Library of Stories - EvanKayne.com

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Table of Contents

Somewhere in the Hospital Eternal

It was the dead of night. A time when dreams and time blur with reality. Walter had quietly escaped his exhausted wife and daughter, leaving them to sleep. In his dream state, wandered the halls of the hospital. Twenty-one years later, I slept on my hospital bed, mending from COVID-19. In dreams, we’re admitted to the Hospital Eternal.

I stand in the middle of two intersecting hallways. He rounds the corner and I see him: small, his gown flapping almost too open with each step. He looks a fright. Then again, in my gown, long hair pulled back, and unshaven face, I look no better; perhaps at best a younger mirror to him.

He starts to walk past. I’m not sure I would like to bother the nurses here, so I softly call out, “Dad.”

He stops. His eyes focus as he looks at me. A smile, then “Daniel.”

I gesture to a bench, “sit with me.”

We sit. He looks at me closely. “Are you sick too, son?” His voice was free of the rasp and labored breathing he had at the end.

“In a way…I am in a hospital far away and years ahead. Pandemic. I came awfully close…but I’m healing.”

Walter nodded his head – the logic in this dreamworld perfectly acceptable.

“Dad, I think… I have a short time to talk to you. I want to say thank you for my life. I’ve learned so much I wish I could send back in time to help you. I now know I have ADHD, and so did you. It would have helped your emotional control, you could have…”

He held a finger to my lips. “I am happy you learned of yourself. That’s good.”

I went on. “You were right about Richard. Mom has the beginning signs of Alzheimer’s and he’s keeping her in the home away from us so he can have a place to live rent free and store his shit. He’s told Mom lies, he’s estranged her from Barbra, Susan, Chris, and me. He’s gonna suck up all her savings and doesn’t give a fuck about her!”

Dad sighed and patted my knee. “No, he does love her in a sense but…I should have pushed your Mom to focus him a lot harder when he was younger. You know Richard isn’t stupid – he’s got a lot of the creative skills the rest of you have. He just…I don’t want to say he’s lazy. More like he always looked for shortcuts and was afraid of hard work. But…”

He looked off into the distance, took a deep breath in and sighed. “Richard is good at playing the victim, which you all understand now. I loved you kids and your mother but none of us were perfect. Even now it took you years after my death, dreaming from the future just to start to understand.”

I nod. There was a moment of silence, and I ask the other question. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you loved me?”

He laughs. “In my way, I did! You never listened!”

Blank faced, then I laugh along with him, remembering the gentle teasing he gave us as his way of affection. Our laughter echoing the empty hallway.

“I was limited in how I could demonstrate my love to you by how I grew up. Men didn’t express loving emotions. But I always asked about you. I always worried about you, even when you seemed annoyed with my questions. You are lucky…you live in a world where fathers are learning to express love.”

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but for a moment his face flushes with an ashen look. Sadness overwhelms me as I realize this hospital’s visiting hours are ending. I breath in, then “You’re dying…tomorrow or the day after your family gathered around your bed and….”

He interrupts me, “…and I will pass in front of you, and in your grief, you will run panicked from the room. Barbra will find and return you. You will help your mother plan my funeral. Everyone will say how calm and adult you were, and they will bury me. And the wave returns to the ocean, the sun goes around in the circle game, the mirror is in the mirror reflecting back in the faces of our children. “

I raise my eyebrows at this, not sure if he’s saying it, I’m dreaming him say it or something else. “We’re all dying son. Every day we draw in breath we sail closer to our last one.”

He places a hand on my jaw. “Richard has made his choices. Accept that, protect yourself from him, but ultimately move on away from him. Focus on your other brother and sisters. I am happy to see how close the rest of you have become. Find more friends and tell them you love them for you never know when you’ll see them again. Heal. Learn. Grow. Be happy. “

I reach out to hug him, really hug him and feel him hug back, strong. We embrace for long minutes. Then pull apart. I break the silence. “Well…now what?”

Dad stands up. “Haha. For the short time we have left…run with me, my son!”

And in dreams we run through the Eternal Hospital, each step without pain, lasting one more second of time, laughing like small children, our hospital gowns flapping in the breeze…free from all hurt, fear, and worry as phantom nurses chase after us.

Funny and Weird Halloween Stories

As a gay man, Halloween should be the gay equivalent of Christmas (for many gay men it is) however, I have spent most of my life in Edmonton or Calgary. As I look out my window at the snow which has fallen in the last few days, I remember costumes of my childhood:
– A ghost! (in a parka)
– A hobo! (in a parka)
– A businessman! (in a parka)
You get the idea.

As an adult it wasn’t much better, even if you had a car to keep warm, you still had to wear the damn parka. And costume choices for adults are usually either lame but functional (as in you can move around, eat, drink, make out, go to the washroom, etc.) or FANTASTIC but you’re lucky if you can do any of the aforementioned activities.

Add in the horror of not having the money and time to make a fantastic outfit. Mix in the social fear of being mocked, being terrified of wearing drag….Okay, more terrified of how sad I’d look and the damage to my back. I look much better with facial hair and anything higher than an inch in heels my back is farked. The point is…I gave up on Halloween outfits – giving the lame excuse of “oh, I just came from work” or “This is my outfit. I’m a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else.” Yes I stole that last one from The Addams Family.

