God bless Halloween, the Gothic Christmas. It is my absolute, bar none, no-holds-barred favorite holiday of the year. Black and Orange everything. Nighttime becomes sacred (for everyone else, finally), ghosts and spooks and the Old Ways, whatever those mean to you, become new again.
Traditions. Halloween has traditions just as solid as any Christmas or Thanksgiving. Sure, it doesn't have its own soundtrack per se (unless you count 101 Scary Sound Effects), nor are shopping malls slavishly devoted to a complete and total make-over in its honour; no. Halloween's traditions are mostly oral. Passed down by word-of-mouth, that is.
What North American family doesn't have some kind of Halloween tradition? (Even if that tradition is avoiding Halloween by going to a church Family Event?
Baking pumpkin pie, roasting pumpkin seeds, candy apples, CARAMEL apples, handing out candy, dressing up, trick-or-treating...it's like an entire evening devoted to sheer fun, like Mardi Gras except everywhere and not just New Orleans.
In Pagan circles, it's Samhain-- (Prounounced SOW-ain, or SAV-een) the New Year. It's when the Male aspect-- the God counterpart to the female Goddess-- completes his journey to the Underworld and becomes its King, until he is born again on the Winter Solstice. (And no, he's not the Devil! Think of it as "spending time in the womb" before being born, you nay-saying nay-sayers!) And it's also the time when the walls between this world and the next are thinnest.
Tonight's the night to honor the dead! To celebrate the ancestors that came before us. Treats? They used to be cakes and drinks left at the crossroads as a feast for the honored dead. Tricks? That's what would happen to you if you snubbed great-grandpa on his special day.
I haven't researched how any of that evolved into what we now have as present-day Halloween-- but wow. Quite the tradition.
How am I celebrating MY tradition tonight? Since my child is too young to know (or care) about any of the weirdness, I'm handing out candy, then going over to Agent ACK's for bevvies and games. Hey, so long as I'm CELEBRATING the day, I'm keeping my Pagan hand in. :)
I got a cocktail kit for my birthday-- all shiny silver-- so every holiday I think of different drinks to make! Huzzah!
Tonight's featured bevvies will be:
Toxic Waste
1 oz. Midori
2 oz. gin or vodka
Mountain Dew
Pour the first two ingredients in a highball (tall glass), preferably frosted, over ice. Top off with the Mountain Dew. Added bonus: the gin makes this cocktail glow under blacklight. You can substitute vodka if you like, but alas, no eerie glow.
Voodoo Daiquiri
It'll put a spell on you!
2 oz. Bourbon
1 oz. Everclear or Vodka
4 oz. Grape Juice
1 cup Crushed ice
Combine Bourbon, Vodka, grape juice and ice into a blender and blend at a medium speed until smooth (15 to 25 seconds). Pour into a chilled hi-ball or Collins glass. Should be served in a plastic cup while in the French Quarter.
Courtesy of Jean Lafitte's Olde BlacksmithShop:
Bourbon Street, New Orleans
Buffy's Vampire Juice
1 1/4 cup cranberry juice
2/5 cup apple juice
1 2/3 tbsp grenadine syrup
2/5 cup vodka (optional)
x ice cubes
x orange slices for garnishing
Put grenadine syrup in a pitcher. Add ice cubes, then pour in the vodka (optional), then the apple and cranberry juice. Pour into cocktail glasses and garnish with a slice of orange.
To all and everyone: Enjoy Halloween. Take part in the Night. Celebrate! Enjoy! And hey-- why not light a candle for the Dearly Departed?
It has snowed. The neighbourhood is covered in a blanket of white, the chill is in the air, nipping at your cheeks, Winter is on the way...
...blah blah friggin' BLAH.
Memo to Mother Nature: Could you not, just ONCE, wait until AFTER Halloween? I know we have to pay the price of living in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains somehow, but does it have to be NOW? Can't we just use November as our Flex Month for Weather Weirdness?
Okay, I know, I know. It's the end of October at a high altitude. What did I expect?
I'll tell you what I'm expecting now: Road accidents. Fender benders. Colds. Flu. Seasonal Affective Disorder. Bulky clothes. An extra ten minutes' preparation to go outside my house, and an extra half an hour lead time to travel anywhere safely.
Wah wah wah. Agent M is out there bawling and wetting his snowsuit.
What happened to the days when snow meant snowballs, skidooing (well, at least in New Brunswick where I was raised), sledding and building snow forts? When did snow become an imposition?
I mean, SNOW DAYS, for godssake. Mini-vacations away from the routine! Huzzah!
Only now I live in fear of denting my precious car, or tracking slush in on my nice clean floor.
My nice clean floor. Hel-LO, when did the Anal Police come and vaccu-suck my SPHINCTER shut?
I try not to be down about Winter. I mean, I AM a Winter-- I look great in black and the deep jeweltones that offset my coloring, accentuating...oh. Not THAT kind of Winter.
There's lots to look forward to, the first and foremost being the FOOD. Ooooh yes, the cozy comforts and cheery smells of homemade soups, apple cider, Wassail, pie, turkey, ham...AW yeah, it's Pack On The Pounds month but that's okay, because it's in ingrained survival method handed down by our ancestors.
(And the plus side is, now that I've done the Atkins diet, I know how to lose those pounds again RIGHT quick.)
In no other season is Staying In so very celebrated. DVD's, Xbox, PC games... entertainment at the fingertips. And if the power goes out, then there's candlelight, board games, cards, indoor campouts.
Yes, there's a lot of positivity to be had during the Winter months. It's just that I'm not the kind of person to look FORWARD to it. If I could spread my tiny wings and fly away, you better believe I'd be a snowbird and fly my ass to sunny Hawaii every year. As it is, every winter I buy some tanning minutes at the local Fake'n'Bake, because the light treatments alone make the grey-and-white world more bearable. And I advise anyone who feels down during the winter to do so, as well.
So when that blanket of white covers the cityscape, it's time to batten down the hatches and come up with a Game Plan, Agents, or else be caught miserable and downtrodden when Old Man Winter comes a-knockin'.
For now, though, I'm buying supplies for my Halloween Cocktails, because by God I'm having a good time on Halloween come Hell or High Snow.
What the hell is up with North East Calgary?
It seems as soon as you cross Centre street heading eastward, Calgary degenerates into some kind of pseudo-industrial wasteland with fast food, strip malls and an airport.
I'm not merely speaking cosmetically, either; there's an entirely different FEEL to that quadrant of the city; in fact, I'd go so far as to say that it's a similar feeling to Edmonton.
Mostly, I only venture into the NorthEast for IKEA. Currently it is the only IKEA store in Calgary-- and like they say, you go where the action is. And IKEA itself is non-denominational: people from all over the city go there. It's not indicative of the NorthEast.
But once I stray from the parking lot of that yellow-and-blue Swedish Mecca, it's a whole different story.
Cigarette smoking increases exponentially. Smiles vanish. Clothes, cars, and buildings degenerate backwards in time by ten years. Sweat pants replace jeans as the couture du jour. SANS underwear, I might add. Men begin to all resemble Hagrid of Harry Potter fame in some form or other. Women take on a plump, pinched look if they're older, while the younger breed resemble Jersey hookers with blond poodles on their heads.
Mullets. Moustaches. Wal-Mart as far as the eye can see. And an all-pervasive ODOR. Agent ACK and I did a murder mystery in the NorthEast last Friday; we couldn't figure out what the smell in the air was. One of the other actresses gave us an arched eybrow look and simply said, "welcome to the NorthEast." In fact, any time she pointed out an I-can't-believe-that-still-EXISTS fixture, building or hairdo, that became the explanation for it. "It's the NorthEast," she'd say, and everyone knew what she meant. Knew it, and FELT it.
