A Short History of [You].

I should wonder if among

the many books on these shelves

there may be one called:

A Short History of [You],

which might illuminate me on the subject of

your name

       and

how you came to smile at me

today.

But if this book may not be found

on these wide wooden shelves,

perhaps we could take

 a walk

and I will learn its pages

from you instead.  

Ode to the waiting area of the Chelsea Piers Skating Rink

he dies bravely, in battle
the white wooden table smeared with blood
or ketchup maybe

moments before,
a claim laid to his seat
two overwrought mothers and a Korean nanny
they bring with them five children
their pepperoni pizzas dripping grease
that scalds him

he cries out in pain
math homework strewn across his lap
reading comprehension piled atop his head
a muffled scream
he is not heard

three iPads ignite
their war cries blare
all options of escape have passed
muddy boots mangle any remaining calm
a herd of rhinoceros children
puddles two feet deep

he drowns in cell phone conversations
the nanny cannot turn off voice dictation
she stabs at her phone with flexed index finger
it pierces his heart

each amoeba child splits and multiplies
now twenty hands heave snot,
he can no longer see
two of the children have farted probably

the end comes quickly
all daylight fades away
he is swept under the table
the nanny still cannot turn off voice dictation

Light into the darkness

Sarah, the pint-sized eight year-old girl I take care of, had a couple of choice quotes yesterday:

The first was,

"I give my parents a gift every day. The gift of me."

Fair enough.

It's the second thing she said however, that struck an interesting chord with me:

"Isn't Hannukah just about giving gifts and receiving gifts and being thankful that you are getting gifts?"

Well, in my experience, not really.

Growing up we never really exchanged gifts on Channukah, save for little things here and there, probably thrown in so that we children wouldn't feel left out when our friends came to school bragging of their Christmas present hauls. To this day my most frequent Channukah present from my mother is simply a calendar; one year she got me one with different types of chilli peppers on it which was quite exciting since I really like spicy food.

But I digress.

Within the space that could be filled with the exchanging of presents, we were free instead to focus on the traditions, rituals and themes that accompany this holiday. I've always loved Channukah; the songs and blessings are pretty, it's fun to light the candles, the stories we commemorate are great and there are few things better than those wonderful, warm latkes my mom makes. However, it was only after I moved away from home that I began to really identify with one of the central messages of Channukah- spreading light into the darkness.

I've taken a lot of pride over the years in lighting my small menorah, watching the glow spread from the waxy watchmen on my windowsill. It's always felt easy to be connected to my family when I light the candles, since the whole ritual is meant to symbolize spreading light into the world. This message has always seemed very universal to me and appears all the more poignant with such a dearth of light in this world right now. The powers of evil stemming from middle eastern deserts are casting a thick blanket of fear and hatred, while at at home domestic terrorism has more than reared its ugly head. So the idea of filling the world with a little light-that a tiny flame can penetrate even the deepest darkness? I can certainly get on board with that.

Further more, I've always found the process of sitting by the candles once I've lit them to be an extremely meditative, calming experience. This particular Channukah however, it occurred to me that I had been missing an even deeper message lying within this concept of light displacing dark. For as I sat on my bed looking at the candles, I realized that yes, anyone in the apartment buildings across the way from me could see my menorah, and that I was succeeding in illuminating some darkness. But even more so, I noticed that the glow that was filling my own room. I began to think that maybe rather than just sending light outwards on Channukah, we should be reminded to send it back inside as well. That when are depressed or sad or anxious or angry or whatever black tar might be seeping into our subconscious that day, we can allow a little flame of positivity to illuminate our mind- to know that even when we are at our worst, there is always that tiny little light inside of us, that small voice telling us to keep going, that we'll be alright.

Often it's so hard to trust that such a little light could possibly make a difference when faced with overwhelming negativity or darkness. And so we ignore or extinguish those hopeful thoughts and don't even bother trying to do the little things that cheer us up, thinking to ourselves that "something so small couldn't possibly make a difference." But it can.

In one part of the Channukah story, despite being greatly outmatched, a tiny group of Jewish soldiers manages to overcome the far larger and better outfitted Greek army; here are our little candles, sending light into the chasm out our windows. And here then is our own hope, our own small, positive voice, shining its little flame into the darkness of our bad days. All we need to do is sit with our candles, trust their ability to displace even just a little bit of night and whatever armies may march against us, won't stand a chance.

So this Channukah if you are feeling  sad or anxious or angry, and you have begun to doubt that those small remedies even work, place a little faith that even the simplest of actions- like kindling the lights of a set of wax candles- can help dispel your clouds. So do that 5 min of meditation you worried wouldn't make a difference, take that walk around the block, go see the new star wars movie- do something small that makes you happy. You'd be surprised how far that little bit of  light can take you.

Happy Channukah everyone!  

Fairies

There are fairies inside your mouth.
I know they're in there
because you keep your lips pressed together so they cannot escape.
I hear them beat their tiny fists against the backs of your teeth.
I see them try to squirm out the corners of your mouth,
which sometimes looks like you're just smiling at me a little,
but I know better.

There are fairies inside your mouth.
They each want to tell me something
but they can't find a way past your lips,
so they jump on your tongue like a trampoline
and bang their little heads on your hard palate.

There are fairies inside your mouth.
You sigh them out with little huffs of breath;
send them tumbling down your arms,
but they disappear into your hands before they can deliver their message.

I wish you would stick your tongue way out,
let them march down to the very tip
so they could leap softly into my ear.

