Vacation (aka - Animal Kingdom)

Happy camping brothers and sisters,

I just got back yesterday from hanging out in "The Bruce" in Ontario. Being a "never venture out of my own back yard" kinda guy - I had no idea that there is an area of Ontario called "The Bruce".
Stupid, stupid me.
Anyway, Myself, Julie, Life Partner and Anna all rented a cottage - beautiful, wooden and rustic LakeWood Cottage - up that way for 6 scary nights and 7 beautiful days.
We arrived there on Saturday - around 6pm and were instantly awestruck by its charm.
Glorious hard wood panels, it had the charm of a log cabin, the modern conveniences of city-living and the stylish decor straight out of the Pottery Barn and Ikea - fused into cottage life - SUPREME.
With a backyard deck complete with a row boat, private boat dock and 4 man canoe - I knew at that moment we were in for a week of sheer outdoor heaven, Canadian style.
The sunset that night was nothing short of breath-taking.

The next day - Life Partner discovered the pamphlet which gave a VERY graphic account of the danger posed by the apparent abundance of black bears in the area and it all began to slowly unravel - just like the Bjork song.



Sitting out by the fire mixing lethal doses of tequila, rum and vodka was no longer a luxury to be savoured by psuedo-yuppie-hippies - that at least I ascribe to being - it was now a game of Russian Roulette. A close call. A jump out an air plane. A bungee cord, ready to snap.
It was something only 4 kids with a death wish would dare do.
Now, personally - I chalk bears up with dragons, mummies and unicorns. I don't totally believe they exist, so I was fearless and demanded we sit by the campfire every night until at LEAST mignight.
Not that I fancy myself as a grizzly adams or anything - I admit - I would surely be the first to run into the cottage and toss whoever was in my way in direct line of attack between me and the bear, if I even sensed one of those gigantic beasts was approaching...but, for some reason, I was hellbent on NOT letting the possible threat of a black bear ruin my time by the camp fire.
Big and furry didn't scare me. It is the small things, with teeth that freak me out. A bear - I can handle. So, thus far - I was doing JUST fine.
The next afternoon, at 1pm - we were barbecuing on the back deck - and we were dive bombed by bats.
Small things. With teeth. That can fly.


And they were EVERYWHERE. Hanging from the house, the trees, dive bombing our heads, fluttering in our faces - Julie came eyeball to eyeball with one and another just missed my shoulder.
"I thought they burst into flames and turned into dust when they hit the sunlight!" i gasped, staring outside from a safe spot in the kitchen with horror and disbelief.
"No Dan," LIfe Partner corrected me. "Those are Vampires. These are bats."
Oh.
That night we heard the bats - who were nesting in our attic - scratch and flutter all night long just inches above our heads.
Life Partner found one in the fireplace.
We locked it and I silently lamented my scrapped plans to be curled up that night with a book to the crakle of an indoor fire.
The next day - our yard was coated in snake holes and we discovered that the area was also heavily populated by rattle snakes.
Not just snakes. Snakes I can handle. In fact, I kind of like snakes.
No.
These are rattle snakes.
Poisonous rattle snakes.
"But don't worry," one local told us. "They only rattle to let you know they are there. Give them a moment and they'll leave you alone."
COOL, I thought to myself, in awe of mother nature and the amazing creatures she creates.
"And 40 percent of the time when they strike, they do not inject."
Pardon fucking me, I wanted to scream.
Um...what about the other 60 percent when theyt DO??? What the FUCK do you do then, with snake bite juice coursing through your veins?!??!?!
Coat your mouth with olive oil and suck out the venom?
Amputate the bitten extremity immediately before it hits your heart and you implode?
Rush to the hospital and scream and beg and cry for help?
DIE!??!
*GULP*
We didn't see any rattle snakes, thank god - and that day after the local left - who never did tell us what to do if we were bitten, a thought which silently plagued me the rest of the trip - we distracted ourselves by taking a plunge straight into the gorgeous lake!
Crystal clear, you could see the bottom - no fish, no creatures - just glorious, clean upper Canadian lake water.
It was liberating and refreshing.
I felt like a frat boy in a beer commercial. "MOlson Canadian Rocks!!" i wanted to scream from the top of my lungs as I cannonballed into the blue water and plunged my head under.
It was glorious. I felt - once again - as if I was rejoined with mother nature - scoffing at the idea that I could possibly be afraid of ANYTHING around this campsite.


When we got out of the water, as we were drying off - we saw a waternsake swim by us, nonchalantly - and in its own "one with nature way" - telling us politely to go fuck ourselves if we DARE think we are going to be swimming in its water.
We didn't dip so much as a toe in the snake infested swamp for the rest of the vacation.
We had bears in the front yard. Snakes in the lake and bats on the back deck.
The only safe place, was the cottage itself.
I sipped a tea on the couch, staring out the window at the surrounding forest, day dreaming that I was a native Canadian - invading Ottawa wearing nothing but a feather head dress and leather skirt - scalping conservative Prime Minister Stephen Harper for being such a slime ball...when all of a sudden, our last remaining safe haven was invaded.