The NorthEast is the quadrant with a lot of affordable council housing, lower incomes, blue-collar jobholders, immigrants (both from other countries and Saskatchewan)...not that I'm pinning the feelings I get from the place on any of them specifically... but as I use those phrases to illustrate the area, I believe it paints a picture that you will understand, Agents. Understand and feel just a bit creeped out.
It's seedy. Tawdry. I once stopped at a KFC with a friend of mine and while they were inside ordering, I watched a young woman wheel her toddler up to the fence of a patio bar and shriek like a fishwife at the young man with peach-fuzz moustache sitting on the other side, having a beer with his friends, about his responsibilities to her and their child. I watched, and was saddened. There was no human dignity in the scene; I learned more about them than I ever should have known, and all the while I felt sad for the child who would grow up thinking this was how life was.
Am I an overprivileged yuppie looking down my nose at the lower classes? Not purposely. I was raised middle-class, it's true, and the people I'm observing here are all working class. I'm not judging them. I'm commenting on the spirit that hangs over one particular quadrant-- not neighbourhood, QUADRANT-- of the city, and attempting to illustrate what I feel with what I've seen.
Kids smoking at age 12. The girl next door of the same age thrusting her hips lewdly out at me in a clumsy come-on as I visited a friend. (I was 30 at the time.) Garbage-picking as a popular pastime and serious shopping option. (Another friend of mine was approached by a happy nine-year-old asking if he wanted to go garbage picking with him; he got some great stuff yesterday!)
Depression. Anger. Lack of grace or elegance. The C-Train rushing by right down the middle of the main drag, unsheltered by trees or parks. The sense of life's immediacy, do it now or lose your chance. Underlying desperation.
These are all the impressions I have of the spiritual resonances of the NorthEast. Contrasted with the stable, established paternity of family life in the SouthWest, the urban yuppie expansions of the NorthWest, or the commercial and industrial SouthEast. Why this one quadrant? Why is the NorthEast...evil?
When I go to that area of Calgary, I feel like a knight wading into battle. If I can only survive the JOURNEY to the Enchanted Swedish Castle, I'll be fine. And then only if I get home before dark. It isn't imagined; it's there. All you have to do is open your eyes and see it.
Recently, Agent Brucie wrote an essay entitled "Why I Don't Game Anymore" on his website. I found it to be both revealing and depressing. On the one hand, I share many of his experiences (though not all) and on the other hand, he sounds very bitter and I am anything but-- so how did our experiences differ?
"Gaming" is a generic term for Role Play Gaming, or RPG'ing. For many of us, it started with the classic Dungeons and Dragons game, and among my peers it seems that around junior high is when we all got into it.
Gaming is making believe with your friends, just like you did when you were a kid-- only with slightly more adult themes and where there are rules written down in books to prevent the "I shot you! No you didn't! Yes I did!" arguments of childhood. Except they don't always, but some things never change.
Gaming is also an escape-- to the worlds of fantasy where one can pound out their frustrations on orcs, trolls, supervillains, monsters of every description, or that evil pharmacist down the street. It's a way to relax, to indulge, to express oneself and even to discover new things about oneself.
I started gaming in junior high; I discovered this "Dungeons and Dragons" thing and invited myself along to a lunch-hour game. By the end of it, I was making up a character. And I gamed most lunch hours with that group; we would request a classroom from one of our teachers and game quietly in there.
We never gamed over weekends; it was just something we did at school. Any gaming I did extra-curricularly was sporadic. It wasn't until high school, where I started a different group, that I began to really pursue it. These were dedicated gamers; no mere junior-high experimenters, these guys had SEEN and DONE and knew what they wanted.
That summer, the summer between Grade 10 and Grade 11, I would bike from my place in Edgemont down to my buddy's house in Brentwood, about a 7k ride, to game ALL DAY, EVERY DAY. We all made our way there, and gamed like mushrooms in his cool dark basement for a whole summer. And we did everything together; we went en masse to our first sci-fi convention, where I met yet OTHER gamers...and so on.
Next year, Grade 11, was when I started to drift away-- and by that, I mean emotionally, as a person. I began seeking to use gaming as an escape from depression; teen angst plus hormonal imbalance making my life an otherwise unliveable hell.
I skipped a lot of school to game. Or rather, gaming was what I did when I skipped school; the only way, it seemed, that I could bear what currently passed for my life.
Do I regret skipping all that school? Yes. Over time, I began to feel sick every time I blew off a day; like a junkie who over-uses his drug of choice, the "highs" got fewer and farther between until I was gaming just to feel "normal." And always in the back of my mind was "where is your life going? What are you going to do?"
Eventually, I shook it off. Was gaming the problem? No. As I said, it was what I did to escape; the factors that led to me NEEDING to escape were the problem.
In fact, if not for gaming, I might not be here to write this. I'm serious; that was a hard time for me and the "escape" of roleplaying made it bearable.
And, as inevitably happens when one survives one's teen years, I grew up. And you know what? I still game. Oh sure, I can't do marathon week-long sessions of all-night junk food frenzy roleplaying, but I've had a once-a-week game with Mrs. M (Yes, my WIFE games. I realize that married gamers are in the minority, but here we are.) and our friend Rob since 1995.
We game responsibly. We game socially. And we are interested about our games, and we talk "in character" about things we'd like to do in game-- but it never stops us from experiencing life.
I took a basic ballet course because of gaming. I had a character who was a dancer and thought it would be neat to learn. Gaming also gave me the confidence (and practice!) to pursue acting as a career.
Yes, it has a dark, addictive side. When one finds oneself spending more time pretending than living, it's time for a reality check. And when one is seeking to escape rather than face one's problems and make a serious change in one's life, perhaps it's time for someone else to stage an intervention.
I don't regret being a gamer. I don't regret spending time pretending; it didn't impact me socially-- I'm still one of the most social people I know. I have several circles of friends, a wife and son, I travel, I continue to pursue education in several interests-- and yet I still game.
So, I have to say that gaming isn't a problem. The problem lies in what one chooses to do with it.
Either I have a short attention span or my ability to juge my situation is lacking. I was about to walk out of the house yesterday, wearing my old brown jeans and a baggy t-shirt.
Mrs. M stopped me. "Are you going out in that?" she asked. Not a judgement, just a reminder. And I stopped cold.
Did I not JUST post an entry about changing my image? Did I not just rave about how inspired I was, to have a goal for improving my self-image, to put some effort into how I looked? To raise the bar, kick things up a notch, BAM?
"...I WANT to clean up my house, re-arrange things, and "straighten up" -- pardon the pun-- my wardrobe. I want to get rid of all my schleppy jeans and baggy sweaters and create a frickin' LOOK. Take some friggin' PRIDE in myself."
Was I kidding myself? Or did I just stop paying attention?
In my mind, I was only going across town to drop off a cheque in someone's mailbox. I wasn't even going to be out of the CAR that long. So in my mind, not worth dressing up.
But that's the whole point; leaving the house? WORTH dressing up. (Except this morning when I had to return two DVD's to the video store before they opened. I'm not even really awake at that time; I'm not going to dress up for THAT. So yeah, there's a little bit of leeway here.)
So I hauled my butt back upstairs, threw off those old jeans and comfy t-shirt, and put together an outfit I could wear outside and be ready for any occasion. I chose basic black. I made sure my hair was coiffed with product. I even used a little fragrance ('Spray, Delay, then Walk Away') and -- yes -- I went back for a second juge.
Feeling confident now, I went downstairs. Yes! The look on Mrs. M's face told me all I needed to know. I can create a "Wow" when I want to.
(I got a WOW from Mrs. ACK later on, although she was overwhelmed by the extensive use of BLACK. Well, that's what happens when you don't have a wardrobe YET. I'm working on it. "One does want a hint of color." -- Albert, The Birdcage.)
