See Dick Change

Image from

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“Can I ask you a question?” A strange man asks in the men’s gym locker room. I hesitate, questioning the direction this dialogue will take. Why did he wait until I had taken off my clothes to approach me? And you can’t ask to ask a question because you just did whether I wanted you to or not.

“Um, sure…” I respond, undecided if it would be worse for his shifty eyes to connect with my own or for them to keep wandering.

“I really like your hair. What’s the name of that style?” Seriously?
“It’s a bun.”
“A bun…? I like it…” Please stop talking.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“It’s really nice.” Ughhh.

What rhymes with Sloth? Rape.

What rhymes with Sloth? Rape.

This guy. I don’t strike up casual locker room conversations because I have an irrational fear of men thinking about me like I thought about this guy. This fear is probably rooted in my high school locker room experiences where all the hormonally raging teenage boys would pretend to be gay and then call you a faggot if you looked anywhere but at the ground in front of you.

Stupid locker rooms. Locker rooms bring out the lingering primitive tendencies lurking under the surface of our refined evolution. Pinching and twisting nipples, pulling underwear up ass-cracks and towel-whipping. In a tragic twist of a wet towel slap, one student even lost his left testicle. It’s all fun and homoerotic games until somebody loses a testicle.

Gentlemen, watch your testies.

Now will these bitches wanna try and be my bestie? But I take a left and leave ’em hangin’ like a testie.

I never participated, but heard of the secret circle jerks that happened in the locker room showers. One can see how confusing it would be for a closeted gay boy growing up in my high school. Being gay was abhorrent, but pretending to be was all the rage.

The other day, after my workout, I walked into the men’s locker room at my gym and was presented with a very attractive man lounging in the opening to the shower area, legs spread shamelessly as he vigorously, both arms above his head, towel-dried his hair. The movement sent tremors downward, making other areas shake and dance. Seriously? Yes, he was hot, but it was still a dick move. Literally. It was the most obvious call for attention, but you could tell he was the type that would say, “What are you looking at?” What are you shaking in my face, shithead.

Does this make you uncomfortable?

Does this make you uncomfortable?

The locker room is a zoo that requires a certain amount of detachment to navigate efficiently. You have the tropical bird preening and puffing up his feathers; you have the monkeys playing with their dongs; you have the curious giraffe sticking his neck where it doesn’t belong; you have the grumpy rhinoceros that everyone avoids; and you have the old turtle that spends most of his day there. I wonder what kind of animal the others think I am?


Maybe a mouflon?

I want to be a leopard.

I want to be a leopard.


But I’m probably a llama.

See Dick Blend



Believe it or not, there was a time where I wanted to hide in the shadows, to blend in with my surroundings so completely that anyone passing me by would notice me like they would notice this pretty bird beside these fat cats:


Hoo me?

Hoo me?

Unfortunately I failed at blending in. I failed so hard that, upon my graduation year, I was elected Who’s Most Likely to Host Electric Circus. Little did those classmates know, I hated Electric Circus. I was all about 106 & Park.


Weekdays after school with AJ and Free.

Every weekday after school was spent with AJ and Free.


A few things my younger self wouldn’t compromise for anonymity:


  1. Hanging out with pretty girls. Better yet, hanging out with pretty girls that wouldn’t put out for assholes and threw bitches against lockers for getting in their personal space. Sally, are you still this hot-blooded?!


  1. Fashion. If you truly want to blend in, wear beige, don’t wear red like a dancing matador and jeans with slits cut up the sides that flap and crack, echoing down the hallway. You could seriously hear me coming from a mile away.


  1. Walking down the middle of the hallway. I didn’t retaliate by screaming, fighting or crying; I retaliated by refusing to slink around the perimeter like I was carrying the supposed corpse of someone very popular, perhaps royal, and trying to find a place to dump him.



I hit im on the he-ad.

I should have hit-them-all-on-the-he-ad.


  1. Being athletic. I definitely wasn’t sporty, but I was fit and forced to take gym class with the physically elite because I refused to fake my prowess in physical testing for gym class placement.


  1. Taking the ball away from a jock in a game of ball hockey. A sliced and bleeding leg with a teacher pretending not to notice the retaliation is better than complacent sportsmanship. PS. Grand River Collegiate Institute, zero tolerance, my asshole. You tolerated all of the assholes.


Have you ever wondered if those high school characters you had to endure for five years of your life ever grew up? I took the Clueless Character Quiz and somehow ended up being Christian Stovitz, Cher’s gay love interest. Even the 90s new I was gay. My friend Naomi is also Christian. She doesn’t understand how we’re both Christian…


Here is a list of those 90s high school characters we all loved or loved to hate, then and now:


Dazed and Confused


Empire Records

American Pie

Bring it On


The Craft

10 Things I Hate About You

I Know What You Did Last Summer


This past Oktoberfest I bumped into a dude that wasn’t necessarily the ringleader of the high school jerk-offs, but wasn’t completely innocent either. I used to think he was super hot back in the day and, to his credit, he has aged quite well. Anyway, I digress, this fellow proceeds to track me down and insist that he buy Tales and I a drink. At first I declined, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.


