...EXILE IN BLOGVILLE.

Gay = Stupid: A Rant.

2009-12-01T17:12:00.000-08:00

I went to a Spits game the other night and I couldn't BELIEVE the amount of kids saying: "That's so gay".
I had no idea.
No clue. No clue how much this subtle homophobia is creeping into the vocabulary of our children.
What blew me away the most: Their parents were RIGHT THERE next to them!
Now, I never used to question parents...but that was because they were all older than me. I assumed they had aquired some kind of wisdom that I was still too young to attain.
No.
I'm going to be 33 next year - and I am PRIME "parent age".
These parents are my age - and frankly: They should know better.
Don't let your kid say "That's so gay" - because it makes your kid sound like an uneducated piece of trash.
And it makes you look like a piece of uneducated trash only capable of spawning the same.
How's that for offensive?
Well - I'm not apologizing, because more and more - every time I hear someone say "that's so gay" - I'm offended. And moreso - pissed off.
It never used to bother me all that much - but it does now.
It really does.
It irks me.
I don't go around saying shit like "That is SOOO Italian!" or "That is sooo Female" or "That is so stupid and heterosexual".
I wouldn't because it would be small minded, racist and sexist of me.
Italian - does not mean stupid.
Female - does not mean dumb.
Heterosexual - does not mean trashy and small-minded.
I know this. It's common sense.
"That's so gay" is no different.
"Number 4 is my hero," I heard a kid at the game say, referring to the star Spits player.
"That's so gay," his buddy said.
"Yeah," his other friend piped in: "You fag."
The mother and father were right next to him and said nothing.
Had he said something racist, the "n" word...something that would be frowned upon by the masses, I'm sure the kid would have had his yappy little trap slapped and been removed from the game.
But...he just ripped on "gays" and dropped the "f" word: Fag.
That's okay, apparently.
These parents LOOKED like decent people.
They looked like people I could have gone to high school with, people I would hang out with, people I would go out and have a beer with.
But this accepted homophobia that is invading our vocabulary, which is passing on subtle hints to our kids that "gay is stupid"...it's dangerous. It's fucked up.
Allowing your kid to call another kid a "fag" is NO DIFFERENT than letting your kid use the "n" word.
Not to me.
I've been called a fag before - as a kid and as a teenager - and HUNG MY HEAD IN SHAME over it. Nevermind hanging my head in shame - others have had their heads bashed in for being "fags", people have been tortured and KILLED while being called "fags", belittled, shamed, made afraid because of this "F" word - so no - you do NOT have the right to use that word.
And you will NEVER have the right to use that word in front of me or any other gay person.
Never.
You will NOT turn it into some slang word which is synonomous with "stupid" because whether you know it or not: It is homophobic. It's tacky. It's outright offensive.

This being said: I'm in the wrong here too.
I'm very much in the wrong.
I should have turned around and said something, and I didn't.
Doesn't that make me the EXACT SAME as the parent?
Why was I silent? Why didn't I say anything to those kids and their parents?
Was it because part of me is still afraid?
Was it because I didn't think I had a right to tell some kid off and question some parent's parenting skills?
Was it because the dad looked like someone who would have no problem mopping the floor with my ass?
Probably. Who knows?
I certainly noticed it. I was certainly offended.
But I said nothing.
And that - is MY BAD.
But...was it my place to say anything?
Someone once said: If you're not part of the solution, you are part of the problem - and I need to take that seriously.
I should have said something.
And from now on - I am going to say something.
I think we should all say something.
No more "that's so gay".
No more "you faggot".

And no more standing by within earshot and letting it all happen.
Time to call out stupidity and make some faces turn crimson red in public, in front of other people so everyone can see that YES - "That's so gay" IS offensive.

Fur Free Friday.

2009-11-27T03:52:00.000-08:00

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

Training Days: Richard Simmons & Sweaty Asses

2009-11-23T18:18:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

*sigh*

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

Forever in Transition.

2009-11-21T06:40:00.001-08:00

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

Training Days: The Aftermath

2009-11-20T12:56:00.000-08:00

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

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

In Recovery,

Dan.

Training Days: Day Two (Day one)

2009-11-19T04:55:00.000-08:00

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

And it hit me:

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

Yup. I'd say it went well.

Training Days: Day One.

2009-11-16T12:14:00.000-08:00

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

I was SUPER nervous.

Until I got this email from my personal trainer:

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

*sigh*

So...day one: CHECK!

So far, personal training is a breeeeze!

Off to chow down on pasta and watch Intervention.

I love being a gym bunny.

Danny.

Training Days: The Consultation.

2009-11-13T14:17:00.000-08:00

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

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

This is It: The Eve of Reconstruction.

2009-11-11T05:19:00.000-08:00

Well - much like the new Michael Jackson movie...this is it.
It.
Define "it"?
Well, I finally went out and nabbed myself a personal trainer.
I'm signed up and paid in full.
Ten (10!) solid, fat-burning, stomach tightening, muscle-building sessions.
And I'm nervous.
Oh, I've been to a gym before, but...it's always this big psychological battle.
Thing is - I was never athletic.
NEVER. As in "never ever".
See, I HATED gym class when I was a kid.
It was right up there with math - I was damn near useless.
In grade school, I'd walk in the gym and see all the other kids bouncing basketballs or kicking soccer balls or hitting home-runs or doing these insanely skilled cartwheels - as if they were born with an innate talent and knowledge of all things athletic and just automatically knew what to do.
And then there was me:
Eternally awkward and clumsy - the LEAST competitive kid you could EVER find, as far as sports went anyway.
I have no depth perception because I'm blind in one eye, I posses the hand-eye coordination of a mole...aaannnd I'm kind of a wimp.
Plus: I never gave a shit.
Ever.
I didn't understand why other kids in my class got SOOOO pissed off when I'd miss the ball, or flub the goal or allow the opposite team member to score a point and lose the entire game.
It was just a game to me. A game. Like Snakes 'n Ladders, except with balls flying at my face.
I preferred Snakes 'n Ladders.
And I hated gym class with a deep, burning passion that reached the depths of hell.
I always wondered why we couldn't be doing something more important - something that didn't involve grunting and sweating and playing with big balls.
There would be plenty of time for things like that later in life.
Why not have...oh, i don't know - something more productive - like a class time Peter Paul and Mary listening party?
That would have been something I might have enjoyed.
But no.
I had to stand in a fog of humiliation while the star athletes in my class picked who was going to be on their team.
And yes - Surprise, surprise: I was last picked.
Always.
Me and the poor chubby kid with pimples and the eternally pre-pubescent chick with head gear.
We were like a fucked up, dysfunctional version of the Three Musketeers.
Usually the chick with head gear and the chubby dude were picked before me.
Pfft. Whatever.
Fuckers.
Last picked as always, but I didn't give a shit because I didn't need them anyway!
I could fail just fine on my own, thank you.
Gym was just a big old uncomfortable, insecure disaster.
So - as an adult - as if by some evil, black magic - I'm transformed BACK into that insecure little kid every time I set foot in a gym.
I see these big body builders - some of them - many of them - younger than me.
Everyone is at their machines, doing all the right moves, all the proper stretches.
They all have cute little accessories and fun water bottles that are all painted up with crazy psychedelic designs...everyone knows how to use the equipment, everyone knows what to do, where to go.
And then there's me:
Ill fitting gym shorts, the wrong socks, a no-name brand of running shoe and my over grown hair falling in my eyes. So NOT athletic.
Like an Anti-Fitness ad, I stick out like a big blemish in the centre of what I imagine to be an orgy of beautiful bodies, moving and flexing and working out in perfect unison.
Hopelessly. Lost.
I usually high-tail it to the corner treadmill or exercise bike or whatever it is - and pretend to go about my business - pushing random buttons blindly and in a panic, setting random settings - and then I start - eyeballing the room suspiciously, wondering if anyone knows I am a complete fraud.
I don't fit in! I don't belong!
I break into a slight sweat - but it's not from working out.
It's nerves.
I wonder if the other people in the gym are freaking out as bad as I am, terrified beneath their stone face look of "workout determination".
Somehow, I doubt it. They are calm. They are cool. They are cut.
They are the gym class stars who always picked me last.
My work outs are nothing short of pitiful.
Cardio for a random period of time on some fluke setting followed by a failed visit to the intimidation...i mean - weight machines.
But see - I only use machines that are nowhere NEAR the general population.
I build my ass-backwards routines around my crippled and reclusive social quirks.
And thing is: I'm a PEOPLE person. I shouldn't be such a recluse!
I should be walking in there with my little gym towel, waving to all the other happy treadmillers and exercise bikers.
But I don't.
I'm just not an athlete.
But why should that exclude me from the benefits of a proper workout?
Hence - the need to get a personal trainer. Someone to help me.
Hold my hand.
Guide me.
Sure, I'm a wimp - but if you tell me what to do - I'll do it. Or at least try to.
I went to the YMCA today and told them I want a personal trainer.
Preferably a girl, I wanted to scream, but chose not to.
I don't want some hot hunk of eye candy with defined abs and big strong "Personal Trainer Arms".
I don't want his big masculine hands on my love handles or cupping my calves as he guides me through some work out routine, correcting my posture.
No! No! No! He MUST NOT BE CUTE - I wanted to scream to the poor girl behind the counter, but I didn't.
I could only sit and wait and hope.
I wanted a girl. And not a cheerleader.
Not some peroxided, over-tanned, speed-addicted Hooters waitress who was gonna rah-rah-rah my ass into shape. Fuck that shit.
I didn't hang out with the jocks and cheerleaders in high school for a reason, I wasn't about to start now.
No - I wanted the real deal.
Someone I can learn from. A human being. Not a mannequin.
And I'm pretty sure that's what I got, though the jury is still out.
Dyed dark red hair, sparkling blue eyes, a great laugh and a nose ring.
Perfect. My kind of people.
I start tomorrow.
She's going to check the strength of my abs.
Weigh me.
Test my cardio.
Then - go over my goals. My expectations. What I am capable of doing and what I am capable of achieving in a given time frame.
So tonight. It's my last night.
I gorged on fries dipped in ranch sauce.
I swallowed back a bottle of coke and had 2 coffees.
I harfed down a veggie burger and just ate a potato chip sandwich.
Why not?
Tomorrow - I start.
And tonight - I'm just asking myself:
Why do you WANT a personal trainer?
Why do you want to do this?
To lose inches?
To gain muscle?
To drop weight?
To get healthy?
To increase flexibility?
For well-being?
All of the above...but there's one reason in particular.
Starting tomorrow, I'm going to gear up in running shoes, gym shorts, my old school "Who Farted?" t-shirt - and I'm going to start deconstructing and re-inventing myself.
Re-inventing my mind-set...and my body.
Deconstructing the fear.
Deconstructing those nervous, awkward insecurities I've had since I was a kid.
I'll be putting on my best game face...
And I'll BE one of those people - doing all the right moves, using the machines properly, knowing what I'm doing.
And of course, secretly freaking the hell out the entire time - but no one will know.
I'll have my psychedelic water bottle. I'll have my loaded mp3 player.
My overgrown hair will be brushed out of my face and the only sweat on my brow is going to be sheer determination to beat my biggest stumbling block on this long, 32 year road to healthier living: Myself.
Deep breath.
Count to ten.
Cross my fingers.
Show no fear.
Buckle down.
Here we go:

This...is it.