For the fairies that are inside your mouth
are the ones that I want to hear.

White Stone Walls

Once, while wandering through a forest far from home,
I came across a palace amidst the trees.

Its walls were made of smooth white marble
and its ivy covered gates were tall, at least three stories
high. I had never seen such a beautiful palace before
so I approached its great doors, only to find them bolted shut-
locked tightly against the wind and rain I supposed.

Each day I returned to that spot in the woods
and tried the hardest I could to open the gates.
I stroked their great stone, fiddled with their locks
but still I remained outside, alone.
Weeks passed and I began to wonder more and more
at what lay beyond those walls.
It soon became the focus of my every day
as I tried hard to find a way to steal inside.

Until one evening, as the sun waned over the trees,
I looked up to watch the breeze
flutter the great flags atop the milky walls;
The marble was white
and yet it blushed, a living, breathing pink in the light.
I was so struck by what I saw before me that that without any warning
I spoke to the great gates themselves:

You are the most beautiful palace I have ever seen,
I said to the walls.
Your turrets are tipped in silver,
your ramparts spiral high,
and yet each day when I come to meet you,
it seems there's even more there than what meets the eye.

And with a creak and a shudder the doors suddenly opened wide.

Just inside there was a garden, filled with purple aster and sunflowers galore.
A bright light filtered down through the trees finding fairies flitting from one plant to the next.
Each singing sprite seemed to have something important to say
and so I sat and listened to the secrets of the white stone palace.
I heard stories of the cracks in the walls
and the princes who once roamed its halls
and I remained in the light with the fairies through the night
and all the way until the next day came.

Each afternoon I returned to the palace and it gently opened its doors
so I could enter its lovely, warm garden.
As far as I could tell I was the only one allowed past the great gates and walls
and quite quickly I began to fall in love
with the light and the fairies and the flowers.
Each day I swept all the towers that had grown dusty and cold,
pulling weeds, raking leaves and polishing the smooth white marble.

All the time I spent in the garden made me believe in magic again
and so I couldn't quite tell you just exactly when
it happened, but one day I realized I hadn't been home in weeks.

My cheeks were rosy and my heart was full
but I knew that if I left my house alone for too long
its paint would chip, its wood would rot
and the grass in my own little garden would grow wild.
I suddenly felt like I'd left a child all alone
and I knew right then that I had to return home.

Don't go! the magic garden begged, I need you to stay.
It's not often that anyone comes through the forest this way
and I've begun to rely so much on your company each day-
won't you please stay just a little while longer?

I can't, I said sadly, I must take care of my home
it wasn't fair of me to leave it for weeks, all alone.

The garden was quiet and in that moment I felt that something very small had changed.

But I made a promise to her that I'd return very soon
and with with tears in my eyes I bid the garden goodbye
as I began to trudge back home through the woods.

When I finally reached my house I found the floors a mess, dishes in the sink,
and the plants in my garden looking like they could use, well, a drink.
So for a whole seven days I watered the grass, I cleaned and I dusted,
even oiling the rusted hinges of my little blue front door.

It did made me happy to be back in my home but
I missed being inside the palace's walls
so without the slightest hesitation at all
the next day I set out again into the woods.

It took me a while to find my way back
and when I finally arrived at the tall stone gates
I noticed that they did not swing open.
I told them they'd been missed,
even dared to plant a kiss on the white marble walls
but still they remained tightly shut.

The forest was quiet, though the trees seemed to sigh.
And the gates remained closed as many hours passed me by.

Sad and alone,
I circled the palace walls,
when suddenly I noticed a tiny piece missing from one of the stones.
The hole was quite small but gave a clear view inside
and so I pressed up my eye against the wall and looked.

There was the garden.
All filled with flowers and a lovely warm light
that danced across fairies who flitted from sight
and the air was still touched with magic.

I could just faintly hear the sound of the fairies' sweet songs
and I stood there at the wall for a very long time indeed.

Just, listening.

If You Can Only Hold Your Breath.

I wish I could fly.
Like Peter Pan soaring off to Neverland with a trail of pixie dust and a girl in a blue dress not far behind.

I wish I could slow down my mind.
Shhhh it to sleep with a lullaby sung by a chorus of whales that spout bubbles made of ambien.

I wish I could express myself fully.
Complete my final sentence and burst into flames, rising as a phoenix from the remnants of my former unexpressive self, using the pages of my yellow legal pad for wings.

I wish I could travel back in time.
Warn my past-self that the love of my life was about to douse my heart with gasoline and toss a match to it, so perhaps I should stock up on buckets and buckets and buckets of water to prevent her from burning a hole through my chest.

But I can wish and wish for a million things and none of them will come true...
For it is Fear, not Wishing, that is the most powerful of all summoning forces.
If I fear something happening, inevitably it will.
If I fear my girlfriend cheating on me, she will.
If I fear my family falling apart, it will.
If I fear that my art is not good enough and that it will fail me when I need it most, it will.

Fear runs rampant through my life, a headless horseman wrecking everything in its path, hooves black with the mud of my insecurities.
It takes that which is joyful and good and taints it with curly wisps of smoky what-if’s.
These what-if’s are quiet, barely noticeable alone.
But together-what if he's lying what if she doesn't really love you what if you aren't as strong as you think you are what if you're not good enough-the venom of a thousand copperhead snakes has nothing on the poison of these questions.

