Excessive bootyliciousness is a common obstacle many of us deal with on a daily basis.

Cards on the table, this is straight up PR fluff. However, it’s straight up PR fluff backed by authentic enthusiasm, written by someone with no talent for putting together PR fluff. So take it for what you will.

http://www.liveinlimbo.com/2016/06/05/theatre/jfl42-2016-first-impressions.html

 

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Cloathed to admit it.

I had a moment of peculiar disconnect today thinking about the oddity of clothing, nudity and morality. I mostly like clothing. It’s comfy, keeps me shielded from the elements and sometimes looking snazzy as shit. Outside of cases in which I feel crushingly insecure (read the shirt saga if you’re interested in how deep this goes). I love not being sunburnt and clothing is a big part of this happenstance. Hooray for clothing! I also like being naked. Lots. I’m mostly comfortable in my own skin and realise that my body does all sorts of fantastic things for me. It helps me climb trees, bend down to pick up bits of banana I drop on the floor (and rue their passing) and do all sorts of sweet and sexy things. My body’s great. My skin is a big part of that. I know how little I want a chunk of banana once it’s fallen on the floor. Imagine how disinclined towards my internal organs I’d be if they kept flopping around where dust and pubes run rampant. No bueno. No bueno at all, dudettes and dudes.

It’s no wonder then, that sometimes I marvel at what a strange facade this whole clothing thing is. We all realise that we’re pretty much naked under these clothes, right? Surely nobody’s under the illusion that there’s little more than a layer or two of material between their genitals and the open air? We’ve all got an assortment of bits and bobs and they’re equal parts miraculous and awesome. Yet again, I’m a fan of clothing’s ability to negate harmful weather effects. Sun hats come with a real life +50% fire resist. I do find it weird though, when the usefulness of clothes becomes conflated with some sense of morality or modesty. We’re not fooling anyone by putting a piece of cotton or something over anything. We can see that you have a body under your clothes. Are you wearing yoga pants? You’re clearly not hiding anything (by the way, being a drug mule while wearing yoga pants is not a sound business strategy, let me warn you). Also great. I’d hope that you wouldn’t feel like you have anything to hide. I’m on team miraculous/awesome when it comes to bodies, remember? It’s 100% your choice. Hey, if you enjoy the sensation of wearing clothes and how a certain aesthetic makes you feel then that’s excellent. Go you! Feel good about that.

The thing I do find funny is when we buy into this whole charade we’ve got going. It’s happened to me once or twice and that’s when this aforementioned state of disconnect kicks in. One time I can remember was when I was helping My Favourite Ex move stuff around in her new apartment. It was hot and sweaty in that gross, sticky manner. The influence of a sunny day and carrying heavy objects didn’t help. I wanted to be wearing less clothing, but felt sheepish about asking so. I put up with it for awhile. Then the thought occurred to me, why would that be weird? We’d had sex a bunch before, so granted, she’d seen me naked. We had no particular interest in sexing (if the word is good enough for Usher, it’s good enough for me), so what would be weird about it? I explained as much to her and she said it was fine without blinking. I got to strip down to underwear and didn’t feel so burdened. It was fantastic. A similar occurence happened this weekend at my friends’ house. We were hang out in an inflatable pool, so I had togs to change into. I’d been naked in front of this couple before, but for some reason it felt necessary to go upstairs into the bathroom and do my business behind the secrecy of a wooden door. Once again, it was self imposed. I’m sure they wouldn’t have batted eyelashes, yet it felt necessary. It’s super important to be respectful of others’ comfort levels, this I know. On the other hand, neither of these scenarios pushed boundaries.