I do have two Halloween stories. One is socially scary, the other longer one is…just weird. The short one first.

This is probably 1990. The location was the Boston Pizza on Whyte Ave in Edmonton. We stopped into the lounge which had a Karaoke machine. The lounge also came equipped with an impossibly drunk (i.e. HOW are you STILL standing?) guy on the microphone, singing a Chris De Burgh song. Badly. Like:

“…the LAAAaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAdddddeeeeeeEEEEEEE in REEEEEEEeeeeeeeedddddddddd….oh ssssssshhhhheeeeeeeees my laaaaaaaaaady!!!!!!”

Years later I’m still scarred. It was truly horrifying.

The second story…

This was the early 90s in Edmonton. At the time, Lucien, a guy I was dating had landed an invite to a Halloween party at his cousin’s place – a farm or acreage west of the city. The costumes are lost to memory; the farm or acreage lost to development (I feel like it was somewhere around Rabbit Hill Ski area, but it may have been closer to Devon). A relevant sidebar here: The North Saskatchewan River runs through Edmonton, and unlike Calgary, there is a very defined and STEEP river valley. It’s a 50m drop and in some areas it’s almost a direct drop.

So, there’s four of us. Lucien had invited his friend Bonnie, and we were being driven by her boyfriend, Tony. Bonnie, like Lucien, was a little crunchy granola New Age space cadet. Consequently, there were a few times Tony and I exchanged looks that said “yeah, I know, I know”.

It was probably around 8PM. Being October in Edmonton, it’s dark, and we’ve managed to get ourselves lost on some backroad west of the city. Lucien remembers “something about a back entrance” to the property. We come up to a sideroad which has a NO ENTRY barricade on it. Lucien is somewhat sure this is the way, so we get out and move the barricade. We drive for a few moments on a dirt road barely wide enough for one car. Nothing. We come to the end of the road as there are three huge boulders blocking further access. Trees on the left side, some low bushes on the right.

So, wrong way. Tony is about to back up to the side of the road with the bushes and turn around. He figured there was a small ditch, he’d run over the bushes but no issue. As Tony starts backing up, Bonnie shouts: “STOP THE CAR!” She steps out of the vehicle, walks towards the trunk, and then comes back saying “DRIVE FORWARD NOW!” Tony squabbles with her for a second but she insists. We drive forward and park. Everyone gets out. Bonnie grabs a flashlight from the glove compartment and shines on the edge of the road. At first, we see bushes but as we walk closer, we notice beyond the gravel, beyond the thin strip of grass and bushes there was nothing but empty space. We were overlooking a steep embankment right above the river.

We knew we were close to the river valley, but we didn’t think we were THIS close. We found out later the reason the road was closed because the riverbank was collapsing. Had the car backed up, we would have backed up into eternity. Lucien and I got some flashlights and start walking back towards the turnoff, guiding Tony as he drove in reverse.

We get out to the turnoff. At this point we figure we’re far enough away from the riverbank, so Tony turns the car around. Lucien and I get back inside. We then ask Bonnie what made her yell out STOP THE CAR! She said: “I remember dreaming this last night. Only we went over the edge.”

Now, maybe this is true.

Maybe Bonnie had dreamed something like this, but it was really her memory and subconscious putting together a narrative in her dreams the night previous. A combination of her anticipating the drive to the party and the ending scene from Thelma and Louise which had recently come out to movie cinemas. Or maybe, in the darkness, Bonnie saw the North Saskatchewan River in the distance that night. But it took until we started backing up for her brain had put two and two together. Maybe she just said “I dreamed it” as some way to make herself seem quirky and important.

Maybe…she did dream it.

It was so long ago the reasons and friends are lost to time. It’s not a slasher story or a ghost story. Real life is as horrifying as it is beautiful, so I have no need to read those types of stories when I can pay attention to life. If you watch and listen carefully, sometimes you’ll have your own weird little adventures that maybe, maybe make you wonder “What If….”

The Washroom Preacher

A few years ago at the gym, as I finished my workout, I boogied into the men’s change and washroom listening to – appropriately enough – “The Shouty Track” by Lemon Jelly. On the way in, I noticed one of the gym staff as she picked up some trash on the hallway adjacent to the changerooms. Her face had blossomed into a fine “What the Fuck” face.

As I entered the changeroom, I understood why. Some guy was wHaRRrbbLLGarRrbling and ranting about Jesus. I shrug as I’ve got noise cancelling earbuds and walked towards the urinals, but a voice in my head said “Stop. Turn around. You need to play music over this guy.” I grabbed my phone, unplugged the headphones, and in a quick panic, tried to get the damn thing to play on the built-in speakers.

It’s at this point my phone decided to play 20 questions with me….Meanwhile, it’s gone quiet for a moment. I looked up. He was closer to the door, and took the silence to catch his breath. He started up again.

Faced with hearing him try to preach in a shared area where we are also vulnerable (a changeroom for a gym), my ADHD activated a superfast situational assessment and response mode. Situation: the other men in the changeroom behaved like sheep, quiet and meek; in the hope he’d go away or something. Goddammit, people, grow a spine. Then, in response to the Washroom Preacher, I start to sing Tina Charles “I Love to Love”.