If You Eat Pork You Will Get Swine Flu: My take on H1N1-Mania.

2009-10-30T06:13:00.001-07:00

If you eat pork you will get swine flu.
In fact - if you eat any kind of meat you will get swine flu.
Sucks eh? Oh well.
Vegetarian it is, right? Beats getting swine flu.
Of course - that's all bullshit.
And that scenario would NEVER come to pass.
It is not economy aggressive to be a vegetarian. Even if pigs did cause swine flu (...wait a minute..?) they would never think of banning something they make such a profit from.
We're all animal lovers....none of us can even "stomach" the thought of an animal in pain...yet we are all addicted to and hypnotized to this idea that it's pefectly fine to have slaughter houses where animals are butchered and killed and live a life of HELL and suffering...so we can have a steak.
No - even if pigs DID cause swine flu...they would NEVER ban them.
In fact - they'd find a way to make a profit off of it.
Like say - invent a vaccine for it - and then buy MILLIONS AND MILLIONS of dollars in advertising and fear campaigns to get people TERRIFIED enough to buy the vaccine.
Did you know that former U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld was the chairman of the board at Gilead, the drug company that produces Tamiflu, the recommended drug for swine flu? Rumsfeld personally made many millions in profit from his shares in Gilead when Tamiflu was sold widely during the avian flu scare just a few years ago.
The avian flu turned out to be little more than fear mongering, but Rumsfeld and others raked in huge profits.
Funny...the millions spent on the war to get weapons of mass destruction. Those weapons of mass destructions turned out to be little more than a fart in the wind. There weren't any.
But by the time the bombs were dropped and the buildings were in flames and the shock and awe was setting in on primetime television...well the fact that it was all based on a big lie really no longer mattered. I mean, why would it?
Shock. And. Awe.
So isn't it funny, just this year, the U.S. government granted immunity against lawsuits to the drug companies who are developing and marketing the swine flu vaccine?
Why would they do this?
Could it be that politicians linked to the huge pharmaceutical lobby are trying to help the drug companies to avoid paying billions of dollars in lawsuits, as happened as a result of the 1976 swine flu vaccination campaign? Look that little incident up.
A pandemic was claimed...and only one person died.
On a military base, no less. One person on a military base.
PANDEMIC! PANIC! DESTRUCTION! DEATH! GET THE VACCINE!!!
Go figure.
With no pharmaceutical responsibility for their product, who now will deal with those injured or killed by the current swine flu vaccine?
Do we even KNOW what we are injecting into ourselves?
Now...the second half:
Do I believe all the conspiracy theories? Do I stand by what I just wrote? Do I believe any of it?
I have no idea.
I don't.
Do I raise a suspicious eyebrow to this swine-flu mania?
I most certainly do.
One person died in Canada from H1N1.
Do you know how many people die a year from the regular flu?
I don't. But it's more than 1.
I know that much. I'm too lazy to look it up - and you can use google as well as I can.
I've never had the flu. Touch wood.
I've never had a flu shot either.
I don't have an immune deficiency of any kind.
I'm 32 years old and healthy as a horse.
Hell - with the way I've been packing it in lately - I'm healthy as a swine.
I'm an optimist. I am.
But I am fearful and suspicious of big institutions.
Does profit come before health?
Absolutely. We've proved that again and again - from our bodies to our environment to our health care.
Profit comes before health. That is simply a fact of life.
Health care systems are designed in such a way that the poor get killed off.
It's a war on humanity.
And pigs.
But that's nothing new.

It's just scary. Someone tells us we should be afraid.
And we should be very afraid. And we should go out and get this injection.
And we flock to it as if the Beatles have risen from the dead for their reunion tour.

I don't blame people for being afraid. I'm a wee bit afraid too.
I don't want to die.
Mommies and Daddies don't want their kids to get sick.
Why not be safe, right?

Sure. I get it. I get both sides.
But...that eyebrow...it's raised.

I refuse to get a vaccination. I won't do it.
If our health and well being and very existence boils down to a small injection...well - we're all fucked.
And...if H1N1 was just as MANufactured as the vaccine - for profit...well - we're dead already.

I'll be happy meetin' my maker via natural causes, thank you very much.

It's a pretty cozy scenario though. Someone tells us what to do and we do it.
That's why I wanted to give it a shot.
So...here goes:

"If you eat meat...you will get swine flu."

There. Now - I'm off to go buy stocks and shares in tofu.

oink oink, my fellow piggies.

Danny.

Quantum...what!??!?

2009-10-20T11:33:00.001-07:00

I can be flakey.
I admit it. Why be ashamed? It's me.
That being said - I try to keep one foot at least partially on the ground to stop myself from spinning away into an oblivion of paranoia.
I'm grounded enough.
So back in April I found this small...wart...on my eyelid. And thought nothing of it.
I forgot about it.
But...I started thinking about it again, in September.
It was still there. Perhaps slightly more prominent.
It bothered me.
So I did the unthinkable and googled "wart on eyelid" and of course - instantly - was convinced it was a cancerous tumor and I was going to lose my entire eye.
*sigh*
So I went to the doctor to have it looked at...and she said it was simply a fatty deposit.
Nothing to worry about - for now - but I should report if it changes colour or size.
She also said - more or less - it would be something I would just have to live with.
"You are going to have this little warty-cyst on your eyelid - it's just a part of life."
Just accept it - and forget about it. Don't let it bother you.
I was relieved. But also annoyed. I didn't particularily WANT it there.
So I focused on it.
I obsessed over it. I'd stare in the mirror at it every day, wishing it would just go away.
But..it was now going on 1/2 a year that I'd had this thing. It wasn't going anywhere.
Until it did.
Within a week of me obsessing over it and wishing it gone - as if by magic - the thing all of a sudden...just...shrunk. And disappeared.
Gone.
Now...what is that?
Is that a coincidence? Sure. Of course it is.
But isn't it strange...for 1/2 a year, when I ignored it...my body ignored it too?
But when I started focusing, obsessing...concentrating... it was almost as if my brain made my body aware that this thing was on my eyelid...it wasn't welcome - and it should do something about it.
And it did.
It reminded me of this book I flipped through at a friend's house, about 11 years back. It was about "Quantum Healing".
In a nutshell (quite literally) it suggested that the human body is capable of creating its own medicine for ailments...we've just forgotten how to do this. The mind plays a positive role in triggering certain chemical releases, etc.
Flakey, right?
Sure. It is.
But...what if there IS something to it?
I mean - why not consider it?
If our brain is as infinite and as uknown as the universe - doesn't that mean anything is up for at least consideration?
I mean - clearly - there is a connection between the body and mind and our thoughts. When we experience certain thoughts - we have physical side effects.
If we just think about - say - a friend or relative or pet who has passed away...salt water will leak from our eyes..our lips will tremble, our breathing will change - and our entire body kind of heaves and sobs.
Crying.
If we get scared, we get that cold rushing tingle through our body - and the hairs on our arms stand up -the texture of our skin even changes to "goosebumps".
Insane, if you really think about it.
Our brain controls every single cell in our body - even if it does run on auto-pilot for the most part.
Every breath, every movement, every sensation - it's because our brain said that is how it will be.
Our body is constantly regenerating itself.
Some say our body COMPLETELY replaces its tissues and cells every 1 to 7 years.
Think about that.
If our cells replace themselves, and regenerate new cells to replace the old...it's almost like we have ENTIRE different bodies...if we're made up of completely regenerated cells.
So what is the common thread, the glue that holds it all together?
No efffing clue. I'm sauntering off into "flakey land", I know.
So why does our eczema, our warts, our chronic diarrhea or ulcers stay with us for a life time, if we have "new" bodies every 7 years? Is it because our thoughts and emotional "habbits" stay unchanged?
If so, if we switch up our ways of thinking, our belief systems - our "let's just accept it that this is how it is" attitude about our bodies and their ailments - and adopt a new way of thinking...that "thinking is an actual energy" - will this in turn effect our bodies at the cellular level?
Again - no effing clue.
I mean - in truth, when you break it down - here is what happened:
I had a wart-thing on my eye...and it went away. That's it.
But if I really THINK about it...what if there WAS more to it than that?
It sounds complicated, but it might not be.

It might be the SIMPLEST, most basic thing we've NEVER ever known.

"All symptoms are just reflection of blocked energy. Anything can be healed"
(Martin Brofman - "Anything Can Be Healed")

Glitter Bombed: A True Story.

