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Showing posts from June, 2016

"Why do you write so many blogs about sex?"

The question came out of nowhere, after some completely unrelated topic and a few beats of silence.  I'm supposed to struggle for an answer, here, I thought, as I didn't. Without any discernible hesitation I replied

"I don't write about sex at all. I write about relationships a lot."

Of course, sexuality is a component of many relationships, and I won't shy away from that component. But you're not going to catch me writing erotica. Not in here, and likely not anywhere. Hey, the standard advice is to "write what you know", after all...

I thought a minute after the knee-jerk response, and said

"Because that's what people want to read about."

It's true. My readership numbers prove it. When I write about politics, next to nobody reads. When I write about hockey, fewer than nobody reads. If I write something personal, many people read it. And if it's about love and relationships, even more readers check in.

There are a few ways …


Parents of my acquaintance, your world is not my world.

It's not that I have had no contact with children. I did babysit a little as a teen (nobody younger than seven or so). And at any family gathering, kids have always gravitated to me. I have a cousin who can still recall the ghost story I told her almost three decades ago.

I do well with kids ... once they reach a certain age I think of as "human". Children of human age can communicate in coherent sentences. They express their needs, wants, and frustrations in a language that is easily understood. And most notably, they are at least reasonably predictable. They'll do stupid things, of course, but you'll see them coming most of the time.

Proto-humans are something else altogether. They communicate, all right, but I would need considerably more exposure to pick up any of their language. They have the attention span of gnats on speed. And they are UTTERLY unpredictable. They'll do something downright dangero…

All Good Things (1)

I'm home.

This trip north was originally supposed to be all about my Dad's 70th birthday. That got nixed in no uncertain terms: those two numbers are hitting him hard, and he didn't want any kind of celebration of them. Seventy, he informs me, is when you're an old man.

Well, he's my old man, but he'll die young at a hundred and ten, as far as I'm concerned. He's the same man he always was: his day isn't complete without copious quantities of laughter. That keeps him young, whatever his body says.

It was, in some respects, a trying trip. I found it not-so-surprisingly difficult to adapt to a day schedule after fourteen months straight on solid nights. At one point I slept five hours in fifty. I'm a right bastard when I'm that tired.

We went, first night, to a roast beef dinner at the Legion Hall in "downtown" Britt. (Aside: Location Services on my iPhone refers to Britt as a "city". That's amusing: its population was …


So I'll be your friend
And I'll be your lover
'Cause I know in our hearts we agree 
We don't have to be one or the other
Oh no
We could be both to each other
Paul Gordon and Jay Gruska, "Friends and Lovers (Both To Each Other)" (1986)

That's yet another of the songs that hit home with a resounding "of course" the first time I heard it. I guess you could say I'm a relationship anarchist from way back.

I hate that term, by the way, almost as much as I hate "friends with benefits". Anarchy to me implies not freedom, but chaos. Call me poly, call me openhearted, call me anything but an anarchist. Especially since, for somebody whose ideal involves the blurring of lines, in real life the lines have always been sharp and pointed.

And respected. I'm not known as a walking safe space for nothing. Establish a boundary and while I might push it a little in mutual play, when the chips are down I'm firmly on my side.

But while I may hate th…


I'm late to this one. I hope I have something relevant to add.
Up here in the wilds, as I mentioned in my last post, time goes backwards. Because internet is suboptimal and costs, it's better (if damned inconvenient) to get news the old-fashioned way: through TV (remember TV news?), the radio, and the newspapers, none of which can be procured without, at minimum, a 25 minute drive. 
This resurrects, of necessity, a need to deep-read. When the paper in front of you represents that much effort to get a hold of, it seems only fitting to devote like mental attention to it.
In doing so, I have noted that more than one week on, the coverage of the Pulse massacre in Orlando has split into predictable, contradictory narratives. The terrorist/gunman was clearly motivated by Islamism/internalized homophobia to commit an atrocity which wouldn't have happened if Pulse hadn't gleefully advertised itself as a "gun-free zone"/ people previously investigated by the FBI (twi…

Heading North

Longtime readers of the Breadbin will know what "Up North" means to me.

My dad's place, between Parry Sound and Sudbury on the Magnetawan River, is seven kinds of heaven on earth. It's criminal how little I get up there. A four hour drive is a nontrivial issue when you don't drive at all. My job has intervened as well: I had to wait a year for vacation time.

And, as always seems to be the case, I've bloody well earned this vacation.  The past week has been just awful: inventory, late trucks, short-staffed, and on Monday night the most spectacular incident in a retail career full of them: a skid of chilled juice approximately eight feet tall and leaning ominously collapsed out on the sales floor. It was a close call: I took a single step forward thinking I could avert the inevitable, when the inevitable asserted itself with shocking speed. Half a foot closer or half a second later and I shudder to think what might have happened to me. Not that anyone there wou…

My Mom, My PIano, and Me

Today marks my Mom's 68th birthday...I wish she were around here to celebrate it. I mean, she's still "around"...I've felt her, all around me, after all, suffusing my entire environment with the love and support she was famous for. But the part of her that I could hug...the part of her that could speak, and hear...that part's not anywhere I can quite reach. And I miss it. I miss her.

Today is also the day I'm expecting to receive a piano, ordered from yesterday morning:

This is only fitting, since my mom got me my first piano, and found money for lessons, and encouraged me to play every chance I got.

In fact, my Mom is in large part responsible for my love of music in the first place.

She had a lovely singing voice she rarely let loose, and she played clarinet, once upon a time. It wasn't as if Mom was prodigally gifted, musically. Nonetheless, in a very real way, Mom was music. Her heartbeat was the first rhythm I ever heard; her voice the …

A Joyous Week

I have had quite the week. A week filled with joys large and small, tinged by occasional wisps of pure wistfulness. A week in which I learned some more about myself and some more about others. And I experienced several emotions that begged for reflection I couldn't properly give them, for reasons that will become clear.

Let's see. I had a first date...not just a first date but my first date in the context of life as I'm finally living it. I had several social outings, some of them long-planned, others deliriously spur-of-the-moment. I had nighttime talks with friends old and new. And of course the needed balancing of that consuming relationship I talked about a couple of posts ago.

(Two months with no contact, yeah, like that was going to happen. That lasted two hours. Maybe.)

You want details on that date?  Here they are: it was a qualified success, by which I mean there will be further interaction.  The connection was primarily intellectual, at least on my part; frankly,…

Going Moldy....

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