And not just one. Not just two. A whole family. Feasting on peanuts meant for chipmunks. Dining on tofu meant for me. Munching on chips meant for stoners. Drinking puddles of my spilled long island ice tea and sucking on the limes meant for Anna's Corona's.
Fuck the snakes. Fuck the bears. Fuck the bats.
I can handle them.
But mice...MICE where we had to sleep??!?!
"Wanna leave tomorrow?" I asked, taking a nervous swig of my drink as I eyed a particularily plump rodent gnaw on the television set.
Another one somehow made it's way onto the window sill.
I jumped.
And so with that, we packed up our bags and made our way back to the Land of the Living, City of Roses.
No don't get me wrong.
I love animals.
ALl animals, the good, the bad, the rabid and the ugly. I would never think of killing, hurting, hunting, swatting, eating or even disrespecting one of them - especially in their own environment.
But that being said - I do NOT want to live elbow to elbow with them.
Some humans are meant to live in the thick of the woods in harmony with the beasts and creatures.
Me? I'm more of a tofu-eating cat man myself.
Pluto is all the wild beast I'll ever need.
Perhaps next year, a safe trip to Niagara Falls is our best bet.

Love and blue jays (who I discovered this week, can also be quite aggressive),

Dan

Summer's Eve..

Happy Summer, brothers and sisters...
It's not quite the magical night yet, when we all get to revel in the FIRST DAYS of SUMMER, the longest day of the year - when the Northern Solstice hits us square in the foreheads tomorrow night at exactly 6:08pm...and the sun is directly over the Tropic of Cancer, dangling there just a few blissful seconds longer than any other night of the year, over the Northern Hemisphere, like a big happy peach...

I get excited around this time of year and I absolutely INSIST on being outside. For many different reasons, the Summer Solstice is like a new year for me. I always get insanely reflective and nostalgic - and I make it a point - EACH YEAR - to be outside, staring at the sun, trying to make out some defintion on its molten surface - maybe in my own life.

It's different this year, in that I can't be in my home, in my backyard, drink in hand, fireflies all around. But it's exciting too. I'll be out of my element when nature tolls the big summer bell...

This summer promises nothing but exciting things - in every aspect of my life. So much is in transition right now. Creative, career and concerts - the three "C's" if you will - are looking especially promising.

This Saturday I leave with Life Partner, Julie and Anna for the flat lands of North Ontario to stay in a stranger's cottage for a week. The stranger won't be there, it's just us. The middle of the woods.
I need this.

And...well...the rest of the summer...here are a few good reasons why I have a gut feeling it's going to be a good one..

July 06 – Polyphonic Spree – Majestic Theatre in Detroit

July 07 – White Stripes – Labatt Centre, London

July 12 – Violent Femmes – Royal Oak

August 2nd – Patti Smith – Ann Arbor Michigan

August 29th – The Bangles – Meadowbrook Music Festival,

Tomorrow is the LONGEST day of the year...after that, they already start getting shorter...an idea that both elates me and terrifies me. It's on this day - on the cusp of long to short that it hits me how fast life is trickling away...and how EVERY SINGLE MOMENT matters so much, like an equinox of sorts, every single day.

