or just doing your own thing. Going about the business of life. FEEL how safe a place it is for you. How familiar it is. Now imagine somebody walking into where you are right now, and taking all that away from you. You're sitting in front of your computer right now, reading this, and someone walks in and tells you that you no longer have access to your home. It's gone for now. And perhaps you'll never see it again. ******* Now imagine what it would feel like having to kill someone. Someone you've never met. You know nothing about them. You live in constant fear for your life, and the lives of the people around you. Don't imagine the de-sensitized Hollywood version of this. I want you really experience how you think you might feel if you stood up right now and shot the person beside you in the head. Imagine being cold for weeks on end, crawling through mud. No sleep. No comfort. Your loved ones, your home, your life a distant memory. And imagine a pretty good chance you'll never get any of it back ever again. ******* Tomorrow, November 11th, is Remembrance Day here in Canada. It's the day we're supposed to remember the men and women who gave up everything they held dear to serve their country, in wars past and present. They gave their families, their careers, their lives. Some of them chose to. Others were forced to. But that act of Remembering, and even THANKING those people for what they gave up gets shrugged off more and more by the general population as the years go by and the reality fades. Chances are, if you're reading this, you've never known what it was like to live through Conscription (the Draft, for my friends south of the border). You've never had to face the decision to lay down your life for your country to defend ideals. We simply don't understand it. We can't really feel it. We've never experienced that kind of hardship. It had become something that we can only imagine as some kind of distant, Hollywood-inspired drama that we shrug off when the pop-corn runs out and we're wandering back to our SUV and heading over to the cafe for a double-latte. But those people that gave up their lives and loved-ones are the reason that kind of hardship isn't part of our experience. So, The next time you have the chance to express an opinion, The next time you get to go and vote, The next time you take your spouse and children on vacation, The next time you sit and look up at the sky with someone you love, The next time you get to climb into a warm bed, The next time you have to get up at some stupid hour to go to a job you say you hate, Remember how fortunate we really are, and that we owe people a serious debt of gratitude for what they gave up. Regardless of what country you're in. Don't forget to REALLY remember. Lest we forget.

Victims and Volunteers

2004-11-08T08:40:00.000-05:00

Larry Kramer is mad at everyone including himself for the lack of progress with the gay community. He spoke at Cooper Union last night, a speech entitled, “The Tragedy of Today’s Gays”. Unfortunately I spent last night on the couch with a fever instead of listening to this well known author who has an institute named after him at Yale. From where I sit, I see a lot of problems in my community and I’m pissed off as well. I can go on Manhunt.net at 7:42 am on a Monday morning, right now in other words, and within an hour I can be smoking crystal and fucking at least one boy without a condom. The weekend hasn’t quite ended for many of my neighbors. The thing is I’m not criticizing those who at this moment are engaging in this behavior – I’m just pointing out the culture. What I’m pissed off about is that as gay men we have always found the time, money and other resources to get off and have fun, but we lack the resources to be treated with or even treat each other and ourselves with respect. The terms we use to describe ourselves to each other include PNP, BB, and Straight-Acting. We can get laid as easy as we can order take-out – but for the single guy looking for a relationship, his work is cut out for him. Gay Pride has been limited to the amount of hours we spend in the gym and how much money we make. I’ve written about this before – the issue of the homogenized homosexual. Instead of joining together to fight adversity, we play host to prejudices within our own community. Our new heroes aren’t the Larry Kramers, they are the Fab Five. The Gay Agenda that the right is so afraid of is more like the club listing directory in the fag rags that are more gloss than substance – like many of us. Sebastian’s post reminded me of the issues I recently faced while dealing with brain tumors. I found it ironic that men who have to devoted themselves to all things manly became scared girls when I they saw that I was sick. Having been a source of support and devoted to my friends that were dying of AIDS back when if you were HIV positive you were going to die – I somehow expected the rallying of support for my health stuff from other gay men. How wrong I was. I could rally support from homosexuals when I was a bartender and go-go dancing in my underwear – the bar I worked at became really popular because I was the poster boy for fun. Show them real politics, health issues or anything not resembling the status quo and I find myself with the crickets. The exception to this would be a few gay male friends, either over the age of 50 or having been diagnosed with HIV over 15 years ago. When I went to the LGBT Expo last spring, I saw the commercialization of alternative lifestyles at its worst. We’ve focused on becoming a boutique in The Mall of America when we should have been building on the momentum of our rights as equal citizens. I guess we’ll need to be bashed around some more before we are willing to recall Matthew Shepard. Many of us were burnt out after the 80’s and wanted to revel a bit in the gains we have made since then. I was and did. For many years I walked the streets holding a guy’s hand and not once heard the word, “Faggot” shot at me like a bullet. Well boys the weekend is over. It’s time for us to get off the dance floor and back into the streets. Here are some indicators that eventually we cannot ignore. Syphilis, staff infections, mental illness, drug addiction and HIV infections are on the rise. Hate crimes are on the rise. Laws that won’t allow us to marry, once on the books won’t be coming off any time soon – most likely not in our lifetimes. We are not being represented in films and media as anything but caricatures and stereotypes of a lifestyle many of us do not live. The fundamentalist will take advantage of their momentum gain while we have failed in ours. Things will get worse before they get better. Maybe at the next Gay Pride March we attend, maybe we can remember the brave drag queens and freaks that sparked these events instead of concerning ourselves with our own vanity and criticism of each other. Maybe instead of buying into the endless pursuit of youth and beauty we can start talking to some of the growing numbers of gays and lesbians that are over 60 – those that came before – those that never had the opportunities we have and the ones we owe for our relative comfort. Maybe instead of studying the club listings we can start studying local politics. Maybe instead of compromises we can start making demands. Maybe we should start making some demands of each other.

