Knitting Ferocious Spiders

Or catch phrases , this summer's has yet to present itself. In the six years that Cobra and I have known one another, each year fun in the sun (or Fun and the Sun) has delivered unto us a magical, wistful phrase that has managed to encapsulate the tone, breadth and tenor of that particular year's season. One of the first was: "Yes, yes ; it's all a rich tapestry." Oh, and did we ever get mileage out of that puppy. "I'm so glad you're here! I didn't think I was going to make it, and I so desperatley wanted to see you guys, but the--" "Yes, yes; it's all a rich tapestry." [dismissive wave of hand omitted] "Where's the bar?" That was a good summer. And then, a few years later, there was: " Suck it up, sweetie; take one for the team ." Which also served us very well; or, me very well, at least; the chaos, panic and disorder that we left in our wake may not have served others very well... um.... but, good...

I have a habit of sitting at the flux point of several bouts of media. The television on (one of the five channels, but silent), music (essential), and the computer (laptop, donated by my father last Christmas); and then there's the window, the cats, the clunk-thunk of whatever is going on above or below me. Presently, I reside on the second floor of a three floor, three apartment, house. It has been a joy. Mind you, private. My friends (the posse as well as the Troops, excepting only the scant few within spitting distance) will not come to the East End. My lovely, solitary , apartment, has remained that for 19 whole months. Interlopers are rare and few. It's not as if I don't want visitors; it's mostly that none are available. The East End, for any who might me reading this outside the mega-city of Toronto : it is really, really far from the West End (where most of my friends reside)... not physically, but psychologically. You'd be amazed. (This distance, ironicall...

No matter what emotional complications have been rearing their thorny little heads about my attempts at promiscuity, the fact remains that making out remains one of my favorite activities, and is something I can do at the drop of a hat with a certain amount of panache. As well as a sense of the theatrical. Though I'm trying to be better about the latter. I don't know if I'm succeeding.... Right now I would like to be making out with Cillian Murphy , but that's mostly because I just recently saw Batman Begins and now have a huge crush on him, not because he is in any way accessible right now. ( Ah, would that he were... ) The movie, by the way, was fantastic . As a fan of the comic, and of Burton's imaginings, I went in hoping for something good, expecting something mediocre. Instead, WHOA! Full on thumbs up. I think, by far, the best written of all the examples, and what a brilliant, nuanced way to bring life back to the franchise. Well done. But the issue at hand....

Waiting for pizza at 3:20 in the morning. What if it never comes? There is no second chance. There are no other options, this time on a Tuesday... wait, Wednesday . The woman at the pizzeria is getting a little fed up with me. "Yes, yes. It's coming ." But it's been over an hour, and I'm sleepy. Yet extremely hungry. The world is absolutely fraught with dilemmas. Also, strange things exist in the void .

On Wednesday, I almost had another biking accident, but this time with my ex-boyfriend. Which would have been ridiculously bad. Although also funny; only cosmically, not personally. It unfolded rather simply. I had unlocked my bike, and was moving to cross the Danforth. As I stepped out from between two cars, inching my wheel forward, another cyclist whipped past, narrowly missing my front tire. At the last possible second, I realized who it was. "Hi, Spider!" he said to me cheerfully, as he continued on by. I can't say what the expression on my face must have been. I can hope that some sort of combination of roiling disgust, tinged with pity and apathy won the day -- but I think it may just have been confusion and relief. My mouth was sort of hanging open, and my brow a little furrowed, by the time I took stock of myself. I do not talk to Autobahn anymore, for a variety of reasons; and I dislike running into him, for many of the same reasons. The chance that he could ha...