2009-09-29T14:01:00.000-07:00

I have a bit of a “twitch” when it comes to luxurious baths.
Seriously. Maybe more than a twitch.
Weirdo alert: I hate showers.
Can’t stand them. I like to sprawl out and submerge my entire body in hot water.
It's just the kind of person I am.
See - I grew up in a house that ONLY ever had a bath tub.
So in turn - it only makes sense that my first home only have a bath tub as well.
No shower.
Oh no.
Only a beautiful, claw foot bath tub that can be filled to the BRIM.
I love it.
I know, know – “But how can you survive…how can you POSSIBLY get ready for work on time?”
Trust me. It can be done.
While I may be the master of luxurious baths – I have also mastered the art of speed bathing – and if need be – I can bathe, have my face and hair washed in 7 minutes.
Yes – seven.
Most showers last longer than that.
Anyway…where was I? Oh yes.
Luxurious baths.
Naturally – I enjoy things most men don’t bother with:
Bath salts. Bath melts. Bath bombs.
Rustic, mossy smelling soaps.
Facial scrubs made with real sea salt.
Fancy conditioners and expensive shampoo bars that smell like a stoned art student.
I love bath shit. Love it. I know it seems like the generic gift when you can’t think of anything better to get someone – but if you buy me bath stuff – I will in turn let you have a small piece of my heart.
Forever.
So – the other day – I decided to be decadent and I charged up about 75 buckaroos on some stuff from one of my favourite stores – LUSH!
I dig Lush because their products have wacky names…like “Honey, I Scrubbed the Kids”, “Karma Komba”, and “Too Drunk to Fuck”.
For real. That’s cool.
And most of it is Vegan! No animal oils or body parts.
That’s always a good thing, at least in my book.
I’m big on Lush’s “Karma” scent. Kinda smells like oranges and patchouli.
Like I said – a stoned art student.
But it’s mine.
I use Karma soap, Karma shampoo – and even “Karma Kream” – after-bath moisturizer – which is a must for me because I suffer from uber-dry skin.
And I’m kind of girly.
Whatever.
I have no shame in that.
Anyway – to my delight – I discovered a brand new Lush product:
A Karma bath melt!
It’s kind of like an extra soft soap that you drop in a hot tub. It scents the water and acts as a moisturizer.
Perfect.
Thing is…sometimes, Lush products have…a little “surprise” hidden inside.
Like seaweed…flower petals…
Or sparkles.
Little did I know – this new Karma Bath Melt had MANY sparkles.
Many, many sparkles.
Borderline TOO many sparkles.
So last night - I was pretty much glittering and glowing after my bath.
A drag queen couldn’t apply that much glitter if she tried.
I was slightly pissed, and almost itchy – as I examined my golden, glittering skin - but whatever…I figured I’d just take a bath in the morning and give a good scrub and it would all come off. It was evening so I had nowhere to go.
I eyed my sparkling skin again.
Kinda cool, I remember thinking.
Cut to this morning.
I scrubbed…and – I got SOME of the sparkles off.
But a few of those stubborn bastards were still there.
Screw it.
I didn’t bother mentioning the incident to Wayne…instead I just ran him a bath and woke him up when it was ready.
I always play on the computer in the morning while he is in the bathroom
So I hear him getting out…and let me just preface this by saying he was in a wee bit of a foul mood, because we were running late.
Partially my fault for taking an extra long bath, trying to scrub off all those pesky sparkles.
Ooops.
Suddenly, from our bedroom I hear an angry: “What the fuck?”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Ugh. Why do I have sparkles on me?”
He paused.
“Oh my God! They’re EVERYWHERE!”
Uh oh.
I walked into the bedroom and sure enough, the first thing that catches my eye is a tiny little glittery sparkle, sparkling delicately on his brow.
His arms were covered. As were his legs.
“What the fuck! Where did they come from?”
They were all through his hair, and slathered across his chin.
I wanted to giggle, but I knew how mad he was.
He eyeballed me, and immediately rasied an eyebrow:
“You’re covered too! Where did all these come from??”
He was clearly pissed. And rightfully so.
Hey - I wouldn't want to go to work drenched in glittery sparkles either.
I thought hard.
How do I tell him that my new bath bomb kind of sorta painted the bathroom up like something out of rainbow bright's worst nightmare?
I noticed it was a bit odd that he was SO thoroughly coated with glitter.
It was almost as if he had MORE on me than me!
And it hit me:
I must have not cleaned out the bathtub properly.
“Ooops”, again.
“I don’t know,” I began. “Could you have used a towel that ...somehow.. had glitter on it?”
I glanced at his chest.
It looked like Mardi Gras threw up on it.
Again - I had to choke back the urge to burst out laughing, but I knew better.
This was my fault, we were running late - and nothing spells "panic" more than a glitter-mishap just minutes before work.
I tried to diffuse the situation:
“It’s not that bad,” I said, trying to brush the mounds of glitter off him using my towel.
My towel – which was ALSO coated in sparkles.
I was actually painting even MORE on him.
I stopped.
“Dan! This is fucking TERRIBLE! I can’t go to work like this!!”
Our cat – Pluto – walked in the room and meowed at us, annoyed for some reason.
Then I noticed she too was coated in glitter.
"Aww..Poor Pluto," I said.
She just looked at us and meowed again.
Her spirit: Broken.
Wayne got up and went to the closet - and I caught a glimpse of his back.
It was as if he POURED a gallon of glitter on it.
As if he ahd rolled around in a bed of sparkles.
It was kind of amazing.
I was fascinated how he managed – without even trying – to get soo much glitter on him.
I could barely make out any skin. It was like he had transformed himself into a pure glitter, disco-queen.
I stifled another giggle.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing…” I said, stonefaced.
“Um...maybe you should...just put a shirt on…”
Before you look in the mirror and realize what I've done to you!! I wanted to scream.
He made his way downstairs. I decided to sit upstairs for a bit and wait where it was quiet and safer.
After a few, I made my way downstairs – only to find him using our sticky-paper lint roller on his bare arms, neck and face.
“Is this from a bath bomb?” he asked.
I sighed.
“I’m not sure," I lied. "Yes. Maybe. Yes.”
It was all I could say.
We drove to work in silence.
The morning sun glistened across his forehead – sending little rays of light on the ceiling of the car.
He was a disco ball.
“You can’t really SEE the sparkles,” I offered.
As he dropped me off, and said “Bye”…the sun caught a streak of glitter painted on his upper lip, like sparkly lip gloss.
Very, very pretty.
And very, very sparkly.
I walked into work, glistening like a prom dress.
I didn’t care.
Oh sure, I should have read the label on that bath bomb, but it wouldn’t be the first time a bath..well – “bombed”.
I’ve been glittered before.
Within an hour of being at work, I left a glitter ear-print on my phone, a small pile of sparkles on the floor by my desk and a pair of sparkling ass-cheek prints on the toilet seat in the men's room.
Hey – I take it all in stride.
Such is life, right?
The simple, laid back life of a guy who knows nothing of personal hygiene, save for the glory of a beautiful bath tub, filled to the brim.

Happiness is a Warm Gun (Bang Bang, Shoot Shoot).

2009-09-28T14:01:00.000-07:00

I remember living in Victoria Parkplace - summer 2007 while our destroyed house was being rebuilt.
Wayne heard the sounds around 4am.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Guns.
Not something you hear all too often. At least not back then.
Fast forward to today - near the end of 2009 - and we've just counted the fourth time bullets have been flying in Windsor this month.
The fourth. Not this year. This month.
And the Mayor has offered some advice:
“I would avoid that street. At 2 a.m., 3 a.m., 4 a.m., if you’re concerned don’t be on Pelissier Street on that corner."
Really.
How about Chippawa? If the people who live there are concerned, should they just avoid that street too?
Do we just give Pelissier over to the "gun toting cowboys and gang-sign-flashing club goers"?
Just "stop going there?"
And then what?
Just accept "that part" of downtown as ...what? A criminal district?
"Oh, Pelissier? No - none of us Windsorites go there anymore...we'd probably just end up getting shot."
No.
I don't think so.
There's no way we lose a street that easily. Doesn't that strike anyone as a bit defeatist?
"Just don't go there anymore, and you'll be fine."
Then...what? Close down Chippawa?
If the "violence spell" trickles over to University or Chatham, do we just close those streets down too?
Give it over to guns?
Should we all start carrying pepper spray?
"Just in case?"
Hell - at least there will be downtown Detroit - it'll be FAR safer than Windsor, once our downtown core is a desolate, closed down, abandoned ghost town - with a bunch of empty shells scattered across the ground and distant gunshots where drunken laughter and the deep booming bass of club beats used to be.
Is THAT where we are headed?
I offer no solution and I certainly don't claim to have one. I have no idea how to handle this problem.
But here's a thought:
Why don't we fucking FLOOD the streets of downtown Windsor?
Pelissier included?
Bring our friends. Walk the streets. Huge numbers. Keep it alive.
We can't ignore it or just be resigned to the fact that it no longer belongs to us.
We can't just give it over to violence and start drawing up barriers of where we can and cannot walk.
Because of what?
Fear?
It's downtown Windsor.
There's no WAY it has come to this.
*THIS*.
Has it?
Do we just walk away?
Put a fence around Pelissier and all the people who live in that block? I know several who live RIGHT THERE, within spitting distance of the shootings.
Is it the new criminal district?
Amsterdam has a red light district.
It could be a tourist attraction for brave yuppies who dare to enter into "no man's land" and get a taste of what a real-live "hood" feels like.
They could pay a small insurance fee - and then we could open up the gates and let them into the dangerous and forbidden "Pelissier Road Experience".
Like a thrill-ride for EXTREME lovers of adventure.
Ridiculous.
So what do we do?
We pay shitloads of taxes. Our taxes are higher than MANY cities...yet our quality of life...
Well - I think if the Mayor is suggesting we just "stop going on that street" - I think it's safe to say our quality of CITY LIFE is going to shitsville.
So what are we paying taxes for?
Who can give us answers?
And why SHOULD we be afraid to walk down Pelissier?

Why should we?

Are we afraid of being shot?

I used to wonder when I was younger and driving through the shell of a city that was downtown Detroit - how in the WORLD - how on EARTH could anyone let it get that bad?

Now I know.

It just happens.

The people just stopped going there because things came to a boiling point and chaos and disorder broke out. And they fled.

White flight.

City of Roses...what the heck is happening?

With all due respect - because I love this city...and I am only asking questions here.
There's no WAY I can even PRETEND to know what I'm talking about.

Is "Nothing" Our Best Weapon?