Point is, I looked good and I felt good and I had made the effort to follow my own damn advice-- even if I needed to be reminded to do it. But that reminder served, in turn, to remind me why I wanted to make the effort in the first place: It just FEELS good. Taking the mundane and making it just a little better. Making just that much more effort. It's like working out; while you probably won't DIE if you don't, you feel so much better about yourself when you do.
And although there could be some argument as to just how much fashion and a decent hairdo can affect your health, I'll say this: It sure as hell improves my mood. And that, as Martha herself might say, is a Good Thing.
I just have to remind myself that when I have these ideas, I really should follow through with them. Practice what I preach. Because practice, kids, really does make perfect.
The Lonely are pissing me off.
And no, I don't mean "The Lonely Ones" like some of you gothed-out Vampire-lovers assume I mean. I'm talking about the LITERAL Lonely, the folks that are Desperately Seeking companionship on the Internet...and doing it all wrong.
First of all, if you're desperate, could you at least have the decency to sound desperate? Instead of just telling us what you're looking for and leaving it at that? I mean, you're desperate-- why should your future possible love interest have to do all the work?
And this is what it really boils down to: I know the Internet makes it easier to find a date by blanketing your favourite chatrooms with your physical and sexual statistics and a little blurb about yourself. So of course you're going to post everywhere you can, as often as you can.
But could you PLEASE at least make a modicum of EFFORT in attempting to make yourself sound even REMOTELY attractive?
You lazy bastards. You put down a bare minimum of information about yourself, but are very specific about how this ROBOT of a potential love interest of yours is supposed to act. It's like seeing an ad for "petite women, no one over 120 pounds" and picturing the guy as a 300 pound slob. Oh sure, no problem with HIM being huge, after all, there's more of him to love, right?
It's just so damn one-sided. You losers-- and by losers I mean you have LOST ANY HOPE of ever having a relationship, thus the "lose" part-- just sit there, typing (the BARE MINIMUM of typing!) your wants and letting it loose on the ether, expecting your dream date to squeal with delight at your twelve words or less and email you saying: "You are PERFECT in every way, let's get together and don't keep me waiting a second longer for your hot Llama love!"
...or, y'know, words to that effect.
I'm not actually on the dating scene. Last I checked, I was still happily married. But of course you can't surf anywhere online without bumping over one of The Lonely, adrift like the flotsam they are, in the middle of your cyber-wave.
And I'm offended by them. I'm offended on behalf of the singles out there who are seriously looking to find a compatible mate using the Internet as a tool, and all they find are...well...tools.
"S/W/M 42 Br/Br 285 likes being whipped. You: Blonde, blue, 22, 110 lbs mean leather momma call me NOW."
What the hell is THAT? And that's not even one of the bad ones-- which I won't print here because their "wants" are a little TOO specific-- but where in there is anything that is remotely interesting to the OTHER PERSON? Great, tubbo, I'm glad you know what YOU want but what makes you someone I would bother finding out about?
Crying out LOUD, Lonely. Make some EFFORT. Spruce it UP, it's the INTERNET. TELL about yourself. ELUCIDATE. Give something that someone could actually have an interest in! Don't be such a lazy friggin' slug.
I mean, explain this to me: You're single. You're lonely. And you're not doing EVERYTHING in your power to make yourself attractive? Just a couple of lines on your screen? What's that in aid of? Is it some kind of "placeholder" while you surf for porn?
That must be it. VIRTUAL people are always more sexy than REAL people, right? So you put some half-assed fantasy online just in case you get a nibble, like some lazy mountain man who fishes by tying a bobber to his toe, laying back and snoozing-- while you make up fantasies by searching for your Dream Date on porno sites.
And hey, if an actual REAL PERSON emails you with "u sound grate! letz hook up!" well then, it's win-win, right?
Lazy Bastards, I despise you. I despise that you clutter up the cyberwaves with your hulking, lifeless bodies (lifeless except for your GROINS, it seems) and just expect everything to be done FOR you. I despise that you actually WHINE about being lonely when you make no effort to improve your situation. My greatest consolation is that, over time, your kind will be erased from the genepool since you are, in fact, a social dead end who will never have the opportunity to breed.
Do the species a favor, Lonely. STAY alone. DIE alone. And make more room for the rest of us.
Oh, and for the rest of you out there who are really, honestly TRYING? If you're men, please, for the love of God, read what my friend Mike has to say.
It's such a funny industry, this pulp-fiction cartoon funnybook one. Comic Books. The very words immediately evoke pale, introverted teenagers escaping the surly bonds of everyday with their heroes in tights or their deep Goth angsty Neil Gaiman mythologies.
And I love them. The comic books, I mean.
I have to thank my friend David McKinney for my love of comics; he was my best friend in the seventh grade and, if not for a tussle we had where I broke my arm on his bicep (it's an odd story. I'll tell it some other time), I wouldn't have had my arm in a cast that summer and therefore wouldn't have read so many comics to pass the time.
Up until then, sure I'd seen comics at the local corner store in the "Hey Kids! Comics!" rack, but I hadn't paid them too much attention. To me, comics were little bits of fluff with self-contained stories which had running gags or short punchline-oriented strips.
Well, most of my exposure to that point had been Archie comics, Richie Rich, and other Gold Key treasures for kids.
But when you're stuck in a cast all summer and everyone else is going swimming, there's not a lot to do but read. So my parents took me to the store and bade me snag a whole bunch of comics.
I still remember some of them: House of Mystery, Captain Carrot and his Amazing Zoo Crew, and Alpha Flight #1. I remember being frustrated because the stories ended with cliffhangers; but a week later, I saw NEW issues at the store and lo and behold, the stories continued!
What? Comic books were SERIAL stories? Hot DAMN.
From that point on, I was hooked. I could follow characters month-to-month through their trials and triumphs; could empathize with them, escape with them, be mesmerized and fascinated by them.
Comics are a world. They are an immersive universe that, once you open the book, you are sucked into. You are INVOLVED. You are entranced. ...or at least, *I* am. And, I think, all true comics fans are.
Because there's a lot to be a fan about. There's creativity. Surprises. Transcendence as well as trash. And one can share all one's observations with others.
I was 13 when I had my life-changing arm breakage; I have been devoted to comics ever since. Twice I've had to leave comics behind as my budget forbade me to indulge my habit; but here and there I manage to continue my exposure, whether borrowing from friends or discussing online.
I want to LIVE comics. I want to write them. Help CREATE them. I have already been published with my first-ever story, done jointly with Mrs. M, entitled "Social Obligations." It was published in a furry comic called FURRLOUGH, in issue #78. I proved that yes, I could write a script and get it out there.
Mind you, furry comics aren't exactly hard to get into. Semi-literacy and funny animals is all it takes. Talent...not so much.
So my goal now is to get some scripts ready for Marvel and DC. Or really, any larger comic company. Dark Horse. Wildstorm. America's Best. Whoever will have me, that I can create for. Anyone who will give me a membership card to this world, this universe, these MULTIverses of comics industry.
Kevin Smith. Alan Moore. Neil Gaiman. Peter David. These are my heroes. These are the giants. These are the guys I want to be hanging out with; but more precisely, these are the guys whose league I want to be in. To be equals with my heroes. Imagine sitting at the same table as the creator of Watchmen and V for Vendetta. Imagine talking to some of the creators of the original Super Heroes. The people who INVENTED the over-the-counterculture.
It's a heady thought. And all it will take is a little perseverance on my part.
Comics. They've been a part of my life so long I can't imagine the world without them. Moreover, I can't imagine not wanting to MAKE comics. I think every fan must at some point want to do the same; Mike and Kyle got accosted by some "writer" at the comic store asking for their business cards-- because he was writing a comic and hey, would they illustrate it?