A Big, Steamy Helping of Bullshit with a Side of Denial, Please

2004-11-05T14:15:00.000-05:00

After reading Dantallion’s post about one’s personal ozone, I got to thinking about bullshit – first other people’s and then my own. (Actually I first started thinking about the ozone layer and the inevitable hole created over the easy village thanks to my chemical dependency on Aqua Net throughout the 80’s – back then it was all about my alternative hairstyle.)

Years ago, my hippie stepmother’s herbalist, psychic friend gave me a physical/metaphysical reading although I’m not certain if this was because she simply was sharing her gift or because she had a penchant for teenage boys. Regardless of her motives I remember her telling me that I would grow-up to live my life in an ivory tower. As I write this from a 1^st floor barely 1 bedroom in the back of the building I see that she was speaking in extreme metaphor. In that case she is somewhat accurate.

I too have little regard for niceties and/or bullshit – I prefer the bottom line from bottom line type folk. I consider myself to be one. Yet, I also think there is something to be said about a certain level of bullshit. It seemed important to me to tell my 98 year old Aunt Irene she looked beautiful even if she was rather frumpy in her house dress. Once I tossed her the compliment, she became beautiful.

Some days when I am too tired to deal with much, I find it easier to tell people what they want to hear rather than what I might think, not out of my generous nature but out of laziness really. Sometimes trying to make a point can be rather tiring.

When I'm particularly raw, being lied to feels better than the truth. Tell me my work is great even if it’s mediocre, please – at least today. Tomorrow I’ll hate it myself and won’t believe you when you say it’s great even if that’s what your really think.

There’s a silly movie, not a good one, called Blast from the Past – a guy is raised in a fallout shelter from the 60’s only to discover the world he had never been a part of above him in the 90’s. There’s a scene in the film where his explanation of gentlemanly behavior is explained as something that is done to make others comfortable. Dumb movie, but that idea stuck with me.

I like being a gentleman. Even when I am dead tired, I’ll still give up my seat to a woman and sometimes a man on the subway or bus. Often I am met with, “Do I look that old?” – I always reply with something along the lines of thinking about my own age and standing would be better for me since I sit in front of a computer all day – even if she or he did happen to look “that old”. Someone complains to me about their weight and not feeling attractive, I always point out their perfect skin, or hair, or eyes – there’s always something that is truthful. It sounds better than, “You’re fat – big fucking deal” – because obviously to the person making the statement it is one. Having been emaciated all of my life – but with a great fucking six-pack – now that I have the extra pounds and more like a kegger going on around the waist line, I really hate hearing that the extra weight looks good on me – except on the days I’m already feeling good about how I look.

My bullshit, the stuff I believe at surface value but refuse to look at more deeply, manifests in various ways at different times. Sometimes when bravery is called for, faking it makes up for that which I lack. There are situations where being right is in fact what I want more than happiness.

Then there are the times when I’ve been in love. I knew he was going to leave me - I just never wanted him to give me a clue until he was actually leaving and vice-versa.

Whether gentleman or cad, bullshit is often related to comfort – usually mine but sometimes yours. Fortunately life is graced with many days in between actual crisis and on these days I’ve found that I can be knee high in the stinky stuff and be absolutely comfortable. Just like the saying, I have been as “happy as a pig in shit”.

Sine I am hyper-critical of me first then the rest of the world - bullshit is often a means for me to get along with me and you. This doesn’t work with my closest friends though – but I already get along with them regardless of the ivory tower I metaphorically reside in – I guess because theirs are often taller and have more closet space. I look up to/at them.

The bottom line in my warped sense of ways to get through the days, is simply that bullshit is the grease used to lubricate the gears of society. People that have to work together, live next to each other, walk by the same store windows which exaggerate how little money, beauty or love one has – we all need to perform a bit of bullshitting to get along and by.

I hope when I’ve become the frumpy old aunt you’ll tell me I’m beautiful so I can be.

The Importance of Being Earnest (or My Own Personal Ozone)