Bitch Day Fuck Fuck Shit-Bitch

"I need a fuckin' drink, is what I fuckin' need."
I said this, aloud, in my car as I drove to CJAM to do my two zillionth broadcast of Girlie So Groovie.
Today was shitty. It was just one of those days that started sour from the moment I opened my eyes.
Normally, I wake before my alarm - a full half hour before my alarm - and revel in my surge of energy, and the fact that I let mother nature (with a little help from Pluto) wake me before an annoying buzzer on my cell phone.
Not today.
Today, the cheesey ass digital "song" - if you can call that electro-pulse-muzack a "song" - woke me up and I nearly threw the fucking thing off the 28th floor of this ghetto building we temporarily have to call home.
Pluto bit me on the foot as I staggered to the kitchen to pour her some food.
She never bites me.
The water in the shower spurted me in the face - ice cold.
I had a pounding headache.
I was hot.
It was humid.
Ugh.
I walked to work and had pit stains by the time I got there.
Five minutes late.
Work itself was horrific.
My spots were half-assed and creatively drab. Revisions kept coming in.
My knee hurt and I had a diarrhea attack in a not-so-public bathroom.
5pm - I normally opt to walk home from work - but this time I accepted Life Partner's invitation for a ride.
We decided to stop by our REAL home on the way to see the progress.
I'm not going to get into it now - but we were less than impressed with some of the work, and we are going to hire a private roof inspector tomorrow to double check that short cuts aren't being taken.
We were all excited to see the changes, and we ended up leaving our home with disappointment wiped across our brow like soot - and there was plenty of that as well. We were pissy. Snippy.
Bitchy. At least, I was. And I hate me when I'm like that.
I hate me like that SO much - I rarely EVER allow myself to get like that because it is sheer painful.
But - such is par for the course, when dealing with a minor loss of control.
We get to the shiteous parking lot for Victoria Parkplace - a building that, as a child, I always imagined to be luxurious and oppulent. I daydreamed of a high-rise suite in its concrete walls - over-looking the city of Roses.
In truth it is 31 floors of high-rise hell.
I feel like a hardened criminal in this building at times, the other inmates - i mean, "tennants" stink like fried eggs and the elevators are always two shakes away from the Demon Drop.
I was just so bummed at the lack of progress on our home, and I couldn't shake it. I didn't want to get into this - but I will.
The next door neighbors - where the fire started have done next to NOTHING at all on their home so far - and because of this - our stay in HELL (Victoria Parkplace) is going to be extended - possibly until the end of summer - maybe even fall.
See, our people can completely rebuild the inside of our home BETTER than new...but because we are a rowhouse, the second they dig into the walls of our neighbors, the smell of fire will be disturbed and will creep back into our walls and stink just like the day the flames ignited.
SO far, our neighbors have not even taken out their burned furniture.
We have such a long way to go - and it was evident for the first time today.
I thought I hit the low of the day.
Then we hit Quizznos.
This was the final straw.
My veggie sub exploded and fell to pieces while I ate it. The bread was soggy.
I threw a mini-temper-tantrum and slammed my entire sub in the garbage, much to Life Partner's horror.
"Jesus Christ," he said. "Calm down."
Don't F-IN TELL ME TO FUKKKKKKEN CALM DOOOOOOOOOOOOWN!! - i wanted to scream this, but realized I was one blood pressure point away from the straight jacket.
I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to laugh.
I rarely get stressed out - but today - I was just at my wits end and it was no one's fault.
I huffed and puffed, still pissed off about my shitty sub - starving, my stomach growling - I had a good mind to head to Quizznos, pick up a butter knife, hold it to the manager's throat and INSIST she FIRE the bitch who made such a shitty sub.
Instead, I quietly packed my CDs and left for CJAM.
Which brings me to the drinking part.
I passed the liquor store on the way - and thought aloud about how fucking GREAT it would feel just to get rip-roaring HAMMERED tonight - SMASHED - and just let it all out.
"But," I corrected myself, "It's times like these that you absolutely DO NOT get drunk. Getting drunk and acting on this impulse would be bad. You get drunk to have fun - NOT to escape."
I figured, If I use alcohol and get loaded as a self-medication - so I can feel good - soon, I could grow dependent and associate alcohol with feeling good...and do it again, and again.
In this state - homeless and clotheless and CD-less and air-conditioner-less - I could really, REALLY become QUITE a problem drinker.
I took a deep breath.
I exhaled.
"See silly," I whispered to myself. "You're your own AA meeting. You're stronger than you think."
Cut to me - 10 minutes after my show in line at the liquor store with a bottle of wine and a mouth dryer than the fucking mojave.
I must say - I feel far better now. A full glass swishing playfully in my belly - a chilly fishbowl of delicious crispy wine sitting on the coffee table in front of me, waiting like a nice, plump pair of lips - puckered up and ready to be french kissed.
The good news: I'm over it.
The day that is.
Life Partner and I apologized genuinely for any snipes we took at each other - even though we didn't really snipe at each other at all.

He is currently on the balconey, admiring the sparkling city from afar and getting baked off his ass on a big fat joint.

And me - I'm half way to loaded.
The way I should be.

Happiness.
We bask in it.

Bon voyage Monday - you fucking bitch.

I forgive you...but I still fucking hate you.

Just cuz.

Danny.

Circus Time: The Shite-ist Show On Earth

Sorry to get all “animal activisty” on everyone for a minute, but I can’t help it.
The Garden Bros Circus is coming to town - June 21st at the Kinsman Recreation Complex in Leamington and the Windsor Arena June 23rd and June 24th.
The Circus is currently supplying various stores around town with “free” tickets, which are free for children on the condition that an adult ticket is bought.
If anyone happens to see any of these tickets around town – please – just for the fuck of it – give a little pissed off comment to whoever is working, and tell them to let the manager know. You don’t have to launch into a full-fledged PETA-attack and strip down to your skivvies and stage a sit-in until the cops come…but the Circus is tacky – and businesses who promote it need to be called on it. You don’t have to get mad…just tell them you think it’s gross, and it’s too bad said businesses is choosing to support THAT kind of event. Personally – I think animals are far more interesting in their own environment, and personally – I’d rather see a Cirque de Soleil act with HUMAN acrobats over trained animals to do unnatural tricks any day of the week.
The next Animal Rights group meeting is Monday June 25th. If anyone would like to participate in a demonstration against the circus this weekend – you can get in touch with some good people at www.windsoranimalrights.com
You won’t hurt anyone by voicing your concerns about the circus. You’ll only help….

