Big Fat Hairy Living

Slurpy wrote a response to my response regarding my boyfriend’s party for me.

What you don’t say is if you did make the effort…? You say; “what if I already…” Well, did you? As far as being asthmatic, I do not think being outside on a deck is of any danger to you, just as much as being out on the street with cars. Sheesh! You really do have a twisted view on things. Get a grip.

Sometimes I get lonely at night and my boyfriend isn’t around, so I hug a big pillow and pretend it’s him.

It’s not the same. A pillow isn’t warm. It doesn’t grunt and it doesn’t move.

In response to a previous posting about my birthday party in which I mentioned that some of my boyfriend’s friends decided to stay on the deck for most of the party rather than venture downstairs where my friends and I were, someone wrote:

I think that effort greets effort. Maybe if you made more of one to get to know [your boyfriend's] friends, they would respond in kind. Did you go up to where they were smoking and say hi? Or thank them for their gifts…? (If any of them brought some?) Often what bothers us about others is something reflective in ourselves.

Ah yes, the old “blame the victim” response. It usually goes something like “You mean people aren’t being friendly to you? It must be because you weren’t friendly enough to them!” Clearly it’s my fault that they chose to evacuate to the deck and stay there most of the night.

I’m sure you must read the Bears Mailing List! It’s definitely a popular retort there.

So tell me, what if I already know them, made an effort to chat with them, thanked them for their gifts, and they still decided they’d rather smoke on the deck? What if I’m asthmatic and can’t tolerate smoke?

And tell me, why should I have to run around to force people to be around me at my own birthday party?

The National Post: “The character of Tony Soprano is extremely appealing to a lot of women: He’s a powerful man, he obviously cares about his friends and family, he has some vulnerabilities. Although, I think most of the male fans of the show will be horrified by this.”

I think the answer to the question someone posed — “Do you hate yourself?” — is “Yes and no.”

Every part of myself that I like is spoiled by something I dislike about myself. I have talent, intelligence, and ability, but I waste it by spending time on pointless pursuits rather than accomplishing something with it. Case in point: my singing lessons. I don’t practise nearly as much as I should. I have no follow-through. I’m full of grandiose ideas and plans, but I never seem to have the motivation to complete them.

I’m attractive enough that people seem to want to have sex with me, but I don’t have the willpower to do anything to make myself more attractive by losing weight.

I make a reasonable amount of money, but I waste it by spending it unwisely. Only recently have I managed to get my finances under control, and I’m struggling trying to balance everything I want to do and buy with the large payments on my debt.

I can be kind and caring to people I know well, but so impatient and callous to people I don’t know well that I lose the chance ever to become friends with them.

Why is it so hard to like oneself? Why is it so easy to hate oneself?

The train ride to Montreal was uneventful, except for the fact that Mark and I were seated in front of one of the hosts of TVO Kids. Mark’s ticket, paid for by the company he was working for, was a first-clas ticket, but he chose to sit in economy class with me. When the VIA employee came to check our tickets, Mark had to explain that he wanted to sit with me for the trip rather than stay in first class. She seemed confused as to why a 47-year old man would want to sit next to a 28-year old man who was obviously not his son. At least not his biological son.

When we got to the hotel, Mark went to the reception desk to check in. For some reason, the hotel didn’t realize that two people were going to be staying in the room. “Will your wife be staying with you?” the clerk asked, oblivous to me, the large goateed man Mark had been petting in the lobby a few minutes earlier.

The room was impressive, something one should expect for $400 a night. Thankfully, it was being paid for by Mark’s large corporate benefactor. The bathroom was completely marble, and had both a shower stall and a bathtub. The bed was a king-sized bed, large enough for Mark and I to sleep on comfortable. No mere queen for us!

With the exception our night at “Le Stud” bar on Friday night, the weekend was pretty low-key. We spent most of Saturday walking around the plateau, pigging out on croissants and at Schwartz’s and spending time with Douglas, one of Mark’s old friends from Montreal. Mark cooked an excellent dinner, and we had cheesecake for dessert. Like I said, eating and fucking.

