Archive for October, 2008

31
Oct
08

How gay am I; a Madonna concert review (BC Place Stadium Oct. 30 2008)

By shawnster 3 Comments
Categories: Shawn
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“Don’t let me buy a $40 T-shirt,” I instructed my young concert-going companion. “No matter what I say.”

Ashley and I were passing one of the merchandise displays at last night’s Vancouver Madonna concert. 55,000 people, it was estimated, passed through the doors of B.C. Place Stadium, the bloated carbuncle downtown that hosts football games, car shows and home reno displays.

I’d already successfully scored tickets, and in a way that almost makes me believe in that whole “The Secret” faux-losophy. It happened thus: as the concert date came closer and closer, I got increasingly more desperate. However, I did not want to actually pay for a ticket (on principle, more than anything), so I put the message out to the universe: I loaded up my Facebook page with the request, and wrote a plea in the twice-weekly newspaper I write for. “Please send us to Madonna!!!!!!” I wrote, followed by my offer: the services of various of my colleagues as well as a ride to the airport and a free plug in the paper for a ticket. (Ethical? Hell, yes!)

By some miracle, my plea was heard, or rather, read. Google alerted Viveca M. Woods, who heads an agency out of Connecticut called TicketNetwork.com (www.ticketnetwork.com), to my dilemma. Viveca, who is “a secondary ticket seller,”  pulled a string, and voila! Just a few hours before show time, too.

Maybe at this point you’re wondering, “Why? Why does he want to see Madonna so bad?”

What can I say, except: I can still remember the first time I ever heard or saw her, the “Burnin’ Up” video on a cable-access music video show; I still have my patchouli-scented vinyl copy of Like a Prayer; for a certain demographic, she IS pop culture.

Anyway, to skip ahead to the show… after cleaning and scrubbing myself, and donning a paisley dress shirt I was ready to rock. I met up with my plus one, Ashley (the Texas Twister, worried she would fade like she did at last week’s brilliant Neil Young concert, begged off) at a restaurant not far from B.C. Place. Energy and anticipation in the room was high–the waitresses were dressed in Madonna , or at least ’80s garb, and one dude was going from table-to-table asking if people were going to the show and, regardless of their answer, hugging them.

A wreathe of swarming humanity filled the outer shell of the stadium, lining up for lemonade, Madonna T-shirts and programs, and B.C. Place’s infamous $6 hot dogs. We fought our way through the masses to our section, located parallel to the stage and in the nosebleeds. Suzanne and Curtis, who had driven the 10 or so hours from Calgary, engaged us in conversation, and it wasn’t long before they were telling us how great it is to be parents, blah blah blah. However, their breeder propaganda was offset by the fact that they left half an hour into the show. They claimed it was the vertigo, but I’m sure it had something to do with parenthood.

Anyway, the show… well, it was filled with hits, a few misses (like, we really want to hear “Die Another Day”, Madonna!) and a Spanish interlude with what looked like real musicians with real instruments. But like I say, I was sitting pretty far away, so they might actually have been digital effects. One of the tunes was “La Isla Bonita”, which reminded me of an incident from earlier yesterday, at the office, when a co-worker and I were reading the upcoming concert’s setlist in the Province (aka The Daily Spoiler) newspaper. “La Isla Bonita,” he said, his lip curling in disgust. “I hate that song.”

“I love that song!” exclaimed Sandra, another co-worker, from across the office, at almost the same time. But that’s Madonna for you; the woman inspires extremes. Another low-point of the show was when, during a song, two male dancers came out in boxing outfits. I couldn’t help thinking hey, I didn’t go to all the trouble off offering up the services of my co-workers and putting my cushy media career on the line to watch these two dudes play-fight. One other thing; Madonna’s “serious” songs are like being preached to by the world’s shallowest person.

However, “Borderline”, with the big M. on electric guitar, rocked, and so did “Hangin’ Up”. By the time she reached “Ray of Light” I was busting the moves that have prompted several of the city’s rave promoters to have me banned from their events. On the way out, I couldn’t help myself, and Ashley couldn’t stop me—I loaded up my credit card with a bunch of Madonna crap. Not just a tour T-shirt, but also a concert poster, a shotglass, a fridge magnet, and a cat toy. (Okay, just kidding about the last, but how cool would that be?)

However, upon arriving home my excitement was dampened by the Texas Twister’s lack of enthusiasm, particularly towards the concert T. “I’m going out with a gay man,” she said, shaking her head.