Top Ten Ways to Beat The Heat in Windsor

Life Partner and I still don't have any air-conditioning in our temporary apartment.
See - right now we are living in Victoria Parkplace - since our house is still under extreme demolition and re-construction. More on that later.
For now - during the most trying moments of the year, with regard to heat - we are literally "sweating it out" without ANY form of air conditioner, save for a cheap fan from Wal*Mart.

I was feeling inspired to write a lame David Letterman "Top 10 Style List" - about ways to "Beat the Heat in Windsor".

The one thing I always notice about Letterman's top 10 lists: They always walk the fine line between witty - and cheesey.

So, sticking with that tradition - I've compiled a very quick list of EXTREMELY lame and cheesey lines.

Maybe they'll make you smile. Maybe you won't get them.

Maybe, you'll even kind of hate them.

Regardless - I'm bored off my ass - so here they are.

Without any further delay - here are "The Top 10 Ways to Beat the Heat in Windsor"

10 – Hang out with a few sides of beef in the Ottawa Market Square meat freezer.

9 – Take a dip in the lovely Detroit River – and get a FREE air conditioned ambulance ride!!

8 – Park yourself out on the sidewalk in front of MiLK, smoke cigarettes and frown at everyone walking by – that’s what all the “cool” people do, isn’t it?

7 – Call up Jeff Watson – that bastard’s “cold as ICE”!

6 – Go for one of those trendy “coffee enemas” – but ask them to use a Tim Horton’s ice cappuccino instead!

5 – Drive by the Windsor Christian Fellowship and bask in the frightfully cold shiver that runs down your spine.

4 – For a quick cool-down, grab a room at the Diane Motel – they advertise air conditioned rooms AND they rent by the hour!

3 – Hit a massage parlour on Ouellette ave and tell the girls you just want to get “fanned”.

2 – Scalp your season tickets to the Spitfires and buy a brand new Central Air unit.

1 – Mug a dickie-dee for all he’s got, hit the water slide at Mic Mac park after hours, and then sit back and enjoy the frosty goodness…


Sigh,

Yup. That was lame.

But hey - I'm bored as fuck.

Hearts and heatwaves,

Daniel.

Cabbage Patch...um...yeah.

