Hey, gentle reader. Pssst. Yeah, over here.
It’s me, David. I’m so glad you dropped by, and if you’re wondering about the mess—well, I just cleaned the apartment with Dove For Men shampoo (couldn’t find the Pine-Sol) and I can’t do a thing with it.
To tell you the truth, I wasn’t expecting visitors. I admit this is a strange sort of mindset for someone posting his random thoughts online—thoughts which make up with their lurid sensationalism and tasteless humor for their lack of pretense to originality—for the potential benefit of billions of strangers.
I blame the Virgo in me for these contradictory impulses. Don’t look so surprised. For you see, though I kiss with reverence the wizened cheek of Science and genuflect before the flower-strewn altar of Logic, I have a soft spot, an unclosed fontanel, even, for the totally preposterous yet strangely prescient fakery that is astrology.
Like, this kind of stuff: Virgo is ruled by Mercury, the planet named after the quicksilver Roman god who is himself an earthy, decadent revision of the Greek god Hermes, the messenger—no, not like that rash you gave your boyfriend that needed the special cream, Hermes, and stop interrupting—ruled, that is, until such time as Vulcan, an entirely made-up planet whose name references a mythological character with a clubfoot, is discovered.
With me so far? Let’s move along to character traits!
Virgos are thin, waspish accountants and sexually-repressed librarians who are incapable of sustaining relationships for more than a day or two and who practise acrobatic perversions in their basements on their second-hand (frugal!) jungle gyms.
Virgos love hemp clothing in myriad shades of beige, make chewy vegan treats in a dehydrator and read books about shopping mall theory so our conversation can “sparkle”.
We torment our friends with our persnickety perfectionism, and most of all, we must must MUST stand up for what’s right—even though our obsession with out-mothering Mother Teresa causes our palms to sweat, our minds to seize up and our bowels (we rule the intestines!) to rumble as alarmingly as the digestive tract of a bulimic after a second helping of Christmas dinner.
Which is fine, because our favorite way to relax is with a big glass of lukewarm prune juice and an enema bag.
But I digress. Which, come to think of it, is actually, like, so totally!?? Virgo??!!
What else is happening, comes your exasperated cry. Well, it’s high summer in the city, and this is a godsend to the people who complained bitterly that winter was too cold and who have been screwy with impatience waiting to complain bitterly that summer is too hot.
And they have a point: The mere act of walking down the street mid-July in Toronto, a terminally-damp metropolis built on the bed of a lake that evaporated ten thousand years ago, finds me simultaneously braising in my Mormon-like undergarments and pouring salt water from my steaming red face.
Tomorrow I’ll switch to my summer wardrobe, which is also my preferred Pride get-up: Silver chain mail jock-strap and army boots. You gotta admit, it’s a statement! And passersby can then amuse themselves by indulging in everyone’s fave bitch-fest, “When was the last year he looked good in THAT?”
Ah, summer! It looked so promising on paper when you were nine, but in reality you were grateful to survive, for summer was more fraught with dangers than a mediaeval crusade: Bee stings, skinned knees, Aunt Mildred’s stewed tomatoes that gagged you with pulp, Cracker Jack toys inadvertently ingested and soft ice-cream roiling with salmonella, broken arms from cycling mishaps, split lips from falling out of trees, tetanus from rusty tin cans at the beach: our doughy young bodies impaled, abraded, beaten, bruised—an Inquisitor’s entire, merciless playbook of summertime martyrdom.
And let’s not forget burned. I’m recalling those tanning rituals during which, back in the innocent sixties, we would slather oil on our virgin blue-white bodies and lie in the blazing June, July and August sun until we sizzled; and when it came time to open the bottle of Coppertone suntan lotion—the advert for which, depicting a tiny tot, female, having her swimsuit bottom pulled down by a little black scallywag of a puppy to reveal her little tot cheeks, would nowadays surely see its art director sequestered for his own safety in a solitary confinement cell at Kingston Penitentiary—we would boast, “I got the base for my tan, now once it peels I’m all set!”
And do not doubt for a moment that we would sit watching The Ed Sullivan Show in the darkened living rooms of our bungalows, our bodies like dying supernovae emitting heat from the absorbed solar rays as we ate “Nuts and Bolts” and tore translucent strips of epidermis off our pre-cancerous shoulders. Pass the pink lemonade!
Enjoy the site. I mean it. Think of it as my un-heated backyard swimming pool for dipping a shy toe, floating with the dead wasps, or belly-flopping with enthusiasm, albeit followed by acute testicular pain. Indignant huffings and puffings? Go for it, baby! Cause once you’ve relaxed and started to drift, you’re bound to remember that there’s a good chance the guy before you took a pee.
And frankly – now that we know each other a tiny bit better – and don’t take this the wrong way, but – You want taste? Then drive your fucking Escalade to the nearest Baskin-Robbins.
Petro-Canada needs the profits.