Fur Free Friday.

ANTI FUR RALLY IN WINDSOR - NOON TODAY - 493 Ouellette ave in front of Lazare's Fur.
Years ago I saw a video clip of a dog in a cage - in a country where they use dog skin for fur and dog flesh for food.
This dog was being unloaded off a truck and his cage was thrown into a pile of other cages, filled with frightened and wounded dogs.
Shockingly - this isn't what disturbed me.
It was something else.
The dog had this...fear ...and sadness in his eyes - the kind of loneliness that most of us - fortunately - will never EVER know.
No one on the planet cared about the well-being of that dog - he was born into a hell and given a horrible death. Just because.
He was absolutely doomed. No one would come to his rescue...because no one cared.
Why is this allowed? How is this right?
Because he's...an animal?
It's not okay.
To me - it's common sense that this kind of behaviour is just not okay.
I'm not high and mighty, I'm not preachy and I'm not about telling anyone what they can or can't do - but call me wacky and call me crazy - I'm not about to sit on my ass while our animals are tortured on a daily basis.
It's not right. It's common sense that this is just not right.
I don't think it's "radical" to be an animal activist.
Everyone loves animals. Everyone.
Who in the world wants to see an animal in pain?
No one.
And we don't see it - but it happens - and it's happening right now.
Animals are dying and living in pain to become a fancy purse...or an over-priced coat...or a pair of boots...or an expensive hat.
And we sell it. And we buy it. And we wear it.
We support it.
Some of us do.
And that doesn't mean anyone is a bad person for doing so.
It just means we probably don't know the full extent.
Animal lovers wear fur...because it's so easy to see fur as something seperate than an animal.
When you make the connection...that at one time...that fancy fur coat...or that expensive fur hat...or that soft and fuzzy fur trim had eyes, sad, scared, wounded eyes...and it cried out in pain as it was electrocuted...I can't see how anyone would wear fur.
Because I can't see how anyone would support cruelty to animals.
We love them, don't we?
So let's show them then.
This earth is as much theirs as it is ours.
We're more advanced, we're more civilized...but I look at how we treat our animals...and you'd never know it.
They've had enough. And so have I.
...so the question of the day:
Have you?

Training Days: Richard Simmons & Sweaty Asses

I felt just like Gene Simmons today at the gym.
No Richard, Richard.
I felt just like Richard Simmons today at the gym.
Afro, glitter shorts, white kicks and ultra gay.
That's me. I mean, that's Richard.
I didn't have the afro, my "kicks" are black and they aren't really "kicks" at all and I wore a Dr. Disc t-shirt instead of the hot pink tank top.
But I tried to incarnate the spirit of the Flamboyant gym bunny as I snorted and staggered through another grueling set of workout hell.
There I was in the middle of the YMCA, me and my personal trainer/new best friend (I like to consider us soul sisters, but I haven't told her that yet...I'll save that until she knows me better!)surrounded by all the gym heads - discussions of protein shakes and supplements flying over my head like rabid bats.
Bicep curls and compelling conversations about weight gain and carbing up mixed with talk of athletic scholarships.
And me:
"Um...Leah...can I please switch to a 10 pound weight?"
Leah: "Is the 15 too much for ya?"
"Ya," says I swigging my water, sweat pouring from every orifice. "Those 15 pounders are a bitch from hell."
I'm not a gym class hero, and who am I kidding - I never will be.
Why pretend?
I decided to embrace my wimpness - and go for the gusto - fuck the world!
I think the gym heads picked up on this confidence.
They nodded to me, in approval, as I downgraded from 15 pounds to 10.
A failure? No. I got double the sets in with the downgrade and I was STILL challenged.
For some reason, 15 pounds...I couldn't even do ONE set!
My bicep kick-backs were still a challenge, but at least I was working at my own level this time.
"This chick is dangerous," one particularly buff gym god said to me, motioning to my trainer. "Watch her!"
I was in. One of the boys.
Oh I don't expect I'll be discussing drag racing and titty bars with them anytime soon, but I no longer fear being ganged up on in the locker room and getting my head shoved in the toilet.
They've accepted me.
More good news: I upped my bench presses by 20 pounds. Squats seemed a bit easier, even though she increased the weight - and those lunges that nearly made me harf all over that nice couple going for a night time stroll last time? I did two tracks in a ROW this time.
There's no WAY I could have done that last time - not in a row - not without blowing chunks all over my trainer like Lard Ass in Stand by Me.
Remember the barfarama?
I too, have that power.
The bad news: I can't do a fucking sit up to save my life. For real.
It's borderline ridiculous.
I also left a sweaty ass print on the bench.
MORTIFYING.
I was repulsed.
REPULSED with myself.
I was of the belief that I was one of the few people on the planet who did NOT sweat from the ass.
I stared at the perfect imprint of each butt cheek.
Plain as day - my ass print stared back at me. I felt naked. Like my ass was laid out, mooning the entire room for all to see.
I eyeballed my trainer, hoping she didn't see it yet.
Hoping I could hide it somehow.
Too late.
She too was staring at the perfect impression my arse left on that bench, emblazoned in my own bodily fluids.
Repugnant.
Humiliation.
But I got over it.
"I'll get a towel," I said.
Great. Now I've drawn ATTENTION to it AND I made it known that I now KNOW she KNOWS it was my ass print and she saw it.
Awk.Ward.
Planks. Planks are my new worst enemy.
Worse than lunges.
Holding a push-up position, suspended in mid-air for 30 seconds at a time?
Fuck. That.
I completed a full 30 seconds for two, and collapsed during the rest.
Again, sweat shooting off my face like a fucking Aqua Net spritzer.
My sweat glands are truly remarkable.