Before Playstation 3, before Tickle Me Elmo, even before the famed Furbees…there was the end all to Toy Crazes – the ICONS, the RING-LEADERS in the pop-culture MUST-HAVE department:
Cabbage Patch Kids.
Christmas, 1983.
I was 6 years old and I desperately wanted one.
I remember watching channel 7 ACTION NEWS in amazement as parents tackled each other, diving for the last remaining Cabbage Patch Kid – and beating the tar out of each other if they didn’t get it.
I knew right then and there – I HAD to get my parents in the middle of all that.
“It has to be a boy,” I remember saying. “With blue eyes.”
No one in my class had a Cabbage Patch Kid yet, but rumours were flying.
“The factory where they are made looks like a cabbage patch, and each doll is pulled from a head of cabbage,”
“They come with adoption papers - you mail them away and a few weeks later you get a certificate – with the name YOU PICKED OUT printed on it.”
I think I feared not getting a Cabbage Patch Kid more than dying, and I knew the latter would certainly happen if a Cabbage Patch Kid was not IN MY HANDS instantly.
“John Derek MacDonald.” That was what I was going to name my little son.
Apparently – no two were alike. Each had different hair, different outfits, even different facial features, eye colour, freckles and whatnot.
In the last, stressful weeks before Christmas – I would stare longingly into the pages of the Consumers Distributors catalogue, gazing at the Cabbage Patch Kids with a passion and hunger rivaled ONLY by sterile women with a biological clock, ticking on overdrive.
I wanted a son, dammit. And I was going to get one.
And then – much like a failed attempt to get pregnant – my six year old heart was crushed just a few days away from December 25th.
“I’m so sorry Danny,” my mother said, after returning from a trip to Devonshire Mall. “I saw Santa today. I told him you wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid more than anything…and he said that he felt very bad –he had to turn down a BUNCH of kids this year…there are just none left.”
Bullshit, I wanted to say. If Santa can’t fucking make me one, why the fuck can’t YOU just BUY me one?!?! I wanted to scream this, tears welling in my eyes – but – I was never a temper tantrum-type of kid, so I kept it all inside and silently boiled in my own rage and disappointment.
I would not be a dad.
I would not get a Cabbage Patch Kid.
I was completely missing out.
I was absolutely pulverized with disappointment.
After Christmas, a few spoiled bitches brought their Cabbage Patch Kids to school and I laughed along with the rest of the boys at how stupid they looked.
But at recess, I found myself staring from the monkey bars as little Tara nursed her brand new Cabbage Patch Kid and cradled its adorable little baby head in her arms - and I drooled with jealousy.
She named her new baby Suzi – and adoption papers were on their way.
Fatherhood was a flame and it was burning as crisp as the fires of HELL in my stomach.
Her child was going to be mine.
Period.
That day during our playtime break, while all the other children listened to Anne Murray records and made ridiculous plasticine shapes – I snuck to the back coat closet where all us kids kept our personal belongings, found Tara’s little cubby hole where she stored her most precious possessions - and shoved baby Suzi into the sleeve of my winter jacket.
Had I known the words – I’m sure I would have said something along the lines of: “Now that’s what I’M talkin’ bout! BOOO-YAAAAAA!” – but, my 6 year old lingo didn’t reach that far.
I was just excited to get Suzi home, strip her naked and see if Cabbage Patch dolls came outta the patch anatomically correct.
Of course, little Baby Suzi never made it back to my place for a gruesome game of “doctor with daddy”.
At 10 after 3 – Tara – her rightful mother – had a nervous breakdown of epic proportions.
A search party was sent out for Baby Suzi, with everyone participating.
Except me.
I sat at my desk, completely content in knowing that Suzi was safe and sound in my winter jacket – and would soon be even safer and sounder in my bedroom, where she would live out the rest of her days.
Tara would receive the adoption papers – but they would be of no use to her.
I would claim full parental duties.
Turns out – Baby Suzi – bitch that she is – slipped OUT of my coat and onto the floor.
She was found and returned to her ecstatic mother.
I was furious.
And my thirst for my very own Cabbage Patch Kid increased a tenfold.
I made it very clear that I wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid. More than anything.
The craze at the mall still didn’t die down, because there were thousands of kids just like me – feeling jilted by Santa for not getting one for Christmas.
Cabbage Patch Kids would be on the shelf for mere SECONDS before being scooped up by moms and dads – literally breaking their backs for their children.
But one day – my mom came home with great news.
“Danny,” she began, her voice SMILING. “I just met a lady who has REAL Cabbage Patch Kids! They are BETTER than the ones in the store! They are REAL! She has a whole little orphanage right here in Windsor! And you can adopt one!”
I was ecstatic. I envisioned a glorious field of cabbage, with plump little round faces peering out and me choosing the cutest one.
I was going to be a father.
“A papa.”
I had since changed my mind about having a boy baby…I instead wanted a girl baby.
With red hair.
And blue eyes.
And since each Cabbage Patch Kid was unique – that was exactly what I was going to get.
I was going to name her Lois – after Lois Lane.
Until I saw her.
First off – Cabbage Patch Kids are supposed to have hard, shiny plastic faces, punched in mouthes and puffy cheeks.
Their eyes are supposed to be made of paint, with little life dots sparkling in them.
Their arms are supposed to be made of stuffed nylon, and extended outwards into perma-hug mode.
And their creator – Xavier Roberts – is supposed to have signed each one on the bare ass.
Do you think this supposed “REAL” Cabbage Patch Kid had ANY of those?
No.
She looked like a gremlin, with a red mop thrown on her head.
Her eyes were buttons.
Her face made of pale cotton nylon…no. Wait.
Not nylon.
Pantyhose.
It was flat-out – the ugliest thing I had ever seen in my entire life.
Just before I was about to throw a brat-tastic tantrum, I saw the look on my mom’s face – complete excitement glowing in her eye – and a little something else: Hope – that I would like it, that she didn’t disappoint me.
So, I did what any good, soon-to-be-gay son would do when his mother’s feelings are at stake:
I pretended to LOVE IT.
I fawned over it like it was the cutest thing in the world – like my mother had SERIOUSLY gotten me a REAL Cabbage Patch Kid – and the ones in the store were all fakes.
I believed my own hype!
I did indeed strip her naked – and to my delight – she was anatomically correct: The poorly sewn stitch job all collected in the pit of her crotch in a mess of thread and patches and she looked like what a botched male to female post-op transsexual might look like.
So help me – she had an ANGRY INCH!!
The one thing I changed my mind on was her name.
She didn’t QUITE have what it took in the looks department to carry a name as beautiful as Lois.
So – I changed her name to Gertrude Matilda.
I thought it was an ugly name to suit an ugly doll.
Ugly, but mine.