It’s a good thing she didn’t see me during “Ray of Light”…

Next: Halloween as a desperate bachelor vs. Halloween as a smug boyfriend

27
Oct
08

the REAL sex & the city

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Categories: Shawn
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I just came from seeing Happy Go Lucky, the latest from British director Mike Leigh. And while I was watching it I couldn’t help thinking, “This is the movie Sex & the City should have been.” Okay, so they were absolutely two different things: a big-screen spinoff of thirty-something chicks living the high life in New York, scripted within an inch of its life (although you’d never know it from the script) and with a budget that could keep a woman’s shelter in business for a decade. Happy Go Lucky, on the other hand, is a low-budget, semi-improvised (I’m guessing, only because that’s the way he usually works), low-key indie about 20-something women getting by in modern London. But the movie is so true to its characters and single life–and I emphasize “single” here–that it leaves the Sex & the City movie’s heels stuck in a sewer grating.

Sally Hawkins plays Poppy, an elementary school teacher living with her friend/flatmate on the outskirts of London. The plot, such as it is, involves Poppy learning to drive. But, as in most of Leigh’s movies, this decision–which follows the theft of Poppy’s bike–is simply an opportunity to get to know the characters. Not just Poppy, but Scott, her very angry driving instructor; Suzy, her sullen sister; and a few others who inhabit her daily life. It’s marvelous to watch Hawkins, with her expressive, Shelly Duvall-like eyes and animated face, and impossible not to fall a little bit in love with the self-deprecating, life-loving Poppy. Without giving too much away, Happy Go Lucky has lots to say about being single, and falling in love. To paraphrase a quote from a critic that appears on the poster: “I left feeling deliriously happy.” You will, too.

Interestingly (or not), it’s the first matinee I’ve been to on my own in ages. I’d forgotten how much I loved matinees, though these days I don’t get out as much. The Texas Twister isn’t much of a movie-goer (unless it’s An American Tail). But, already intrigued as I was by the publicity pic of Hawkins smiling as Polly, looking like an access-cable weathergirl as she stands in front of a map of the world, I had to see it as soon as it opened. Also, I’ve never a movie by Leigh (Secrets & Lies, Naked, Career Girls) I haven’t liked, since the first one I saw: Life is Sweet, probably about 20-plus years ago.

See Happy Go Lucky; see it with a friend. And, if you’re a woman who maybe didn’t feel completely satisfied by the bloated Sex & the City flick, see it with a few girlfriends. This is a move that really is worth its weight in Blahniks.

24
Oct
08

Ee ee ooh ah!

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Categories: Shawn
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“I think I like your ex-girlfriends more than I like you sometimes.”

“Well, feel free to date them.” Pause. “Everyone else has.”

The above exchange, between myself and the Texas Twister, occurred just a few minutes ago. It reminded me that I’ve always thought that, ideally, living together would be like a sitcom: snappy dialogue, bizarre situations, pet monkeys.

There’s really nothing sitcom-ish about living alone. Believe me, except for that time the monkey escaped, there wasn’t much funny about it.

My first roommate experience (family doesn’t count) was a blast, at least in memory. I was living with my best friend at the time, Dennis, and this crazy zaftig redhead, Michelle. One night Dennis and I came home from work and walked into the kitchen, where Michelle had been cooking.  ”What is that,” he asked, peering into the fry pan. “Veal cordoned off?”

“Haha,” you might say. But the timing was impeccable.

After Dennis and I moved into another suite, we found a new roommate for our three-bedroom. Freckly, curly-haired girl Hali was smoking and trying to quit, attending university but not really, and a heckuva card player. Life really did start to resemble an episode of Friends as the three of us started palling around with others living in the building. All you’d have to do is substitute a little Mexican joint called Carlos & Murphy’s for Central Perk. We even had a token gay friend.

My most sitcom-ish experience vis-a-vis living with other people had to have been in the house on the Eastside. The three-bedroom + basement bungalow was dilapidated and rundown, on a busy street in East Vancouver. Life was a frat-house cliche: beer empties stacked up in the kitchen, a naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling of the unfinished basement (where our band practiced, no less), parties with joke-y themes, a roommate who lived in the basement and peed in a giant apple juice jar, and emptied it once a week in the main-floor bathroom. You know the type.

But your thirties have to end sometime. Haha, kidding. I was still in my 20s when I got out of the grunge house and moved into a three-bedroom with Abi and Karen. After living with three guys, I had decided I was  ready to live with people for whom hygiene wasn’t just a rumour. Abi and Karen were a delight to live with; it ended when Abi moved out. Karen and I tried to find a replacement but nothing ever quite clicked, and that’s when I ended up moving out on my own. If it wasn’t for the medication, it would’ve ended a lot sooner; I call it my “failure-to-launch” decade.