I don’t know if there’s a grand treatise at work here. When I don my thinking cap, why are we so concerned with each others’ bodies? For what reason do we believe that’s something we need to police? Is it all because we assume that widespread nudity would cause men to implode due to lustful frenzy? ‘Cause that’s a pretty fucking offensive notion that assumes no mindful agency beyond animalistic instinct. Are we so intent on convincing one another that our bodies are shameful and must be hidden? Or so sacred that they can only be unveiled under a unique planetary alignment? I’m not saying everyone has to be naked all the time. I’m neither erring on the side of clothing being verboten. I’m merely advocating for the choice to believe that personal value is irrespective of how much skin you do or don’t show. Stripping down does not make you an irredeemable sinner, nor do layers of material imply prudishness. These things don’t matter and it’s odd how preoccupied we are with them. School dress codes, specific ratios governing appropriate prom-wear, public indecency. All I know is that last week my girlfriend and I walked past a gal in a public park sunbathing topless. Nobody was harmed. Hopefully she avoided sunburn. I’m pretty sure society didn’t crumble. There are worse things, y’know?

Like that fucking dog Marmaduke. I hear he’s a holocaust denier.

I hope you’re ready for some more bitching and moaning. Ugh, when’s winter coming?

It’s hot and unpleasant in this house. In the least it’s unpleasantly hot enough that I’m content to sit and whine about it. “Why not open a window?” I bet you’d say if you were here (which would likely be creepy, random internet stranger). Thing is, it’s just as hot outside, so no dice. You know what? This is a house with air conditioning, we should be fine. “What are you complaining about?” You’d remark again (which would still be a little alarming, but I’d be more used to your presence by now), to which I’d reply that the house temperature is outside of my direct control. Our downstairs neighbour holds the power in her hands. It used to be so simple, our previous downstairs neighbour was a homebody. He was quiet, pleasant and always home. I’d flick him a text asking to chance the thermostat and within a minute or two I’d feel the air shift. Seeing how little I knew of his personality, his lack of outdoor exploration was a defining characteristic. I mean, there was that peculiar breathing I’d hear from around 4pm each day. I wondered if he had some kind of ghoul tethered downstairs, or perhaps just one of those sleep apnea respirator thingies. If you were here you’d know what I was talking about. Well, if you were here back when he used to live downstairs. Unfortunately our new neighbour is an outgoing sort. I mean, that’s great and all in that my girlfriend says she’s pretty nice, but if we don’t interact then that’s no good to me. Where’s my thermostat slave? I WANT AN OOMPA LOOMPA NOW, DADDY.

So instead I’m melting like The Wicked Witch of the West and my brain is following suit. I’ve stripped down as much clothing as possible without going full on Robbie Williams. I’m trawling Deezer for some appropriate music to enliven my spirit, but so far Surf Songs, Samba/Pagode, Sunny Wake Up and Happy Hour have done little to quell my colossal whininess. Maybe Brazillian Music holds the key. Something upbeat with lyrics I can ignore. The answer, of course, is that I should probably be in the shade sipping a chilled alcoholic beverage adorned with a little umbrella. I intend to do just that in a friend’s backyard inflatable pool, but I kind of need to finish this first.

My girlfriend and I tucked into the Game of Thrones Telltalle game. That sentence was confusing. It’s a cinematic adventure game made by Telltale Games which functions as an interactive Choose Your Own Adventure style experience. As she’s someone without much gaming experience, it was neat seeing her come to grips with the mechanics. Things I’d take for granted weren’t as instinctive and that was a joy to watch, especially how she honed in on it as we played more. Her reactions grew faster and it seemed more immersive. I was more than happy to sit in the passenger’s seat watching her make difficult choices and seeing how that played out. Video games were a bit part of my life for quite some time and being able to share that is a massive joy. Telltale handled the GoT IP really well (unlike my gratuitous use of acronyms), creating a family/house that closely mirrored the Starks, enabling brushes with familiar characters while still crafting a separate story. I’m kind of pumped to jump back into the Game of Thrones mythos and catch up from my location in early season four. I can’t just wait for the books, GRRM is gonna pull a Robert Jordan and I might as well try to catch up to the Westerosi focused water cooler talk best I can. Maaan, why can’t I be in Westeros now? I’d take a trip to the Iron Islands and the Drowned God would solve all my of my issues with overheating. I’m definitely not a child of summer.