Oh, I love to love;
But my baby just loves to dance
He wants to dance, he loves to dance, he’s got to dance…

I belted this out loud enough to overpower the guy. I sang in choruses in the past as a Baritone, so I can utilize the loud male singing voice if needed.

Oh, I love to love…
But my baby just loves to dance.
Oh, I love to love…
But he won’t give ourlove a chance –
No-no, no….ooooh!

He paused as I’d thrown off his game. He then walked right up to me as an attempt at intimidation. For a split second I understood why A) guys sometimes like to stick their dick in crazy, and then UNLIKE many men, why B) it’s a bad idea. The guy was not bad looking, but the bug-eyed crazy look on his face spiked my adrenaline and the “fight” response shut down the “fuck” response. He was shorter and slighter than me. I could have fought him if needed but I usually prefer to avoid fisticuffs. He tried to engage me in Jesus talk but I told him loudly “Leave. No one wants to hear what you are saying.”

He tried to talk over me. I repeated what I just said, adding “I don’t think I’m the only guy here who wants you to shut up and leave.” He stopped for a moment as he realized not only was *I* a big guy, there were at least four other guys the same size in the room.

Finally, a staff member appeared to escort him out. Both the staff member (actually, the manager) and I repeat several times he must leave, no one wants him here. Finally it sinks in. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Washroom Preacher has left the building. [cue applause]

Afterwards, the manager tells me he didn’t know where this came from – the individual was an afternoon regular. That day, however, instead of working out his muscles, he chose to try a few reps of preaching. The manager said the Washroom Preacher had just walked in. Then as soon as he was in the changeroom, and moments prior to my appearance, he started to speak from the book of Changeroom, Chapter 2, Verses Crazy to Bizarre.

I told the manager to keep an eye on him. People normally don’t go batshit crazy like this without some repercussions, and I’d rather those repercussions be minimized if they happen at the gym.

Then I left, departing from the side door. The entire walk home I took a different route and constantly checked behind to watch for anyone following me. It was several weeks before I returned to that gym at that time of the day.

But at least on the walk home, I got to listen to Tina Charles’ “I Love to Love” in peace.

Random thoughts: covid-19 & Summer activities

So, NPR put out an article “From Camping To Dining Out: Here’s How Experts Rate The Risks Of 14 Summer Activities”.

In the event the link goes down, here’s the ”Too Long; Didn’t Read” (TL;DR) version and my thoughts below (alternately, I’ve also recorded this as an audio file; go to my Podcasts page or to Podbean):

BYOEverything backyard gathering with one household – Low to medium risk.
Eating indoors at a restaurant: Medium to high risk.
Attending a religious service indoors: High risk.
Spending the day at a popular beach or pool: Low risk.
An outdoor celebration such as a wedding with more than 10 guests: Medium to high risk.
Using a public restroom: Low to medium risk.
Letting a friend use your bathroom: Low risk.
Going to a vacation house with another family: Low risk.
Staying at a hotel: Low to medium risk.
Getting a haircut: Medium to high risk.
Going shopping at a mall: Risk varies.
Going to a nightclub: High risk.
Going camping: Low risk.
Exercising outdoors: Low risk.

The risk factors: density of people, knowledge of other people’s or a business’s disinfecting protocols, involvement of alcohol, indoors versus outdoors.

First, let’s acknowledge the elephant in the room. Everyone, all together, inhale, and repeat after me at the top of your lungs: I AM SO FUCKING TIRED OF ALL THIS PANDEMIC PREPARATION AND NEWS AND BULLSHIT!!

Bonus points if you do this as I did it, after putting on two masks in a row where one of the ear loops snapped off, and then putting on gloves only for one of them to rip.

Okay. Finished?

Good. Now, IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU. You’re angry. You’re frustrated. We all are right now. Yes, chances are the majority of people will get it and it’ll feel like a mild cold. All this preparation and disinfection and physical distancing is not necessarily about you – it’s so any friends and family who could get it and get sick or even die…don’t. Or if they get it, the hospitals aren’t swamped with other patients to the point in triage, they decide this person you love isn’t going to make it and give the Critical Care bed and equipment to another patient.

Yes, it sucks. Yes, we all want things to go back to the way it was. I also want to have won the lottery years ago, or to have become a famous Hollywood actor, writer, and celebrity parrot wrangler, and I want superpowers, or at least a working Iron Man set of armor. The way things are, is the way things are. For those of you who believe it’s some kind of conspiracy, skip to the bottom of this article.

Second, this is all about creating bubbles of protection. Your house is one. Your personal space (6 feet, or almost two meters) is a portable one. Consider this a game, where your bubble can be popped by sharp objects if you get too close to others, or it bends a little bit, but keeping it that way if you stop to talk to someone or are in a confined space with other people might also cause it to pop.

This is really about collective behaviors. And it’s not new – we all agree on certain behaviors to keep society running. You agree to drive on the correct side of the road and obey the rules of the road to mitigate harm to other drivers. Generally we agree to leave others in peace if they’re out and about and leaving you in peace. So collective behaviors – you must be aware of not just the pandemic risk reduction behaviors of you and those in your household, you also must judge those against what other households, and strangers/businesses are doing.