2004-11-04T15:05:00.000-05:00

One of the more interesting effects of the events of the past year where my personal life is concerned has to do with shifts in perception. People protect themselves from each other in the most fascinating ways. We each develop methods of communication that end up not being communication at all, but more a form of dance that we do to avoid any possibility of exposure to embarrassment, vulnerability, weakness. Personal ozone, if you like. God forbid that anyone should have the chance to step on our orgueil, for example (a French word that can loosely be translated to 'false pride', but I’ve never been able to find a real equivalent in English). I see it in business all the time. The image that we project to our clients, colleagues, suppliers, employees and superiors. The image that they project to us. It's a dog eat dog world out there, and apparently Norm isn't the only one wearing Milk-Bone underwear. I understand why we do this in business, the necessity of it. Hell, I'm pretty good at it myself. But it's also glaringly obvious (to me, anyway) that the most successful and productive business relationships I have are the few where I've managed to knock down those barriers. No games. No false images. Just straight-forward, honest, tell-it-like-it-is business. WYSIWYG for people. It's interesting that we go to so much trouble to develop WYSIWYG as an ergonomic necessity for the tools we work with, but rarely does it occur to us to apply the same logic to the interpersonal aspect of our lives. Enter the double-edged sword of my personal life. The past year was a hard one. I made some pretty serious mistakes. I almost lost my life on 2 occasions as a direct result. I ended up isolating myself, cutting myself off from the people around me completely. Hitting the RESET button, as it were. Recently I started to try and rebuild the social structure around me. Slowly. And it's a lot more arduous a process than I thought it would be. The problem is me and my shifting perceptions. Before all of this happened, I was very good at playing the game (although I would have never called it that at the time - it wouldn’t have occurred to me that there WAS a game). I knew what to say, who to say it to, when and how to say it. I was very adept at knowing what image individual people needed to have of me for them to feel comfortable with me, and vice versa. I'm not saying that everything was a pretence or false. On the contrary. But I believe that the vast majority of people cater to one another's perceptual needs to some degree or another as an means to make others feel comfortable and accepted, and to gain acceptance or feel comfortable ourselves. It's a simple and common component of human socialisation. But when I hit that infamous reset button, I stopped socializing. I had a lot of time to think. All of my free time was spent alone. I needed to re-evaluate priorities. Two of the biggest themes that emerged from that whole experience were a)the realisation of just how short life is, and b) the beauty of (as well as my need for) simplicity. Unbeknownst to me, my perception had changed, and I soon found out that the way I would start dealing with people in my personal life would also change. I stopped wasting time with projected images. I became much blunter. On one side I started being a lot more frank about telling people what I thought, not sugar coating things they didn't want to hear. On the other, I didn't start editing the verbalisation of my feelings towards people to conform to some society-imposed standard or image. I (inadvertently) started incorporating WYSIWYG into the relationships that have started emerging. What a mistake. While my perception has changed, I forgot to consider the other variable in the equation: Other people's perceptions haven't, necessarily. People still expect restraint and political correctness. They just can't hear blatant, uncensored honesty, good or bad, because it CAN'T be real. There has to be some ulterior motive. It must be some attempt at manipulation. Or they are being told things they either can't handle or don't want to hear. Our personal ozone is the protection we've developed against the cynicism that seems to have become fundamental in our dealings with others. I understand it. I even (grudgingly) accept it. And I'll certain be reverting to a more restrained, business style approach in the future, when it comes to relationships, I think, where my personal life is concerned. But I can't help but wonder: If people were to drop their personal ozone, would it really destroy them? Or would they simply adapt and spend a lot less time looking for ways to understand each other, because everything would be there, right in front of them. They might even spend more time actually enjoying the people around them for what they really are. After all, life really IS short, and simplicity really IS a beautiful thing.

Marriage Defined

2004-11-03T16:08:00.000-05:00

In Arkansas, Georgia, Kentucky, Michigan, Mississippi, Montana, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Ohio, Utah and Oregon marriage has now been defined as that between a man and a woman. Except for Georgia and Oregon, I’ve not considered really hanging out in any of these states. As far as the other two, I no longer have a desire to visit.

No longer will I be accepting any invitations to weddings, bachelor parties, showers and anniversary celebrations. My friends will understand this protest. Even same-sex unions which I normally would wish to celebrate can only seem to me as 2 kids playing dress-up and pretending. Domestic partnership sounds more like a business for cleaning houses than a union between two people in love and committed to a life together.

So what do I do now? Should I stand outside weddings with a sign and bullhorn in protest? Yeah that will go ever real well.

- “Bitch you ruined my wedding!”

Yeah, well it seems like mine will be ruined even before I can plan it.

I was proposed to once – in a restaurant in Los Angeles, a new trendy place on La Brea which happened to be run by a lesbian couple. It was our anniversary and Rick was acting strange. I figured he was nervous because he was trying to match me as a romantic – a hard task. On the table were more roses than I could count. A sample of practically everything on the menu was brought out to us – it seems the lesbians were getting into this by their generosity and many smiles thrown our way. I’m still grateful to them for their part in one of the most special occasions of my life.

At one point during our meal he handed me a card which ended with, “Will you marry me? Wait – look up.” I looked up. He was there on bended knee with a ring in a somewhat shaky hand.

“Yes.”

“Yes, Rick.”

“Yes Rick! Now sit down.”

He was so nervous and cute. I was also nervous but so very happy.

I was in my early twenties back then and resigned to the fact that legal marriage was never an option. This was something I never questioned. My Uncle Danny and “Aunt” Felipe had been in a committed union for many years – one of the few in my family that hadn’t ended in divorce. I grew up knowing that two men could be lovers and had expected I would someday find one of my own.

Rick eventually did get his facsimile of a marriage, just not with me. They are still together despite the lack of social and familial support.

I’ve been a confirmed bachelor for many years, so why should I bother getting all political about the equal rights and protections of same-sex unions? Because I am a romantic, an up-start, a protester and a citizen of a country which states I have the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

Recently these pursuits have become more difficult due to my own health situations and the political climate of the day. When faced with adversity I always come out fighting – hard. Even when I am overwhelmed and tired I find a way to recharge the batteries, my faith and spirit, pick myself up and go forward.

I can only be on a losing side when my team gives up. We haven’t yet – at least I haven’t yet. I may die a spinster, but this fight isn’t about my love life. I already can love, I have and will continue to – that cannot be taken away just like any part of my nature.

No, this fight is about human rights and equality – defining each with total inclusion not exception. If I can battle brain tumors, I can also battle ignorance with the same passion as that of a dying man.

History teaches me that change can occur with one individual. It may not be me, but it will be someone.