So who then will be my David and slay this giant Fear, that appears only when it is most unwelcome?
No one will be.
No one can.
Indeed, no one person can save me from something that comes from within myself.
Instead, the answer appears in the form of my own tiny light.
Admittedly, it is a very small light, but even the tiniest of twinkles can penetrate the deepest darkness.
And once this Hope has presented itself, glowing like a little firefly flashing in the nighttime of my breast; even when I can’t see it, I know that it is there.

And it is stronger than Wishing, because a wish is an impossibility before it has even left my mouth.
I wish I could fly.
I wish I were Peter Pan.
I know these wishes will not come true even before I have reached into my pocket to feel for the quarter that will sink to the bottom of the fountain.

But Hope...Hope is a certainty that outmatches even fear.
It is a certainty because it is based on the logic of what has passed.
Things will get better.
I will improve.
Doors can open.
I know these things to be true because they have happened once before and will happen again.
The proof lies in the knowledge that there is always air just above the surface of the water.
And if you can only hold your breath long enough, you will eventually get there.

Fear, for all the droves of barristers it has arguing its case constantly in my head, is not based in what has happened.
It is predicated solely on the notion that I can predict the future.
And I am no prophet, though my imagination tends to disagree.
Fear has no flesh and blood supporters; it has no human advocate in this world fighting for its cause.
But the existence of Hope is championed by everyone that I love and that is a magic that’s easy to believe in.

So I arm myself with a dagger made of past triumphs, and pixie dust from those who love me most.
And Captain Hook doesn’t stand a chance

"Packing", and other such Expletives.

“Packing” is a dirty, dirty word.

I have long since suspected as much.

This word encapsulates many horrible unmentionables, which I shall mention for you now. 

One of these involves something called “Stripping the Bed," which loosely translates as “an action that removes any possible feeling of homeliness from your room."

One is called “Emptying Drawers," which often goes hand in hand with a rising feeling of nausea and dread.

Another involves placing suitcases around willy-nilly, and staring at them mournfully.

Many people play up-tempo music while Packing in an attempt to disguise its true nature. This never works, and often results in a lasting hatred for the music itself.

I have also noticed this word used in tandem with another equally dirty phrase, that being “Saying Goodbye."

Saying Goodbye is an action very similar to leaping off a very tall diving board into a pool, if that pool was actually a 3inch thick sheet of ice and not a pool at all.

Saying Goodbye is something I try to do as infrequently as possible. Though for some reason, it keeps happening to me.

Saying Goodbye and Packing both fall under an extremely slippery category called “Change."

Change is apparently extremely necessary for “Growth” and is even considered good for you in some cultures. 

I find Growth to be overrated, and think that Change tastes like dirty pennies, which is ironic, don’t you think?

After all, it’s because of Growth that I no longer fit into the clothes at "Please Mum Inc." which is very inconvenient for me and also very sad.

However, all of these stupid, smelly words seem to be necessary if you want to do things like “Have a Career” and “Someday Support a Family” and my personal favorite, “Do What You Love."

And if you never Say Goodbye, you never get to have adventures.

And if you don’t Pack before you Say Goodbye, then you won’t be fully prepared for all your adventures and you might forget things like your hat with flowers on it or your toothbrush or your Winnie the Pooh blanket. 

These are all important things.

And if I’d never Said Goodbye because I was afraid of Change and didn’t like Growth, then I’d be a very short, boring person who’d never even seen what New York City looks like. 

And I never would have met you, which would be very sad indeed.

So I guess, I’ll just have to keep using all of these words. 

I won't grow up

I won’t grow up, don’t make me

I don’t want to say goodbye to people I love and get on a plane that takes me far, far away

I won’t grow up, don’t make me

I don’t want to have to make the brave choice or the right choice or whatever fucking choice it is that makes my heart hurt.

I won’t grow up, don’t make me

I don’t want to get up early or pound the pavement or go the extra mile to make it in a cruel and unforgiving world

I won’t grow up, don’t make me

I don’t want to pay bills and work part-time jobs that involve carrying trays or handing drinks to lifeless people in dresses that leave nothing to the imagination in places that blare music too loud

I won’t grow up, don’t make me

I don’t want to feel guilty or responsible or any feeling that does not come from having books read to me on a sunny couch in a house far away

But I will grow up, and no one will make me

because I made the decision to get on that plane and will make it time and time again

But I will grow up, and no one will make me

because I’m smart enough to know that what feels good right now won’t always feel good in the long run

But I will grow up, and no one will make me

because this is what I love to do and the only things worth pursuing are those things that challenge every fibre of your being

But I will grow up, and no one will make me

because I will not be a parasite and I will accept those jobs as a toll to be paid on the road to success or I will be innovative and find others

But I will grow up and no one will make me because

I am strong and smart and resilient and determined and I have already been given all the tools that I need to overcome the challenges in my life

I have grown up
But sometimes I will dress up as Peter Pan and pretend I never will

Adventures in Personal Hygiene

Upon returning home two summers past, I made a startling revelation.
My sisters go to the spa a lot.

Now I mean no disrespect to my beautiful sisters, nor do I aim to embarrass them in any way. It is a simple and plain fact that women must attend the spa with a certain regularity in order to maintain their polished appearance (or so I understand). I suppose in past visits, I had never really noticed that that they popped out of the house so frequently, returning with skin aglow or eyebrows finely sculpted. Indeed, whenever conversation tended towards Latin American countries and their waxing practices, I had quietly excused myself from the room, preferring instead to remain blissfully ignorant. However, for whatever reason, this visit was different and I became increasingly aware that the spa (and I italicize here in order to properly convey the gravitas associated with this sacred institution), was the place to be.