2009-09-24T20:19:00.001-07:00

I read that some Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Transgendered community leaders in Michigan are organizing a protest against the Buju Banton concert in Detroit.
Apparently the dude has some homophobic lyrics (depictions of killing gay men with submachine guns and pouring acid on them) and he's coming to Detroit’s Majestic Theatre on Wednesday, September 30th.
LGBT groups are calling for the cancellation of this concert.
They want it shutdown. Doors locked. No-show.
I'm torn on this.
Big time.
Sometimes I like the beauty of life to work its magic. This could also be perceived as being naive.
I think that everything is peachy-keen. And I'm aware that I live in a bubble.
Everything is happy and gay and accepting and peace, love and little cute bunny rabbits.
That's my world.
It's hard to pop that bubble.
Thing is: I don't like censorship. Really. I don't. I think it's a bad idea.
I know - some might say I censored a certain newspaper editor, when I bitched about him after he told me to fuck myself for sending him a press release about an animal rights demonstration I was staging.
Not at all. In fact - I merely asked him to explain himself.
I asked him WHY he wanted me to "fuck myself".
Fair question.
A guy likes to know these kinds of things.
In turn - he called me every name in the book and a small war broke out between us.
Name-calling. Ego. I sent a press release. He told me to fuck off (and did so using his company email and his company's signature and logo - bad move)...and word got out quickly (thank you Facebook) and...his company fired him.
His company fired him. I didn't.
I never did get to find out why he told me to fuck myself. Go figure.
I just wanted to understand where the fierce hatred came from. You would have SWORN I was his worst enemy...and in turn - he ended up being exactly that.
His own worst enemy.
Anyway - back to Buju Banton.
I hope they let this guy have his show.
And I hope no one shows up.
That sends a clearer message than censorship.
Intelligence. Everyone has a right to be a fucker.
My rights aren't violated by this guy having his show and speaking his mind.
Give any dork a microphone. Hell - give me a microphone.
Wait...sometimes they do.
I hope those who feel inclined show up with signs - protesting the message.
And inside -I hope Buju Banton is greeted with an empty room.
Why?
Because if someone is preaching hatred to an empty room...well...is he really "preaching" at all?
Or is he just a nut, screaming nonsense to himself?
People like this end up alone with their own angry demons, tormenting them, preventing them from the peace we all deserve.
While it is "just punishment" - it is also a very, very sad thing.
Someone who wants to segregate and differentiate - and all they end up doing is cutting themselves off.
From people. From friends. From reality. From love.
I'm sure there are plenty who would like gays to hang. There are many "average, everyday God-fearing" folks who would LOVE queers to get the death penalty.
Or some who believe gays need to go for counselling, electro-shock therapy.
I mean, discrimination is not something exclusive to gay people.
There are groups who want to do the same to Jewish people.
Black people. Lebanese people. German people. White people. Aboriginal people.
Women.
Men.
Name a group - there will be another group who wants them dead.
There are still White Power Hicks who hold rallies.
There are Christians who bash Jewish people. Yesterday a certain group protested the funeral of a gay person. Hatred is alive.
Hell - There's a bloody war going on right now over cultural differences, bottom line.
Hate groups excercise their freedom of speech right here on the internet.
Google it right now. There is a website for it.
As there should be. It is their right to say whatever they want.
“Anytime Buju Banton come, faggots get up and run … they have to die.”
Nifty lyric from Mr. Buju Banton.
This man is coming to town at the Majestic on September 30th.
How does that make you feel?

Personally - I believe every idiot has a right to speak his mind.

But what is the consequence?
An empty room with no ticket-buying concert-goers?
Where do we stop?
Do we take down the websites?
Do we censor people and forbid them to speak their mind - as grotesque or as awful as it might be - because we don't agree with it?
Isn't that the same thing the racists and homophobes and sexists of the world are trying to do to the minorities?
Stifle them? Take their rights away?

Me being me. Or a guy being black. Or a girl being Jewish...has no bearings on anyone else's freedoms.
A reggae performer being a homophobe has no bearings on my freedoms either.

Where is the line?
I don't really know.

He's performing songs about killing gays for being...well - poofters.

Is this too far?

Is it too much to ask/hope - that NO ONE will go to this show?

Or is the right thing to censor it? Do we still need "the man" to tell us what we can and cannot see...?
Or should we know better?

Do we know better?

I'm only giving my opinion here. And asking questions. I honestly don't know.
I don't like censorship...but I like questions.

Anyone I know with half a brain will probably not set foot anywhere NEAR this show.
It might not deserve the time of day...but perhaps the guy has a right to show the world exactly what kind of hatred is out there.

And in turn - we can learn from it. And learn how to simply turn away from it.
If the entire world turned away from hatred - we would snuff it out.
Just like that. It would no longer exist.

What if Buju Banton and his hatred were the only things left in the room?
If the "destructive" has nothing left to "destroy" - won't it then turn on itself?

Is that enough? Is "passive" the new "pro-active"?
Is "peace" the new "radical" form of protest?

Peace.
Yup.
One word that can cause a riot.
Pretty "radical".

Of course..."radical" is relative too, isn't it?

I Get to Keep My Eye.

2009-09-23T17:38:00.001-07:00

I love not losing body parts.
Well...that's not entirely true.
In 2007 I dropped my gallbladder - and I have to say - I think everyone would be better for it to drop an organ.
At least - a non-vital organ.
I lost weight, my colour got better and I stopped having insane diarrhea attacks.
Of course - the fee I paid: One destroyed gall bladder - plucked from my body and donated to science.
A fair trade.
But...you're wondering how this relates back to my eye?
I should probably explain myself here.
In late March, I noticed this small, teeny little...wart-looking thing on my upper eyelid.
Nothing gross. Like a small skin tag.
Firm. Hard to the touch.
Perfectly smooth and round.
A tiny little bump.
I shrugged it off and forgot I had it...until about a week ago.
"Hmmm," I said, looking into the mirror, one week ago, fingering the little uninvited inhabitant of my eyelid.
"Little twirp is still there."
I showed it a co-worker - my good buddy Gnyp.
"Check it out," I said, closing my eyes and pointing to it. "You think it's a wart?"
He studied it for a second and shook his head.
"Too smooth to be a wart."
Hmm.
"It looks more like a cyst of some kind."
The "C" word.
Cyst. On my eyelid.
The wheels began turning.
"Pour some oil on it and use your lighter."
I take every bit of advice he gives me about my on-air performance to heart - treat it like it's gold...but - this little home remedy, I gracefully declined.
*sigh*
Instead I did the unthinkable:
I googled "cyst on eyelid."
Immediately - a collage of horrific words whizzed by the screen.
Malignant! Tumor! Fatty tissue! Inflammation! Blindness! Biopsy!
And of course...
Cancer.
"Fucking typical," I cursed at my desk.
It's my right eye...and I don't have a lot of luck with that eye.
See - I'm kinda-sorta blind in it.
"But Dan...you don't have a lazy eye."
No. I don't.
I can see light and movement. No colour. No depth perception. No shapes.
Just blobs.
It's okay...no reason to take out your glittery hankies and bawl your eyes out for the depraved life I must live without use of one of my eyeballs.
But no need. I'm used to it.
In fact, my brain has worked around it and I actually have a short-cut to depth perception...my one working eye just views depth in a different way than other people.
Kinda cool.
And...since my shitty eye is capable of seeing things move...it has no problem following them.
So: No lazy eye! Yay me!
You can move your finger by my bad eye...and my bad eye will follow it. It just has no idea what it's looking at.
Weird, eh?
I was born with my bum-eye. A cluster of scar tissue formed on my retina for no good reason - surgery can't fix it. Glasses can't help it.
It's just one of those "things".
Anyway - that cluster of scar tissues is also considered a "mass" of irregular cells.
Irregular cells...aren't necessarily good things, especially since there is no real reason why they are there.
And of course - one of the symptoms of an irregular cell turning into...well - the OTHER "C" word (and I don't mean "cyst") is a small bump on the eyelid of said eye.
*gulp*
The website said to not be alarmed - 9 times out of 10 it is a skin tag...but it is a good idea to make an appointment with an eye doctor to have the eye examined.
So I did. And I had to wait one week.
One week..and I pondered what life would be like, if I lost the eye.
I know - I'm all about the drama.
But I couldn't help wondering..."what if..."
It's human nature.
I wouldn't necessariliy "miss" the eye. I mean, if it were my good eye - I'd be screwed.
But...even if they did have to pluck my crappy eye out of my skull..I'd be okay. I could function normally.
But...a glass eye?
Interesting. It's something I've always thought about.
A glass eye can't see movement.
A glass eye is lifeless. It will sit in my head and stare blankly into space.
Not the end of the world - just something to consider...perhaps a bit more seriously.
I had many things to consider.
I could wear a patch, for example.
Would it be weird if I wore a patch?
And if I became known as "Patch guy"?
Would people look at me strangely, wondering if I have some crazed pirate fetish?
Wondering if I am "all there"?
Perhaps I could ask Phat Matt if he'd let me change my on-air name - "Patch MacDonald, on 939 the River"...or maybe the "Wild Eyed Hour of Rock N Roll"...singular.
I settled on designer sunglasses.
I'd join the ranks of Roy Orbison, Bob Dylan and Max Headroom..."the guy who just always wears sunglasses - day and night".
It'd be my thing.
People might whisper behind my back, sure.
"What's up with Dan? Why is he wearing sunglasses non-stop...?"
"Legend has it he lost an eye..."
"What? Lost an eye..."
"Some kind of a bar fight..."
"My god...I had no idea..."
"I know...that Dan..he has a dark side...he's mysterious..."
I'd be very "Prince".
Dark sunglasses. Soft spoken. Mysterious.
I was in LOVE with the idea.
Then...reality hit.
I'm pondering the loss of my eye.
Blind or not - and as cool as David Bowie may be - with his dead, pale eye that sits motionless in his head...I didn't want to lose my eye.
Worse yet - what if it was the "C" word?
What if it was too late?
It's a scary thing to consider, but with my mass of irregular cells...and this newly formed cyst..not 100% out of the question either.
How would I deal with that?
I didn't ponder this all too seriously. I didn't want to worry myself.
I am a positive thinker. The glass is ALWAYS half full and while I have questions that will forever be unanswered about the existence of any kind of "higher power"...I sometimes think that everything happens for a reason, even if only allowing us to see things (no pun intended) that we were incapable of seeing before.
I thought briefly - but long and hard - about the "C" word.
Because you just never know.
And I decided to brush it from my head.
I've lived a charmed life. A lucky life. A happy, rich life.
I have never taken a second of it for granted.
Oh, I live in la-la land - and I will admit - I often live in a state of ignorance to problems greater than my own - and horrible to say or not - ignorance is sometimes bliss.
I try. And it's the best I can ever do.
Michael J. Fox was asked of his Parkinson's disease - and the negative impact it had on his life.
And he replied - "If this is the ONE cross I have to bear...I can do this. I've lived a great life."
Beautiful.
What a beautiful attitude.
I have no idea how I would react if I was diagnosed with some kind of horrific disease, but I know not to dwell on that for too long.
I have one life. And it's a good one.
Any negative stuff is merely a challenge. A challenge I can take on 2 ways:
1) In stride or 2) A crying, destroyed, defeated mess.
Which sounds like the better option to you?
I walked into the doctor's office relaxed.
I flipped through a copy of House & Home magazine and waited for my Optometrist.
She took one look at my cyst...and said:
"It's not cancer."
Ok. Gotcha.
"It's a tiny fatty bit of tissue. If it doesn't bother you - I wouldn't worry about getting it removed. But I can refer you to a plastic surgeon if you want to look into getting it removed."
"Not necessary," I said.
I'll embrace this little twirp on my eyelid.
Even though I am a drama queen who googles things and believes he has every affliction he reads about like a good hypcondriac...this little cyst forced me to do a wee little bit of soul searching.
I'm happy it's nothing serious.
That being said: I'm even happier knowing that I would have been okay no matter what, had it been a different scenario.
If I've done ONE thing right in this life...it's pick the people I've surrounded myself with.
Or maybe they picked me.
Because people like me need people like them. Who knows?
What I do know is this:
Everything in my life - from the good to the bad to the downright confusing has always made sense in its own way.
Everything has always happened for a reason and anything can be looked at as "for the greater good".
The bigger picture - is beautiful. Beyond comprehension. And my life...it's been pretty f-ing sweet.
I cannot deny that. I'm lucky.
It's been a non-stop party with ups and downs, but in the end - it all equals out to experience.
And there's not a doubt in my mind - whatever life tosses at me - whatever curve ball that "chance or fate or pure coincidence" throws in my face - whether I have depth perception or not....I'll be able to catch it...and hang on to it...and deal with it.