When it was over, I staggered away from the 20 minutes of cardio she put me on (with an incline of 9 and a speed of 4) and I stared at the menacing stair case.
The same stair case I nearly took ass-over-tea-kettle last week.
And I walked down just fine.
"Focus on the small victories," my trainer told me on my very first day.
Done.
In fact - I had two small victories today.
One - the stairs didn't kill me.
Two - I didn't puke on any seniors.

That's not as good as a pair of 6 pack abs...but for now: It'll do just fine.

Oh! One more note:
Richard Simmons - the man might be the gayest thing since the flat iron for men - but when it comes to workin' out - I betcha he'd kick all our asses.

*sigh*

Oh Richard...my new idol.
I think it's love.
Or just vertigo from too much moving around.

Forever in Transition.

1998.
I'm sitting in a bar with about 6 other guys and a very obvious transexual woman walks by.
Born male - transitioning to female.
"What a freak," my friend said.
My friend who said this was gay.
In fact - everyone at the table was gay.
In FACT - we were sitting in a gay bar.
Filled with gay people, many who've been called "freaks" - and much worse.
My table laughed - and I noticed several other tables gawking too - at the wig, the dress, the nylons, the pumps.
Laughing at her.
I stayed quiet, but it affected me in a huge way.
I should have dumped my beer on the guy who said it - but I didn't.
I stayed quiet, and I stewed over it.
I thought really, really hard that night, sitting there at that bar.
It taught me so much in those 3 words.
What. A. Freak.
I was humbled instantly.
I got it, right then and there - even if only for a milisecond, what it might feel like to walk in her size 11 pumps.
A tranny walks into a gay bar...
Sounds like the opening to a really bad joke, doesn't it?
Well, it kind of is.
A tranny walks into a gay bar, and gets laughed at by a table full of boys.
If a queer bar isn't a safe spot - a haven away from the catcalls and snickers and gawking...well then what is?
Right then - I realized how truly fucked up humans are.
Our need to categorize and seperate and differentiate and niche. Even within niches.
Divide what we are comfortable with - from what we are unfamiliar with.
And then we break down and belittle what we are unfamiliar with to wash away our discomfort.
At someone else's expense.
We do this so much. I do this, in ways I'm probably not even aware of.
Sex. Race. Class. Orientation. Gender. Body shape.
No one is safe. From the white men who run the country - to a table full of 19 year old gay boys...we all do it.
This is where we fail to learn from the other creatures we inhabit the earth with.
Reef fish - they change their sex throughout their life.
Some species will begin life as males and switch to females and others switch from female to male and some, some will change sex in both directions, and others will be both sexes at the same time.
There's Roy and Silo - two MALE Penguins at Central Park Zoo who developed a relationship - became inseperable and were even given an egg that needed hatching and care, which they successfully did.
Birds of Paradise, Peacocks and even DUCKS - are considered sexually dimorphic - the males flashing gigantic, lavish, colourful and flamboyant feathers - the females being more plain, neutral and toned down.