In the days following, I started to question my sisters with some intensity, as to whether a visit to the spa could be appropriate for male clientele as well. Now before I continue, I should probably provide those of you who do not know me on a deeply personal level with some background information.

I happen to be a fairly hirsute man. My dear father passed down many complimentary genes to his son, though the one that compels patches of hair to grow on my back at will, I probably could have done without. Now we're not talking a Steve Carrell in "the 40 Year Old Virgin" level of hair coverage, but I do boast my fair share of raven-black manly trappings.

All things considered, I decided it perhaps wouldn't be such a bad thing if I did away with some of the more unsightly weeds running down my spine. Two weeks previous to this, the little girl to whom I was teaching swimming lessons had asked me why I was so hairy, with such astonishment in her eyes that according to her mother, I visibly blushed. It was time to take some drastic action. And so I found myself on a sunny Vancouver day bouncing off to the spa with great trepidation and tremors of excitement in my belly, mother in tow. (You didn't think I'd go by myself did you?)

My youngest sister had booked the appointment and I was all set for my waxing experience. I entered the glass doors to the oasis of hair removal and was immediately greeted with the gloriously peaceful sound of cascading fountains, the perfumed air gently welcoming me.  A stunningly gorgeous receptionist sat at the marble covered desk and though she appeared not to acknowledge my existence, I was entranced nonetheless. This was a magical place.

My mother checked me in and after various urgent whispers between several more (?!) beautiful women in white, I was ushered into a tiny room about the dimensions of a queen sized bed. A slightly frumpy, broad shouldered aesthetician entered moments afterwards. I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed that I would not be having my back waxed by any of the celestial beings that had graced the lobby.

She introduced herself by name and title (see previous paragraph), busying about with opaque liquids of strange consistencies and what appeared to be a jar of tongue depressors. Calming my palpitating heart, I thought on the encouraging words of the females of my family, who had assured me that although the experience would hurt, I was unlikely to actually pass out from the pain. However, instead of instructing me to remove my garments and lay prone, my stocky friend instead asked me to sit down. I can only describe the expression on her face as one of pity.

"I wanted to have a quick talk with you before we start," she began, a queer little half-smile on her lips. "Have you ever done this before?"

"No," I replied.

"Ok, well the area we're going to be working with is rather sensitive, so I just wanted to be sure you were fully comfortable."

Up until this point, I had been under the impression that the back is one of the least sensitive parts of the body, and I felt panic beginning to rise in my chest.

"Ummm, sure. I'm comfortable..."

"Alright, well, Sofia at the front desk has informed me that you've requested a male bikini wax, so before I begin-"

I nearly leaped off the table in alarm.

"Hold on, I didn't request a BIKINI WAX!" I shrieked.

"You didn't?" she said,  her left eyebrow rising like a stupid, perfectly manicured caterpillar. "But you brought your mom with you for moral support and the ladies at the desk-"

"The ladies at the desk are WRONG. I do not want a male bikini wax. I only want my back waxed."

"Please." I added, my face probably the shade of an heirloom tomato at this point.

"Well, whoever called definitely requested a male bikini!" she said cheerfully, "But no worries. I'd be happy to just do your back today!"

Needless to say the actual hair removal process was nowhere near as painful as the pointed look the receptionist gave me as I walked out those glorious front doors.

"How'd it go?" she asked me, perfectly tanned skin gleaming.

"Fine, thank you." I replied through gritted teeth, trudging off with my mother into the parking lot, making a mental note never to ask my sister to book anything for me again.

I enjoyed the smooth-skinned fruit of this traumatic experience for a grand total of two weeks, before breaking out into a wonderful constellation of red spots that lasted for several months. When asked by curious bystanders at the pool what had attacked my back I would decline to answer, swimming away hurriedly and vowing silently never again to return to the spa. After all, there are worse things in life then a little bit of body hair.

A Man of Two Hearts.

I sit overlooking the quiet of a misty street. It’s rain-soaked trees call to me, calming me.

You’re safe, you’re happy.

They whisper to me slowly, softly. They speak of a life I once had and the promise of one I may have again.

Don’t ever leave this place.

Salty breezes nip through the window lapping at my face. The wind kisses me and my heart soars.

Come back to us.

The ever burning fire of family warms me, glows first in my stomach, spreading to my hands, cheeks, scalp, chest.

Why do you always leave?

Outside, I gulp at the fresh air, frantically dispelling those thoughts that come fast and sharp. They beg me to change course, to raise a different flag.

Stay here forever.

My heart palpitates, then splits in two. I see my roads clear as day in front of me.

Think of what you leave behind.

I tell the birds, the leaves and the purpley seas that I will return soon. Perhaps one day for good.

Selfish.

I am a man of two hearts, I say. I am equally bound to both.

Liar.

It is not the time for me to stay. Adventure and the thrill of challenge call me east.

Why?

I do not know why, but I know that their call is strong and true.

So you will leave us again?

Yes.

But you will be back?

Of course.

Do you promise?

My love for you is too strong never to return.

Good.

And the voices floated away on the breeze, and I was calm.

Gay Men and Tigers and Bears-A Straight Man's Tale

Hi, I'm Aidan Sank.

You might remember  me from such blogs as "The Internet Generation" and "Girls and Postwar Prosperity". These blogs are thoughtful commentaries on the effects of smartphones on our work ethic and communication skills.