But that was three years ago, and here I am, happily cohabitating with someone who gets my sense of humour, and vice versa. All we need is the pet monkey.

17
Oct
08

Sex. And politics.

By shawnster 1 Comment
Categories: Shawn
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In case you haven’t noticed, this blog is coming to you from the Great White North–or, as we call it, Canada. And, if you’re American, you’re probably unaware we’ve just had a federal election to elect a prime minister. Actually, even if you’re Canadian, you might have missed it–for sheer boredom, you really can’t beat Canadian politics.

The same goes for Canadian news. Our morning news reports regularly carry stories about Tazer guns—those guns that deliver an electrical shock, thereby temporarily incapacitating their victim. These stories of Tazer abuse–usually by our friendly neighbourhood police department—fascinate the Texas Twister who is, of course, from Texas, where Tazer guns are probably regarded in the same category as water pistols or wet noodles. A double-barreled shotgun at a school, now that’s a story–or a baby left in the back of a car while mom shops at the mall.

Anyway, the sheer unsexiness of Canadian politics is brought into sharp relief by the crazy shenanigans going on south of the border. Boy, you Americans really show us up. Sarah Palin might be one of the scariest politicians in the world, but she’s also kind of hot. Our hottest politician is probably Justin Trudeau, the offspring of ’70s super-stud PM Pierre Trudeau (the dude whose wife had relations with Mick Jagger), who is kind of a Facebook generation dude. I had to cover the election of the Member of Parliament in my riding, and let me tell you, the aging lefties eating pizza at the Grove Pub was not exactly Saturday night at the Roxy.

Barack Obama, too, is kind of studly—certainly compared to that old croaker McCain. A Seattle cartoonist was passing through town a couple weeks ago, and he told a story about being on the McCain campaign bus—”You get up close to him, and you see all this makeup and all these cracks in his face, he looks like he’s put together, like Frankenstein,” he said of the Republican candidate.

What Canada needs is a really good sex scandal—hell, even a mediocre sex scandal might shake us out of our doldrums. For, after an expense of something like $300 million bucks (Canadian currency, but still) we just elected almost exactly the same gov’t as before. Unfortunately, I don’t think our PM is up for anything approaching a Monica Lewinsky—on his campaign trail one of the photo ops was of him wearing a pale blue sweater and holding a kitten. This, friends, is Canada: animal-loving, unthreatening, and kind of silly. But at least we have Tazers.

12
Oct
08

The Game, revisited

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Periodically, my email inbox reminds me of my not-distant-enough past. To wit: emails from self-styled dating gurus, so-called spiritual “leaders” (this means YOU, David Deida!) and invitations to Bikram yoga retreats. For the most part, I chuckle to myself, hit “delete”, and go about my business.

Sometimes, though, I reflect on my time on the periphery of “the community,” as Neil Strauss dubbed it in The Game, and wonder what those dudes are up to, i.e., what new marketing schemes they’ve come up with. I got close enough to a number of the biggest names in “The Game” (and some latecomers) to smell the Drakkar Noir*; Zan Perrion, Dave M., Grant Adams, Brent Smith, Lance Mason… plus I’ve interviewed David Wygant (for this blog, and a column), and (God help me) even tried a couple of Ross Jeffries’ courses. I’m still not convinced any of these guys had more than confidence and a good marketing plan, but more to the point,  the only one I actually liked on a personal level, whom I thought was a good guy, was Zan. Now, I’m not saying a guy has to be likable (and we’re talking subjectively here) to learn from, but to resort to the political red herring: of all of them, who would I want to actually sit down and have a beer with?

For all my investigation (or, as I prefer, “research”) into their techniques, the only one I found to be effective, at least for me, was David Wygant’s, and his advice didn’t consist of much more than motivational talks to give me the balls to go up and talk to people*.

So I guess the question I ask myself, the question I can afford to ask myself now that I’m firmly and happily (gasp!) ensconced in a relationship, is: for all the hundreds, perhaps thousands (I don’t want to think about it!) I spent on phone coaching, Internet correspondence programs, conferences, books and Marc Jacobs cologne, did it help? Did I get even anything approaching my money’s worth? Would the outcome have been any different had I, say, used that money to buy original comic book art or a boat instead?