The odd thing – I never DID get a boxed Cabbage Patch Kid. Not an original one anyway.
I discovered the Bangles – and Gertrude Matilda was later inherited and turned into mince meat by my little sister while I basked in the glow of mid-80’s alterna-pop goddesses.
I did, however – get a VERSION of a Cabbage Patch Kid.
On my 10th birthday – my little sister (4 years old) got a Cabbage Patch Pre-mie (which is supposed to be a baby born too young – so they are extra tiny – yet still fully developed) – and I got a Cabbage Patch Kusa-Kid-Cousin.
In case no one rembers the Cabbage Patch Kusa-Kids – these are just like Cabbage Patch Kids – made by the same company – with the signature Xaivier Roberts tattoo on the ass – except…they are Cabbage Patch Kids crossed with farm animals – so they are products of beastiality.
Mine was a cross between a little boy and a donkey.
Which would make his momma half cabbage, half donkey fucker.
I was ecstatic. A product of barnyard buggery was FAR better than any normal baby, any day of the week.

If I was gonna be a daddy – it could ONLY be with a half-breed of livestock.
I named him Robbie – and had the adoption papers to prove it.
He had brown hair, and blue eyes that sparkled in contrast with his gorgeous skin.
Little floppy plastic donkey ears and a glorious tail.
He was perfect.
And all mine.
Believe it or not – there is a point to all this, in a way.
Sunday – I was over in Detroit shopping.
I walked by the toy section, and something caught my eye.
Two rows of big, bulky boxes with clear plastic windows.
Peering out from the windows were the pudgy, round, plastic, adorable faces of Cabbage Patch Kids – the NEW generation – waiting to be adopted.
A few of the boxes had dust on them.
I stopped and stared at them for a minute and I felt a small little rumble in my stomach.
How insane is it – that to this day – the mere SIGHT of a Cabbage Patch Kid can cause a physical reaction in my gut?
I gave the little fuckers a wink and kept walking.
Their reign of power over us kids MAY be over – but they’ll always have my respect.
If they can – to this day – STILL stir up a reaction in me…then they deserve at least SOME props – cuz the bastards sure as FUCK have some CRAZY staying power.

hearts and cabbage farts,
(ain't those the worst kind?)