This blog is a little different.

 This blog is the story of my experiences at a bar that I will call for the purposes of this post "Tiger Bar".

And so begins the slippery descent into the tale I'm about to tell you...



A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine made a very innocent facebook post that went something like this:

Any actor friends of mine looking to work a coat check job at Tiger Bar during Pride week? $300-$600.

Being an actor friend looking to make $300-$600, I messaged him back, expressing my interest. As we began to chat back and forth discussing details, I thought I might as well google "Tiger Bar", as I was unfamiliar with it. I soon came across three rather interesting revelations.

1) Tiger Bar is a gay bar.
2) Tiger Bar is a gay leather bar.
3) Tiger Bar is a gay leather bar specializing in older, larger, hairy men (henceforth to be termed "bears").

It was at the moment that I made this third and most startling discovery that my friend offered to bequeath me the pleather shorts that he had received to work his first shift at this bar.

What did I just sign up for? I typed, anxiety rising in my throat.

To which my friend responded,

It's just coat check. You'll be in a "cage" so you're protected, it's a chain link fence. If you're uncomfortable then don't do it. But have fun.

Looking back now, I'm not quite sure why he put the word "cage" in quotation marks. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

After some hemming and hawing, I accepted the job offer, as I decided that turning down that much money just because I might be working in a new, slightly uncomfortable environment would be foolish. After all, I'd be in a "cage" so I'd be protected...right?

The next week, I arrived nervously at the job, and was shown around by a friendly security guard, meeting all the shirtless bartenders and getting the lay of the land. He kindly pointed out the upstairs roof deck, which, he proudly stated, Tiger Bar is famous for. This was the area where men can reportedly come for a cheeky blowjob (or two). Though "beware of pickpockets" he said, pointing to a large sign on the wall demarcating just that. Apparently "some people don't pay attention to their surroundings when they're receiving oral sex" he cautioned, shaking his head sadly. It was at this moment that one of the bar-backs walked by me, clad in leather pants, harness and belts. He limped slightly as he passed.

"Oh, and we have porn!" Smiled the security guard enthusiastically, pointing up to two T.V. screens depicting what seemed to be one man giving another man a rather aggressive colonoscopy.

I just barely resisted the urge to bolt out the door as my imagination began to get the better of me.

*Let me take a moment to add a quick disclaimer by mentioning that I am no stranger to gay bars. As the majority of my male friends are gay, I have accompanied them on many a jaunt to their preferred clubs. I have danced in the vicinity of many a sweaty, scantily clad man (often in a much closer vicinity than I would prefer), and I have visited suspiciously slippery darkened bathrooms where the urinals are so close to one another they are practically designed for "accidental" contact.

The Tiger is a whole new level of gay bar. Coat-check was truly located in a long, tall chain-link cage, facing a wall depicting leather clad men in various stages of undress.  Hairy fellows in harnesses traipsed up and down the bar, stomachs spilling over their shorts or veins bulging from their muscular bare biceps. I quickly took up my post and nervously looked back and forth, making a mental note of the security guard's names just in case I had to scream them out in terror while a large bearded man thrust himself in my direction.

My first two hours passed rather un-eventfully as I found that I was beginning to rather enjoy this job. The methodical nature of checking people's belongings was soothing and everyone so far was friendly and only mildly flirtatious. Then along came the manager.

A broad chested, dark haired man wearing a small black tanktop, with an almost inscrutable Spanish accent, he had wandered over in order to offer some advice.

"You should take your top off."

I gazed it him in sheer horror. He continued.

"Listen mang, I don't want to see you naked," (I gave silent thanks for this) "but you will make more tips if you do. I'm straight, the bartenders are straight. We all do it. Get shirtless."

And off he went in a flurry of stocky strides.

I was now faced with quite a quandary. It looked like it was going to be a slower than expected night, which meant a lot less money. Apparently, taking off the button-down I was wearing would guarantee a lot more money. Yet...there was my dignity at stake.

So I texted two trusty friends who had this to offer:

Why not? What do you have to lose?

My sense of self respect! I replied indignantly, Compromising what I'm comfortable with!

You're in a cage, at a bear bar, in Chelsea...compromise is a moot point. replied one pithy friend.

She was right.

And so I peeled off my shirt, placing a backwards yankees cap on my head in a vain attempt to balance out my current circumstances with an emblem of hetro-sexuality. I stood at attention, chest hair wafting slightly in tandem with the air conditioning. Almost immediately, I began to notice a marked difference in how much money I was making. People were dropping tips left and right, smiling from ear to ear. I think they all felt much more comfortable now that the coat-check guy was playing along; most of the patrons and service staff were in someway exposed, why shouldn't he be?

The compliments also began to flow more frequently. Never mind that I lept back into my cage as if struck by a hot poker when an older gentleman pawed my chest hair, cooing softly like a dove. I was confident, comfortable in my sexuality and dammit I was a straight man standing shirtless in a gay bar. I could do anything!

I didn't give a second glance to those wearing only jockey straps and didn't bat an eyelash at the man who came and left in 5 min saying he was just there for "a quickie". There was even a fellow who immediately upon arrival pronounced me as "Sweet, but straight as anything!" I was beaming, proud that my hetro-sexuality was shining through the haze of fairy-winged masculine chaos.

Then a 76 year old man in glittery white translucent briefs walked by, signifying the beginning of the end. He struck up a conversation with me, which gave confidence to a few other men and all of sudden I had a couple of propositions. They were fairly harmless, one coming from a bespectacled man in a full pleather body suit who liked to read scholarly articles. Another came from a short latino fellow who incorrectly assumed I didn't understand the Spanish he chattered away in to his friends.