Colliding with David Cronenberg's Dead Ringers randomly on television ( television, the recreational medium) is rather like catching your fingers into the top end of a meat grinder: the next thing you know you're right into it, and ground to a bloody pulp. I am supposed to be at Turtle 's best friend's wedding right now. I'm not; because I slept in, missed the bus I was supposed to take, in order to meet my up with my mother, get in her car, and drive to Muskoka. I had taken egress from the city and was halfway to Barrie in a cab (and halfway through a negotiated $110 cab ride), after pulling all of my shit together in less than 15 minutes, when my flustered and frustrated mother determined that it was cutting it too close, and that she wouldn't be able to wait for me in Barrie and still be able to make it to the ceremony. I promised to take a bus, meet her in Bracebridge after the wedding proper, get in the car, and still make it to the reception. I closed my ...

Last week, I got doored . Which is the bike riding equivalent of an en route clotheslining. At the last minute, out whips the obstacle and, pow! POW!~ Impact. Oh, my yes. And a skid. And a very, very lucky Spider clambering up from the pavement, with a skinned elbow and a left glute that is still not exactly back to normal. Although, to be fair, it's colour almost is. The villain responsible was a rather stunned looking cabby. Who got yelled at something fierce by the onlooking resident street-watchers of Dundas West. Poor Bria (which is bicycle's name); I don't know if she'll ever be the same. Her back wheel is potato-chipped. Her right pedal is bent askew. She complains constantly. She clinks and clanks. I worry about riding her long distances. Thankfully, my trusty utility-belt includes an EpiPen with a single shot of " Understanding -That- Shit-Happens -At-The- Last -Of- Possible-Moments , " as well as a behavioral modifier chip which can be implanted di...

Rather than have to explain who I'm talking about in these entry's, or worry that it won't be clear who it is I'm mentioning in the undoubtedly sordid upcoming adventures of the summer, I've started a Cast of Characters . I have also fixed it so anyone can comment on this blog. So everyone, please feel free to leave as many remarks as you feel compelled to. Type away. With the upcoming move, I know that I should be packing like a fiend right about now, but I've been working like and idiot for over a week, and shoving my belongings into cardboard receptacles seems about the least attractive activity in the world right now. Worse even than, say, drinking hot tar. Urg. I think I'll read my new book instead, The Day of Creation, by J.G. Ballard. Either that or play Ratchet and Clank: Up Your Arsenal on the Playstation 2. It's such a hard call.

Employment found me. Through a referential sort of "you should talk to" daisy chain, I am now working for a local corporate entity as a bartender down on the Toronto Waterfront. I was hired as a result of the following conversation: "So, that Fat Fuck has taken over the restaurant?" "Pretty much." "Hunh. He's a terrible restauranteur.... I'll give you a job just out of spite." I had no intention of quitting on the spot. Crazy or not, All-of-the-Above remains the frontman for a professional workplace I may have to reference in the future. Even though he did a number on us, even though he's an asshole, I have come to the conclusion that making needless enemies is not in my best interests. I had a trial shift at the waterfront bar. It went fine. We established a tentative schedule for me over the following week. I went back to the once charming, soft, delicious restaurant to get my tips from the previous Saturday, and arrange for a phas...

As I haven't been posting regularly for a few weeks.... month... whatever, I have decided to do a series of print-bites to get everyone up to speed, thus alleviating any need I may have to explain my references in the future. I'll just link them instead. So clever am I.

According to Mustardseed , I was the "belle of the ball". Oh, and I was. What followed (the last chance, the last choice of the evening) may have been erroneous... of all the suitors, spinning about, thrashing to the bass driven cacophony in that coloured light interior, I perhaps chose the one least appropriate... but in all fairness, I was drunk. Drunk on the drink; and a little bit on attention. My resolution to be a whore has not been working out as well as I had initially hoped. What started off as a good idea has failed to materialize in a workable form. I don't think I'm built for it. Not really. I never have been. I've tried it before. Pre-serial monogamy (four years running) I had had aspirations to slut it up all over town, take my gay genes out for a spin (as it were); and that never happened either. Oh, I've had my flings. I've tossed it, turned it, and thrown it over a pole, but never to the extent that I had envisioned. As a gay man, my lis...