Radial Symmetry

Setting off for NYC in 45 minutes. Can’t wait to leave. Been a shitty few days and I’ll be glad to leave Ottawa behind for a weekend. And a couple days off work. Ahh. My job is great, but a break is great.

Cafés, great restaurants, Shelley, walking. Gonna be a good time.

If the plane can leave the airport, that is.

I’ll tell all y’all a good story when I get back.

This seems to happen to me a fair bit. I hear, either directly or through the grapevine, the magical phrase "You know, I/he/she used to have a crush on you." The unintended codicil being that I've somehow lost my mojo.

Don’t get me wrong: I'm flattered and I take my ego stroking wherever I can get it. But in the end, this statement does leave me a little deflated. I’ll roll the compliment around and feel all special for a little while, like I just got a tiny, new, shiny toy for my birthday. For an afternoon, I'll take it out of my pocket, rub a thumb over the surface and smile into my reflection, looking damn fine if I do say so myself. But then my sweat oils the sheen and I start thinking "What, so now I’m chopped liver?”

My favourite example of this trend was Justin Haynes. Now, JH is a funny tall skinny beaky musician-type, which is to say, generally my type of boy. The first time we were introduced (by a different funny skinny beaky muscian boy I'd already tried to bed), JH was cute and displayed charmingly flawed social skills. Mrowr. The second time we met, he was in town for a Black Sheep show, dropped by Venus Envy to say hi. We stood close and chatted for a bit. I remember the sunlight coming in through the window behind him, his light hair a halo; his head cocked to the side, looking down his nose at me, with dust motes floating by. And he invited me to his show. "Would love to go," I said "but don't have a car." He offered to find me a ride, gave me his number and said to call if I was interested. Sure I was interested. Funny. Tall. Skinny. Beaky. Musician. I’m a goner for even any two of those words strung together. Well, he didn't call back, and I figured, enh, a misread situation. Rented Nurse Betty or some other crappy movie from the corner store and stayed contentedly alone in my room that night. No biggie. Smallie.

Fast-forward two years. We run into each other at the Aloha because he's back in town and visiting his on-again gal, a lovely lovely woman I'm always pleased to pass the time of day with. I'm a little surprised she's with Justin, cause, well, she's so damn nice and he's so damn odd.

And as I'm thinking this, as if to illustrate my point: we're chatting about what we've all been doing, it's loud, we're all kinda yelling but still can't quite hear. There's a lull in the conversation and JH shouts out "You know, I used to think you were really hot," to me, in front of my friend and his gal, "Cause when I met you, you were working in that store and everything and then you're just, you know. But it's gone now. Not anymore." I must have looked a little shocked at first, judging from the lovely gal's bemused reaction to my reaction, but then I laughed, the knee-jerk laugh that makes my mouth look big enough to swallow a small horse.

"Well, Justin, I'm glad you don't think I'm hot any more. I hate it when people are attracted to me."

I will always appreciate him for not calling me that summer day. The fucking would have been awkward and complicated, the story: sleek with simple lines. And so, JH, I thank you.

Apparently, H-O-T-T spells pyjamas.

The MLO shindig was a whopping $30 cover. Not even the guy who had his heart set on going was interested in going. So I went to SSM's with my sister.

M and one S had rented some very gay videos to make up for the MLO loss. We watched about 10 mintues of one excrutiating documentary on drag kings - Venus Boyz, I think the name was. Avoid this video. No codicils, no ifs. Like it was the last piece of something nasty. My sister and I only lasted about 30 minutes into Hustler White, which was campy, low budget, and really funny. But really funny is not funny enough to carry me past midnight.

So, now someone has to throw a party to which I can wear ruffled underwear and paisties. Get planning, boyos.

Patrick Califia is doing a blood play workshop at Venus Envy next weekend. I've been hemming and hawing about whether I should go or not. Patrick is a great facilitator and highly entertaining to watch.

But needles give me a bit of the willies, and I had assumed that cutting left me cold. So enh, I thought, probably not.

But I cut my hand today, and that made me think twice.