Election Eve

2004-11-01T19:46:00.000-05:00

Hey, folks. My first post here on the horizon. For those of you who don't know me, I'm Myke and I live in the deep south of the U.S. South Carolina to be exact. The heart of conservative Republican politics. It is so heavily conservative here that neither candidate for our national election tomorrow for President bothered to campaign here. It is simply expected that our Electoral College votes will easily go to Mr. Bush. Personally, I'm not registered with any political party and have always considered myself a centrist ideologically. I have liberal leanings on the environment, equal rights, and some social programs and am actually quite conservative fiscally and have been hawkish, frankly speaking, on my issues when it comes to military matters. For the most part, this combines to make me a moderate in the mold of someone such as Joe Biden on the Democratic side of the aisle or Rudy Giuliani on the Republican side. If someone of my mode of thought lived in a state such as Ohio, Michigan, or perhaps New Mexico, each side would have been prying for my vote, thus making me feel oh so special. It makes a guy wonder, why bother? Won't my vote being cast in this state be simply thrown to the wind? I could take that tact I suppose but I really do feel like it's my civic duty to cast my vote. Perhaps that's an old fashioned way to look at it but I also hold to the cliche' that voting gives me a right to criticize and challenge the government no matter who wins. Also, there are quite a few local and state elections that could more directly affect my life including the open Senate seat that is being vacated by retiring Democrat Ernest Hollings. Perhaps my vote will be able to help keep at least one of our Senate seats in Democratic hands. I don't know. I have enough optimism to want to vote and to believe that it actually matters. Regardless of what you think of any administration, past or present, in U.S. politics, one thing is always rather marvelous to watch ... the peaceful transfer of power every few years between wildly divergent ideologically based politicians. No military interventions. No coup de'tat. No riots in the streets of major metropolises. I've seen it in my lifetime from Carter to Reagan. Then from Bush I to Clinton and later from Clinton to Bush II. That, if nothing else, says something for a stable representative republic. Soo ... I'll continue to vote. Perhaps one day we'll see the antiquated Electoral College system (which was brilliant for it's day) disbanded in favor of direct popular vote. In this day of rapid, mass communication, it certainly would make sense.

Who Were You Underneath?

2004-11-01T13:33:00.000-05:00

Here's a question for everyone: What did you wear for Halloween? And why? Some friends and I did a group thing this year that we called the "Department of Homeland Insecurity". Pictures are posted on my blog. There were five of us. Three of us were in black suits, the other two in black SWAT gear. And we had spent some time putting up props throughout the venue for the party, mostly fake cameras and a bunch of signs about how we were "watching for our security". I should say a little bit about the event itself. Telluride's Halloween party is sponsored by the local radio station, KOTO, which is an entirely community-sponsored station (no advertising or underwriting). Usually, they have done this party in a place that holds 750-1000 people and EVERYONE who is in town during fall slow season shows up. This time, it was in the Sheridan Opera House, a 40x40 ft room with a balcony that holds a total of 250 people. So this particular version brought out the cream of a very crazy and creative community. As important to the costume as what we wore was what we did. Our job was to go around the party looking for "suspicious activities", which basically meant stopping everyone in the party and checking out their costume, playing out a scene with them and putting a sticker on their costume to indicate they had been "cataloged and filed in the database". The stickers said things like "suspicious", "known threat", "extremist", "unconventional", etc. By the time the night ended, there was hardly anyone that wasn't wearing one of the stickers. We also had one of those small format polaroid cameras that we used to take pictures. The pictures were posted on a board in the chill out room. The group ended up winning first prize in the costume contest, which somewhat surprised me, since I thought that the "Swing States" (a bunch of folks that showed up wearing carboard cut-outs of the too-close-to-call states in the election) deserved the group award and the amazing individuals are far too numerous to mention. But as one of the judges said to us as we went off stage, "You guys were the whole package: All the props, all the details, the whole act." So I'm basking in the glow of a bit of home-town fame and fortune, at least until the next party...

Putting the Id in Idiot

2004-11-01T13:27:00.000-05:00

Sebastian’s last post got me thinking. Being that I’ve not even had my coffee yet, that’s remarkable. All that talk of ropes and tents – he actually got me thinking about a few things.

Ah, the questions. Who am I? What defines me? Philosophy, sociology, even psychiatry – all areas of study I’ve taken up at one point or another although I’m not quite sure how enhanced my life has been as a result.

My teens were spent dreaming about who I wanted to be. The 20’s were being a lot of different things and figuring out what felt the most comfortable. Now as I near the end of my 30’s I simply am Aaron – I guess defined by my daily actions more than anything else.

There was a time when I was my job. I have been ________’s lover, not so much an individual as part of a couple. I’ve been a product of my parents, where I live, how I live, illness, wealth, poverty, popularity, the size of my cock, the size of my ego, the regularity in which I get laid, celibacy (which is it’s own punishment), number of acquaintances, number of friends, hours alone at my worst and best, motivation, fear, and comparison.

I’ve no clearer a way of defining myself than I have ever. My being is beyond explanation or at least any real desire to explain.

I guess when all is said and done I’ll have been the sum of all of my relationships. I have fewer now than ever before (once I thought one was defined by popularity) but each true friendship is important and cherished. It is through these remarkable folk that I get a sense of self – my desire to be a good person amongst good people. Often with them I am simply a smile or a tear. Inevitably one day I’ll just be a memory – hopefully a nice one.

Mexican ghoul...

2004-10-30T17:31:00.000-04:00

With a beat that belongs to my ancestors, I come and dance for you. My country was born out of an incestous rape that has scarred my people into smiling and singing. I smile and I sing for you. Clap your hands for me, I am singing. I like to walk under the stars and face the wind, breathe the moonlight that guides me into the morning full of light and birds. A taco and a tequila, my diet is complete. The burning on my back is the sun that licks me slightly, salting my hide, eroding my mind. Something inside (more primitive, more basic, more senseless) me makes me look at death in the face, I stare and I stare until my madness is yours. Let's go and make out next to the river where the water is cold for the feet that dare go inside. Let's spit at the edge of the bridge and kneel at the crossroads. Everybody pass us by, ours is the way of the road that leads into the future that will forget us like a lover in a whorehouse. I juggle with nonsense, I cry with reason. A Mexican ghost that walks at night on the road, repeating my death until forever. Un espanto de verdad. Come here all the priests with holy water, put my soul to rest and I will pull your legs at night. I will laugh my terrible laughter in the middle of your night. Come, let me show how I laugh.