 However, all of a sudden I had to start making excuses that I was straight and my magical tip streak began to dry up. By 12:30am there were less and less customers and the freezing cold air had forced me to reclothe myself, much to the dismay of the few stragglers leaving the bar. I finally settled down to finish reading the 6th instalment of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the rest of the night passed uneventfully.

By the time I had reached the end of my evening, I'd made a few important realizations.

1) The amount of anxiety I experienced leading up to this event was disproportionate to the circumstances I actually faced. After all, no one attacked me with their pubic hair or tried to drag me screaming into a bathroom.

2) The most traumatic part of the night was when I innocently asked a very large, very moustachioed man if I could "give him a hand with anything". The answer I received is not appropriate for me to put in this blog, which is saying something seeing as I've already referred to an agressive colonoscopy.

3) The 6th instalment of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is quite excellent.

4) I actually enjoyed working at Tiger Bar, especially in comparison to my time doing coat check at my former place of employment, an upscale restaurant also named for an animal. At the latter, people looked right through me and I was handling coats that cost thousands of dollars for people who were reticent to tip. At Tiger Bar, I had more than my fair share of smiles and almost everyone left a dollar.

5) I had to turn this evening into a blog...



Well, now I have.

I hope you've enjoyed my tale.

And if you're ever in Chelsea and looking for a gay leather bar specializing in "bears" or if you simply don't believe that such a place exits...Call me up.

I'll give you the tour.

"Girls" and Postwar Prosperity

Recently, there has been a lot of bandying about of the concept that the "American Dream" is dead. The intersection of growing income disparity and reduced educational opportunities, coupled with crippling student debt no longer allows someone in the lower 5th of income distribution to rise to its upper echelons. Social mobility seems to be on the decline as it is harder and harder for the 21st century "little guy" to work his way up the ladder. This is even more starkly noticeable juxtaposed with the age of Postwar Prosperity, pegged between 1945-73.

 Now all thoughts and opinions on socio-economics and capitalism aside, and certainly assuring all those concerned that I do not profess to be any sort of expert on the economy, let's focus for a moment on this time period. More specifically, l'd like to examine another important contributing factor to the successful upward mobility of the American middle-class, before globalization really began to take effect and certainly before the prime of the internet era. In this follow up to my previous blog post, I will briefly discuss work ethic, and how it relates to the generation of the iPhone.

Being careful not to lose ourselves in the heady fragrance that is Golden Age Nostalgia, let's harken back to a different time. I have often caught myself marvelling at the single mindedness of the American middle-class following the Second World War. Many veterans returning home immediately looked for ways to keep busy and stay busy, building businesses and driving the economy forward. People were content with spending 12-14 hr days doing backbreaking work, all in the name of the "American Dream" and for the financial stability of their family. Once you found a career, you rode it all the way to retirement, regardless of how dull or stimulating it was. They found fulfilment in their occupations and in the steady daily grind of their jobs. Procrastination must have still been prevalent in many young recent graduates, though it seemed as though a premium was placed on finishing school and getting straight to work.

Of course, those people still exist today and in fact can be found all across the world. I do not doubt the work ethic of the present day middle-class. Instead, a prime example of what I refer to can be found in on the HBO show Girls, which I will admit I have followed very closely, though perhaps without the somewhat religious fervor that is attached to it. Girls tracks a group of  twenty-somethings as they trek through the wilderness of living as relatively unemployed recent graduates in New York City. This is a territory I am quite familiar with, though I tend to be fully clothed more often than Lena Dunham is. Decidedly so. But I digress...

One of the salient traits found in each character on the show is that they all expect things to come easily to them. Hannah whines to her parents to support her indefinitely. Marnie wants a boyfriend she spurned to come running back to her, while Jessa demands a free pass for her erratic and destructive behaviour. Even the successful one of the bunch, Charlie, falls ass-first into prosperity by developing a wildly popular iPhone app. My point here is not to criticize the TV show, but instead to allow it be the commentary it is on my generation.

We who have touch-phones and constantly accessible 3 or 4G service expect things to happen quickly, experiencing maximum outcome for minimum effort. If a video doesn't load, we click the play button over and over again until it does. When Wi-Fi conks out or is unavailable, we throw up our hands in frustration. We want things fast, we want them now and we don't want to work for them. Therefore the shock of graduation and the threat of growing up becomes even more pronounced. Why should we be inspired to pull our own weight or make overarching sacrifices of personal comforts when we are conditioned not to have to in our every day lives? Instead of travelling to visit someone we can text them. Instead of renting a book from the library we can pull up an article in 3 seconds. Instant fame seems to effortlessly find You-Tubers. Sometimes, it seems as though what is more important than finding a solid job or working hard for our goals is perpetuating an image on Instagram. It's certainly easier.

 Perhaps one of the reasons that American social mobility falters today is because our work ethic is not up to standard. It only takes one look at Japan or China to see our shortcomings in that area. They share the same single-minded drive that those middle-class Americans did during the age of Postwar Prosperity. For before  cellphones were a staple in everyone's hands, what did people do? They worked. Towards something, for someone. They struggled. They strove. They built the United States of America into the country that it is. As part of the next generation responsible for this economy, we  must take example from the working middle-class of the 1940's-70's.