I can own it. I can make it mine. So, no.
No plastic surgeon necessary.

There's happiness in everything, I guess.
Even deep inside an eye that is blind to everything.
Except of course - for movement and light.

Do You Give Ass...or Crotch?

2009-09-06T17:45:00.002-07:00

So there I was - 3rd row centre at the Michigan Lottery stage in the middle of Arts Beats & Eats in Pontiac Michigan, smack dab in the centre.
And I had a dilemma.
Ashes of Soma was playing, and I had to pee.
In a bad way.
And I hate being "that guy".
You know?
The guy who gets up and has to politely stumble past the entire row of people who are trying to watch the show. I hate being that guy.
It's annoying, uncomfortable...and - I'm always faced with a certain...dilemma.
*sigh*
It's plagued me at concerts, at the movies, at lecture halls and in choo-choo trains...
So I'll ask all of you - dear fellow bloggers...
When you get up from your seat - and you have to do that awkward shimmy past other people who are sitting in your aisle...do you face the front or face the back?
I guess what I'm really asking...is - when you're practically straddling the person's lap as you shuffle past them...do they get your ass in their face...or your crotch?
Because dammit, I just can't figure out which way is more appropriate.

Just wondering.

For the record - in my weird semi-OCD state of mind, I held my pee the entire show.

Spanking the ..."Spouse". (Thought I was gonna say "Monkey", didn't ya? Pervert.)

2009-08-28T07:25:00.000-07:00

I get tons of junk email every day.
Usually it's about mp3-related stuff...funky gadgets.
Also - tons of vacation-related spammy email.
And the typical viagara commercials. Is this universe trying to tell me something?
Viagara? Already? I'm only 32!
Am I in *that* demo already?
*sigh*
I always delete these junk emails without reading. Most just automatically end up in my junk folder anyway, so I don't even see them.
This morning though - I recieved a very intersting email.
The subject: Christian Domestic Discipline.
I chuckled, but - I was immediately intrigued.
It was from some blogger email group that I belong to, so I knew the source. The email list basically passes out interesting or curious blogs and websites to other bloggers so we can read and peruse and comment or respond.
It's like "Food for thought".
Or - "Food for blogging".
I clicked.
I was curious to know what "Christian Domestic Discipline" meant.
Instantly - I was given the definition.
Christian Domestic Discipline (also known as CDD) - Domestic Discipline (DD) marriage is one in which one partner (the male) is given authority over the other, and has the means to back up that authority, usually by spanking.
Okay. Wait.
Usually by a ...spanking?!?
Was this a joke? A fake website?
Because there seemed to be an AWFUL lot of information for a joke blog...so I continued reading.
The Husband has the responsibility of leading his family and is accountable before God for their well-being and development. He has the authority to spank his wife for disciplinary reasons, but in real CDD marriages, this authority is taken quite seriously and usually happens rarely. Most CDD marriages do use spanking, generally for serious offences, such as the "Four D's" (Disobedience, Disrespect, Dishonesty, or Dangerous [as in dangerous choices... reckless driving, disobeying doctor's orders, etc]).
For real. Is this a joke?!?!?!
Can you imagine - women - your husband being pissed off because you ...I don't know...blew an extra 100 bucks at the Casino without telling him - and in turn - he decides a suitable punishment...is a SPANKING!?!?
Honestly - if your husband SERIOUSLY asked you to get over his knee...for a SPANKING...could you do it without laughing?
What kind of relationships do these people HAVE?!?
It gets better:
Some CDD marriages also use non-corporal disciplines, such as writing lines, or the temporary forfeiture of a favourite privilege. Again, every marriage is unique, and CDD is much more than just corporal punishment or spanking.
Writing LINES?!?!
I envisioned me - shoulders bent at the table while Wayne loomed over me - all dark and brooding and authoritative as I scratched out the words:
"I will not fart in bed. I will not fart in bed. I will not fart in bed."
Writing lines?!?! Seriously? How in the WORLD could this EVER be taken seriously?
This particular website says it does not condone "non-consensual spanking" and refuses to discuss "child spanking" or "eroticism". They claim they are NOT some kinky s&m spanking fetish site.
Yeah right. But - after a thorough inspection, not a single F bomb is dropped - and not a single mention of sex could be found.
They are FOR REAL - suggesting that husbands SPANK their wives...if the wife "deserves" it of course.
The website reads:
This style of traditional male-led Christian marriage may seem unusual in today's "modern", liberal, politically correct, anti-God culture. This unholy culture, with its radically selfish feminism, and wholesale bias against true manhood, launches relentless attacks against traditional Christian family values.
I'm an open-minded guy. I am. Really open-minded.
I take my philosophy on life and how I live from Sly and the Family Stone: "Different Strokes for Different Folks."
That's the secret to life. Freedom ends when the rights of others are infringed upon, right?
I'm trying to picture Wayne and I living like this. Me leaving the cap off the tooth paste tube....or perhaps leaving the bread bag open so it goes stale...and then cut to me: Ass up - frat-boy-paddle whaling my butt initiation-style while I blurt out: "Thank you sir, may I have another!!"
It just wouldn't happen.
The website closes with this statement:
We realise that everyone is not fit for CDD. Perhaps this seems strange or inappropriate to you. Consider that some of your very own "lifestyle choices" may be viewed as equally strange or inappropriate by others. You are entitled to your own opinion, as are we. We support your freedom to choose what works best in your marriage. We seek the same freedom.
Fair enough.
I'm cool with that. Really, I am.
If some woman wants to bend over her man's knee and get a smack on her bare ass - and then get down on her knees and thank God that her husband is only doing it "for her own good"...well shit.
What the hell can ANYONE say to that?
It's weird. But - weird is relative.
We're all weird.
We're all right and everyone's wrong.
Or we're all wrong and no one's right.
It's the same thing, right?
Different strokes for different folks.
And those strokes...well - I guess for some - they include a an opened hand on a bare ass once in a while.
Weird. Bizarre. Sick.
Sure.
But, I'm sure the same has been said about me.

(But seriously...come on. Spanking?)

Old Bags.

2009-08-19T17:28:00.001-07:00

"Back in my day, when I was a wee little squirt - grocery stores used to give out plastic bags. As many as you wanted!"
"Really Grandpa? They used to GIVE you plastic bags??"
"Oh they sure did, young grasshopper. Sit down...I'll tell you a story..."

Plastic frickin' bags.
Seriously. Apparently they are eating the planet alive, from the core out.
Destroying us!
They're awful. Poison to the planet.
A spit in the eye of Mother Earth herself.
So what do the powers that be do?
They decide to make a little bit of money off our addiction to them.
10 cents a bag.

Or you can buy a special bag - several of them - for 99 cents a piece. A bag you can use over and over again - and forget each and EVERY TIME you go grocery shopping...so you have to buy some more.

How is it...In this day and age - I can go on line - a wireless computer - and pay property taxes, I can order a movie at the push of a button, I can look up any answer in the entire world on Wikipedia or Youtube - but for the life of us - we can't make plastic bags that biodegrade?!?!
Why can't we??
Why do plastic bags last FOREVER?!?!
A computer will be a piece of shit within 5 years.
A car only lasts about 10.
Your average kitchen appliance like a dishwasher, fridge or stove - 15 years tops...but hell - those plastic bags...those micro-thin plastic bags - they'll last a zillion years and surely all earthlings will surf that tidal wave of plastic straight into armageddon...unless we start paying for the bags.

How is it we can't make plastic bags that will dissolve after a while?
Give them a year even...
But we can't.
It's all or nothing.
Either they fall apart in 2 seconds - or they are here for all of infinity to muss everything up and throw off the balance of nature itself.
How is that even possible???
I sometimes think it's bullshit.

Oh don't get me wrong, I've bought the special bags - the kind you never throw away. I have about 12 of them.
It just burns my ass.
I mean, if a place like Zehrs was seriously concerned about saving the environment...they'd do more than "start charging people for bags".
They'd...stop selling meat.
Stop selling aerosol cans or styrofoam.
They'd do radical "green things" - like only carry Green toilet paper, biodegradable cardboard only - hell - they'd go fair trade.
But no. That's not economy aggressive.
But there is an economy aggressive thing to do...it's not green - but it's economy aggressive:
The answer - the Great Green Solution: Start charging us for our plastic bags.
Make some money off us.
Because we'll keep using them.
I've forgotten my "Green" shopping bags the last 3 times I've gone grocery shopping.
And yes - I've forked over the 10 cents per plastic bag, hanging my head in shame.
Why?
Because it's what people like me do.
We buy bags.
It's what we know. It's who we are.
We buy bags.