Do not share food, drink, or utensils. Anything other person touches or has touched becomes a risk factor. Inviting people into your house bubble is a risk. Shopping or eating at a restaurant indoors depends on good ventilation, room to spread out, and time spent indoors. Eating indoors in a restaurant is problematic as if you’re wearing a mask, you must remove it. Avoid places of worship unless they space out mass times, limit the number of people, have no singing and don’t touch shared worship items such as hymnals or potentially taking wine and communion. Whether it be Allah, God, or any other Magical Sky Fairy…well, he/she/it will wait for you. This is where you pray at home with your family. Many churches are also streaming Sunday services so that’s another option.

Watch for crowds at entry points or popular destinations. If it’s crowded, go somewhere else or go at a time when it’s not busy (mornings sometimes). Improvise. Large crowds also mean kids may be tempted to hang out and play with other kids and we know those precious little rugrats are disease vectors, so….(I keed, I keed…I love children…..cooked at 350 degrees for 2 hours with a nice sauce).

Family events – avoid if possible this year. Older relatives or relatives with health problems may feel pressured to attend, especially if you promise to make it safe. Want to make it safe? Have your wedding next summer. Public washrooms are usually designed to have surfaces that can be cleaned frequently; however smaller washrooms pose a difficulty. Look for ones that are clean and fully stocked. If using a friend’s washroom, treat everything surface in the house like it has been dipped in acid. Get in, touch as little as possible in the way of surfaces, wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water, get out. Hosts – besides providing the person their own towel or paper towels, after the air has cleared and the guest has left the house, go in and do a quick decontamination of high touch surfaces if you want.

Personal services such as haircuts, manicures, doctors/dentists, and massage therapy: Don’t. Unless it’s an emergency (and no, your roots showing doesn’t count, Karen…Dick, buy some clippers and shave your head). You’re in close contact with another person who’s seeing a multitude of other clients. Even if you both wear gloves and a mask, it’s high transmission risk. Even moreso for nightclubbing…don’t. Shopping…try to go at less busy times, get stuff delivered if possible, have one person from your household go, go to outdoor malls rather than indoor.

Group sports, group anything – no, no, no. Unless you can do it by video, or if it’s a no contact sport. Smaller groups are better.

Now, mitigating factors – is your area a big city? Is the rate of COVID-19 lower than another city nearby? Are you and other persons wearing masks? Yeah, that might lower your risks. Get creative or find the person in your family who is creative and ask for solutions. If you want to dance with friends, maybe have a party in your household, or with others via video conferencing, or if you live in suburbia, get together with neighbors and have a dance party where you try out each other’s music, and dance 2 meters apart.

This is not the time to stop and chat. At your barbers, at any store. Get in, get what you need, get out. Do not, I repeat, do NOT piss off any of the staff in any store. If you have a complaint, act like you’re giving some friendly advice to your boss or someone with which you need to curry favor. This is the old “you attract more flies with honey than vinegar” rule. Retail and grocery store staff have zero patience and will not put up with any bullshit or bullying behavior.

If you need to have quiet moments when you cry, if you get angry and forgo some pandemic protection rules, well, life is all a risk, and life is happy and sad and frustrating and amazing all at once. We all have moments when we freak out. When we get angry and rebel. Shit happens. Pick yourself up, apologize where necessary, try to do better, mourn your old life, and be nice not only to family, friends and strangers, be nice to yourself.

Now. To the conspiracy nuts: OMG, you guys are adorable! You actually think that if there was a big conspiracy, none of the planners would be able to resist gossiping about it! You actually think enough humans could agree to plan and go in one direction. That’s so inspiring! Tell you what – ask anyone who’s worked in a job with a bunch of team members what happens when the job rolls out a new procedure/technology. Oh, sure one person may be in charge of training/planning this new thing, and to outsiders it looks like it was rolled out seamlessly. But for anyone who’s been involved in big projects in corporations…if you were to compile and review all the related emails, documents and meetings, you’d find that the project only got done with a lot of screaming, snitching to teammates superiors that “Natalie” wasn’t doing the work required, and often done half assed and last minute, with fixes occurring on the fly.

Now, try to run this same level of project under a veil of secrecy. Imagine not going home to your spouse and being unable to complain about the project. No gossiping with other friends in the company that “Rita is on the Project with us, and she’s fucking useless. A stapler would be more helpful.” People can’t plan surprise parties for family or friends without there always being a leak, and you think people wouldn’t take the chance to write a tell-all book or appear on network television if half of your conspiracies were true and provable?