Kidding. Westeros is possibly one of the worst fictional universes to jump into. I might as well enter Dante’s Inferno.

Failing anything, those silhouette chairs would be an exquisite way to freak out the cat.

Doors Open Toronto. It’s a magical time of year in which doors around Toronto are open to the public. DOORS! Who doesn’t love doors? It’s even more magical when those doors lead to a variety of interesting places usually hidden from the public eye. Have you ever wanted to see what goes on in an unused subway station that’s instead been relegated to space for film shoots? I HAVE. Too bad the fuckers didn’t open the doors to Lower Bay Station this year. I kid, the event is excellent. It’s free and there’s a massive range of places across the city. Maybe up to 100 buildings ranging from governmental, scientific and media institutions. Where did we go? What did we do? Well that’s exactly what I’m gonna write, so maybe keep reading?

We started out at the MaRS Discovery District. It’s basically a place where a bunch of scientifically inclined start ups go to work out neat ideas for the advancement of their dreams. Oh, we saw things. A robot made me tea. YOU HEARD THAT GODDAMN RIGHT. My good pal teaBOT asked me exactly what I wanted out of a cup of tea and made that goddamn tea. What a good dude! It’s super cool, you can utterly customise the type of tea you want. You use a tablet to specify which teas you want (a combination of up to three. It lists caffiene content), the ratios of each tea to one another. You then choose how hot you want it to be. You put the cup in and it does your devious bidding. It was miraculous. My dark cherry chocolate tea was everything dreams of tea should be. We strolled around seeing many other wonderful burgeoning future products. There was an at home vagina testing kit to save time and the need to visit a doctor for check ups. A foot pedal operated mini washing cube seemed a neat green alternative to putting on large loads (heh, loads). There was some long exposure camera you could leave in a place for up to three months without charging, while operating the thing from your smartphone. Best of all, we tried out these little foldable electric bikes. Kind of weird, the pedals were next to the wheels, so balance took a minute or two to grasp. Soon enough we were zipping about. Using the battery was excellent, but as soon as you tried to pedal they got goofy as shit. Given that your handlebars were connected to the front wheel, pedalling messed with your inherent balance.

We visited the Legislative Assembly of Ontario, which was a lot neater than the droll name suggests. Like most governmental buildings it was a plush building stacked with portraits of old white men with questionable sideburns. We saw inside some fancy offices and saw the Autobot mace of leadership, which gives the incumbent government power to discipline the opposing elected officials with old school federal punishment. It’s brutal shit. The tour took us through a bunch of rooms with fancy, fancy furniture and some snazzy art. Very governmental.

The Yonge street Ryerson campus was a head trip. It’s a monolithic eight story building in which each floor has been designed with a different environmental theme. In short: Captain Planet, the building. It’s way less tacky than that sounds, actually a hugely tasteful confluence of functionality and comfort. The place oozes money and the seating is without exception, supremely comfortable. I know this because being borderline hungover, I fought the allure of naps in every structure I leant/sat/lay on. It would’ve been a magical place to study, but instead we marvelled at everything. Of note was the “beach” themed level, which boasted a tiered gradient of beach themed bean bags and chairs, including creepy human silhouette seats. Seriously, these things were nightmarish, while also being irresistibly comfortable. Given the amount of natural light in the place, snoozing was an ever-present threat. We saw someone studying in a strange little cubical fortification that seemed like it’d rise up with defensive weaponry in the event she was disturbed. The place was wonderfully accessible in most places too, like they actually gave a shit about creating somewhere people could come together in the pursuit of learning. If that wasn’t enough, the stairwells hosted an array of embarrassingly cringe-worthy mashups of motivational and meme culture. I was sorely tempted to give up my current accommodations and simply go lurk as the Phantom of Ryerson. My house doesn’t have creepy silhouette seats. Why do I even live there?