And I've got to be more on the ball than THAT guy. I've got to be more serious, LESS lazy, MORE perseverant, and I have to WANT it more than just wishing. And I think I do. I mean, I've DONE it already. I have had a measure of success-- breaking the barrier of First Publication-- and have since done three self-published print comics for a niche market which have paid the bills and mortgage; hell, isn't THAT comics? Black and White self-publishing? Lookit me, I'm the 80's alternative comics boom baby, dancing in the fallout.
If you haven't read comics in a long time, stop by your local comic store again. See what you're missing. If you haven't read comics EVER-- Good GOD-- stop by that store and grab yourself a trade-paperback graphic novel, and start at the beginning of a story. ANY story. Treat yourself to rich, visual storytelling. See how deep you can go. Because baby, the talent pool is deep-- and the water's fine.
Queer Eye For the Straight Guy.
It's going to be an absolute PHENOMENON, I can tell. A reality show on Bravo, it combines Trading Spaces with Martha Stewart with The Bachelor.
Sort of.
Five gay men, each with their own particular expertise-- Food & Wine, Hair, Culture, Interior Decorating, Fashion-- travel to a straight guy's house and give his entire life a makeover.
I can hear sphincters slamming shut even as I type this-- but damn, folks, the show is GOOD. It's fun without being WAY over the top. And, for me, it's inspirational.
These guys are amazing. They have a flair, a panache, and an agenda.
And no, it's not the GAY agenda. That's the most amazing thing about this show: They're not out to turn STRAIGHT men GAY, they're out to clean them the hell up.
Too often, straight guys are Martha'd and Oprah'ed to death and so they run screaming from gentrification fearing that women will turn them into sissies.
Don't ask me how, but for some reason being "spruced up" by another MAN is okay-- even if the man is a self-proclaimed Queer.
Carson, the most over-the-top of the Fab Five, is the faggiest fashioneer to hit the small screen in a long time-- but even his kitschy queerisms work in the context of giving the show's weekly target a fashion makeover that not only looks great, but actually works within the straight guy's motif.
Kyan is all about the hair. And he never goes overboard; never gets chop-happy or streak-crazy; he makes it work. And does it in such a way that a real live person could actually DEAL with it day after day, because let's face it-- men want to just run a comb through it and GO.
Thom is an interior decorator after my own heart; he and I see eye-to-queer-eye on a lot of things. Again, he doesn't tart up some poor schlep's house to 90210 standards; he draws out the guy's personality and reflects it all over the walls. Expressing the guy as he would be if he knew how to express himself in his home, without changing anything about who the guy is. THAT'S talent.
Jai is the Culture Vulture-- he's hip and hot and knows how to set a mood and fit in. Sometimes, the poor straight guy of the week is just plain clueless-- well, there are people to dress you and do your hair, but who's going to tell you what's going ON? That's Jai. And once again, he tailors to the person, not to himself.
Finally, we have Ted-- possibly the straightest Queer guy I've ever seen. He is the food and wine conoisseur. Throw away the fried chicken, guys-- here's how to do quick and easy meals (the Straight Guy's STAPLE) that have a touch of elegance. And yes, you guessed it-- meals that the average Joe could actually MAKE.
The show is involved, taking you from start to finish, slob to superb-- but here's the kicker! The cast sit back and WATCH to see if their expertise has taken hold. From their kicky loft headquarters (designed by Thom himself) they observe the straight subject on their plasma TV and offer comments as he goes through what they've taught him. From his first gallery showing, to trying to get his girlfriend to move in, they tailor their advice to the guy's goal. And they succeed. FABULOUSLY.
The show is rounded out by little tips and tricks from each expert on how you, too, can improve your life in little ways. How to cook fish: Six ounces at ten minutes at four hundred degrees. Works for almost ANY fish you can buy. Quick little tip to make it work. How's that for handy?
Why does this show sing to me? Simple. I am the Queer Eye Guy. While none of my friends would ever accuse me of being butch, yes I'm married to a woman and we're doing fine THANK you-- yet still, I'm the guy with interior decorating tips, fashion accessory and fitting advice, and "for the love of god FIX THAT" grooming notes.
My friend Mike (who I took shopping for leather pants and critiqued as he tried on-- he was doing squats for me to juge the give of the leather by the end) has referred to me as "RENT-A-FAG!" Just dial 22-FLAME and he'll be over in a SWISH!" And it's true. I will reorganize your kitchen. I will clean your bathroom.
In the case of my friend Agent ACK, I helped him and his wife pick out a palette for their new house. I've done it for other friends. Color coordinating, Fashion Do's and Oh-HELL-No's. I'm there. I GET it. And now there's a show all about my life.
"Are you superheroes?" "No ma'am, we're just gay men." Pretty much the story of my existence, except for the fact that I am not, in fact, a practicing homosexual. Not that that ever stopped any straight guy from applying the label to me-- because what straight guy actually LIKES shopping, color palettes and kitchen stores?
There's another effect Queer Eye has wrought in my life: Inspiration. I see the show and I WANT to clean up my house, re-arrange things, and "straighten up" -- pardon the pun-- my wardrobe. I want to get rid of all my schleppy jeans and baggy sweaters and create a frickin' LOOK. Take some friggin' PRIDE in myself. Because, really, that's all the Fab Five want. For the straight guys-- who have too long been socialized to act, dress and eat like cavemen-- to kick it up a notch or ten.
God bless you, Fab Five. I love you. And no, not that way-- but to me, you ARE superheroes. My favorite scene in the opening sequence is when they walk down a black-and-white street, turning it into fabulous colour. Because isn't that what we should all do, every day? Bring the happiness. Bring the zest. Bring the cool!
I predict that, before the show is over, our culture is going to owe a great debt of gratitude to Queer Eye and the Fab Five. And why not? They're making the flat and familiar FABULOUS.
In Calgary, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy airs Saturday at 9:45 and Sunday at 6:00 pm on Bravo.
I'm conflicted.
I had it in mind to do this marvelously scathing rant about the names people pick for their children, based on a ludicrous example I had recently discovered being perpetrated on unsuspecting offspring-- but, as a new parent myself, and considering some of the doozies *I* had in mind to name my progeny, I realized that perhaps Mr. Pot and Mr. Kettle were too similar in color for comfort.
Mike of Mikeintosh.net had some valid things to say: "While names are a means of individual expression, it's not your individual that's being expressed, it's your kid's."
Meaning, of course, that naming your child something that expresses YOU isn't fair to THEM. They're NOT you. Sure, they're a part of you-- but what about their own individuality?
The event that prompted me to start thinking this was a fannish, sci-fi geek gaming couple announced they were having a baby. They already had one daughter, Gamera Rose.
Seeing that name in print, it didn't click. The mother's name was Lute, and she's Scandinavian (I think) and so I just assumed that Gamera was her grandmother's name or something.
Some of you are laughing already because you already see the joke. I didn't, until the couple announced that they were having a baby boy and had already come up with a name for him: Rodan.
THEN it clicked. Gamera and Rodan. The Giant Turtle and the Robot from GODZILLA, kids. B-Movie Sci-Fi-- and B-Movie Sci-Fi VILLAINS, at that!!
My mind almost melted. These are names you give to GERBILS or DOGS, or hey, wacky idea-- TURTLES-- not to human children.
I was furious. I was inCENSED. I was-- I was--
I was looking LONG and hard into the mirror.
See, when I was 25 or so, "Rain Myrddin" seemed like a great name for a boy. And hey, "Brenwyn Brigid" seemed oh-so-Celtishly appropriate for a girl.
Thank god I didn't have children THEN.
Now, I have a son, Peter Michael. And sure, that's all normal and nice and underneath the radar, but I really liked "Piper" as a girl's name. And I WISH, if Peter ends up having a little sister, that I could name her that. But now I can't.
There would be leniency if we'd had twins-- boy and girl, Peter and Piper -- because you can get away with the cutesy matching names then. But among just basic siblings, no. Peter and Piper become too damn precious to the point where you should really consider why you hate your children enough to forever damn them to a life of picking pecks of pickled peppers.