But then again, maybe I’m part of the conspiracy.
If so, they need to start paying me, because I’m not getting rich being “Conspiracy Actor #68-CANab1s”.

psychedelic Drug DMT and brain waves

A few links today…first, to a CBC “Quirks and Quarks” podcast and then a Wikipedia page, as I want to make it quick. This podcast was interesting but I did have to listen to it twice and read the condensed “transcript” on this page:

The psychedelic DMT modifies brain waves to produce ‘waking-dreams’
Wikipedia page discussing DMT

I’m more of a rationalist, so I find this interesting not only for the research discussed, but because the possible explanation it gives. Essentially you’re having a waking dream when you’re on DMT; but it also hints at the structure and activity in the brain and how our existence, our self if you will, seems to be one of balance. Too much disorder causes issues, too much order has its own share of problems

Students versus Teachers – my experience

Driving a teacher insane is well established as a trope in literature and pop culture. Maybe the students are incorrigible, maybe the teacher deserves it. Breaking a teacher in real life is not as funny as in fiction. In real life, most teachers are quite durable, supportive, and tend not to put up with disruptive behavior.

I’ve experienced it twice in my life. First in Grade 5 when a substitute teacher we called “Miss Grenouille” lost it on us. That memory is unclear; at the time I was being bullied and had higher priorities.

The second time was Grade 8 when the students removed a full-time teacher we’ll call Mr. H*.

Some backstory – I survived the Catholic School Board in Edmonton. At the time (cough – earlier than 1999) there were two elementary/junior high schools within a kilometer of one another: St. P– and St. R–. The school board decided to consolidate grades 1-6 at St. P– and move the larger number of junior high students to St. R–. So, while I attended Grade 7 at St. P–, I finished Grades 8 and 9 at St. R–. This meant there were some changes in staffing. That’s where Mr. H* comes in.

He was my Grade 8 homeroom instructor, but he also taught French and Social Studies to the other grades. Looking at the photos of the school staff, even among a small group of 11 teachers, you could spot the Jocks, Nerds, and Everyone Else. Mr. H* fell into the Nerd category – think a nebbish Dwight Schrute from “The Office”. His go-to for clothing was usually sweater vests. He was probably in his late 30s (maybe early 40s), wore glasses, and was balding with a bit of a combover. Mr. H* wasn’t a transfer from St. P–, he was a new hire. He’d been teaching elementary students for most of his career, and therein lay the problem.

(note kids! Homework time! Look up “Misplaced Kindergarten Teacher” on TVtropes.org. You’ll expected to give an oral report tomorrow on it, and if you don’t do the work, no cookies for you!)

While children can be animals, junior high is usually when the “Lord of the Flies” mentality reaches its peak. Kids are dealing with hormones and the body’s physical changes and grown spurts. Most other teachers responded to insubordination by being loud, terrifying and mean, with the occasional mind game thrown in to keep the students off-balance. This was a necessary tactic – in groups, hormone-addled teenagers can be diabolical.

Mr. H* treated us like we were still in elementary – which was probably the absolute worst strategy for class control. Grade 9 got the worst of it – these were kids roughly 14/15 years of age, with most preparing for high school. Treating them like 8-year-olds is like asking someone waist deep in gasoline to juggle flaming bowling pins. Sooner or later there’s going to be a big explosion.

There were the first sorties in this war of the wills. Mr. H* had a favorite talisman/keepsake which followed him from school to school. It was a 15cm tall Tweety Bird doll. Google image search fails me, but it was a plastic three-dimensional mold sprayed with a thin layer of felt. In some cases, they were scented and sold as air fresheners for the home. He placed it in the classroom on a high ledge; St. R– was of a cinderblock/concrete block construction, so support beams were often disguised with blocks. A 50 cm gap was left between the top of the beam and the ceiling in our classroom.

Now, if you were an elementary age student, chances are you couldn’t reach the top of this shelf, even with a chair. In junior high, many kids by age 12 had grown to their adult height – for example, I was 6 feet tall by the time I hit 13. A tall student could reach Tweety; either by standing on a chair or by getting a smaller friend to sit or stand on their shoulders.

Which is what someone in the ninth grade did to infuriate Mr. H*, and to make him appear even more frazzled. I’m sure some of his behavior was also being noted by other teachers and the administration – it turns out the new kid stands out even if he’s the teacher. Meanwhile, some of his students were talking to their parents about Mr. H*. A few of these parents were either school board trustees or friends with them.

I didn’t participate in any of this behavior – as someone who was bullied in elementary I was more concerned with just getting good marks and surviving unnoticed.

One late Winter’s morning when we arrived in our classroom, another teacher informed us Mr. H* was taking a leave of absence, and a replacement teacher was on their way. We were instructed to do some reading, and cautioned that the door was to be left open. If any noise was heard, this teacher was next door, and would appear wearing the face of death (okay, I’m exaggerating, but not by much). The way she relayed the news about Mr. H* and the look on her face could be more accurately translated as “I’ve got a heavy workload as it is, you little shits have made it worse, you’re all to blame, piss me off and I will go nuclear.”

Of course, during recess and lunch the playground gossip network was in full swing. We eventually tracked down a handful of students who had the most accurate information. Apparently, Mr. H* had been given a psychiatric evaluation based on complaints. It was strongly suggested he take a leave to “recuperate”. Even at the time, while we were all happy to be rid of him, an adult consequence had appeared in our midst, and I was uncomfortable with what had happened. I wasn’t the only one to feel that way.