The North Left Coast

2004-10-29T19:26:00.000-04:00

Well, once again, Nicky arrives late to the party. I get that from my mother. When I was little, I don't remember ever seeing the beginning of a Mass. But, I'm not writing about religion. * It seems now, the theme is Nationality. Let me borrow some information from my blog bio, since in addition to habitual tardiness, I'm also sort of lazy. * My father is African-American and Greek. My mother is African-American and French. And everywhere I go people tell me I have an accent. * I'm not quite hip-hop. I'm too American to be completely Eurotrash. And I'm too ethnic to be an A & F boy. * Do you remember that scene in Airplane where the stewardess needed someone who spoke jive. I don't speak that. I may occassionally say a'ight. But, I don't speak fluent Ghetto. I don't speak very good French either. So, there you go. * I don't live in New York. I'd like to, but I don't. I vacation there. I read the Sunday New York Times. And I like the New York Yankees. I know I mentioned that yesterday. But, I can't stress my love of the Yankees enough. * I live in Seattle. Yes, it does rain a lot. Pedestrians here wait for the traffic signal before crossing the street. Everywhere you look there are either hills or water. There's not a good public transportation system. There are no circuit parties. And everybody has a library card. * I'm told that Seattle has an extremely high suicide rate, that we drink a lot of coffee, and that we're polite but not friendly. I don't think that last part's true. We're friendly. * But, for God's sake if you come to visit learn the language. * Yes, I know it's confusing. Lattes have steamed milk. Mochas have chocolate. Talls are smalls. The size in the middle is a Grande [Gran-day]. And the big ones are Ventis [Vin] like Vin Diesel [Tee's] like you know T-shirts. And tea is now Chai. No, I don't know why, it just is. * Of course, if you were to ask for a regular coffee, I'd understand you. * But, I wouldn't expect everybody too.

There Should be an Island for You People

2004-10-29T15:26:00.000-04:00

There is, it’s called Manhattan.

One can also compare it to an ocean – the place where all the big fish from little ponds wind up adapting to the salt water and swim around trying not to get eaten by the bigger fish – and as a rule, there are always bigger fish.

New York City is unlike any other city in America, perhaps the world even. For the people that live/survive/permanently vacation here, one is considered a New Yorker although not necessarily an American. We host the United Nations and many of the world’s tempest tossed inhabitants needing a place to crash and call home. Everyone is welcome here and every nation is represented by the inhabitants. Chances are there is a neighborhood within the 5 boroughs which define New York City, where a certain ethnic group has converged to create a mini-me of their origins. Some of my neighbors and I would support this place succeeding from the United States and being its own country if that were a feasible option. The rest of the country realizes our exclusive natures and dislikes us like in a way similar to the people in line for an event watching those on the guest list making grand entrances.

To be defined as a true New Yorker, the popular belief is that one should live in the city for at least 10 years. Personally I disagree with this since I was a New Yorker before I actually moved here from the mainland. From my earliest memories I knew this would be the place I would call home and have now for 2 decades. There are many others like me – New Yorkers that took a while to arrive and others that we’re still waiting on to get their asses here already.

Living in a model version of the world has been an opportunity for me to experience so much culture. I can rummage through the stack of menus in my kitchen and order dishes from half the globe. Italian, Mexican, Ethiopian, Thai, Japanese, Mandarin, Polish, Irish, Indian and many others types of restaurants are all within a 5 block radius. We even have an Outback here which really is American food pretending to be Australian as Sebastian has pointed out in a recent post. I can polka, salsa and 2-step on any given night although my personal dance style is more along the lines of gay go-go. I see more subtitled films than Hollywood productions because the latter I get on DVD and I’d rather spend the small fortune for a movie ticket toward films that need support.

Once one has figured out they are a New Yorker, you see we’re born this way but sometimes aren’t aware of the fact until later in life, they find themselves surrounded by other New Yorkers in any other place practically. When I made the mistake of moving to LA (for love – so maybe not such a mistake as a bewitching), the first friends I made and kept we’re all New Yorkers. Pretty much all inhabitants of that city speak against it, but the New Yorkers were always the worst. When you get us to live somewhere else we can adapt but never truly fit in although some hide this fact better than others. Like the sea calls to the sailor when he is on land, the city calls us home when we’re not here. It’s like one of the magnetic poles to the soul for a New Yorker.

As I draw to a close here, I wonder if this post will strike a chord with any of its readers. If so, come home, we miss you even if we haven’t met you yet.

Which America Do I Live In?