It wasn't a wrought moment or wrapped in ritual. I was doing the dishes and had squeezed my soapy, slippery hand into a mason jar for a good scrub. Twisted my fist around a couple of times, then pulled out. Looked down and there were 6 lines of blood across the back of my hand. And a tiny chip out of the jar in my other.

They were fine, graceful, curved lines. Some blood, enough to make me awkwardly fuss about under the sink with my uncoordinated left hand for the paper towel, then walk around the apartment with a mummy right hand for 20 minutes.

Didn't hurt at all until I swabbed the cuts with alcohol, and then they stung. That sweet high scree of a body note that happens when I pick a scab and press a salty thumb into the opening. But not on purpose and uncontrolled.

May check out this workshop after all.

So I've been trying to put together three months of the Perpetual Motion Roadshow. And it's making me crazy.

How to participate in an indie tour:

1) Check your email.
2) When you say "Yes, I'd love to do that! I'm a tour pig!" you better fucking mean it.
3) Know your schedule ahead of time. No emailing three weeks before a show to say you can't do it anymore.
4) Answer your email. Don't make me use URGENT to introduce half my emails.

In less frustrating news, I'm going to the Mr. Leather Ottawa shindig on Saturday night. A good chance to dress up in a pretty fun crowd. My costume will involve drinking beer until I'm brave enough to wear paisties and ruffled underwear in public.

And if that isn't sexy enough for you, I'll be wearing my knee length puffy coat to get there. H-O-T-T.

Last night was a multimedia organizational extravaganza.

Things I put in alphabetical order:
* cds

Things that I classed by subject:
* papers
* spices (baking, curry, italian, hot!hot!)
* books

Things that I grouped by type because there weren't enough to bother subdividing :
* cassettes
* videos

It’s 1 am. Sure, we’ve taken a long dinner break. Theoretically, I should be feeling frisky. We haven’t put that many hours in, even though my day started with picking up the SUV (!) at 8 am. Realistically, I’m just fucking tired, like tired is some kind of virus that attacks every cell of the body.

So yeah, it’s 1 am. One more load to go after I take in the last armful, trailing breadmaker cord and curtains. My Beard waits by the car. I walk out, put my hand in my pocket. And feel nothing. No key. No key.

"Umm, did I give you the keys?"

No. No. No. Scrabble through wet leaves, watch frost crystallize on chrysanthemums, call the tow truck, scrabble and search some more.

2 am. The tow truck arrives. Big guy with long hair pulled back into a ponytail and frizzing around his face. Doesn’t have a flashlight, but does have a shockingly large case of plumber’s crack. Bye car, bye.

There is nothing like watching your SUV disappear into a late black night while being leered at by a Halloween reveler in a mirrored blazer.

Ailments I have developed in the past 8 weeks:

• cyst
• eczema
• canker sores

Never had any of these things before. If one won’t listen to one’s brain, I suppose.

The cyst went away the day after I decided to move out. I seem to be slowly leaking toxins through my largest organ. Feels a bit like there’s just a thin layer of surface tension between the air and the messiness inside.

Body, meet mind.

There is too much going on to write about any of it. I am moving. I am trying to organize a tour for other people and fucking it up. I am Keeping It Together.

Check back in a couple weeks. Maybe I’ll feel clever then.

Had dim sum for the first time this past Saturday – it was a little birthday get together for me with a few friends. The friend part was excellent. I know fun, funny, smart, generous people and I feel pretty damn lucky.

The food part was mostly good too. I ate way too much, and this poor ex-vegetarian body felt a little hard done by with so much meat. The veggie/non-pork people had it better, though they had to wait longer. My advice to novice dim summers: order a few veggie/tofu dishes and fit the other bits of deliciousness around them.

And avoid the congee.

My actual birthday was very quiet. Tasty stir-fry made by the MJD, and we ate M&Ms and watched Six Feet Under, which has become a bit of an obsession for both of us. We had a 10 minute long conversation this morning amongst the showering and tooth-brushing about Keith taking mad joy in stalking David during the paintball game and how the game offered a different representations of gayness, and how Nate’s a pill whenever he’s on screen with any girlfriend.

Why does it feel more virtuous to watch shows on DVD than to flip the TV on and stare blankly for an hour or two?