Dan

The Tap

Tomorrow night, a legend – of sorts – returns to Windsor Ontario.
The entity. The sleaze-pit. THE place to be on a Tuesday night – for dollar drinks upstairs – and naked hotties downstairs:
The Tap.
It’s back.
Or, so the website says.
They’ve lied to us before about this.
The Tap was one of – if not the– FIRST gay bars in Windsor. It had to be QUITE a place, back when it first opened. I can only imagine a pre-condom, pre-AIDS Happy Tap.
When “gay” was still taboo, when it was looked at as wrong, dirty, even QUESTIONABLE in the eyes of the law...
When it was still cool to rip on gays...
back when guests on Donahue had titles like “John Smith – Admitted Homosexual",
the Tap was alive and thumping (and humping) and I think you only had to take one little peek into that dive-ish “curiously queer” club and the words: “I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore, Toto” – would spring IMMEDIATELY to mind.
As a child – the Happy Tap – (its proper name) was the butt of ALL jokes.
“You’re a fag,” one lovely classmate of mine said, “You belong at the Happy Tap.”
A) how the FUCK did he know I was a fag when we were 8 years old and
B) Yes indeed, I remember thinking – I DO need to get to this bar…but how…and where…and when…?
I recall my first time SEEING the Tap. It was just a little hole in the wall. It was nothing special. My visions of flaming fags and drag queens hanging out the door and engaging in 4-way orgies on the roof: Shattered.
“Perhaps,” I remember thinking, “It’s not even a gay bar.”
Perhaps.
It wasn’t until I was 19 years old, that I was presented with an option – one could call it a life-changing epiphany.
I was hammered, hair freshly bleached white, at Changez By Nite.
We were just a few doors down from the infamous Tap. I was still a closet case at this point…but that closet door…well, it was about to be kicked down.
“Dan,” a few friends asked while I swigged the bottom of my 5 dollar pitcher, “We’re gonna hit the Tap…do you wanna come?”
“OF FUCKING COURSE I DO” I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs.
Instead:
“YUCK?? why the FUCK would you wanna gonna go THERE?!?!”
I had to nurture the fragile illusion that I was straight.
Of course, the illusion only applied to me. See – my hair wasn’t bleached white because I was on a hockey team and it was a right of passage with my buddies.
It was bleach white because I LOVED how smart it looked on Madonna in the Girlie Show tour DVD I had just purchased.
After some very minor twisting of my arm – and after it was CERTAIN and noted that I CLEARLY was not thrilled about going to “THAT BAR” – the four of us – like a group of sexually frustrated out-casts – slowly began to make our way towards the Tap.
A flash of my driver’s license – and I was in.
A cocktail of men’s cologne hit me square in the jaw.
But the scent was laced with something else: Sex.
Raw, sex.
MAN sex.
Kiss by Prince was playing.
The dance floor was full and swaying as one, a literal ocean of faggotry moving in waves set to strobe light like electric SEXUALITY - pure and unbridled.
Women French kissed at their tables. Men grinded each other on the dance floor.
A few hotties had their shirts off – and sure enough – there was a drag queen at the bar, sipping the biggest fucking pink martini I had EVER laid my inexperienced eyes on.
Up to that point, of course.
Now – this all sounds like a pretty typical night out, but keep in mind – I had NEVER been IN a gay bar up to this point. This was sheer, solid GOLD.
I was petrified.
I took a hot shower when I got home and insisted to all my friends – that beyond any shadow of ANY doubt – I was absolutely NOT attracted to ANY of the men there, and I NEVER wanted to be scene in that disgusting place again.
Next week at the Tap – trashed on 2 dollar beers – I fell madly in love with a hockey jock and our torrid affair began.
The Tap became my new Tuesday night hangout.
This old crow named Mary bartended – sweet as pie – and she knew what you were gonna order before you could bark it out.
Speaking of barking – if you fucked her around – she’d give it right back to you full force.
The fags feared her – even the dykes shivered when ole Mary gave them the stare-down.
The Tap was KNOWN for their music, but I have to say - I never cared much for the music at the Tap.
The songs were always long, drawn out remixes, ideal if you are “rolling on e” or just have exquisitely bad taste in music…but for an indie-purist-snob like me, it just didn’t cut the mustard.
Regardless, Tuesday after Tuesday I found myself on the dancefloor, joining the ranks of the other boys, grinding and making out while Paul Oakenfold did his best to slaughter Madonna.
My ears hurt – but dammit – it just felt right.
I toasted my 20th birthday at the Tap.
Did shots of champagne bombs at midnight on new year's eve 1997-1998.
I laughed. I cried.
I puked.
I picked up.
I got dissed down.
I began to take it for granted.
Over the years, the Tap got sleazier and shittier.
I stopped going. Two buck drinks lost their charm.
The last time I set foot in that place – I noticed to my horror (but not surprise) that they installed a Jacuzzi.
You could smell the herpes a quarter mile away – the steam from the Jacuzzi probably made the crabs air-born.
I never went back. Literally. The Tap closed shortly after that, quelle surprise.
And it was probably for the best. Seriously.
It was approaching a level of sleaze only rivaled by FOX television.
Its next incarnation was as “LEGENDS” – a female strip bar for straight men.
For this new incarnation - and in lieu of their new clientele - the wise owners painted the bar bright fucking pink.
Perhaps not the smartest of moves.
Take the most NOTORIOUS gay bar in WINDSOR – in one of the most shiteous neighborhoods – paint it BRIGHT PINK and then wait for the straight ment to flock.
For crying out loud – as a straight peeler bar – the Tap never LOOKED faggier!
And of course - It soon became empty. The lights off…forgotten.
Rumours of the bar opening have erupted here and there over the years.
“It’s opening this week – for sure,” the owners would swear. “We are just waiting on our liquor license.”
But the grand opening date would come and go…and the lights stayed out, the door stayed closed.
Tomorrow night, the Tap is once again promising a GRAND RE-OPENING.
Whether or not it will happen…well…I’ll believe that when I see it.
But I do believe they are sitting on a gold mine.
The Tap had history. It was tough, it held the fags and dykes of this city and Detroit by the hand and guided them straight through the roughest times…
And then – when it went through its own rough time – and got a little sleazy – we ditched her for a flashier face.
I have a feeling there is a certain energy about the Tap...
A buzz that’s been humming in the gay and lesbian and queer identified community for a long time.
Something that has been missing…
The Tap has always been our home – and I think finally - we’re all feeling a little homesick for the real deal.
So here’s to welcoming back the Tap – the most NOTORIOUS bar in the city of roses…
(fingers crossed).