In fact, it is their attitude that is in direct correlation with one of the reasons why I love New York. There's a saying that it will still cost you $40 just to stay at home all day in Manhattan. It's an expensive, fast-paced city and if you don't work hard you will not keep up. Especially in the entertainment business, you have to put procrastination aside and pound the pavement. However, the only way that we can do that, is if we really retrain ourselves not to yearn for what is easy. Instead, we have to search for the challenge and embrace what is uncomfortable. I'm proud to say that I pumped out this blog in a single 90 minute sitting, after turing my phone off and closing all forms of social media. We are all capable of reaching our goals, but only if we alter our mindset, turning away from the comfortable and looking instead to the earnest development of a strong work ethic. It is a long road to true diligence but it is certainly one worth travelling.

The Internet Generation

Sitting on my bed at the end of the night or first thing in the morning, I perform a familiar ritual. For one or ten or twenty-five minutes, I cycle between Facebook and Instagram,  Gmail and Twitter,  until I have truly exhausted every form of social media. No matter how tired I am at night, nor how late I am to rise, this frenetic flipping between apps always exists  In fact, I can't seem to put my mind to bed or start the day without it. This cycle also manifests itself when I am waiting for a train or bored at work or having a tiresome conversation or walking the distance from 125th street to 121st street. My eyes lock to the screen as I frantically search for some content that applies to me, that will lift me from my present state. When there is no WiFi  and my 4G coverage conks out leaving me a alone with my thoughts, I panic, fidgeting in my seat and tapping my foot like a pre-teen boy with ADD. Perhaps my only comfort in these times is that seemingly every person who surrounds me suffers from the same addiction. For it is an addiction, this fixation that we have with our smartphones and even more specifically, the internet. These two things serve as our greatest form of procrastination and the largest subconscious manifestation of our fear of being alone. 

In the world today, a premium is placed on instant gratification and constant virtual communication, as we update and message our way to oblivion. Gone are long walks without electronic stimulation and reading books made out of paper takes a distant backseat to streaming TV shows or indulging in the latest Huffpost Entertainment News. We expect to receive things as fast as possible with the least amount of effort required.

 Now please don't get me wrong. I'm not some harbinger of doom preaching a message of electronic abstinence from my pulpit high above. I consider myself an active part of a problem that is completely fixable. Therefore, over a series of blogposts, I'd like to discuss some of the core issues that face our generation, we that have experienced the internet. More importantly though, I'd like to explore how we may positively alter our trajectory.

So where does that itch to pick up our phones come from? That desire to stop working and check our messages or delay our bedtimes by hours simply to watch movie trailers on Youtube? Logically, it seems to stem from two things. The first being a desire to escape our immediate circumstances. When there is a readily available way to avoid the minor stresses and anxieties connected with our work and daily communications, it's difficult not to exercise that option. We are not forced to face difficult realities and tackle workloads when looking at Rihanna's Instagram.

The second cause of our need to constantly utilize our electronic devices is our fear of being alone. The anxiety that stems from a culture obsessed with online connection is inevitable.  However by sending a text message or commenting on a photo, we can feel as though we are linked to something other than ourselves. By extension, we are also able to dull the murmur of thoughts and insecurities that arise when left alone.

One could conversely argue that sometimes the subject matter on our smartphones can be more stressful than our everyday life and more destructive than our regular internal monologue. This is especially true when one considers the feelings of rejection, resentment, anxiety, jealousy and guilt often experienced when browsing other peoples profiles or interacting via messenger.

 Subsequently, I feel as though I exist in a strange daily paradox. I enjoy being alone, and experience a sharp increase in focus, productivity and creativity, coupled with a significant decrease in stress and mental clutter when I am. On the other hand, I've barely been able to stop checking Twitter while writing about this very issue. It's a a perfect example of an all too familiar personal hypocrisy.

Our generation is faced with a societally pervasive addiction to the internet. We exist in a world that seems to only be moving further in the direction of electronic dependance. Every smartphone  commercial boasts greater, more inventive ways to remove ourselves from our immediate surroundings and become more fully immersed in a virtual world. How can we therefore hope to combat the rising tide of short attention spans, lack of basic social skills and cultural procrastination? It seems like a futile fight, but it is one that I am willing to commit to. Over the next few posts I will continue to discuss these issues and document my personal struggles with them. If we can start a dialogue of solutions and set a precedent of positive communication habits, following fast on their heels will be the inception of clear, creative, diligent, and socially conscious minds.

Until next time...

Aidan Sank

*Let it be known that the irony of posting this blog straight onto Facebook is not lost on me.

The 6 Train.

Girls in expensive coats who wear butterfly clips in their long, dark hair drive me crazy. 

Their smiles are blindingly white against perfect rose colored lips that kiss the cheeks of douchy guys who say things like,

"Love ya babe" and "Ya, I went to Penn State". 

I can't hear what they're saying because I'm not supposed to, the soft tinkle of their voices brushing my ears like feathers. 

Like me, they are members of the chosen people, though I am certainly not one of their chosen people.

I was staring. Was I staring?

Did she see me? 

She did.

Her disapproving gaze says only,

 "You should have been a lawyer".

Maybe the next one will smile at me. 

The house with the green door

When you wake up in South Surrey, British Columbia, the strangest thing happens: you feel a breeze.

A sweet, cool breeze, twisting its way through your blinds, smelling of the salty sea and pine trees and damp grass. It is accompanied by silence, punctuated only by a bird or perhaps the very distant sounds of traffic if you really listen closely. The house is quiet too, with only the low hum of a washing machine, or the quiet, musical tinkle that it makes when it has completed a load. 