Later that day, the replacement teacher “Mr. Jock” arrived. Nice enough guy, fairly easy going, but also could be strict. I seem to remember most of the students being quite subdued and compliant for the rest of the year in classes with him. I suspect I wasn’t the only person thinking “Did we go too far?” No one wanted to talk about Mr. H* and he became a ghost that vanished in the light of day.

True, I didn’t and still don’t know the full scope of what happened. Maybe Mr. H* was having a breakdown and his removal was valid. Maybe he was doing stuff even worse of which I was unaware. Perhaps he pissed off someone in the school board and they assigned him to a junior high school to sabotage him. Or, maybe a bunch of whiney, privileged kids complained to their politically connected parents about this oddball teacher. Yet if anything shot through us like a charge of electricity, it was the realization that tormenting a teacher, unlike in pop culture, has an impact on everyone in real life.

Panem et Circenses (iterum)

You shout into the night
Flood social media with victory chants
Sing, drink, and dance –
A few fight or discharge weapons.
Why do I not join in celebration
Your face is puzzled by my noncompliance.
What can I say so you understand?
There are greater things to cheer for
There are nobler challenges to fight
There are better activities
On which to waste your time.
Or perhaps, in a way you might grasp –
It is NOT my religion:
The dancing clown-clad millionaires
The begging thug owners
Who ransom cities for larger palaces
All sponsored by large corporations
You saw the game now buy it on Xbox!
They are not my priests
I worship not at this altar
Your saints are strangers to me.
Enjoy your Bread and Circuses
Just be quieter;
The night is late
Others have greater concerns.
Still comprehension fails you –
Instead, come the accusations
Jealousy or
I cheered for the opponents.
It’s fine – you don’t understand me
I am used to being the outsider.
So go celebrate with the mob;
Be part of the maddening throng.
I understand humans need
To release the bloodlust
But I will watch and wonder
Just what are you being distracted from.

I Do all This

I do all this:
I take the medication,
Meditate, exercise,
And put a smile on my face,
I talk to my friends and my family;
Or I read and research and I try out.
The world keeps turning
Blue skies turn to gray
Turn back to blue and then
Eventually turn to black
Only to return to light in the morning.
My sadness is not eternal
Neither is my joy;
I long for those whom I’ve lost
I dream of those whom I wish would look my way.
But this is life;
There are men (and it is usually always men)
Who wish to enslave others –
Whether economically
By ideas or by religion.
None of it matters
And in a thousand thousand years you and I will be dust.
Even love
Love is not eternal
Hate is not eternal.
Why then do I do this?
Perhaps it fills the times
Perhaps for a moment
It does make me angry
It does make me happy;
Or bring some of these emotions out in other people.
So while I sit here silently on my sofa
In my dreams my words and ideas
Build a universe of joy;
Of desire
Of dreams
Of hopes and love.
Perhaps one day bit-by-bit,
From these words and ideas
All the artists
And all the poets
And all the singers of the world
Will bring that world into ours.

Audio version available on Youtube

The Inheritance of Shame book review

The Inheritance of Shame by Peter Gajdics (pron. “guy-ditch”) published 2017 is a memoir recounting the author’s experience with conversion therapy during the early 1990s – a time when LGBTQ2S rights were still being fought for across the country. Unlike other experiences at “pray away the gay” camps, Gajdics’ experience was more personal and one-on-one; it doesn’t make it any the less horrifying.

Gajdics was born of deeply religious parents who fled Europe after World War II. His parents brought that trauma with them; making them quick to corporal punishment. Trauma was also visited upon him at age six when he was sexually assaulted by a much older man. Unfortunately, instead of calling the police to arrest this man and getting therapy for the young victim, it was a time (circa 1970) when you didn’t talk about it.

From an early age he knew his sexuality was different, but without any positive resources, Gajdics grew up feeling he was a broken heterosexual. In his 20s, dealing with depression and anxiety, he sought mental help, and had the unfortunate fate of encountering “Dr. Alfonzo” –a psychotherapist big into Primal Scream and regression therapies (both of which have been mostly discredited today).

Without any positive familial or societal support for processing his homosexuality Gajdics felt his only choice was to consider conversion therapy. Alfonzo at first provided a kind of love, support, and family to his patients they lacked as children. The therapy soon turned creepy controlling cult-like: Alfonzo prescribed massive amounts of drugs, turning patients into compliant zombies. He made himself out to be “Daddy” and the patients the ignorant children he was healing, creating a dependent therapy house rather creepily nicknamed Styx.

With the patients all living together, they could support (or spy on) each other 24-hours. A restricted diet was implemented, patients had to share everything, including money. No outside contact was allowed: be it TV, newspapers, magazines, or family and friends. Alfonzo controlled where you went outside of the Styx, and any rebellion threatened with expulsion from the house. The doctor was especially interested in Gajdics because while he did want to help “cure” homosexuality, it was more so Alfonzo could then write a book about it and become famous.

Like any cult, it’s never one big step, it’s a series of small steps until you are in deep and feel this is your life. You can’t leave, and (worst of all) anyone who criticizes this therapy is “the enemy” of your progress. Alfonzo used threats of reprisals to keep Gajdics in line when the Ketamine didn’t work. If that wasn’t bad enough, the doctor made the author carry a small vial of his own feces around. Every time Gajdics felt a homosexual attraction, Alfonzo instructed him to smell it to help create a negative association with anal sex.