2004-10-29T15:11:00.000-04:00

I remember on one Independence Day a number of years ago thinking to myself, "What is it that is that makes the United States worth celebrating?" At the time, I was going through a period of serious disillusionment about all things American, in particular the rampant commercial materialism of the mainstream...definitely not a culture I felt connected to. If that was the America we were celebrating, what was all the fuss about? One of the major reasons I had been living in the small mountain resort I was at was to get away from the materialist mainstream of America. But then I considered a different question: Where else in the world could I be doing what I was? Where did I have the opportunity to live pretty much any way I pleased in the high Rocky Mountains with a community of people who had more or less the same outlook? I don't think there are many other places like that. What struck me at that point was that the real America is not the government and its foreign policy, not about the material wealth, not about the Hollywood image and most definitely not about being better than the rest of the world. Its about the fact that the country is so big and varied that it has the room for people like me to have our little unique corner within it. In the midst of a contentious election with implications for the entire world and with the world getting smaller every day, it's sometimes hard to remember that. It can be even harder if you live in one of the big cities. But I almost never drive on that congested freeway. Even here in Denver, where everything is very auto-oriented, I can go two weeks without starting my car. I live close to the college I'm attending, groceries are down the block and most of my travel is done by bike or bus. And sometimes its strange listening to other folks complain about traffic. So I don't live in George Bush's America. Nor do I live in Oprah Winfrey's America. Or in the America of any other so-called governmental or cultural representative broadcast about the world. I live in my own America. And there are a lot of people like me, and a lot of them aren't like me at all. That's what independence and freedom are really about. And I hope that idea doesn't get lost in all the confusing shrubbery of our present government.

I Am Canadian?

2004-10-29T10:34:00.000-04:00

Ask an English Canadian what it means to be Canadian. They will furrow their brow, scratch their head, start to talk about Quebec independence before faltering. Then they will say with great conviction, “Well, we’re not American” before launching into a series of descriptions and anecdotes detailing the various atrocities and stupidities of the ugly American. Then they’ll say “We should have coffee some time”, which means ‘good-bye’ in English Canadian: you’ll never hear from them again, although they’ll be really, really, really happy to see you the next time you run into one another. Ask a French Canadian what it means to be Canadian. The answer you hear will depend largely on where in Canada they’re from (Quebec or Manitoba, for example), what the politicians are doing anywhere in the country, how well the Quebec media has managed to look these actions appear anti-Quebec (some genuinely are), what day it is, what their mood is, if it’s raining, and so forth. Then they will tell you about their ancestor who came over from France and founded a family farm in the early 1600s. If you’re lucky enough to be near the farm, they’ll probably take you there. If they’re lucky, someone in the family still owns the farm and you’ll be invited to share a meal in a house built before Shakespeare died. You’ll discuss politics, Quebec pop stars, love, sex, share details you never thought you’d share with strangers and you will not be allowed to leave until long past your bedtime. Ask me what it means to be Canadian and I’ll write this entry. I have felt like an outsider in Canada ever since I realised that American jokes are about my parents. I was born and raised in Canada by American parents. However, I feel Canadian, whatever that means, and have never had any strong desire to live in the States (although I could probably be happy in New York for a couple of years if I had a lot of money; I’d have to come back though). I am often amazed by the insensitive hypocrisy Canadians can exhibit when it comes to Americans. The most politically correct Canadian, the one who shakes their head when you use ‘girl’ and ‘boy’ when you really mean ‘woman’ and ‘man’, will spout off the most amazing generalisations about our neighbours. When I point out that it’s a tad insensitive, they respond that I know what Americans are like. When I counter that, indeed I do, having been raised by a couple of them, the answer is invariably a variation on “Well, they’ve been here for years so they’ve obviously changed”. And I resist my urge to smack. Dan discusses below the Canadian penchant towards profuse apology, and it’s true for the most part in both official languages. However, this is one area where Canadians absolutely will not budge. Although I can’t define it, I love being Canadian. I love all my clichés: health care, lefty politics, etiquette, wintry days with a loved one. I’ll take it all. I’m a gay man who can get married to another gay man. My largest concern with my county’s leader is how he will distribute money to our health care system, not whether he will embroil me in an unwinnable war halfway across the world. Ooop! Even I’ve done it. I’ve defined myself by comparing myself to the Americans. I am Canadian. Now, ask a Native Canadian what it means to be Canadian and I have absolutely no idea what they’ll say. I think that says a lot about my country.

I'm Canadian, and I'm not sorry. At all.

2004-10-29T09:30:00.000-04:00

Aaron wrote an interesting post here, where he essentially addresses himself to the world and his nationality. Sebstian followed up on Australia. My (very unimaginative) take-off on their post titles serves as a tip of the hat to insightful pieces, that got me to thinking about another side to his whole idea. I apologize in advance for my distinctly Canadian perspective. If Americans are often written-off as brazen and unapologetic for anything, Canadians are often characterised as apologising for everything. We quietly wander along, never wanting to take up too much space, never wanting to make waves. Never do we come out guns blazing (insert non-existant military joke here). Rarely does anyone hear of an international scandal involving Canadians. And when it does happen, it truly is scandalous, because Canadians just don't DO things like that. Always polite. Never antagonistic. We are, for all intents and purposes, the definition of non-descript. Or so the story goes. I always found it amusing in school that we actually had courses the purpose of which was to help us define Canadian identity (no, really, we did). Often the inevitable conclusion was that we don't really have one. That we're merely an extention of our most excellent neighbours to the south. With such a powerful neighbour next door, it stands to reason that we might get a little drowned out in the process. We get their culture, television, music, books. Even their news often gets more coverage than our own - on our own local stations no less. Truth be told, their news often IS more important. When something big happens in the most powerful nation on the planet, who also happens to be our next door neighbour and greatest ally, well the conclusion seems pretty obvious... Ultimately, (our own) people define us as having as some kind of National Inferiority Complexe. And it's absolutely ludicrous. Take a look at this country. We are a huge land mass, incredibly rich in natural resources. A strong, diverse economy. We have a highly educated population, and are highly advanced technologically. We have a standard of living that is the envy of the world. We take care of our own, as well as those abroad. We have a history of participation in world events that is generally univerally respected: We are peace keepers, diplomats, and, when we believe the cause is just, warriors when we've needed to be. We have our own mind in foreign policy, based on distinctly Canadian ideals, more often than not kinder and gentler. We are culturally diverse AND culturally distinct. Our moral compass is relatively strong. (Oh yeah. And we're really good at snow removal, making beer, and churning out hockey players.) I met an amazing woman recently. We spent about 2 hours talking. She was in the Israeli Air Force. She came to Canada 15 years ago with her only child. She left behind her entire family. Her husband. Her parents and siblings. Her businesses. Financial security. Her culture. Her home. She came to Canada alone so that she could increase the odds that here child would not only have a good life, but so he could have a chance at living at all. She knew absolutely no one here. But Canada was her first and only choice. She's built a successful and secure life for herself and her son here. All on her own. There are not that many places in the world that can offer that opportunity. As a country, we're just quietly going about the business of trying to do the right thing. For ourselves and for others in the world. No fanfare. Well under the radar. Not non-descript. Just low key. And look how incredibly far it's taken us. So I won't apologise for being Canadian. There's just way to much to be proud of. Not 'better than'. or 'superior'. Just cool in it's own right. Eh?