You can smell the fresh air all the way downstairs, even though you're inside. It permeates the sleepy veil that is dampening your senses, and lifts your spirit with a smile. If you're brave enough to stick your head out the front door and risk being seen in your colourful skivvies, you may see some roses. Actually, you will see roses, and many, many other flowers whose shades put your bright undergarments to shame and whose names you are never able to remember. In the driveway there is a little black acura, already beckoning to you as the morning sunlight glints off its hood. 

If you close the green painted door and walk on those cool hardwood floors to the kitchen, you may find a cup of tea waiting for you. The tea will have been freshly poured and is most likely accompanied by a grapefruit, sliced in half, with the pale pink flesh gently segmented many times. You may have to get your own spoon from the drawer, but you won't mind. While you sip your tea, (a Prince Charles blend of loose leaf with just a touch of milk), the deep, lush greens of the backyard will catch your eye. In it you will see years of throwing baseballs and running races and making forts and you will remember the first time you played with your dog by the arbour and the first time you came home from college and just lay on the grass, feeling the summer sun and breathing in the west coast air. You will remember how happy you were to be home then, and how happy you are now. 

If you turn around, you'll see the stove and the oven and the center counter that is almost as cluttered as it used to be, but not quite. There will still be bananas in the fruit basket, though. As you look around, you'll remember that this kitchen wasn't always white, and you'll remember that things have changed since you left. Though if you wander in to the family room, the carmel coloured Rhodesian Ridgeback will be lying in her crate just as you recall. She may raise a sleepy eye to your entrance, or if you're lucky she'll even cock her head and stand up,  trudging forward with floppy ears,  and a softly wagging tail, her toenails clicking on the hardwood floor. If you bury your face in her short fur or rub her soft tummy, you may begin to feel a twinge of sadness and regret. Though it wont last long, especially if you hear a gentle South African accent call your name from the other room, beckoning you back to finish your breakfast. 

This may not be my home anymore, but it sure as hell still feels like it. 

In the Right Place at the Right Time.

Goodness. It has been a while hasn't it?

These last few months I have been often seized with sudden ideas that would slot perfectly into a blog, but haven't had the inclination (read: willpower) to sit down and put them into words.

Despite all that though, here I am, I suppose. Sitting in bed, sleepily tapping away in my finest hosiery, air conditioner turned on full blast.  It's all just so magical, isn't it?


Recently, I have been vexed with some very contradictory thoughts, and I would like to share a few of them with you now, in the hopes that the very process of expressing them will help to assuage at least some of their very paradoxical tendencies.

One the one hand, I have been working on a visa to help me stay in this country for the next three years. (shock and amazement ensues, as none of Aidan's readers had any idea until now that he has been working on a visa.) Conversely, I also haven't been home for a good eleven months, and the salty Vancouver air and all-you-can-eat sushi restaurants are whispering my name. It's a strange thing to work so hard to stay somewhere, when at present, you'd rather be somewhere else. This  is the very idea that has been playing tricks on my mind.

This afternoon, I sat in Washington Square Park, quietly minding my own business and trying not to make eye contact with the woman in surgical scrubs serving as a roost for a collection of wild pigeons. I had about an hour to spare, and it left me with a lot of time to really just think. Enveloped by the NYU campus, I was particularly contemplative, as my surroundings prompted me to further consider my decision not go to college.

When I decided to attend Circle in the Square over any other traditional academic institution, I took a path that I never in my wildest dreams could have foreseen. All my life I had wanted to attend the local university, become a doctor, and and eventually take over my father's practice, living happily ever after with a wife and children in our idyllic little house with a nice backyard and perhaps a friendly, yet mischievous dog. Part of that scenario is still very attractive to me, and yet much of it no longer is as inviting and comforting as it once was.

 Perhaps I always wanted that sort of life because it was almost an extrapolation of the existence I was already leading. Or in other words, it would not require any drastic change and I could continue living the perfectly comfortable life I already had been, seamlessly transitioning from a blessed childhood into a blessed adulthood without any bumps or major shocks to the system along the way. Instead, I chose to go to theatre school and be an actor who lives thousands of kilometres away from his family, tearing his hair out to stay in a country that doesn't take kindly to Canadians.

Well, I do still feel like a very blessed adult (a relative term), even though the transition into this phase has been quite jolting. New York has a way of  brusquely taking your virginity without apology (though I'll be damned if I don't keep coming back for more). At the end of the day, I still don't feel as though this is a cruel city, but it definitely forces you to work for the things that you want and love. Part of growing up has been really figuring out what I do want, and these last three years have helped me to do that more than any Bachelor of Science program could have.

I still often feel as though I am living in a constant fog of mixed messages as this city affords opportunities just as quickly as it snaps them right back up. However, I do feel confident that at least for now, I am in the right place, doing the right thing.  After all,  I'm still shamefully young, and have plenty of time to really carve out my best possible path. I truly believe that I'm well on my way, and that with patience, hard work and faith, the destination I desire and the destination that actually awaits me will eventually become one.

In the meantime however, it's still pretty darn confusing, and I often lie awake at night searching episodes of 'Louie' for answers, or watching you-tube clips of Disney movies, trying to pretend they don't make me cry. I hope that I can discover soon just exactly what the right balance of education and theatre and religion and family is, but until then, I remain slightly bewildered and ever curious.

Until next time (may it be soon),

Aidan