Everything closed around 4-5pm, so we ran out of time to check out some of the other places on display. The event runs tomorrow too, so if you’re keen to see what a streetcar sleepover palace looks like, check out TTC Leslie Barns.

Now don’t mind me, I’m gonna go concoct a heist to steal all the furniture from Ryerson. They had chairs that’d make Professor X jealous.

The dork knight returns.

I’ve recently become re-smitten with the idea of playing D&D. “Dungeons and Dragons” for all you losers out there who aren’t up to the play with 42 year old geek acronyms. I can place the blame squarely on the shoulders of my friend. We went for coffee and she was talking about how her boyfriend was setting up a campaign. She was a bit nervous and quite excited about playing. She mentioned an excellent podcast The Adventure Zone (run by the My Brother My Brother And Me group) that sparked my interest even more. That wasn’t entirely it though. The real catalyst for this explosion of enthusiasm? She mentioned that she was playing a druid. Instantly I had flashbacks to The Ballad of Shenaughnaugh of the Shillelagh (it’s worth a read) and had to read more. I’d had great experiences with 5th edition and wanted to give it another crack. Then the second bomb dropped. As a level six druid I’d be able to shapeshift into a dinosaur.

Maybe let that sink in. A motherfucking dinosaur.

I had to make this happen, whether heaven or earth would heed my cries, I had to call out regardless. Fortunately my cries were heeded rather quickly, because whiny man-babies are pretty fucking intolerable. A friend offered to DM (Dungeon Master for all you pieces of shit who don’t have a flawless knowledge of the Gygaxian lexicon) and the wheels started turning. I guess a question most uninitiated folks (read: unevolved pond scum) would ask is “why D&D?” It’s funny you ask that. Funny a) because not even The Earth’s molten core could reach temperatures as uncool as you, b) because I have my own reasons. Dungeons and Dragons is a game where most anything is possible. Can you justify it somehow? Find a way to maneuver through obstacles and interactions in creative ways? Have you got an imagination? Then throwing yourself at the mercy of dice rolls and accommodating DMs means the world is your oyster. Why am I particularly so taken with the notion of playing a druid again? Knowing full well that I mentioned dinosaurs already?

Here’s the deal. Druids are a fun class. The two distinct routes are a focus on shapeshifting or elemental earth magic. They’re hedge knights or jacks of all trade. They can do a ton of useful stuff, albeit not in such a focused way as other classes. Even turning into a large animal, you’re probably not gonna be doing as much damage as a trained killer. You can cast all manner of fancy elemental spells, but there are wizards who live and breathe the arcane. They have a one up or two on you. Still, you’ve got a ton of resources at your disposal to support the rest of the party or find creative ways to solve issues. Here are two paths I’d consider taking:

Conmammoth

If my stats would work out right, imagine how neat it’d be to infiltrate enemy animal lines? I’d use my shining charisma and persuasive aura in order to try convince my beast brethren that all’s right with the world, nothing is wrong with this party of adventurers combing our turf. They seem swell. Oh and don’t they look hungry? Say Larry, how about you bite off your leg for them to roast over an open fire? That seems reasonable, right? I mean, the food chain is a thing for a reason. Why not me? Well, you know, my meat is so tough and unsatisfying. They’d have to keep searching for more legs and then we’re right out of legs. Surely the path of least resistance is the smartest course of action. You’re a smart woolly mammoth, right Larry? Thought so.

Batman

Concentrate on stealth, multi-class with a rogue. Shapeshift into any manner of small animals and attack the enemy from behind/underneath. Transform into a flying snake and fly up a tree, then swoop down for a nasty poison head chomp from above. Or what about becoming some small spider thing and launching myself out from the darkness? Are trap door spiders a thing? I’m pretty sure I can become a mole. A mysterious animal vigilante surprising evildoers with my bestial brand of justice. What is not righteous about that?