Team Talk

2004-10-28T20:18:00.000-04:00

Well, hmm... There seems to be a theme here, that being, Team. * Since I didn't get here first, and thereby have the privilege of setting the agenda, I'm going to go with Team. Hell, a childhood in a military family and the privilege of a Catholic education make me something of an expert on this subject. * So, yes, teams. Damn, why didn't I get here first. Well, my favorite team is The New York Yankees. The Yankees did not win The World Series this year another team did. * Batman and Robin were a team. So were the Cisco Kid and Poncho. At least, I think they were. I could be wrong about that. I suppose you could consider my partner Matt and I a team. I'd say my boyfriend, but I'm thirty-three, so I'm trying to be grown up about it. Matt and I make a good team. I am not the brains of it. * Now wrestling isn't much of a team sport. But singlets are hot. I don't wrestle much these days though. * Now, I think there's a gay porn flick called - Take One For The Team - but I haven't seen it. * So, in conclusion - Damn, y'all really want to talk about teams, huh?

I'm American, and I'm Sorry (sort of)

2004-10-28T11:36:00.000-04:00

Since our tag line here reads, “Words from Around the World”, I figure this as good of an opportunity as any to address you – The World.

(steps on some phone books as to be seen above the lectern)

Tap – tap: Is this thing on?

Hello World.

I happen to have been born in an unpopular state, New Jersey (the brunt of far too many jokes) in an unpopular country, the US. Being that I’m a people person, well, only after a large coffee on odd number days, there is a small level of shame attached to my origins. Having spent half my life apologizing for my father, I’ve learned that was a useless task, so I won’t really apologize for my country even if it feels like I should at times.

There are a bunch of politicians that won’t even take my calls much less care for what I may think about my nation’s ability to piss-off the rest of you, but I would think these learned men would get a clue by now. Some of my neighbors don’t seem to understand the fact that many Americans are disliked for simply being Americans. Funny this, as these same people dislike whole nations of men and women because of their birthplace, yet can’t understand the reverse.

One of my favorite artists, Anselm Kiefer, often portrayed the guilt he and his fellow countrymen felt by being born German after Hitler. I can only imagine what it must be like to know one’s grandfather was a Nazi. My grandfather is a retired Deputy Chief of Police but fortunately not one from the state of California, or there would be 2 generations I would have to apologize for. (California has the reputation of being a police state – and my run-in with some Los Angeles cops several years ago has me understanding why)

My point is (yes, I have one) this: identity stems from nature, yet all individuals are subject to the influences of location, family, religion and government. I could spend the rest of my life in Prague for example, but will always be an American to a certain degree. This is the other reason why I won’t apologize for my country - I’d have to apologize for myself which I would never do. Sure I can apologize for a wrong action or way of thinking, but not for who I am.

This presents a dilemma. How do I get my fellow countrymen to understand that we have simply grown too large and in the process have forgotten where we came from – the rest of the world? How do I tell them that we should be ashamed as a group if not as individuals? All I can come up with is by setting an example. Address the rest of the world as a human, not an American, hold a mirror up to myself and look hard and especially pay attention to those groups that frighten me or I have trouble understanding.

Having been in New York during the 9/11 attacks – I was scheduled for an interview at the World Trade Center for later that day – naturally I was pissed-off at the men that killed so many in such a horrible way. Still, writing the attackers off as crazy people wasn’t enough for me. As much as I detest all murderers, the fact that my nation is hated so much by that certain group forces me to look at the why of it all. It’s a hard task from where I sit at this moment, but I am trying. I wish more were.

So don’t hate me because I’m beautiful, oh wait, I mean because I’m from a young nation going through a difficult age presently addicted to power – but you can hate me for my ignorance. At least that is something I can work on. Who knows, it may even become a trend.

Okay World – thanks for your time. I gotta go now to the deli where I will have to choose from 27 different types of toilet paper in which to wipe my spoiled American ass.