In their world - female does not mean "delicate and pretty and colourful".
These attributes are held by males.
Clownfish can change from male to female and African Reed Frogs can change from female to male.
In the wild, black sea bass are born as females and turn into males at around two to five years old.
Lilies-of-the-valley have male and female sex organs simultaneously.
They have sex with, and fertilize, themselves.
These are fascinating organisms...absolutely amazing what they can teach us.
If we listen and watch and observe.
It's the most complex but the most simple thing:
They are what they are and it is what it is.
Male. Female. It's fluid.
They are what they are simply most comfortable being.
Discrimination free.
It's just nature's way.
So why is it so hard to grasp, why do we laugh and snicker, why do we put laws on human sexuality?
Hell - up until 2003 - it was illegal to even BE gay in a bunch of southern states...and a few others as well - like Michigan!
Punishable by up to 15 years imprisonment, repeat offenders get life!
How's that for tax dollars?
"What are you in for?"
"Sodomy."
"Well...meet your new cell mate, Bubba."
Ironic, isn't it?
Of course - sodomy doesn't happen in prison, right?
I think the point I'm trying to get at here...that night, back in 1998 when I was sitting in that gay bar, and I heard another gay person make fun of someone...for being...different...it struck a chord.
If the transgendered community encounters snickers from members of the LGB..(and let's not forget "T") community...we have a big problem.
Sure, humans are known as the most "advanced" species on the planet - but in the end: We're all earthlings.
Forget sex, forget breed, colour, shape, or who we sleep with.
Hell - forget about whether or not we walk on four legs or 8.
If we can fly or slither.
Breathe under water or exhale oxygen instead of carbon dioxide...we all come from the same planet.
Why are we still belittling and demeaning each other over our differences?
Why aren't we celebrating them?
A coral reef fish is a beautiful, fascinating creature.
And so are we.
Why is that something to make fun of?
We'd never say: "Wow...a coral reef fish changes sex! What a freak! We should beat it up! Or laugh at it! Make fun of it."
We don't.
Although we may try to make a filet-o-fish out of it, which again...goes back to the ways we treat our fellow earthlings.
A person simply becoming what they are - in transition - it's amazing what we have right in front of us - and perhaps even more amazing: Our pompous attitudes - that we are capable of snubbing it and dismissing someone from being who/what they are with three little words: "What. A. Freak."
It's Transgender Awareness month.
Interesting word: Trans.
It means change, evolving, becoming.
And us earthlings...we're changing, but it's an up hill climb - and it always will be.
We've come a long way...and we still have a long, long way to go.
We're all forever in transition.

Training Days: The Aftermath

Hard to walk.
Hard to type.
Hard to move.
I had to use two hands to staple pages together.
Two hands to open doors.
I nearly missed the toilet in the washroom.

When I walk - it looks like I am doing The Robot.

In Recovery,

Dan.

Training Days: Day Two (Day one)