Someone makes money off ALL the things we're addicted to.
Alcohol - government controlled.
Gambling - government controlled.
Smoking - government controlled.
Drugs - government controlled.
Oil. Shit - need I even go there?
How much better would the world be if NONE of that shit existed?
It would suck, wouldn't it?
Because we can't live without it.
It's fun to gamble and spend and get drunk and high and smoke our faces off - even though it is SMOKE - poisonous smoke...yet we can't help it. We're addicted to it.
Oh they can tell us - they can put STICKERS on cigarettes and mince no words: "Cigarettes will kill you." - but we buy anyway, and SOMEONE makes money off us.
It wouldn't be economy aggressive to ban the cigarettes would it?
Of course not. Then no one would benefit financially from our addictions.
Oil is the cause of half the shit going down on this planet, I'm pretty sure it's not "green" - yet it's all about control. Wars. Bombs. Property lines and pipe lines.
Control. Control. Control.

And bags.
Plastic bags.
Doesn't plastic come from oil?

Control.

*sigh*

That's enough for tonight.
Now I have a headache.

"Back in my day," Grandfather begins, "Plastic bags were free..."

Rehab.

2009-08-12T08:09:00.000-07:00

A new methodone clinic just opened up on Windsor's west side - and some of the residents are opposing it, saying they had no idea it was going to open.
“We’re not against drug rehabilitation. We’re not against helping people that need it,” said a Wyandotte Street West resident. “But we’re against having things shoved down our throats. We’re tired of it.”
I grew up with a methodone clinic on my street. Well - it was there for the last few years while I still lived with my parents.
Drugs.
It's a crazy, sad - yet textbook cycle.
Unemployment rate sky-rockets.
People need to make extra money.
Others need to escape.
So - drugs are an option.
A way to make money. Or a way to escape.
Sometimes a little of both.
But, if you don't have a job to pay for your addiction, you have to find other ways to make money.
And there goes the crime rate. Break ins. Theft. Robbery. Random, violent acts.
It's sad.
I don't know much about the rehabilitation process, and I won't even pretend to.
I do hold a ton of respect for people who go seek help for a problem. That has to be one of the hardest things to do.
I don't have to live by a methodone clinic - at least not one that I am aware of. So I can't speak for or about what these residents are opposed to.
I can make an observation though.
A personal observation.
Personally - I would rather see a rehabilitation clinic open in my neighbourhood as opposed to - say - a crack house.
But that's just me.
I don't know much about this. I'm just observing here.
What shocks and amazes me though - about drugs and the way drug-related crimes are treated...is the fact that no one seems ticked off - or even the slightest bit disturbed that minor drug offenders are filling prisons up.
Especially in the U.S.
Zero tolerance states - the prisons are at max capacity because so many people are just sitting there, filling up space, sucking up tax dollars...because they got busted with a pound of weed.
Or they were addicted to meth and stealing to feed the addiction.
What is this?
Is this something else going on here?
I mean - look where drug-related activity is the heaviest:
The poor neighbourhoods. Right?
Or am I wrong? I don't know - I'm asking.
Maybe there is just as much drug movement in the rich, poshy neighbourhoods...it just goes by under the radar because everyone has enough money to cover their crack and meth bill for the month.
Yet the drug dealers - the people who get busted - the minor drug offenders...they're only selling to themselves.
To other poor people.
They're not making money off the addictions of the rich, are they?
They're not selling to the posh neighbourhoods.
They are selling it to their own people, their own neighbours who are also in dire straits, financially, socially - mentally, phsycially.
Addicted.
And they end up in jail.
Again. And again. And again.
And they come out. And they go back in.
And nothing seems to change.
What is this?
Is this just the evolution of racism?
Is it rich vs. poor?
Get them addicted, keep it in their ghettos - keep them marginalized and keep the criminal activity high so we can keep them incarcerated?
Is that what this is?
Or have I just been watching too much TV, reading too many conspiracy theories?
I don't know. I really have no clue - but from my point of view... someone who grew up in a working class neighbourhood, in a working class family, with a working class state of mind ...looking at the shit that's going down...it freaks me out.
All legal red tape aside, for a minute - doesn't it seem like mandatory minimum sentences for drugs should just be abolished?
Dropped?
Why does someone have to go to prison for having a drug problem?
I'm talking about minor drug offenders here.
Treatment should be increased. Law enforcement...I don't know..."decreased" isn't the right word.
I am NOT anti-police, and I do not want anyone to take this and interpret it as a "Down with the Fuzz" rant.
That's not me at all. Who would I be on the phone to at the first SIGN of danger?
The cops.
No - I'm talking about the way our legal system (our government?) handles drug offenders.
It seems off. Off balance. Wrong.
There's an inequity. Something.
I sometimes wonder where drug money goes...is it used to pay for wars?
Is it a tool, unleashed on the poor, to keep them down?
How much of the world economy is based in drugs - and that being said - how much of OUR tax money - OUR tax dollars - are being used to feed and house and babysit drug addicts? Or drug dealers?
Not help them.
Babysit them.
Babysit them while they serve out their bullshit prison sentences - sentences they were given for getting HIGH and not being able to STOP getting high - only to be released and repeat cycle.
What is the answer?
I have no idea.
I'm asking. I'm ranting. I'm observing.
I'm not claiming to know anything, and if I am merely interpreting something the wrong way here - please point it out to me. I'm open.
It just seems we have a problem here.
It doesn't seem that way - we do have a problem here.
We certainly do.
And I don't know if the problem is simply "people getting high".
I mean yes - obviously - addiction is a problem...but this is something else.
The system we have to treat drug offenders...it's not working.
The same people, the same neighbourhoods are busted again and again and again.
More tax dollars.
I was watching the news the other day and they arrested someone in Windsor for some crime and she had been to prison EIGHT times for drug-related crime.
EIGHT times.
And where does that get her?
In the back of a police car - on the way to number 9.
It's not working.
That being said - I don't know what DOES work.
It just seems like sending them to prison to sit and wait it out with the other criminals...isn't the way.

And it seems like something else is going on here.
It's not about drugs or the mental states drugs take us to.
The government could care less if people get high, though they pretend that's not the case.
No - This is about money.
It all boils down to that, doesn't it?
In the end?
The bottom line - is rock bottom.
Economy. Social class.
The big budgets vs. the little budgets.

Cold, hard CASH.
MONEY.
The most dangerously addictive drug on the planet.
Maye we all could use a trip to rehab, because the cash flow system seems off balance too.
You know - seeing as there are people starving and stuff.

Just a rant. Nothing more.

Pride, 2009.

2009-08-04T20:27:00.001-07:00

Windsor Pride has been around for 17 years.
That's not that long when you think about it.
Not long at all.
That was the early nineties.
But I remember it well.
Summer of 1992 - I was 15 years old.
Awkward age for anyone.
You're still looked at as a kid...but your body and your mind is telling you otherwise and it's a big ole messy, internal struggle that's been going on since teenagers have been in existence.
I was no different.
Well - no different in that I felt extremely, 100% different than every other person in the world.
So in that sense - I was normal. Everything as it should be for an awkward teenager.
When I was younger - about ten years old or so - I had seen gay people a few times on TV...but only on shows like Donahue or Sally.
There was no Will and Grace or Ellen - there weren't even any fancy design shows with flamboyant and beloved gay hosts like today.
Nope.
The gay people I saw were on talk shows with captions under their images that read things like:
"Mark: An Admitted Homosexual."
Or "Charlie and Tom: Admit they are in a homosexual relationship."
They had mustaches and wore Hawaiin shirts and flowing blouses or gold chains.
They looked like Robin Williams in The Birdcage - and ALL OF them did drag by night.
That is what a homosexual looks like, I remember thinking.
Nope. I'm definitely not that!
It freaked me out. It freaked me out because it was something I was not comfortable with.
And it freaked me out because beneath the silk blouses, tacky man-bracelets and foofy, side-parted hair...I did recognize a little something that reminded me...of me.
But I'm not like that. No way. Not me!
I was firm on this, see.
The talkshows also showed family members.
Mothers and Fathers cried, sobbed, begged and wept - they hung their heads in shame at the sight of their sons.
Some disowned them. Their brothers and sisters, while slightly more sympathetic - were still somewhat estranged from their gay siblings.
Even though it wasn't the case - and even though it was the start of some mainstream visibility - those talk shows told me as a kid - that being gay was a shameful, horrible and selfish thing that will surely doom one to a lifetime of family fights - not to mention horrendous sense of fashion and style.
What a shitty portrayal of gays.
Tapered acid wash jeans with white socks and black loafers?
I don't THINK so!
Nope, I remember thinking.
Definitely not gay.
Happy with this realization, I went back to playing Barbie with my sister.
I loved playing Barbie with my sister.
Fast-forward to the summer before grade 10.
1992.
I was standing in Peerless Ice Cream shop with my parents.
My Mom nudged my Dad - and motioned to a guy in front of us in line.
"Look at his shirt," she whispered.
I looked.
"Gay Pride!" it said, with a rainbow.
I'll never forget it.
I immediately got goosebumps.
He was one of them.
One of those people I saw on Donahue...in the flesh - just feet away from me.
But...he didn't look like "one of them".
He was young. Probably not older than 20.
Long, shaggy hippy hair. Surfer shorts. And the gay t-shirt.
He looked...normal.
But he wasn't.
He had a gay pride t-shirt!
GAY PRIDE - it read in bold letters.
White on black - easy to read.
No mistaking it.
I remember thinking - how COULD he wear that in public?
Such a shameless thing - on display for all to see!
Like he didn't care what we thought!
Proud of it, even!
How could he?
I stared at him, examining him...looking for signs or symptoms of gayness other than the shirt.
A limp wrist, a blotch of eyeliner...perhaps painted finger nails or left over glitter.
Nothing.
He was normal. A totally normal guy. Well - my definition of normal, anyway.
He could have been me.
Ladies and gentlemen: My first gay roll model.
Even though I swore up and down a zillion times as I stared at that kid and his Gay Pride t-shirt that I would never, ever be him - I secretly envied him.
The freedom he had that I didn't.
Freedom I couldn't even comprehend at that time.
Something as simple as walking down the street - or standing in line at an ice cream shop and being the person you are.
It's something I couldn't EVER comprehend doing.
Imagine that: Growing up Canadian - and not feeling you have that freedom?
Simply being the person you are.
Why is this a struggle? Yet somehow, sadly - for many - it is.
And that guy - that guy who couldn't have been more than 20...he'll never know the impact he made on my life - by doing something as simple as wearing that shirt to hit the ice cream store.
I think of him every single year around this time - when it's Windsor Pride week.
Such a simple action spoke volumes to me.
It gave me hope. It did.
It made me think that maybe I could be me, if I wanted to be me.
That it might not matter. That I could be normal - whatever definition of "normal" I was comfortable with.
If it meant shaggy hair and surfer shorts or my favourite pair of doc martens and a Nirvana t-shirt...I could be who I wanted to be.
Something in my head clicked that summer day. It got me thinking. It got me asking questions.
I might not be an uber gay activist. I might not own a single Cher maxi single...and hell - I might even want to harf every time I see Britney Spears lip-sync her way through another disaster - but I have something I never take for granted:
Freedom to be me. It took me a few years - maybe until I was 22 years old...but I embraced me.
As I was.
Awkward. Bizarre. Goofy. But me. I could like me - and I could be me.
I had that freedom.
Something so many don't.
Because for every kid like me - who was a bit awkward and insecure and unsure and lacking identity - or searching desperately for it - there are many more who are far worse off.
I've seen people grow up in a pod - cut off from everyone, introverted.
They live as a shadow of who they really are.
Lonely. Or worse: Married to someone they can't ever fully be themselves with.
Unhappy. Trapped.
Caged.
Zero self-esteem and no confidence.
It scares me - because I can imagine that.
I can see how it can happen.
I realize I was lucky. I am lucky.
Because it could have gone the other way for me, had things been slightly different.
Had I been born to different parents. Born in a different country.
Hell - had I not seen that kid that day...it could have been different.
That guy with the shaggy, hippy hair, surfer shorts and the T-Shirt that said two simple words:
Gay. Pride.
So when I hear people say: "Why do they need a gay pride day? We don't have a straight pride day!" - this is why.
This is the reason why.
Something more simple than a parade...more simple than a party in a park...more simple than glittering rainbow flags flying proudly at city hall:
Hope.
The future can look bleak when you're a teenager.
When you're a gay teenager with no direction and no one to turn to - or without anyone to even look at and study from afar...it's downright paralyzing.
But seeing others do it...
Seeing others hold their heads high and do something as radical and out of the box as...being themselves...
It's empowering.
It changed my life - and I have no doubt in mind that it changes more lives each and every year - from every age group...from every demographic.
I might not slap on a pair of rainbow booty shorts and shake my 32 year old ass on a Pride float...and let's be honest: I'm not sure many would want to see that.
But...I'll be at Windsor Pride this weekend...and I will get on stage.
I will speak into the microphone and I will do what I do - proudly.
And if I'm lucky...maybe someone...a boy...a girl...young or old - maybe they'll see me and think "How could he? How could he be so brash? How in the world can he be himself and just not care what others think?"
And they'll start thinking...and that's what it's all about.
Reaching out and connecting and letting every single person - gay or straight - know that the awkward feeling in the pit of their stomach - that frown furrowing their brow from worry that people might not love them because of who they are...it's okay - because at one time...we were all in the same boat.
All different...but all so very much the same.
I guess - what I really want to say - is thanks.
I want to thank all the organizers of Windsor Pride...past and present and future.
But mostly - I wanna thank that kid.
The kid in Peerless - 17 years ago - 1992 - who wore a Gay Pride T-shirt because it was Windsor's first EVER Gay Pride Celebration.
Thank you, you shaggy haired hippy - for saving my life.