Here's Looking at You

2004-10-28T01:43:00.000-04:00

My mother had sent me a letter the other day. It arrived yesterday. She usually sends me e-mails, but those stopped for a while when her dinosaur computer that still used DOS finally died. We put it in a museum with all the other dinosaurs. A new computer was purchased and she valiantly learned all about windows, minimising, maximizing, and resolution. There were some vocabulary differences and there have been quite a few revelations – “I can just highlight the text in the website and copy it into my e-mail?” – but she’s pretty good at it. She even has her own website . But yesterday I received an actual letter from her. In truth, it wasn’t really a letter. It was more of a little note or a card. In fact it was a card she’d made herself. She’d found a colourful semi-abstract picture with large eyes on it, folded and cut it into an elaborate pattern, and pasted it into a little piece of paper, a vibrant splotch with great, big eyes looking out. On the front she’d written a little handwritten note. “Here’s looking at you.” Inside, amid the description of her morning so far and her plans for the day, she was sure I’d be amused. “You were once a great fan of ‘Casablanca’”. A sign of things to come, Mum. I wrote my last letter about three years ago. It was the first one I’d written in much longer than three years. I was living in Montreal at the time and I wrote it to a friend who lives in Toronto, where I now live. I wrote and I wrote. There are so many ways to communicate by putting a pen to paper that no emoticon can ever hope to cover. The letter ended up being so long that I could barely fit it into the envelope and I had to seal it with tape, which got stuck on my fingers. I was afraid it would also get stuck on some postal equipment, rip open, and all my thoughts would scatter across the country. I made an oath to myself that I would write one letter a week so that eventually everyone I knew would have received one. My friend sent me an e-mail telling me how much he’d liked the letter. I haven’t written one since. How do you follow a masterpiece? And it’s no fun when no one else wants to participate. It’s not like e-mail, or messenger, or blogging, for that matter, where all you have to do is type and send. Spelling is irrelevant; punctuation inconvenient. Capital letters are monoliths from a by-gone era. They slow everything down. I look at my mother’s card, made just for me. It contains a reference to something I barely recall, but it must have made an impression for her to fold it up neatly so many years later and put it in a little card. I read it and I wish I didn’t live so far that she had to send me letters.

Hanging Out at the Rest Stop on the Information Superhighway

2004-10-27T21:31:00.000-04:00

I’ve not seen my best friend for a month now. He lives 1 subway stop away. We’ve not talked on the phone for about the same time.

This is no big deal – we’re New Yorkers – this is common.

Earlier today I was in the middle of a conniption – Blogger was down and I couldn’t read any of the entries my fellow writers and typists wrote. I start and end my day reading blogs and writing my own. When some SNAFU prevents this ritual I get cranky.

There is a clan of people that I consider my friends although I’ve only actually met a tiny portion of the group in a face to face way. The majority are blogger or photo-bloggers (phloggers). Their opinion matters most of the time – when it doesn’t it is because I am being stubborn usually. They have been inspirational, kind, generous, thoughtful, entertaining, inspiring, loving and silly – all of the things I try to impart on those I care about.

Who knew that this universe created of 1’s and 0’s could have me feeling more human and closer to others than the years I spent in group therapy. (Actually I hated group therapy – I felt like I was the one giving it to others and had to pay for this alleged opportunity instead of being paid) The internet was touted as the tool which would make us less social and geeks like me given the reputation of loners. I’ve had a string of hangovers to disprove these theories.

So one of my newer friends, yet no less dear, further north of the Americas than I, invited me to participate in this blog – and I had to say yes. Why? A group blog only lends itself to a greater sense of community for me and my interests. Collaborative efforts nicely balance out solitary ones not to mention keep my ego in check. (Given my remark on the group therapy thing, you can see why this needs to happen often)

Here I am to commune in this, well commune of words and people and places.

I’m glad to be here. The name is Aaron. I’m a terminal New Yorker. In the midst of typing I sometimes write and I take lots of pictures.

Okay, who’s next?

Collaboration

2004-10-27T10:54:00.000-04:00

Welcome to event horizon. Perhaps not all that original, it's an idea that started to gel in my mind not long after I started blogging several months ago. I'm often in awe of the ideas that people put out there, accessible by anyone through the miracle of the internet. Kudos to Al Gore for inventing it. In carving out my little corner of Blogdom, I've 'met' some pretty interesting and creative people along the way... The world is getting smaller at the most incredible rate. And over the past few months, I've found myself exchanging ideas, barbs, theories, jokes, philosophies, and general silliness with people of all cultures, backgrounds, religions, ethnicities, nationalities, sexualities, etc. And for the most part, people generally get along, enjoy themselves; revel in the sheer diversity of it all. This would have been unimaginable to most people even 20 years ago. It is the most diverse and inclusive environment I've ever experienced. So it occurred to me to try and mix thing up a bit. I think back to a time when I was more of a 'serious' musician. I very much enjoyed playing on my own, composing, creating new sound, playing solo. I did pretty well at it, and people reactions were quite incredible, very motivating. But some of the best creative moments I ever experienced happened when I started fraternizing with other musicians and artists. People would show up, we'd create, some might leave, others would show up. And each new person that came in added another character to the end result, which was never predictable, and most often incredibly interesting. Music literally started taking on a life of it's own. It was the most dynamic, fluid, and creative artistic situation I ever participated in. I've seen the same effect in Blogdom in the comments section of people's posts. Get a diverse bunch of people from different walks of life commenting on a great blog, or even a mediocre one, throwing their own spin on the original idea. More often than not it ends up being even more entertaining, informative, profound, or simply silly than what the original author had in mind. It takes on a life of it's own. So I thought it might me cool to open things up by inviting some of the talent that I've come across to collaborate on one site. They write what they want, how they want, when they want. They can continue an idea started by another collaborator. Make comments on others' posts. Or just do their own thing. A free-form Blog Message Board, of sorts. A collaborative log. A CLOG. Anyone else who happens to stumble across what we're doing and who wants to collaborate with us is welcome. Just email me, and I'll give you the keys to the place. Come and go as you please. Invite friends. We can set up links to your own blogs, or you can collaborate using a pseudonym if you prefer more anonymity. I'm just curious to see what kind of life, if any, this thing might take on, and where it might end up.