Training went...well.
Tricep dips. Squats. Bench pressing. Cardio.
Lunges.
Fucking lunges.
They are my new worst enemy.
I also had to get down on my back and pull myself up by this bar, and I thought I was going to cry.
Muscles were quivering where I didn't even know muscles existed.
But the lunges.
Those bastard lunges.
I did an entire track-length of lunges and was begging my trainer to put me back on something lighter, like sit-ups or perhaps that lovely bench press.
She caved. I was ecstatic, spread out on that bench press - flat on my back, pumping iron. Oh it still hurt - but it was better than lunges.
"Alright, feel better?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Perfect! We're gonna do another entire track-length of lunges!"
I wanted to collapse to the floor in a fit of rage and hysteria, pounding my fists against the gym mat and kicking my feet in protest.
But that would be weird.
When I finished my last lunge, we did stretching, while she explained to me the different muscle groups that were worked over.
I couldn't hear a thing though.
I was concentrating on trying not to puke.
Don't do it, Dan...Don't you DARE puke in front of a gym full of jocks and this poor trainer...
I wondered, while she spoke - if anyone had ever puked in the gym, on the track, before.
And what would I do?
What is the proper protocol in such a situation?
Would I go home and just leave my steaming mess there on the track and make her clean it?
Would I make a mad dash to the bathroom and risk vomiting in an even WORSE spot?
Would I throw-up into my t-shirt, then do the walk of shame through the gym, holding up my shirt, gut exposed, and carry my pile of vomit to the bathroom?
Regardless of how I handled it - one thing was certain: I would never be able to set foot within a 1 mile radius of the building EVER again.
I was nearing panic.
I guzzled my water and she looked at me while she spoke, her eyes had an Are You Okay!?!? look in them...
I was. Somehow, I was.
Breathe through the nose, out the mouth. Through the nose.
Out. The. Mouth.
I finished with 20 minutes on the treadmill, mouth agape, eyes wide with shock, sweat pouring from my face...me legs reduced to jelly.
I wiped off my nasty body fluids which I splattered all over the treadmill and made my way down stairs, my eyes emotionless and zombie like.
A dead man walking.
Took one step on the stairs and froze.
I couldn't move my other leg.
It was like lifting a cinder block - It took nearly everything I had to get my leg to take the step.
I stared at the two staircases ahead of me.
I had to get down there.
My keys and wallet and clothes were down there.
I contemplated going down on my bum, step by step - the way I used to as a kid, then someone else entered the stairwell and raised a suspicion-laced eyebrow at me
"Howdy," I said, frozen on the steps, a deer in the headlights.
Howdy?!?!? What did I think this was, Brokeback Mountain!?!?
"..uh...hi.." the guy said and walked passed me, practically jogging down the steps two at a time.
I stayed at the top, perfectly still until I heard him exit the stairwell.
Deep breath.
I took another step, and I felt like I was some kind of car crash recovery victim, suffering from spinal trauma who was learning how to walk all over again.
I could see myself in a movie, gripping the stair rail for support and taking one shaky step at a time while my friends and family cried tears of joy as they watched me from behind.
My mother would clasp her hands together and sob: "He can walk! He can walk!"
Except, that wasn't the case.
I wasn't in a movie.
And I wasn't in a car crash. And I didn't have spinal trauma.
I just did lunges.
Nearly 11 minutes later I made it downstairs, and wobbled over to my locker to change.
The INSIDE of my body felt hot. The outside: Soaked in sweat.
I felt like a steak that had just been tenderized by a ruthless Italian Chef.
As I walked to my car, I felt my stomach turn.
Actually, I wasn't walking: I was staggering.
I staggered to my car, drunkenly, my legs not doing what they were supposed to do.
Knees wobbly, limping.
And my stomach..it was heaving.
Surely - I was going to harf.
I passed by an older couple, going for a nice, leisurely walk, and they eyeballed me suspiciously - sizing me up - seeing if I posed a threat.
I smiled at them, to show them I meant no harm. But it was a shady and unsure smile, filtered through my grimace of pain.
And then I gagged - out loud.
*ggawwwk*
I stopped in my tracks and they flinched away from me and continued walking, terrified of the staggering, sweaty, gagging creep.
Me.
My entire body convulsed and I wretched again.
Dry heave.
I spit on the sidewalk.
And I breathed.
Miraculously, I shook it off and finished the wobbly trek to my car.
Sitting down felt like heaven.
I may or may not have lost consciousness on the way home, but somehow, I found myself in my driveway.
I made my way slowly into the house, and re-enacted the horrors I'd experienced to Wayne.
I took a warm bath filled with salts and some nice blue patchouli oil and I soaked the pain away.
Even after, when I drained the tub, I remained on my back in the empty tub.
Beached like a half-dead whale.
A deflated, popped punching bag.
I tried to get up.
My arms wouldn't work.
I tried again.
I couldn't heave myself out of the bathtub!
It was as if my arms were made of wet tissue and my body made of iron!
Surely this scenario would come one day - but I was thinking it would be when I was in my seventies or eighties - maybe even nineties.
"Wayne!" I would bellow from the echodrome of the bathroom: "I'm in the bathtub and I can't get out!"
No, no, no!
This could NOT be! Not like THIS, not this early in life!
Not yet.
I licked my lips and focused.
Hands on the sides of the porcelain tub, and I pulled.
Heaved with all my might.
I felt tendons stretch, tight muscles expand, I let out an animalistic grunt from a deep, primal, part of my soul - and I was up.
I did it.