Failing anything, I’m just gonna turn into a dinosaur and stomp around. Do I need reason more than that? How else am I to truly avenge Shenaughnaugh?

Can’t get the stink off.

Disclaimer: There might be potentially objectionable/gross stuff in this post. Hell, I should likely throw that out in front of every post, but this time it’s probably warranted. If body things are icky to you, maybe don’t read this one?

With that out of the way, I went to the doctor today. Last chance to high tail it.

Okay. So. I went to the doctor today. Why? Because I was concerned about a certain pimple type thing on my penis. Just under the crown there was the teensiest little silvery nodule. Could it be herpes? There was only one dot. Does herpes have a singular? A herp? The herpetrator? Herpes is pretty common, so chances being what they are…

An aside: I’m not here to herpes shame anyone. I’m not looking to get herpes in the same way that I’d rather not get a cold. Not having herpes is in every way preferable to having herpes. If I get herpes though, life goes on. It’s not a big deal. My biggest priority in having herpes would be not passing it on to other people, much like a cold. In any case, knowing is everything. As you could’ve deduced from my flimsy grasp of the English language and how tenses work, I don’t have herpes. It’s a relief, in that it’s not something I need to think about as much as the alternative would be. With that said…

Despite being a logical, reasonable adult, it was embarrassing. The whole process was embarrassing. Coming out to my partner as potentially having it made me feel silly. Then I needed to make the appointment.

*Ring ring*
Receptionist: Please hold.
*Dial tone. No muzac up in this biz*
Receptionist: How can I help?
Me: Hi, I’d like to book a consultation with [REDACTED].
Receptionist: Certainly, what is this regarding?
Me: I, uh, I’d like to get something checked.
Receptionist: And what is that?
Me: [quiet voice] I want to see if something is herpes.
Receptionist: Sorry, I didn’t hear you, you’ll have to speak up.
Me: (and thank fuck I wasn’t at work or in public) herpes.
Receptionist: Was that herpes? Did you say herpes?
Me: Yes. That’s what I said.
Receptionist: Okay. She has an opening at 10:15.

I felt sheepish the whole time, like I was transported to a grocery store as a teen and the clerk was making loud price checks on embarassing items. I know there was no ill will or judgement on her behalf, but that didn’t make me feel any less self-conscious.

I arrived, waited and was eventually brought to another room by a nurse to wait some more. She told me that once she left I could strip to my underwear if it made me feel more comfortable or go The Full Monty. I told her that I saved nothing but non-existent modesty by keeping my boxers on, so opted to strip down. She gave me a large sheet of paper to put over my lap and left the room. I then faced the dilemma of whether or not to keep on my socks. Like, what is the protocol? Frankly it was odd enough wearing a shirt and no bottoms, but I figure having a young female doctor (who is roughly my age) walking into a room to see an unnecessarily naked man with a paper sheet over his lap would only seek to terrify both of us. It’s the definition of random encounter. The only thing worse would be if I were still wearing socks. I shed my boxers, pants, shoes and socks, then sat on the table. I looked at the sheet. It was huge, big enough to cover my body. I unfolded the whole thing- which reached half way to the ground- put it on my lap and waited. I sat there with this massive sheet and my shirt and waited some more. Then I felt self-conscious. Was she gonna think I was a total dork for having unfolded the whole sheet when half or even a quarter of the sheet would’ve been ample? I folded it in half.

I heard a knock at the door and for a second wondered how to say “come in”. Like, I didn’t want to say it too eagerly or saucily, cause that would be weird. I let out this half whimper and nothing happened. I said it again a little louder, but because I was confused it come out as if I was unsure of what I’d just said. It was only the nurse bringing in a swab kit in case the doctor wanted to test for herpes. I thanked her and she left. I looked down at the paper and folded it in half again. I waited some more.