And yet, now Mrs. M and I are really liking Zephyr. For a boy. Zeph for short. It's like Jeff, right? Only with a Z.
...and suddenly I'm feeling not so sure of myself. Not so Name-Vigilante-On-High.
I mean, I know someone who theoretically WOULD name a son "Vladimir Octavius," and I want to tell him he's insane.
But if I had a Zephyr James-- I mean, could I point that finger? Could I honestly say, "YOU'RE crazy, but I'M poetic?"
Where's the line? Where does one cross over from creative to What The Hell Were You Thinking?
If your last name is Bush, don't name your daughter Rose. Or Free, for that matter. Seems to be common sense. But people still do. They still go for the cute, the funny, the tribute to popular culture (I shudder to think of how many Aragorns, Frodos, Merrys and Pippins are being born as we speak) and they assign these names to kids for the rest of their lives.
Sure, the kids can change their names when they get older; but that's not the point. They still had to go through childhood and school and peer pressure with the name Draven Ryu, or Damien Nightshade or fricking Rodan Gojira.
Where is the line?
I WANT to be creative and expressive with my child's name, to give it meaning-- yes, to me but also to them-- but I'm conflicted now. Should all kids be named John, Jack, Mary and Jane?
HELL no.
But for god's sake-- what do I do about this?
I heard a really good baseline for naming your child. If you can see yourself shouting it repeatedly across a playground, you're good. Seems pretty reasonable to me. If you can see yourself using first-middle-last in an imperious tone when you want to discipline or get the child's attention, that's pretty good too.
If, however, you snicker, get embarrassed, or would rather other people didn't hear-- or if they look at you funny-- perhaps not.
Weigh in on this. It seems pretty subjective to me; but then, what a name does to a kid once you lay it on them will pretty damn sure subjectively shape THEM. (Are there ANY thin girls named Marge?)
Let's talk about it; and for god's sake, think before you name at random. Practice Safe Naming.
Had my inaugural blogmeet of cowtownbloggers last night. As expected, it was pretty much just me, Mikeintosh, and Rook. Good thing I followed my own advice and made sure there would be at least one other person there that I knew.
God bless Mike of Sublimate (God, ANOTHER ONE) for showing up. He was quiet and reserved but stuck it out with my endless manic yattering in the face of tag-team caffeinated encouragement on Mikeintosh and Joel's part.
 |
| Joel (Rook) and Mike (Mikeintosh). |
In this case, blogging. These are all people with something to say, even if only to tell us about their day. Does it follow that they would divest themselves of the virtual trappings of cyberspace and come to meet the other faces behind these words on a screen? Apparently not.
Understand that this is not an accusation of any kind; merely a disappointment for someone who, like me, is intrigued at getting to know the people behind the words.
The evening was very fun, however; I had prepared myself for just doing coffee with Mikeintosh, which would have been fine-- and then Rook showed up. And I need to tell you all right now, the man can keep a conversation going. He is the one you want to invite to your parties. The guy you find in the kitchen discussing anything from Sartre to SpongeBob. He is a Social Coordinator's DREAM.
Oh, yes-- I am the social coordinator for cowtownbloggers. What does that mean? It means I set a time and date and say "Hey, show up." Not too too much effort on my part-- but someone has to do it, and given my fascination with people who share my interests, I'm more than happy to fill the role.
I wasn't too sure what Mike made of all the insanity. Rook, Mikeintosh and I all had the benefit of knowing each other previously; I hope that Mike didn't find it too cliquish. He stayed, though, and occasionally interspersed his quiet, personal thoughts-- and didn't leave until the rest of us did, which to me conveys at the very least a lack of discomfort.
There was one harrowing moment where Rook choked on some tea-- and then blacked out. It was one of those moments-- the freaky kind-- where for a half-second I thought he was joking only to realize to my horror that he was not.
 |
| Michael (Agent M) and Mike (Mike). |
Now that most of my peers are in their thirties, the tiny little flashes of the Grim Reaper that appear, burning into the retinas of your mind with images of your red-faced friend slumped forward, chin on his chest, beard matted with drool-- these are moments where you get a glimpse into the chinks in your so-called immortality armour.
Profound insights of this nature can be yours, all by attending an innocuous little blogmeet.
Therefore, I would definitely mark this down as a success-- if only because three out of the four people seemed to DEFINITELY enjoy themselves, with the other person being at least in the "I didn't hate it" category. And hey-- a near-death experience with no lasting consequences other than the momentary loosening of my bladder makes for a well-rounded night out.
And yes, I will do this again. I think once a month is a good amount-- and if more people aren't interested, I at least can have fun with the folks I know, right?
I got the biggest happy warm feeling today.
No, I didn't wet my pants in public.
It was this innocuous thing: Mikeintosh drew The Spanker from my online comic, Diaperman. He and I had created the character a long time ago; and after our big fight of a few years ago he stopped drawing the comic.
Since then I've had other artists drawing it, but it hasn't been the same; when you create something with another person, there's always something of them that is part of its foundation.
Recently, I asked Mike for help with the newest script I'm writing for Diaperman. I had all the facts for the script, but none of the funny; it used to be that the jokes would come from Mike and I spitballing ideas back and forth-- I would tell the story that I had in mind and he would "riff" it, making jokes about it-- and I'd work those into the story. This would also set ME off, until we'd have whole joke storylines that I'd then have to pare down for the funny stuff but still keep a meat-and-potatoes plotline going.
Today, out of the blue, he drew The Spanker, the villain of the story, which we always identified as his "persona" while Diaperman was mine. In essence, it was cartoon Mike and cartoon Michael acting out wacky hijinks starring thinly-veiled sendups of our friends and other people we knew.
That all ended when Mike and I stopped speaking. I still did the comic, but it didn't have that two-wacky-friends-putting-one-over-on-the-world feel.
Then, today, he drew his character again. Out of the blue. And it made me feel...really, really good. He called it "revisiting an old friend." And that is very much how I felt upon seeing the drawing. It reminded me of how it used to be; the good parts of the fun and the sassiness of it all. And that made me feel inexplicably happy, gratified and sucky all at the same time.
It was almost like a return to innocence. And hey, Diaperman's all about innocence-- and The Spanker's constant frustration with such a naïve worldview. It was sharing the joke again-- a joke that we've been tentatively speaking bits of, little by little.
Today felt like a door opened. And I know that some of you out there, maybe even Mike himself, will say "For the love of GOD, man, it was just a DRAWING," but it meant a lot to me to see it. And I just wanted to share.
I'll post the drawing or a link to it when it's done. Just made me happy, is all. Zip-a-dee-friggin' DOO DAH.
In 1985, on the Friday of Thanksgiving Weekend, I left my high school, caught the bus downtown and boarded a Greyhound Bus to Red Deer, Alberta.
I was sixteen, and so TOTALLY adult because I had arranged a trip out of town all on my own, found my own transportation and arranged my own accomodation with a group of friends.
I was the CUTTING EDGE of independent. AW yeah.
I was even armed with snacks and cans of Root Beer from my cafeteria job at the school. Perks, kids.
Eighteen years ago today. WOW.
The event was NONCon-- the Albera Regional Science Fiction Convention. That magic time of yesteryear when going to a sci-fi con was a Big Deal. Where everyone wandered the halls in costume, where every other room was a fan club's room decorated in "theme", prompting one to visit after con programming shut down for the day; where evening socials and dances and contests made the entire hotel ring merry for three incredible days of fantasy and science fiction devotionals.
And also, where nine people can share one hotel room.
We were all around sixteen, and we were all poor. It's a kind of fun all its own.
And it was in that room of nine people including myself that I met Tony Whalen, aka Agent CK-- ACK for short.