Of course, every conman makes a mistake sooner or later. Alfonzo, perhaps feeling Gajdics was under his thumb, reduced the meds. He also stopped therapy sessions after the author began constantly challenging him, but still tried to keep him dependent by letting Gajdics remain in the house. As the author began to think for himself, he eventually left the Styx, accepted his homosexuality, reconnected with his family, sued Alfonzo, and finally wrote and published this book.

It’s easy to think of the doctor as a quack, especially sitting here in 2019 and looking back on when this therapy occurred. Yet then, even as now, people faced family and community pressure to conform to the norm (i.e. heterosexuality). In an Advocate article, Gajdics said “But if my experiences taught me anything it was that a change to the ‘map’ of my identity from homosexuality to heterosexual would never change the ‘territory’ of my experience from same-sex to opposite-sex desire. A map is not the territory it represents.” It’s a timely book, at a time when regressive, authoritarian conservatives nation-wide are desperately trying to restrict any and all freedoms they feel are outside the norm. An emotional read, but a great book.

Masculinity, Indigenous Men, and My experience

First off, go listen to this podcast about Indigenous Masculinity and the Impact of Colonization – it’s 40 minutes but it is worth it.

Now, as to my experience with masculinity. I was and am privileged in a way from others that I grew up with two parents, siblings, a fairly stable home life. Also, I present as White and I present as Heteronormative (there will be a brief pause while friends and former boyfriends laugh at that last comment) AND by the time I was 12 I had shot up to 6 feet so physically most people didn’t try to bully me.

But I noticed aspects of masculinity (and I suppose also social control) I found puzzling or useless: Slobbering over sports; bravado; the whole Madonna/Whore complex when dealing with women; passing off any loving emotion towards anyone other than your wife as teasing/a joke; bullying those who did not fit within some nebulous predefined role of “What A Man Should Be/Act.”

I’m not saying I was a saint. I probably used some of these behaviors myself growing up in a vain attempt to fit in. However, when you have a curious mind that seeks the truth, when you realize that you are attracted to men rather than women, when you wonder about your heritage, and you tend to NOT want to defer to authority…you realize there are things in society which are complete and utter bullshit.
And I’m still realizing that. Life is change and evolution.

There’s a part in the podcast where they mention something along the lines of pre-colonization, there were many definitions of masculinity among all the tribes (paraphrasing what was said). But then it became “You must act this way. Men are dominant, women submissive. Worship our foreign God. Accept our authority. And CUT. YOUR. HAIR.”

But there is no “one true way” to be a man. That’s like saying “to be a human you must exactly act this way regardless of differences in body types, personal expression, geographic differences, cultural differences (etc.)”.

Be nice to each other. Tell family and friends you love them. Encourage them to be healthy in body and mind, to explore the big questions (even when they’re hard and you’d rather take the easy way out). Let others be who they want to be, let them enjoy their likes as long as it’s not illegal or they’re hurting someone. You *can* discuss your spirituality with them, but don’t force it on them. If you’re a Catholic and your neighbor is a gay atheist but you like each other because you find you’re both moral, helpful, supportive people, then be friends.

And if someone is different, embrace that. Life is learning, change, and seeing all the sights, sounds, tastes, touch, smells you can before you leave this world, and not trying to nail everything down and place it in a box.

I Suck At Flirting – Straight Edition!

SEPT. 03, 2010–Today, while walking on 17th Avenue, a woman tried to catch my eyes. She wasn’t unattractive, but unless she magically transformed into a sexy male stud, yeah, no. It was weirdly funny because her flirting was so obvious even *I* noticed it (for context, I was probably wearing sunglasses and listening to music through earphones, so in “do not disturb” mode).

Anyhow, at one point we’re waiting for a light to change on the same corner. She stood beside me and a little in front, all the while doing subtle things like looking back at me, tossing her hair, etc. I looked away and listened intently to my music. When the light changed, I crossed the street in a hurry and walked into the Shoppers Drug Mart. I had a packaged to be mailed.

While in Shoppers, there’s two ways to get to the post office. Picture a large square room with aisles, and the post office is located diagonally from the entrance. I’m in front of Little Miss Flirt, and I’m walking at a fair speed. I walked gaily forward from the entrance and then turned left. She went left from the entrance.

Now, just as I’m coming around the final aisle, from the other direction she zips in front of me. Ah… so she went left and then straight…and apparently did a bit of a jog in order to be in front of me I think. Then while in the lineup in front of me, she again did the “are you noticing me noticing you?” look, and added in the “aren’t I cute while I play with the long ringlets in my hair?” tactic.

I was this close to saying “Girl, I’m gay. Stop it.”

Yeah, I suppose I should be flattered…overall, while I was a tiny bit annoyed, I was mostly amused. Also, I suspect if I called her out on her behavior, she’d either get offended (“Um, no!” or “I’m not flirting”) or it would get much worse: “Omigod, you’re gay? I love gay people! They are, like, my bestest friends!!”

So, sometimes the best policy is not to engage at all and put on a bored face with the vacant stare. She seemed to get I wasn’t interested. I just wish it had been Mr. Big Stuff instead, but hey…it was free entertainment and an interesting window into the world of heterosexual flirting rituals.