Happy Pride, Windsor.

Dan.

What Day is it Again?

2009-08-03T07:23:00.000-07:00

So it's the long weekend.
Yay! Yippee! Totally pumped.
But...why do we have the day off again?
It's not fourth of July...or First of July...hell - it's not even July at all.
It's August.
Labour Day isn't for another month.
Christmas is four months away and Queen Elizabeth Day...wait...that's one of those July dates...right? Or is that in May? Is that May two-four?
Or is May two-four just a celebration of camping and beer and open patios?
I have a confession:
I have no effing clue why we have a long weekend.
How shameful is that?
I'm a proud Canadian. I love this country. I don't take it for granted for a SECOND - EVER - its beauty, its freedoms...yeah we have our "quirks" - but guess what?
Taking into account some of the "quirks" that other countries have...I think we're doing juuust fine.
Better than fine.
Yet...here I am. Planning BBQs, chilling beer and celebrating...what?
A long weekend - and I don't even know what the hell it's all about.
Shameful.
Turns out - the first Monday of August is a Civic Holiday - also known as "Simcoe Day".
I know, I know...I didn't know what a Simcoe was.
Was Simcoe code for "national shopping day"?
Was it named after some mad, genuis who invented something...the dust buster maybe?
Perhaps the creator of maple syrup. Not sure if the dust buster is Canadian. But maple syrup is.
...right?
Mustard too.
I think.
(sigh).
I decided to consult the Gods (Wikipedia) - and found out it's a day dedicated to the fabulous (my word - not Wiki's) John Graves Simcoe.
He was the first Lieutenant Governor of Upper Canada (modern-day southern Ontario and the watersheds of Georgian Bay and Lake Superior) from 1791-1796.
He founded York (now Toronto) and was instrumental in introducing institutions such as the courts, trial by jury, English common law, freehold land tenure, and for abolishing slavery in Upper Canada long before it was abolished in the British Empire as a whole (it had disappeared from Upper Canada by 1810, but was not abolished throughout the Empire until 1834).

A progressive dude, considering the pits-era he was living in.

So yeah.
I didn't know.
And just in case you didn't...well - now you do.
And so do I!
So we have something in common.

Hey - we should be friends!

So - say it with me now, as we chug our beers, blare our radios and celebrate a whole Monday off:

On the count of three...
One...
...two...
.......three:

"HAPPY SIMCOE DAY!"

...Feels good...doesn't it?

Tell me, fellow Ontario Dwellers...how are YOU celebrating the life of Mister Simcoe?

(I checked. Wikipedia couldn't tell me, so I thought I'd ask you, personally.
Seeing as we're friends... Right? ...RIGHT?!?!?)

George.

2009-08-02T07:24:00.000-07:00

Always. And I mean always - I've been a George Michael fan.
Maybe it was the blow-dried hair.
Maybe it was the Les Paul.
Maybe it was the ass in those jeans (you know what I'm talking about)..but George Michael.
He could belt 'em out.
I'll be honest - I think he sucks now...but...for at least a few post-Wham years, I think he was on to something.
One might even say - dude was ahead of his time.

Check out these lyrics:

These are the days of the open hand
They will not be the last
Look around now
These are the days of the beggars
And the choosers

This is the year of the hungry man
Whose place is in the past
Hand in hand with ignorance
And legitimate excuses

The rich declare themselves poor
And most of us are not sure
If we have too much
But well take our chances
Because God stopped keeping score
I guess somewhere along the way
He must have let us all out to play
Turned his back and all gods children
Crept out the back door

And its hard to love,
Theres so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above
Say its much too late
Well maybe we should all be
Praying for time

These are the days of the empty hand
Oh you hold on to what you can
And charity is a coat you wear
Twice a year

This is the year of the guilty man
Your television takes a stand
And you find that what was over there
Is over here

So you scream from behind your door
Say whats mine is mine and not yours
I may have too much
But Ill take my chances
Because God stopped keeping score
And you cling to the things
They sold you
Did you cover your eyes when
They told you
That he cant come back
Because he has no children
To come back for.

- George Michael, 1990.

Nice Doggy...Nice...Doggy...(INSERT BLOOD CURDLING SCREAM HERE!!!)

2009-08-01T07:22:00.000-07:00

Dogs.
I like them.
And I fear them.
I walk to and from work quite often, and even though I appear content, happy and at ease, playfully shuffling through songs on my mp3 player and enjoying my surroundings and the fresh air...there's a teeny, tiny, menacing voice in the back of my mind that's always there:
"Beware of stray dogs," it whispers.
I was approached by a stray once. A German Sheppard.
Don't show fear, I told myself - and continued walking, eyes straight ahead - but very conscious of where the dog was in proximity to me.
I read something once that dogs can sense or smell fear - and they either hate it and become furiously vicious at the scent - or they love the smell so much they want to devour and eat the source of it.
Either way - not a good scenario.
Don't show fear.
I kept walking - and the dog barked.
But it was a scary snarl-bark. It stood directly in front of me on the sidewalk, hair up, teeth showing.
Not good.
Although I was trying not to show my fear - I'm sure I stunk to high heaven of it.
The dog barked again. I froze. Stopped dead in my tracks.
It was me...and the dog.
I was armed only with a dinky mp3 player...and my bag of lunch.
My bag of lunch!
I quickly thought about what was in there.
A cup of instant soup. Not very appetizing for a dog.
A couple rice cakes. Again - not exactly beef jerky.
A bag of carrot sticks and some cashews.
Nope. Not good.
I silently cursed myself for eating like a pansy little rabbit - positive this new little health kick I was currently on was going to cost me my life this time.
The dog barked again and took a few steps forward.
I in turn, took a few steps back. I knew it was seconds away from attacking.
Then I remembered the peanut butter sandwich I packed.
Peanut butter.
If a dog is a human's best friend - peanut butter is surely a dog's best friend.
My dearly departed Golden Retriever - Teddy - he would have done anything for even the tiniest bit of peanut butter back in his hey-day.
I carefully reached into my bag and grabbed my peanut butter sandwich, unwrapped it - and waved it at the dog.
He looked insane with rage. Probably thought I was mocking him.
"Hi honey," I said - voice shaking. "Peanut butter...Mmmmm..."
The dog stopped growling and stared, confused.
"You want it?" I asked, trying to sound excited.
The dog bark-snarled again and I think a few drops of urine may or may not have leaked out into my boxers.
"Go get it!" I said and whipped the sandwich across the street, onto someone's front lawn.
You think he budged?
Nothing.
He just stared at me.
And that's when one of the neighbour's came out. The dog instantly saw them - and bolted for them.
Perhaps it was his owner - perhaps it was his next victim. Breakfast, maybe.
I cared not.
I booked it down the street to safety - pissed off that I had to sacrifice my peanut butter sandwich for nothing.
Fucker, I muttered to myself as I made my way to work.
I like dogs. But I also fear anything that could tear my throat out just because it feels like it.
I read in the Windsor Star today that a man was nearly attacked by a dog.
Witnesses said the man became so frightened that he threw his legs over the railing and dropped into the ravine below — a fall of about 10 metres onto rough terrain and debris.
I mean - he probably didn't know the drop was that big. It was probably just instinct - get away from the dog as fast as you can...and hopping the little fence thing seemed like the best option at the time.
Ouch.
Sucks that the closest escape was a small cliff.
I walk quite a bit though...and it seems there are many stray animals on the loose right now - after the strike - and even with the economy.
So many pet owners are abandoning their pets. Something I can't understand.
I get not being able to afford them. But I can't imagine EVER just opening the door and dis-owning my cat.
I don't get it. But it's happening.
Stray dogs, stray cats.
Skunks. Possums.
A friend of mine saw a coyote in her west side neighbourhood a few weeks back.
It got me thinking...
If I had to fight a rabid dog - or take my chances with a 10 meter drop...that's a tough call.
I mean, if you're going to get into it with a mad dog - hell bent on killing you - chances are - one of you will NOT be walking away from the fight, unless someone intervenes with a weapon...but you can't count on that.
If you're gonna fight a mad dog...it's probably going to be a "do or (literally) die" situation.
To the death.
I'm not sure I could do it. I mean, self-defense - of course I could do it.
I'm an animal activist - but self-defense is an entirely different beast, no pun intended.
I'm just not sure I could physically get the better of a mad dog.