I remember how we met; I heard the strains of Dire Straits' Money for Nothing blaring down the hall as, in through the open door to our room, walked some heavy-metal banger in aviator sunglasses, sprayed-on jeans, hair out to there (in Lionel Richie curls) and black Teen Turf t-shirt, carrying a suitcase, a ghetto blaster (remember when BIGGER was BETTER, kids?) and a wax skull on a black staff.
He was introduced as Steve's Friend Tony, the kind of introduction you get when you're at a party with too many people. All you need to remember is whose friend a guy is, and then you can ask your friend to remind you of his name later.
Within five minutes he had found out that five of us were ElfQuest fans and proudly proclaimed that the skull on his black staff was, in fact, an elf skull. Five of us growled, wolflike, at him-- which shut him up and made me laugh. I didn't think he was a dick-- just dumb. :) And besides, we outnumbered him.
The first night of the con was just rockin'. People to see and things to do. I remember hanging out in the ElfQuest suite which was put on by friends from Yorkton, Saskatchewan. And dancing. And greeting people. And milling about in the lobby. And drinking COPIOUS amounts of Root Beer.
By the end of the evening, Steve's Friend Tony was asking us about ElfQuest and if he could be an elf, too.
Ah, the bliss of sharing the game with the other kids.
Tony became "Quicksilver," (I was "Tempest" and Steve was "Whitefall" and so on) and we had a hell of a time, howling at the moon like wolves and swimming naked in the "clothing-optional" after-hours swimming pool.
It's funny how some friendships just RING immediately with the tolling bell of destiny. I was supposed to leave on Sunday, but by Sunday afternoon Steve's Friend Tony, now just Tony or Quicksilver, was telling me I had to stay over one more night. And I had only budgeted until Sunday; so he and Steve chipped in to "keep me" until Monday, when the three of us went back on the Greyhound together.
Tony would decided to "keep me" many times over our friendship; but it would take to long to tell. Suffice it to say that when one friend has a car and another friend doesn't, the friend WITH the car decides who gets a ride home and who stays over.
"I'm keeping you." How many times did I hear THAT?
Tony and I got into everything together. I was usually the one that went "Look, neat thing neat thing neat thing!" And generally I stayed with it longer than he did; although he was the one that introduced me to Star Trek fandom and, curiously, it was his enrollment into Broadcasting at Mount Royal College that gave me MY start in voice-over work.
(Most of what I've learned in professional voicing, kids, Tony and I did for FUN while he was at college.)
We did everything together for a while; always doin' stuff because he had the apartment and I just invited the gang over all the time. :) Sorry, bro. :) Then, as is inevitable, we went our separate ways with separate lives; always in touch, just not always frequently. It's a part of growing up; doing your own thing.
We got married about five years apart from each other, and were in each other's wedding party. He wore tights for mine and I dyed my hair blond for his. We knew each other's parents well enough to imitate them to each other. We fought-- sometimes over ridiculous things like how to hold a video camera properly (the guy at the video store TOLD ME it goes this way!) and, even when we weren't speaking to each other, somehow always managed to make up.
People thought we were brothers. It was a nose and eyebrows thing. And when we both married redheads, people thought ... well, I don't know what they thought except that it was weird. :)
We finish each other's sentences. We both have the same aptitude for video games and we remember the same music-- although our tastes vary a bit. And we each have a pipeline into the other's brain. I can hum one tiny bit of a tune and then the entire song leaps into Tony's head and won't go away. Same with annoying commercials.
Too, we always joked about how we'd be these old men, Statler and Waldorf-esque, living next door to each other and yelling at the damn kids to get off the lawn. And today, we live seven doors down from each other and can beam laser light from our laser pointers into each other's living rooms.
And today, it will have been eighteen years since the merry madness began. I bought Tony a ring to commemorate the event; it was from Toys "R" Us, and cost me a quarter from a vending machine. It says it all: I love you, in a cheesy, schmaltzy, cartoony way. But it's still a ring, still a symbol. And a great source of giggling.
So here's to you, Tony, my OTHER wife. And I'm thinking we still need to have t-shirts made:
"Yes, I'm married. No, not to HIM." With an arrow pointing at the other guy.
Happy Anniversary, buddy.
In the corporate industry, there are the folks that make things work. These are the ones I deal with when I go to do voice-over stuff. The ones that represent the client, the ones who come to listen to my take on their commercial or what-have-you.
These are the folks behind the scenes.
And they're not like the folks behind the scenes on a feature film. No no. These are corporate folks.
And yet, they're not at ALL like how you may picture "corporate folks."
When I did my voice-over yesterday, the client was seated in the sound studio watching the proceedings with me in the sound booth, and the studio folks running the soundboard in the studio itself.
From my vantage point under glass with headphones on, I couldn't tell the difference between the sound studio guys -- with their jeans, casual t-shirt-and-flannel, with adorning baseball caps-- and the client, with relaxed, long untucked shirts, comfy Old Navy jeans, and (in the case of the woman) "easy-fit" skirt, Haggar buttondown shirt (also untucked) and relaxed calf-high boots with platform heels.
A far cry from the Uptightitude which seems so often to be the hallmark of the Downtown Suit world.
Perhaps it's because they're in the Creative department: the people responsible for coming up with the ads and making sure they're done right. My impression is that those people all seem to be young and hip, as if they were deliberately selected from the Calgary Marketing School of Urban Hip Groove.
In any case, it really put me at my ease. It made me feel like we were all one team, sharing our Starbucks coffee (yes, they actually made a Starbucks run-- the catered coffee in the staff room wasn't GOOD enough) and being hip and trendy together while everyone else worked in cubicles.
As I said in my magic mornings entry, there's definitely a feeling of Getting Away With Something in this business. I'm not saying everyone doesn't work hard-- but they work hard for THEMSELVES, it seems, rather than The Man. No cubicles-- well, except the sound booth itself-- no fluorescents. And hey, the office and studio are completely Macintosh based. What says "relaxed, creative atmosphere" more than a proliferation of Macs?
And sure, you'd expect that from the TALENT-- we're all supposed to be flaky, weird, screw-your-workaday-WORLD-maaaan types. But these are the people that set all that up and make it happen.
And they're pretty cool too.
M
Oh My God.
And when I say that, I do mean MY God. Not yours, not anyone else's, just mine. Male or Female, singular or plural, it doesn't matter to anyone but me. Oh. MY. God.
And I take ownership of that because my beliefs are my beliefs. I don't try to preach, proselytize or convert others.
Which is why, of course, I am utterly offended when others attempt to do the same to me.
I just got off the phone with a telephone solicitor calling me about an exciting new book series I should take advantage of. It's called "The Christians." It's by Ted Byfield.
For those of you that are unaware, Ted Byfield was an editor with Alberta Report, which ended over 30 years of publication in June of this year. It was billed as "Christian Conservative" journalism-- which is putting it mildly.
I always had the impression that Byfield's Report was just on the quiet side of a near-cultish devotion to Christ that reflected poorly on Alberta and Albertan Christians by making them all seem like, not to put too fine a point on it, Old Testament thunderers who viewed everything outside the family farmstead as a Sodom and Gomorrah-- and deserving of the same conflagratory fate as those cities.
The Report would use "facts" from the Bible for politics, disasters, anything-- it could all be rationalized the that Same Old Belief That We ALL Share, Because All Right-Thinking People Are The Same.
And now this guy has written a book series.
Good for him. Except his MOONIES are calling me and I can FEEL the light shining in their zealous eyes over the PHONE as they tell me that they consider themselves "Educated" but that these books "really opened their eyes."
Screeeeeeam.
It's not that I have anything against Christianity or those who practice those beliefs. But let's face it; that religion is the majority in North America. And when it starts SELLING ITSELF over the telephone, I feel a little threatened.