But maybe a better question is: did I enjoy the journey? I have to say, it was an adventure. I’m sure if I had been in a better place in my life, like Hawaii, I wouldn’t have had to resort to seeking help from total marketers, I mean strangers. I found myself in some exceedingly odd situations though–in a hotel room in San Francisco with top dating gurus/coaches, and the hotel security guard, who came to warn us to keep it down so the Hong Kong flight attendants across the hall could sleep; in Everett, just outside of Seattle, in a hotel room with the sex educator, attending a David Deida conference; at the Cactus Club watching Zan work his magic on the waitress. Also, there were those nights at Celebriteez, hanging with the guys from Lifestyle Transformations, and a couple of tantric sex classes conducted by Tanya… all it all, it was a pretty interesting experience. There were some lessons in human nature, too–you can be a successful dating guru, with money and women at your disposal, and still act like a total putz, at least on your email subscriber list. Not to mention any names, Mr. Speed Seduction.

Anyway, I’ve rambled on enough about this subject. I did learn a lot; I don’t regret a minute of it, only a few hundred dollars. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sell some stuff on Craigslist. A dog-eared copy of The Game, anyone?

*With apologies to my colleague Michael K., from whom I steal all my Drakkar Noir references.

**Girls.

05
Oct
08

Tricked!

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Categories: Shawn
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So one of the things about figuring out if a person is right for me has always been musical taste. I hate to say it, and I’m a lot better than I was in my younger days, but I’m a bit of a music snob—once, finding a Barenaked Ladies disc in a prospective date’s CD collection would have been enough to send me running the other way. Now I’d like to think I’ve moved beyond that, although I wouldn’t like to put it to the test. 

Most of my girlfriends have had pretty good taste—or should I say, tastes compatible with mine. Although my last GF had a little too much Depeche Mode downloaded onto her computer for my tastes. J, was big into the hip hop, and turned me on to some underground stuff that I quite like–MF Doom, for example, although I may only be into him because he uses lots of samples from old Fantastic Four cartoons, which appeals to the geek in me. 

J. was also a fan of my all-time favourite band*, and I remember the note she left after our first night together: along with her name and number, she’d written “[band's name]’s fan.” Not grammatically spectacular, but it did the trick—I took her to the see them when they came through town the next month, and things developed from there. 

Now with the Texas Twister–Trickster–it was this same band (now broken up) that somehow became part of her arsenal. See, she likes to use songs from her laptop playlist as wake-up calls. There was a whole week where we woke up to Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5″; lately it’s been Goldfrapp’s “Carnival Girl”. But not long after we started seeing each other, maybe a couple of weeks, the song we woke up to was, indeed, a song by my all-time favourite band. I looked at her and thought, “Ah, the one!” 

I would tell friends this and they’d say, “And she didn’t know how big a fan you were of the band?” To which I’d say, “No!”

Well, let’s just say, some people never learn. Yes, once again I underestimated the wiles of the fairer sex. Maybe I brought the band’s name up in conversation, or maybe she discovered a tell-tale sign around my pad–the autographed posters, extensive collection of memorabilia, the life-size cardboard cut-out of the members. Anyway, I learned tonight that she set the song  on purpose, because she knew I liked them! It was all part of her ploy!!

I know, many of you are shaking your heads, going, “Shawnster, Shawnster, Shawnster–how naive can you be?” And you’re absolutely right. And now I’m wondering: should I also believe that she was also a virgin?

*Guided by Voices. In fact, upon reading this, she said she should tell her friend Jeff about this blog entry. When I asked why, the Twister said she’d once told Jeff about me: “I finally got him to like me.” “How did you do that?” asked Jeff. “Oh, it was simple,” she said. “All it took was a Guided by Voices song.”

03
Oct
08

In Which Shannon Wentworth of Sweet (Lesbian travel co) Stirs up My Brain

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Categories: Lena
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So a couple weeks ago I had a nice long phone interview with Shannon Wentworth, the CEO of Sweet, a lesbian tour company based out of Northern California. Shannon’s company is new, it’s going to specialize in ecologically and socially conscious cruises, and the first cruise on their itinerary is departing New Orleans in 2009. Okay. Now that I’ve covered the basics…

Lesbian travel is a new and somewhat random thing for me to write about–not being a lesbian myself, I didn’t ever feel particularly tapped into that market, or attuned to its readers’ needs. However, I’ve written about nudists and Plushies and swinger parties without ever dipping a toe into their waters (okay, maybe a toe), so if lesbians want me to write about them, then fine I’ll do it. Possibly part of the problem in this whole situation is that not enough straight women are writing about lesbians.