Perhaps I would take the jump off the over-pass as well. I mean, what would the OTHER option be?
A bite? Torn flesh? Possibly death?
And to kill a dog..what do you have to do? Gouge out its eyes? Rip its ears off?
That 10 metre drop is sounding better and better.
Sure, people say "just kick it" - but if the thing has your calve in its jaws and is gnawing on it like it's an extra tender chicken finger...well - kicking is a tough manouever to pull off.

I honestly question my strength and my stomach - and my wits - and whether or not I have what it takes to fight a dog.
I'm not sure I do.

*sigh*

Yup. A nice, random, morbid thought for the day.
For the most part - I know it's not rational to walk around, afraid - constantly on guard for Cujo - who could pop out bearing bloody fangs at any second.
And for the most part - I don't.

But - it's good to know what you'd do if it ever came down to it.
It's good to have a back up plan...
...Or - at least an extra peanut butter sandwich.
Or hell - a 10 metre drop to jump off of.
You know: Just in case.

Just in case it comes that.

Happy walking folks,

Dan

Backstage Pass.

2009-07-20T04:35:00.000-07:00

I want to say it's no big deal for me to go backstage anymore, but that would be a lie.
It's a whole other world. A calm inside this gigantic musical storm.
Tonight at Bluesfest, I was sitting in the main seating area of the Riverfront Festival Plaza (not VIP - tonight I wanted to kick it with the ROWDY folk!) with my friends.
About 5 songs into Johnny Winter's set, I decided to go backstage one last time, to get a closer look at this legendary Bluesman.
It would, afterall - most likely be my last chance to ever see him.
As I approached the gates where a few fans were gathered, the security guard nodded at me, and steped aside to let me in.
Weird. That's odd to me. I'm just not used to being the guy who gets to go backstage, and to be honest: I'm not sure I ever will be.
"Hey, Dan!" someone said. It was someone I didn't recognize.
I looked over and smiled.
"Can you get me in? It's my brother's birthday! Can you get us all back in there?"
I shrugged and smiled apologetically.
"I don't have any extra passes," I said and walked away.
I'd been announcing all the performers all day - something else which never loses its novelty or excitement or thrill.
But backstage...it's like walking into a different realm.
It's always the same:
The music sounds different, the perspective changes ...and the people...the people are an odd mix.
Techie guys walking around with determined looks on their faces, adjusting extension chords and carrying speakers.
Organizers on cell phones, or talking and referring to a schedule on a clip board.
Roadies, tour managers, assistants to the musicians on stage - watching, making sure everything is going as it should. I avoid them, stay out of their way.
They never strike me as people you'd want to get in the way of.
Photographers and various members of the press standing around talking, hopping up on stage to snap an up-close stage shot of the band for a paper or magazine or web site.
A few fans, dancing with each other and laughing - drinking - making memories.
And me.
For me - it's strictly about the music. Nothing else.
I honestly become posessed by it.
I don't know much about stage direction or timing or schedules, but the music...it hypnotizes me instantly.
In the midst of all the equipment tear down, the security guards on walkie-talkies, the dancing fans and the stage managers all around me, I always try to find the perfect spot...where I can see the crowd...and I can see the band and I'm out of the way.
And I stare, mesmerized.
Mesmerized by the intoxication of the crowd and the magic the performer generously throws out to them.
It's a strange, peaceful, happy medium.
I live for music...and sometimes, being in the thick of the crowd - with your hands in the air screaming at the top of your lungs...there's no better place to be.
But on nights like tonight...the final night of bluesfest after a long week of work...I needed my alone time.
I needed to just stand alone and untouched - fitting in but slightly out of place - and feel the music, the vibration of the speakers - and watch the crowd and their happy faces.
It's cool sometimes, to watch from afar, to be in the moment - without participating.
Well, participating in my own way.
It's selfish of me in a way. To watch all the behind-the-scenes-people do what they do to bring that magic to the people. I always feel like I should be doing something to help - getting a bottle of water, helping to move the equipment...something to pay my dues for being allowed into this elite and sparsely populated and wonderful backstage world.
I can't help but feel like an imposter, like a stalkerish fan - someone who snuck their way in but really has no business being there...
Someone tapped me on the shoulder and said they were taking a picture of a bunch of people involved, and since I was introducing the bands, they wanted me in the photo.
I said I would be around, and I'd try to meet them over where the pictures were being taken, but I took that as my queue to leave and I quietly let myself out before that.
Sometimes I'm the kind of music fan who just likes to listen. All alone.
No talking. Just focusing.
Just people-watching. Absorbing it all.
I took one last look at Johnny Winter and his band.
I took one last look at all the people, doing their thing, working hard to make sure it all ran smoothly.
I saw the group of media people and promoters involved getting their picture taken and felt bad for a minute, for not posing for the photographer.
And the audience. Everyone staring at the performer, smiling and drinking and being happy.

And me.

That's what it's all about for me. Just being able to see that. To feel that magic.
Up close and personal.

I walked towards the backstage exit - making my way back to the main audience - and the security guard nodded to me and smiled, pulling the gate open to let me out.
"Did you have a good night?" he asked.

I saw this chick waiting to get back stage - hoping beyond hope he would let her in - a photo of Johnny Winter in one hand and a Sharpie in the other.

Excitement in her eyes. I totally got where she was coming from.
Magic.

"Yup," I smiled.
"Everything was awesome."

Windsor: A Shit Hole.

2009-07-18T10:47:00.001-07:00

Last night I was at the Bluesfest and the Funk Brothers were on.
The players responsible for the glittery, foot stomping Motown sound that was the centre of the universe at one time, as far as music is concerned - which blows my mind.
So there they were, playing - up on the onion stage at the Riverfront Festival Plaza.
Caesars Windsor towering in the background...and on the other side - I looked over at the Detroit skyline.
How rare a moment is that?
"How unbelievably lucky am I?" I remember asking myself, to be able to hear that music coming out of the speakers - being played and created - live - right there, set to the back drop - the beautiful glistening back drop of the Motor City itself.
Breath taking.
Sure, some of the bulidings might be facades, and some might say it's now "the most dangerous city in the world" - but it's there. It's standing tall - and to me - that was one mighty moment.
I felt proud to be from Windsor and proud to be so close to Detroit Rock City.
It was then that I overheard someone talking a few tables down from me:
"This city is a shit hole and I hate it."
Instantly - I was furious.
I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't stop thinking about it - I kept looking over at the guy who said it and I had to bite my tongue. I could only shake my head in disgust. It pissed me off.
I looked around the plaza...and the only thing I could see - were people dancing in the aisles, smiling.
People were singing along to some of the greatest music EVER - all together - music being performed by the musicians who have played on more number ONE songs that the Beatles, Elvis and the Rolling Stones - COMBINED.
Drinks were going down, arms were in the air and everyone was HAPPY.
Outdoors...in the summer...you could FEEL it: People were high on music - and happy.
Maybe it's the power of music...or maybe it's more than that.
Maybe we have a great thing - a powerful thing - here in this city that we hardly utilize at all.
Maybe.
Maybe we should take advantage of our breath-taking waterfront, of the fact that we live right next to a major city, of our unique spot on the map - a little off centre from the rest of Ontario.
We are uniquely cool. Despite all the crap, the strike, the lack of co-operation, the division lines, the hatred, the bitchy power trips and the fact that we've just been named one of the most poorly run cities in Canada...ahem...
I think we are BLIND to what a rough, unpolished gem we have in this city.
Of what we have and what we are capable of.
It's hard to find the silver lining in things, especially when peole are losing their houses, their jobs.
It's tough to find a life boat when it feels like the ship already sunk.
But it didn't.
Last night confirmed that for me.
If everyone WHO CAN - got off their asses and put in a little extra elbow grease - even if it means picking up the slack for all the people who - for the moment - CANNOT - we could easily turn this city around.
The Automotive Revolution is temporarily stalled.
The city is on temporary shut down...but that doesn't mean we give up and dismiss it as a "shit hole".
People have said this since I can remember.
"What a shit hole, this place is a shit hole."
Well pardon my french: But move the F_CK out if you don't like it.
Because who needs that kind of negativity? Not us.
If we have kinks to work out - what is complaining about them going to do?
Let's fix them. Let's untangle them.

Go down to the Riverfront Festival Plaza this weekend and listen to the people.
The noises of people outdoors in a festival having fun.
We have a history of hard working people - and hard partying people.
And we're still alive and kicking.

Sometimes it feels like none of us - myself included - have any idea the potential we have in this city.
Sometimes it feels like decisions that are made are designed specifically to screw us up.

But that doesn't mean "give up".
I've NEVER believed Windsor is a "shit hole".

And last night - sitting in the centre of thousands of people while a legendary band played the sounds that literally re-defined music...I can't imagine how ANYONE could.

Windsor might have a case of the blues - but the blues are the backbone, the strength, the history - it's what makes us who we are.

It's time we stop selling ourselves short. It's time we stop putting ourselves down. It's time we seriously start taking care of Windsor - because she took care of us for a long, long time and she deserves better.