No, I don't think like you do. No, your facts are incorrect. But gee, the majority is going to believe you because you've slapped a Christian label on it and all Right-Thinking people should agree with you-- and if they don't, suddenly they're the MINORITY, right? And we all know how the Human Mob deals with minorities.
Yeah, I know. I'm WAY wigging out here. But this scared me. Scared me because this woman on the other end of my phone BELIEVED everything she was saying. Believed, and was SURPRISED that I didn't. Because, of course, we ALL think the same, don't we? We all KNOW the truth-- those of us that don't know it just haven't been introduced to it yet; and we'll be fascinated and overjoyed when we are finally shown the error of our ways.
Thanks, but I'm not interested in joining your gleefully smiling Rapture Recruits today.
VERY freaked out right now.
Dear Ottawa, Canada:
Yesterday I had what I thought would be the privilege of seeing the Best of Ottawa International Animation Festival presentation at the Calgary Film Festival.
Eleven animated shorts, representing the award-winners of the OIAF, which is the LARGEST Animation Festival in NORTH AMERICA, and the second largest in the WORLD. How wonderful! How educational and entertaining!
How about DISMAL, DISAPPOINTING, ASSAULTING and OFFENSIVE?
My wife is an illustrator and I am an actor and voice-over artist; we love animation and do our best to support the industry and increase the awareness of it in a broader sense than mere mainstream theatrical releases allow.
Never again.
We were so utterly chagrined at the wasted effort put into this so-called "award-winning" offering that we have decided to never again spend 86 minutes of our lives at any kind of festival of animation.
Firstly and most importantly, let me target with extreme prejudice Canada's own National Film Board. The two offerings-- "Flux" and "Twang"-- were not only visually amateur and derivative of early Bill Plympton (without the humour) but were much more offensive because we knew that some Canadian Arts Council agency had actually given a GRANT of taxpayer's money for this piece of tripe that a student could produce on their first foray into a six-week introductory animation course.
Why was that last example so specific? Because my wife actually TOOK a six-week introductory animation course and THAT was the caliber of "final projects" that the class turned out.
The International aspect was well-represented with German, Mexican, British, and Polish animated fare; but did you not consider the fact that every one of the offerings was depressing, dealing with death and war and child abuse? I wouldn't say it wasn't art, but string all these things together and you have an audience that is continually and repeatedly assaulted right down to a spiritual level with depression and angst.
Which brings me to another point: This is North America. We tend to view "animation" as synonymous with "for children." Oh sure, we as artists know that animation deserves a broader appeal, a wider respect-- but for the love of God, could you not have factored in that perception when you decided which films to show, and either RATED or in some way WARNED parents with young offspring that some of these films are not targeted at children?
My wife and I were offended by the continual (!) dark angst of the Festival and felt even more sorry for the families who attended, whose children had no idea why they were being subjected to these sad, angry shorts when they were expecting cartoons. Or at least, some HAPPINESS every five minutes or so.
But you did throw in one cartoon, a "Samurai Jack" episode. Congratulations for appeasing the mainstream. Of course, you picked one of the longest, most drawn-out, boring episodes of Samurai Jack, not to mention one where he is left alone and bereft at the episode's conclusion. Children who could at least identify with something they'd seen on TV were, doubtless, left with a distinct impression that they'd been swindled.
Even the relatively innocent "Leunig" shorts began with some whimsy but ended with a trumped-up piece about faith and belief which ended on a much-less-than-happy note.
I also blame the Quickdraw Animation Society in Calgary. Like any special-interest group, they seemed to completely forget that a festival audience deserves to have the material prefaced or introduced in some way; a problem endemic to artists who do not know how to showcase their own work, or even talk about the genre.
I am sick to death of the "Festival mindset" that believes that just because something isn't MAINSTREAM, that it must therefore be ART-- which in turn means it deserves high praise because it isn't something that everyone can understand.
My greatest wish is that the entire Canada Council of Arts be sacked, and replaced with actual, real working artists-- and then a healthy sprinkling of commercial businesspeople, the ones whose job it is to sell art and make something of it (got to keep those artists grounded in the real world, after all) and so therefore take the decisions on what is award-worthy out of the hands of idle upperclass matrons with too much time and money and not enough sense.
I am a Canadian, I have long been a fan of animation in all its forms, and I am here to tell you that I am offended.
http://www.innergeek.us/geek.html.
My score was 37%.
Now you go ahead and take the test. It'll take you about ten minutes. Go ahead. I'll wait.
Quite a neat quiz, hey? Geek is a subculture now. Geek evolved from Nerd. Nerd used to be a genetically unviable recessive trait in our social gene pool; now it seems that the new Nerd-- homo nerdus superior-- aka the Geeks, are taking over the world.
Not that we could ever really take over the world; it will always be the Administrators that run things; most geeks could care less about anything other than their ideas.
But it's interesting to see, according to this test, all the things that apparently count as being geeky. Perhaps there's a little geek in all of us.
Like, if a guy spends $2000 upgrading his computer, he's a geek. But if he spends that same amount upgrading his CAR, he's still cool. We might call him a "car geek," denoting that obsession with any kind of hobby is geeky, but generally he'll still be the shiznit with the ladeeez while the computer guy-- well, we assume he still has his chatrooms and his blog.
Ouch.
But now there's this Geek Culture-- and there are certainly more of us than there used to be. The Brittanys and Heathers are all ICQ-ey and Yahoo-ey and Net savvy chatty, whereas in the 80's only their dorky little BROTHERS ever touched the family computer.
The Brendans and Dylans all have pagers, cell phones, AND PDAs-- and moreover, know what PDA stands for-- whereas in the 80's to carry around any electronica other than a walkman with you was tantamount to wartime Germany people-labeling as an Undesirable.
And to think that those of us pre-Geek Nerds were told to go OUTSIDE and play, dammit, or we'll never make any friends.
And yet this coming Tuesday I'm organizing a meet for the Cowtown Bloggers. In fact, I'm the Social Coordinator. Geeks meet Geeks in person-- and then some will probably write about it on their geeky weblogs.
Funny old world, ain't it? Sure seems to be a lot of friends out there, just for the typing at.
Geek is a great place to be. It's come into its own. No more the weekend keggers for the jocks as the only social outlet. No more the dreary mosh pits for the alternative subculture. Geek meets in coffee shops are there, now, too. In fact, thanks to Coffee Culture, Geek culture has permanent meeting places al lthe hell everywhere.
Because, according to this test, everyone is at least a little bit Geek. Pleased to meet you. Nice of you to join us.
Wanna go for coffee?
I wrote a murder mystery entitled "My Big Fat GEEK Wedding. We performed it last night. It entails a cast of geeky characters in attendance at a wedding reception, all of whom have a particular bent away from the mainstream.
The cast includes Aloe Vera, the hippie bride; Trent Razor, the Goth groom; C.B. Guy, the Comic Book geek and uncle of the bride; Farley Forsythe, a Star Wars geek; Billy Shattered, a Star Trek geek, and Muffy Winters, a total Buffy the Vampire Slayer geek.
The evening unfolds that Trent Razor, the sarcastic bastard, tries to separate Aloe Vera from her friends and family-- caustically insulting them as well as his new bride in the process-- and ends up dead.
Hilarity ensues.
This murder mystery is an example of a philosophy I came to just lately in my life: Make It Pay.
In 1995 I dropped out of the 9-to-5 world to work at home. I started with a small web business, also some acting, and added other bits of skilled labour as time went on.
For the longest time I was just doing what I did, trying to make ends meet but mostly surviving on Mrs. M's 9-to-5 income. Then Mrs. M, too, left the rat race to pursue her career as a full-time illustrator. And we had to figure out in a serious way how to keep our income-- well, incoming, as it were.
And so I began to form the basis of my philosophy. I realized that, to keep the ball rolling, I had to do more than I was doing-- but what? I cast about for things I could do, short of getting a paper route or working part-time at the 7-11.