And there is a problem. I didn’t realize it before, but non-straight people have it rough when it comes time to travel–or even to go out to dinner, in some places.  Or, if we come down to it, to be treated like equals. (Did anyone see the presidential debates last nite? If so, please take my point.)

Anyway. Below I’m posting a few of my questions, Shannon’s answers, and then my responses, as I took a minute to think about some of these issues for the first time.

ME:  If lesbians move in faster than straight couples, do they also speed up the “holi-dating” process?

SW: Going away for the weekend happens all the time, but they often go to events that are accepting of the lifestyle. There are so many places where you have a getaway that’s not romantic because everyone in the restaurant is staring at you, and the waiters asking if you’re sisters because you’re holding hands and speaking softly to each other.

My thoughts: The waiters are asking you about your personal status? Whoah! They need to STFU and serve your dinner, as they’re paid to do. I’ve never had a waiter get all nosy about my connection to a guy I was at dinner with. Ever.

ME: How does the lesbian mindset change the vacation fling?

SW: It does happen that someone might have an intense fling for a week, but lesbians are much more likely to try to parlay that into a long-distance relationship and then one move to the other’s city. *chuckles*  Lesbians are not really prone to the fling. We as a community have been trained to behave better so we can garner the recognition and respect we’re looking for.

My thoughts: Hm. This is nice and optimistic. However, I’d wager that a lot of straight men out there have no interest whatsoever in recognizing or respecting you. They’d much rather buy into the mainstream porno version of you, which is that lesbians are mostly all giggling nymphomaniac college co-eds who are just making do with each other till a guy comes into the frame.

ME: What’s the deal with traveling as part of a huge group, anyway? Isn’t it sometimes nicer to get away a deux?

SW: There are still big chain resorts that cater to couples, that don’t allow gay and lesbian couples to book.

My thoughts: That. Sucks. And I had no idea!!! All those “couples getaway” and “mini-moon” releases that cross my desk, and it’s never once occurred to me to ask whether there were gender requirements. What are we, in the dark ages?

SW Part II: We were just at a lesbian event the company had booked a huge hotel block, and even though we were one of 200 couples, we were one of the first to check in, and had to explain it to them. And the people at the front desk didn’t get it.

My thoughts: How humiliating. How aggravating! I would have wanted to slap someone for putting me through a round of Twenty Questions like that.

And again–what’s up with these people who are supposedly in the service industry, but can’t manage to just keep their yaps shut and fulfill the customer’s request? If you’ve got a large group of lesbians in for the weekend, it should NOT come as some huge shock when two chicks show up requesting a king-sized bed.

ME: Are you going to be starting any destination wedding or honeymoon packages geared specifically toward your market?

SW: We would love to do a Mayan Riviera wedding. However, right now, same sex marriages are not universally recognized, and I think lots of couples feel like: Why bother going to the trouble of a destination wedding when it’s not going to be legally recognized back home? But  lots of people who already got married are waiting to take their honeymoon with us.

My thoughts: I can’t imagine taking a joint honeymoon with 17 other couples, so let’s shelf that for now. However, to the first point: This is so sad to me. Especially because the one thing that Biden, Palin, Obama & McCain all agree on is that these lesbian couples are never going to be legally recognized: Nope, sorry. Your relationship is just not as holy as everyone else’s.

So, basically any straight marriage, no matter how effed up it is–even if one partner beats the other  about the head  and shoulders with a tire iron every Tuesday night, or even if the girl was forced into it because she was 16 and knocked up in, hm, ALASKA–that straight marriage is a more holy union than any two lesbians? Or gay guys?

I just don’t get it.

As you can see, I got a bit fired up when I started thinking about this stuff, mostly because I think that everyone should have the right to move about the world in peace, and pursue whatever their definition of love is. And also because it bugged the hell out of me to hear about everything Shannon et crew have to deal with on a regular basis. All the questions, and raised eyebrows, and ‘not getting it.’

So, yeah, this has evolved a bit beyond travel–sorry, I wrote about it from a totally travel angle on Orbitz, if you’re interested. But on this site I’m allowed to talk about whatever I want. And what I waaaant, is for y’all to picture how it would be if you tried to take a weekend getaway with your shnookums, and the TSA guy asked you inappropriate questions, all the people in the airport line stared at you, the cab driver wanted to know when your husbands would be arriving, and then you got to the hotel and they WOULDN’T CHECK YOU IN.

I mean really. Common courtesy? Human decency? Evolution? Hellloooo? I could have sworn they were around here some place…

Or maybe not.

 

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