And it hit me:

I survived my very first workout.
I felt my body buzzing, my muscles burning, my arms aching...but somehow...I squeezed out a small, wee victory smile - alone in my bathroom.

Yup. I'd say it went well.

Training Days: Day One.

So...day one as a gym bunny.
My personal training starts today.

I was SUPER nervous.

Until I got this email from my personal trainer:

Hi Dan,
I am so sorry to does this to you, but unfortunately my evening fitness instructor is very sick today. I now have to cover the programs tonight from 5:30 pm to 8:00 pm.
We are still a go for Wednesday for sure. I do apologize.

*sigh*

So...day one: CHECK!

So far, personal training is a breeeeze!

Off to chow down on pasta and watch Intervention.

I love being a gym bunny.

Danny.

Training Days: The Consultation.

My body feels like a piece of chewed hubba bubba.
Chewed up. Spat out.
Left to suffer, twisted, destroyed, wrecked.
I had my first training session.
No, wait.
It wasn't actually a training session.
I went to meet with my personal trainer and filled out all the paper work.
"The Consultation", she called it.
My health - fine.
My nutrition - fine.
Then came the fitness tests.
Cardio - I'm good. Above average for a beginner.
Yup. I'm the shit.
"My journey to physical fitness is going to be a breeze," I smugged to myself. "I'll be enjoying a six pack with my six pack in no time."
Then I was asked to do sit ups. And push-ups.
And bench presses.
"Just to see where you're at," she says.
I warned her that I have not done a single push up since the nineties and she laughed.
I remained stone face.
"No," I said, without missing a beat. "I'm dead serious. It was probably 1997."
If she didn't believe me - she certainly did after I completed 12 shaky, miserable, pathetic push-ups.
Disaster.
Sit-ups were even worse.
She had me on this incline/torture device thing, hanging half upside down.
"Do as many as you can until failure," she smiled, clipboard in hand.
I made it to 4.
FOUR.
What. The. Fuck.
Seriously.
Bench presses were an even bigger embarrassment.
I could barely bench the piddly bar - without any weights!
The bar itself weighed 45 pounds, and so help me: It damn near killed me.
I saw the steroid cases eye-balling me and I felt my wiener shrink back between my legs like a scared little doggy.
She added on 60 pounds and I thought I may or may not do one of the following:
1) Kill myself
2) Blow an aneurysm in my head
3) Fart uncontrollably
4) Shit my pants and die.
I wanted to kiss her feet when she told me it was over.
I'd made it. I did it. I didn't die. Or shit. Or even fart.
I was okay. And I was a tad proud of myself!
"Awesome work out," I said between gulps of water.
I was flush-faced, dripping sweat and huffing and puffing.
But smiling.
Happy.
"I can really feel it!"
My entire body was pulsing, buzzing, burning.
I felt FANTASTIC!
Then she dropped the bomb:
"Well, that wasn't actually a work-out. Those were just a few short tests to see where you are physically...we'll start your workout on Monday."
My smile faded instantly and a stunned shock took over.
Oh. Fuck.
"You've given me a lot to work with," she told me after.
Pfft.
Whatever.
I drove home in silence, with the radio off.
Thinking.
What the fuck am I getting myself into? Can you do this Dan?
Will you shit your pants and die?
Honest questions.
No answers.
Just silence.
Today, I am in too much pain to think.
I can't raise my arms above my head.
I can barely lift a Tim Horton's coffee to my lips.
My entire body feels bruised, I walk with a limp and it feels like Superman sucker punched me in my love handles.
I have all weekend to recover - and right now I am frantically googling quick remedies for what to do with sore muscles - because I need this pain to be GONE in time for my first REAL workout - Monday night at 6:30.
Am I scared?
No.
Not at all.
I'm in far too much pain to be afraid.

Cheers! To health and well-being.
*sigh*