For fun I made a website with a bunch of cartoons on it. And I updated it, just for my own interest's sake. And then Mrs. M started to get art commissions based on that site. And then I put up those commissions as prints, and they started to sell-- I added credit-card functionality to the site and they started to REALLY sell.
Hey, I thought, I just might be on to something here. I realized that I had done something I really enjoyed doing, just for its own sake-- and I'd found a way to make it pay.
I continued the experiment: Agent Mikeintosh and I did a funny little comic together. Just a little one-page ha-ha deal. And I pitched it to a magazine in the States-- and it sold. In fact, it sold six issues of little two to four page comics in cold, hard, American cash.
This idea is catching on, said I to myself. And that's when it gelled for me: Do what you love to do anyway, then find a way to make it pay.
So I began to do just that. The GEEK Wedding script is an example; easy enough for me to write a parody of sci-fi geekiness which has been my passion for lo these many years: all the characters are splinters of my own interests.
But factored into that was that Agent CK, I knew, had tons of Star Trek gadgets and thingies from his sad, sad life as a Trekkie. And I, O Best Beloved, had an actual Jedi costume that I had had made when we were all still anticipating the opening of The Phantom Menace.
And it occurred to me that ACK and I and shelled out some few dineros for these toys-- so why shouldn't they, somehow, make money for us? Lo and behold, a Star Trek and a Star Wars character get written into a script-- for which I get royalties every time it's performed. And for which I also get paid to perform IN it.
Makin' it pay.
I've been a Jedi before, too. Pitched myself as a wandering talent for a Bridge Brand FOOD expo-- yeah, they had divided the room into "Themes" and I was in the "futuristic" section-- who better than a Jedi? I made it pay.
And I'll keep making that costume pay until I can't anymore.
Then I'll get a new fun costume made, just for fun, and find a way to make THAT pay.
I also love comics. And I've been writing web-based ones for a while; and my partners and I have agreed to see if we can make THOSE pay.
All the while, doing stuff we'd like to do ANYway.
Look around you, Agents. If you ever get tired of what you do, ask yourself what you'd rather be doing, if you could do anything you wanted.
Then ask yourself how you, too, can Make It Pay.
As a new father, I have developed a whole new appreciation for Bedtime.
It's that magical time of day when the day is officially over, when all the work is done and you need give no more thought to anything but the potential of tomorrow.
It's a quiet time. It's a relaxing time. It's the time when thoughts become more important than work or other activity. The body slows down in preparation for sleep.
Somehow, surroundings become more sacred; more blessed and familiar and private. Voices drop to quiet whispers in reverent observation of this time, even if no one is actually asleep yet.
Mrs. M and I have always had a very special place in our memories for bedtime.
For Mrs. M, bedtime was preceded by bathtime, one-on-one time with her mother and then storytime, as she crawled under the covers and was read to before she dropped off to sleep.
For me, it was a mystical time when my door was closed and I was alone in the dark, and my imagination became real. Shadows elongated and nothing in my room was quite solid anymore. Magic time. I would make up my own stories with my own characters-- and they would be there. Real, or as real as the night could make them.
Bedtime is perhaps the truest "self" time we have. It is that utterly private, quiet moment where we are the most honest with how we feel and how we express our needs and desires, even if only to ourselves.
Mrs. M and I have some of our deepest, most meaningful conversations when we are both in bed at the same time, talking.
Sometimes our bedtimes don't coincide. I stay up late to work or am too buzzed on caffeine or whatever-- but this only makes those tandem bedtimes that much more meaningful.
And when I do come to bed late, I slip in beside Mrs. M and just stare up at the blackness, slatted by streetlights coming in through the semi-closed venetian blinds, and give thanks for everything in my life. It's almost like prayer, that's how sacred that time is to me.
For those of you that are the "flop into bed sleep immediately" types, I urge you to slow down. Pace yourselves. Take a moment to reflect: your comfy bed, your quiet space. The ultimate in YOU time. It's like your own downy, quilted church. Just you and the silence and the moment that is ultimately yours.
Hush now. Be reverent. It's bedtime.
I volunteered for the Calgary International Film Festival on Monday. Or rather, my mother volunteered me because she coordinates volunteers and was short a body or two.
And I was happy to do it! Working in the community, seeing the alternative to Hollywood films (which are generally more interesting and more educational, if not more impressive in budget and effects.)
But man, the community is WEIRD. And when I say weird, I don't mean as in slightly odd, I mean it as in What Sideshow Freak HELL did you people come from?
The Plaza theatre, where I did my volunteering, is a local repertory theatre and has been in business for years. And every time I've been there, yes, there has always been a cross-section of the well-to-do, artistic community, the subculture and slacker representatives, and the curious folk who got dragged there by friends because they've never seen a foreign film before.
Well, let me tell you, they crawl out of the woodwork during the Festival.
I was working the door, taking tickets and making sure people were in the right lines and whatnot, so I got a good long look at the type of people that were coming to the movie house.
Let me say I believe the crowd for each movie was different; I got to see two of them and the demographics were vastly varied. But the movie I'm talking about for this example was Breakfast With Hunter, a biography/documentary of counterculture author Hunter S. Thompson.
Holy CRAP. The man must be a FREAK MAGNET.
I experienced my own version of Fear and Loathing as I watched the dead-eyed, slack-jawed wasteoids filter scummily into the theatre; those over 40 with vacant, harried expressions like hermits who had come in from the desert (this one, with a small carry-on bit of luggage on wheels, dragging it behind him by its handle; and that one, creaking his ancient wooden kindling-legs in his black spandex as he wore his bicycle helmet into the theatre, his waist-long beard and round Lennon glasses bespeaking a time when the voices in his head had only BEGUN their incessant ranting).
Good GOD, I thought, what the hell kind of movie must this be?
Perhaps the thing that angered me most was the newbies. The young counterculture virgins, all tarted up in their Goth or 70's retro Slack Gear, bought new at Old Navy, pierced to the gills and as clueless as an American at a political rally. I simply couldn't get over the feeling I had that they had come, not to hear about this modern classic author's life, but to say they had attended the Hunter S. Thompson movie and he was that guy that did that Johnny Depp movie, y'know, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and weren't they just so cool?
I felt old and resentful. I knew Hunter S. Thompson's name but next to nothing about the man himself. But I watched the movie prepared to HEAR and LISTEN. And yet I felt that two-thirds of the audience were only there to say they were.
And WOW. I can't even describe the vibes that came off the attendees as a whole. It can probably best be summed up as a tenuous hold on reality vibe. I mean, where are these people the OTHER 364 days of the year?
It was probably just the high concentration of them all in one place that seemed so surreal, so un-Calgarylike. Or maybe, just maybe, I'm not exposing myself to anything resembling the alternative scene.
To illustrate, I saw Hunter S. Thompson as a fascinating man. But I knew I would be uncomfortable meeting him, and wouldn't actually want to hang AROUND with him, insightful and counter-culture-y as he was. I know I want to read his books, now, but I don't think I'm really interested in getting to know him as a person, or emulating his life in any way.
I was uncomfortable but interested on Monday. I didn't feel like this was a group of people to which I wanted to belong. But the film that drew us together was a film I personally enjoyed and felt inspired to learn more about. And although I hope never to run into any of the Sideshow attendees again, it was neat to be there.
Would I volunteer again? Sure. The way my mom runs things, I at least know there's SOMETHING that's going to be well-organized. And as uncomfortable as I was, at least I was trying something different. Meeting people I might otherwise not have met; all Sideshow Circus references aside, I did get to meet the director of the aforementioned film and speak to him about his experiences-- which was a study in fascination in and of itself.
So, in the final analysis, what did I come away with?
Upon due reflection, I choose to sum up my experience like this: "The Calgary International Film Festival. Come on out and SEE. Then go home and THINK."