After dinner with Douglas, we retired to our bedroom. I had to leave early on Sunday morning because of work on Monday. As soon as I was in the cab on the way to the train station, I missed Mark.

I fucking hate work.

I used to visit Montreal all the time when I was dating Eric, but I never really paid much attention to the city itself. At the time, I was visiting Montreal to see Eric, not to see the city. Perhaps part of the reason I didn’t pay that much attention was because Montreal was in pretty awful shape at the time: it seems that only now is it recovering, with a great deal of construction visible downtown. All the things that make Montreal a great city are still there, it’s just that I’m finally noticing them.

Upon arriving, the first thing that strikes one about Montreal is the completely different feel from Toronto: the architecture is completely different. Evidence of Montreal’s former status as Canada’s most important city are everywhere: old buildings in Montreal have been preserved rather than being destroyed. Toronto, in contrast, was built mostly in the early 1970’s, meaning a lot of poorly-designed brutalist buildings. Houses look very different from Toronto, with sweeping staircases that lead up to the main floor and tiny balconies on higher floors. In general, there’s a feeling of history that Toronto just doesn’t have. Montreal also seems to believe in public art in a way that Toronto, dominated by cheap, short-sighted politicians, doesn’t. (Case in point: Toronto politicians expect Dundas Square to operate like a business, making a profit.)

The food is excellent. The closest thing to decent bagels that Toronto has are the St. Urbain bagels one can get at St. Lawrence Market, but decent bagels are everywhere in Montreal. Same thing with croissants. And Toronto has nothing that compares to Schwartz’s.

It’s not all perfect, though: there’s a certain feeling of neglect. The public transit system is a case in point: while impressive architecturally, it has had several pieces of its public art irreparably destroyed, and the prevalence of graffiti makes the whole system seem just a bit depressing. The Montreal metro was built in 1967, just about when Montreal peaked, and even though it’s been undergoing renovation, just like Montreal as a whole, it still shows signs of decades of neglect. Toronto’s subway system seems much cleaner than Montreal’s metro.

Montreal’s gay village is physically larger than Toronto’s, but doesn’t have the same feeling of being an actual “village” that Toronto’s has. Toronto’s village is filled with butchers, bakers, delicatessens, grocery stores, florist shops, hair salons, and book stores, whereas Montreal’s village is dominated by bars, restaurants, and high-end decor stores. Montreal’s village seems like a place to visit rather than a place to live. If I ever did live in Montreal, I would not live in the village; in contrast, there are only a few places in Toronto other than the village where I could ever see myself living.

When I think about it, I wouldn’t mind living in Montreal for a few years, and I’ll certainly visit it again, but Toronto is still my home.

One of the things I managed to take away from engineering school was the realization that every decision is about tradeoffs. There are no perfect solutions: every choice has a cost, and every choice that comes close to perfection also comes with a high price tag. The foods that taste the best are the ones that are the worst for your health, just the way the wrong thing to do is often the easiest thing to do.

I’ve done many things in the past that I now regret. I’m lucky enough to seem to be making fewer and fewer regrettable mistakes as I get older, but I’m not perfect, so I still make mistakes from time to time. Too many.

I seem to be torn between misanthropy and kindness. I have a fundamental contempt for most people that leads me to do or say mean things to them. At the same time, I often feel bad for having those thoughts and for doing those things.

Most of the time I feel bad for treating people poorly simply because because something bad happens to me. Something bad happens to me and I once again become aware of how much I, just like everyone else, depend on the kindness and understanding of others. Is it shallow and self-serving to be nice to people just because one wants to be treated nicely in return? Is “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” just a cynical objectivist ploy?

Is it possible to be a misanthrope who cares about people?

Do I hate people because I hate myself?

For the project I’m working on, I needed to talk to some mechanical engineers to get them to do something for me. Fuck, are they ever hot! Not like the stupid electrical engineers I’m forced to work with. I got a raging hard-on just looking at the blond goateed engineer cub who’ll be working with me. He was sitting in his chair with a huge bulge in his crotch and a bushy blond goatee covering his mouth. Ungh.

Maybe I should have studied mechanical engineering instead of electrical.