Then the doctor came in. I don’t know why I felt so awkward, this wasn’t even my first time showing her my penis. Hell, I knew she wouldn’t even care, I’m sure to her my penis was about as interesting as my knee. I told her what I’d seen, how you kind of had to strain to see it under the right light. She inquired briefly about my sexual history then she asked me to take off the sheet (without commenting on how folded it was, I might add). She looked at it for maybe half a second before announcing “that’s not herpes.” I was a little bemused. She continued. “It’s a silvery nodule, it’s just a sebaceous cyst. It’s nothing you have to worry about. It’s tiny. It’ll go away on its own.” I was relieved, but still expected something more. “That’s it, really.” She assured me that it wouldn’t affect anything, that everything was quite fine. I thanked her and she left. I put my clothes on, then wondered to what extent I needed to fold up the paper on the bed. It wasn’t like anyone else would be using it, but I didn’t want to give anyone the impression that I was messy.

I do it to myself, I do.

Thanks Maslow, you’re a pal.

In the immortal words of the great philosopher Fredrick Durst “It’s just one of those days.” My phone is having trouble reading my touch as human and I’m stuck here thinking you know what buddy? I hear you. Something feels off in my psyche, like a dump truck full of existential dread has unloaded on my front lawn and I’m exhausted from trying to hide it from the rest of the neighbourhood. I’m bone-tired and my synapses ache from hauling these feelings around my brain. It’s weird, because there’s nothing especially tragic going on right now and that only makes this emergence all the more confusing. I was talking to my girlfriend the other day and suggested that while not everything is perfect in our lives, the floor is so much farther away than the ceiling. We could be happier, yes, but we could be considerably more distraught than we could be happier. I’ve got my health (aside from my rapidly degenerating post 25 year old body), a stable job, roof over my head, good friends and a burgeoning animal sports podcast empire. I don’t greatly want for things, which I guess is the desired result, right? I’m winning, right?

I was talking to my physiotherapist today and I found myself saying the words “my prime directive seems to be delaying future unhappiness” (yeah, I guess if I want my phone to register me as human I should start speaking like one). I don’t know if I’ve ever made a non-calculated risk, I’m not sure if it’s in my nature. I feel like I suffer from a real lack of spontaneity that goes deeper than just worrying about something going wrong. There’s this deep seated belief that I’m one bad decision away from fucking everything up. It’s not about finding happiness and things that thrill me, it’s about not being unhappy, as if this pursuit of neutrality is as far as I’ll get. Fulfilment takes a back seat to simply not having the world crumble around me. I’m not all doom and gloom all the time, obviously, but there’s a tension in my core that I’m ever searching for distraction from giving up. There’s a “why” that’s not being answered and everything feels so terrifyingly temporary.

You know the feeling after a laugh has subsided? The chuckles have run their course and the glow fades away? I’m terrified of the split second where a certain nothing sets in. When joy becomes neutrality. There’s a silent thought that lives in that moment that it won’t happen again. That forever I’ll be gasping for it while the weight of its absence seeps in. A kind of drowning that feels all too pervasive. It’s there waiting every single day and distraction seems to be the only way to forget it for a short while. Is this kind of avoidance healthy?

When I mentioned delaying future unhappiness to my physiotherapist, we were talking about body modification and how a tattoo seems so terrifyingly permanent. How every few years I seem to shed elements of my personality in a snake-like fashion and the things that meant something to me have faded into the past. There’s a dread in permanence that I can’t escape. I gave her my stock standard line that “I don’t care about anything enough to live with it for the rest of my life.” I’ve said it countless times, but for some reason today it sunk in and resonated. It’s true. I have a lack of passion that comes back to haunt me in those split seconds between laughs. There are no causes close to my heart. My absence of spirituality or belief in any capacity makes me fear for my own shallow nature. I long so much to have anything that drives me besides inertia and not knowing what else could be around the corner. Delaying future unhappiness is not enough and I don’t know how to find that calling. I don’t know how to answer that “why”. How do I find that meaning? Is it something you can deliberately grasp? Or is it a haphazard stumble each time? Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just worried that waiting for it to come along isn’t gonna help me find it.