I Love You, But…

Some “poetry” or random words I did for an Instagram post. Click to enlarge.

Time Traveling Using Music

I just pulled up a listing of Billboard top 100 songs of each year from 1968-1978 and put them on a playlist for a family member.

Now, while we haven’t developed the technology to actually time travel, in some ways we already do that in our minds (“oh my…I haven’t heard this song in years…it reminds me of…” “whoa…this is an oldie…this came out the summer I graduated and moved away to university” etc. etc.). My theory is that songs that stick in your memories the strongest are those you heard when you were in your mid-teens/ mid-twenties.

While this time period is not reflective of my years (I’m not THAT old), because of older brothers and sisters, and because of the history of the LGBTQ2S community I recognize a lot of songs from that time period (Gloria Gaynor, The Village People, Disco Tex and the Sex-o-lettes).

In its own way, it’s like walking through a neighborhood that was built in that time…you spot the architecture and it makes you think of times past – the people that have lived in that spot. With the music, you remember the emotions and whatever personal history or pop culture history attached to it.

With that being said, here’s a link to a YouTube playlist I made a while back. It’s based off a lot of the songs that were played on the TV sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati but because I’m a good Canadian, I added some Canadian Artists. I usually keep it up to date and replace videos when removed. Dance if you want to, enjoy always.

Profanity is a F***ing Limited Resource

Warning: strong language and Adult concepts below. You’ve been warned.

A while back a Facebook friend posted this status update:

I wish my friends would not use the “F” bomb & curse so much. Facebook is like being in a movie theater or bus. Our Moms, Grammas, nieces & nephew & kids are with us. I know my intelligent friends have the vocab to find other words. Double dare you to use this in your status.

Most adults swear more than we think we do. But stop with the “intelligent cultured people don’t use the F-bomb”. It’s just wrong. There’s been some studies which indicate intelligent people may drop the Notorious F.U.C.K. more than the rest of the populace.

Also, it’s JUST a word. A versatile word. When anyone whines “oh, be creative, don’t use that word” my response is “Really. Creative. You DO know fuck can be used as a verb, adverb, adjective, command, interjection, noun, and can be used as pretty much any word in a sentence and make sense (“fuck those fucking fuckers”). It can be used as an infix (absofuckinglutely). The word is quite fucking incredible. If you can do half as fucking much as the word “fuck” well, then I’ll let you win on the creative argument.

Think of the children and grandparents! First off, your Grammy knows the word. That’s how you got here. As for the kids, well, freaking out and putting a metaphoric electric fence around a word just increases the taboo factor for children.

Yet for all that, we should stop overusing the “F” word. For the future.

Wait, what? Think about it. Today, fuck is used in movies, in songs, (rap is rife with fucks). The argument continues – abstainers state it’s a BAD WORD while those fuckers on the pro-fuck side fucking love to use fuck because it fucking annoys the abstainers.

My point for both sides: IT’S A LIMITED RESOURCE.

If we go on the way we’re going, eventually we will hit Peak Fuck. At that point, “fuck” will lose its shock value. In the year 2058 when I’m really, really, really old, I don’t want to be in a shop, drop my wallet, mutter “fuck” as I have to bend down to pick it up, only to hear the 18 year-old store clerk tittering because “fuck” is (in 2058) considered as quaint a swear as “dang” or “heck”.

So preserve Fuck. Have Fuck-free days. Learn to say Fuck in different languages (“tabarnac!!”). Just Fucking quit overusing it. Oh flip! I’ve used it so much, I’m all fudged out. Dang.

Little Sparrow V2.0

Rewrite, original version from January 2009

Ever since I started keeping birds as companion animals, I find I’ve noticed birds more often.

Years ago, I was at the Vitamin Shop on my coffee break. It was on the 3rd Floor TD Centre beside the elevator and on the way to the Plus 15 pedway to Bankers Hall. Across from the Vitamin Shop is George’s Cookies, and on beside either store there were entrances to the Devonian Gardens. Besides flora, the Gardens also had fauna – some deliberate (turtles, gold fish) and some accidental (sparrows). It turns out the turtles may have been abandoned pets. After the renovations, I believe they kept the fish but found new homes for the turtles. As for birds…apparently the sparrows are still finding ways to get inside.

Normally the sparrows survive on the food dropped in the gardens by people as they have their coffee or their lunch. At that time, the Gardens were closed down as the mall ~~butchered the hell out of it~~ did some renovations to the area. I wasn’t too worried about it; I figured if the birds found a way in, they could find a way out if times got desperate.

Their “out” as it turns out…well, the sparrows found their own entrances to the mall from the Gardens (probably made easier during the reno work). And, bold as brass, these little buggers were swooping down between people, picking up crumbs, and then flying back up and into the Gardens.

Now, while I liked watching this, I was also pragmatic about their existence. Yeah, the birds should not have been there, they’re not exactly sanitary, and no doubt they’ll starve or otherwise die. But still, I found it amusing. Birds aren’t as stupid as some people think. Mind you, the sparrows are no seagulls snatching crisps, but still…neat.