Why I Only Blog On Mondays: A Wednesday Blog

Someone, who will remain 100% nameless recently pointed out the fact that I only blog on Mondays, and posed the eternal question - which can be applied to pretty much ANY single aspect of our lives - including LIFE itself:
"Why?"
The answer:
"Veganism".
It's turned me into a complete and total pussy.
Seriously.
Veganism is destroying my life.
I once revelled in my meat-eating-days-of-youth (can't really say "salad days" here) - guzzling back oceans of beer, sliding the plump meat of chicken wings straight from the bone with my teeth - pounding back double shots of whiskey, doing it up "hynotized-chicken-style" on the dancefloor and then crashing late Sunday night, with Monday morning as my umbrella, to comfort and sheild me and nurse my hangover.
But that was then.
This is now:
Me waking up Monday morning - BEFORE the alarm (6:05am) - glancing out the window and thinking: "YES! It's a clear, sunny, blue sky day! This means I can WALK TO WORK!"
At this point - I'm nearly SHAKING with excitement.
I hop out of bed, skip down the hall while the cat weaves in and out of my steps - and literally BOUNCE into the shower, scrubbing with vigor and enthusiasm.
The simple fact that it was nice enough for me to WALK to WORK actually made me heart pitter-patter.
No hangover.
No work dread.
No wanting to sleep the day away.
How does veganism apply to all of this?
I've trapped myself in a bubble. Vegetarianism and Veganism are cults.
They really are.
I mean, they are harmless - the worst case scenario: You end up doing some time for fire-bombing a KFC or a assaulting a rich snob with a scalped mink.
Other than that: It's a pretty peaceful cult to belong to.
But - you begin to saturate your mind in this peaceful, lovey-dovey, tofu-no-kill-policy-one-with-nature vibe, and it gets in your head.
You begin to brainwash yourself into thinking you are indeed a "nature boy" - and the fact that you eat mounds of tofu and side step ants on the sidewalk means you are slowly merging as one with the earth - and everything is beautiful - even the shitty parts of it - cuz it's all, like, part of the process, man.
(insert smell of marijuana, nag champa incense and patulli here)
And so it began.
My journey into psuedo green-ness, where walking to work, synthetic shoes instead of leather and a sudden respect for bees insues.
All of a sudden - I'm not drinking as much because all I have are green twigs and berries floating around in my system. While twigs and berries are a personal favourite -they don't do much to suck up the alcohol -and in turn - I end up getting shit-faced far faster, and far more severe.
My solution:
I don't drink as much.
Also - no longer eating red meat has taken all the toughness outta me. If I was a well-done steak before, I am merely a fragile grape now.
I get tired far too fast, and find myself ditching the television (who wants to hear about how awful a species us humans are anyway, right?) for a cozy spot in bed, where I can read my book - usually written by another member of my peace loving granola-stoned cult.
Since I am in bed earlier. I get up earlier.
And after a long weekend spent doing NOTHING but taking long leisurely walks EARLY IN THE MORNING - baby-boomer style - I hit the sack early, after going hog-wild on an antioxidant salad and 1/2 a corona - which brings me to a well-rested Monday morning at the crack of dawn.
So, after my charming walk to work, spent nodding at dogs, smiling at cars and making kissy-sucky-sounds at squirrels and birds - I am at work nearly 45 minutes early with some time to kill.
Hence: The blog.
I am supposed to HATE Mondays as a rule.
We all are.
No one likes Mondays.
Boomtown RATS have a fucking ANTHEM about Mondays and how it's just completely acceptible to fucking LOATHE them.
yet, I like them.
So much so, I am compelled to write a little something to everyone - "just cuz".

I no longer resemble the person I once was.
I'm like Jim Morrison without the Mojo.
Prince, minus the stilettos.
Pam Anderson with no dick in her mouth.

Oh my god.
All 3 of those people are or were vegetarians.

But what if there is something to this?
What if - meat really IS a part of the food chain - and it is our primal instinct to eat it - and I am lacking something now - denying my internal "hunter/gatherer" - the innate part of me that craves raw meat, shredding it, devouring it, injesting the essence of the animal who died for my meat loaf?
What if - lacking this "essence" - this "call of the wild" if you will - I am in turn KILLING that part of me off...
The crazed, unpredictible, WILD and decadent spirit we all have.
Destroyed by years of eating food fit for rabbits and elephants - smoking pot - literally snuffing out all my aggression until I'm just a plain, boring, bland lump of...tofu...?

I am attempting to break the cycle - starting now.
Tonight - it's 4 dollar martini night.
I'm getting trashed - on a WEDNESDAY - and I may even splurge a little for dinner.

I'm gonna throw some walnuts in my spring mix salad.
Just for the FUCK of it.

Happy Wednesday brothers and sisters...
Happy FUCKING wednesdays indeed...

Dan

Walking-Slash-Meditating

Happy tramping and traipsing brothers and sisters.
Lately, I've taken to walking to work. It's about a 1/2 hour walk 1 way - which isn't long and epic, but it's more than just a quick trip to the corner store.
I've dropped a couple pounds, which is pretty fucking cool - for starters - but I've noticed something else.
It's like..."The New Marijuana", for me anyway.
Seriously.
It's a half-hour of SHEER meditation. Not to sound all tofu-loving-new-age-hippy...jeez imagine that - but when I finally get to work - my blood is pumping and I feel COMPLETELY ready to go.
Of course, I also chase the walk with a sugar free Red Bull - but hey - the walk HAS to help and every fucker has his own poison, be it coffee or oxy.
I think my little can of Red Bull in the morning passes the "acceptable addiction" test.
I also think it helps that it's just DOING SOMETHING - ALONE.
I seriously think - in order to stay sane - we need to do ONE THING completley alone for at LEAST 1/2 an hour.
Knitting, writing, reading, even just SITTING.
I've never been a meditator - but I have a feeling, just walking and dazing out - but at the same time - THINKING without REALLY thinking about thinking...it's therapeutic.

God, I really need to get some new blogging topics.

Any suggestions?


hearts and...farts...
dan