I'm sorry I pooped on your life.

I’m sorry I pooped on your life.


It was if the drinks were an apology for wrongs done to me 15 years ago. I accepted. It was a long time ago and people do change, right?


And then I remembered witnessing an interesting scene in the subway. Some miscreant had a trollop bent over a railing and was smacking her on the ass, causing quite the scene. He happened to be the legit ringleader, the bane of my high school existence. He was definitely not blending in. Ironically, years later, I ended up giving him a wide berth as I did not want to interrupt his public display of adolescent misogyny. Well, I guess some people climb outside of their high school experience and become gentlemen – others are exactly as I remember them.


Raisin Bran.

Raisin Bran.

See Dick Balance


Have you ever caught yourself leaning in to lick a public door handle as a reckless attempt to induce a sickness that would offer you a legitimate excuse to stay home for a few days, curled up in a ball hiding from the world? Well, the holidays are over and most of it was fun, some of it was compulsory and all of it accumulated to an excess of entertainment. I felt like Cedric the Entertainer driving the Little Engine That Could through a Taylor Swift video. If that makes sense to you, then you are as tired as I am.


We have to go or soon I'll start saying what I really think.

We have to go soon or I’ll start saying what I really think.


When Tales is tired and we are hanging out with a group of friends, somehow he can get away with falling asleep in the corner of a room and everyone finds him endearing.


“Look at Tales, isn’t he cute as a puppy all curled up in the corner?”


I can’t even be quiet for 10 seconds before everyone is asking,


“Dick, what’s wrong?”

“Dick, are you feeling okay?”

“Dick, do you want to talk about it?

Naturally I am the more social one in the relationship – not that Tales doesn’t enjoy the company of quality friends and family. We all have our limits for how much we can talk before we drop. Some of us are fast like Busta and Twista. Others slow it down like Bangs.

Busta and Twista: Can You Keep Up?

Bangs: Meet You on the Facebook

The other night Tales had a dream that I left him for my friends. He was house-broke and wandering the city. Through every window he passed he saw me talking and laughing with friends while he wandered the city alone. We balance each other out in so many areas that I figured this was Themis encouraging us to balance this area of our life too.


Tales, communicate. Dick, shut up.

Tales, more. Dick, less.


The very next night after the relationship apocalypse dream, I woke up to Tales staring at me with his hand around my throat.


“Ahh, what are you doing!?”

“Mmmm… uhhhh?”

“You had your hand around my throat.”

“Wha…? No, I just stretched out.”

“I felt all your fingers and your thumb.”

“ – ”




If, one of these days, I do not show up for work or whatever scheduled social event, you will find me in my bed cold and asphyxiated.

Going to bed after watching American Horror Story is frightening.

There’s a monster IN my bed.



This seems to be the week of loved ones dreaming about me. My good friend Naomi also spent time with me in her dreams the other night. I was walking around, proudly carrying a box full of circles.


“Check out my circles everyone,” I said, “Aren’t they so awesome!?”


Naomi decided to fuck with my circles because she thought it would be so hilarious. When I wasn’t looking, she put all of her triangles into the box with my circles and mixed them together. As soon as I saw the clutter Naomi knew she had crossed a line.

I take balance and order very seriously.

I take balance and order very seriously.


“Please, please, please forgive me Dick,” she pleaded, “I’m so sorry!”

It was too late. All I could think of was revenge. I set her truck on fire and sought solace for her crimes in the flames.


So friends, the moral of these stories is that we should all enjoy each other’s company, but we shouldn’t spread ourselves too thin so we cannot give our friends and our family the best of us. Oh, and don’t fucking fuck with my fucking circles.

See Dick Dress

Dick Dress


“I can’t wear that,” a middle-aged woman says to me about the glasses I just suggested she try on. “I am too old to wear something that looks good.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologize. “Let me go find you something that is a little bit more tawdry, something that will match the age spots on your tired personality.” Okay, that’s what my asshole wants to say. Instead I respond with diplomacy and my last quivering thread of patience.

“Yesterday, a 90-year old woman came in and purchased a beautiful frame. She looked amazing and she felt amazing. Age has nothing to do with looking good. It comes down to personality and feeling comfortable.”


Iris Apfel knows how to age fashionably.

Iris Apfel knows how to age fashionably.


More people should feel comfortable looking good – not just in glasses, but in life. I would certainly feel more comfortable if they looked good. I guess I will never understand actively choosing to look bad. If you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, look safe, don’t look like a train wreck. Train wrecks don’t repel attention. They are tragic accidents that attract the condolences of a nation.


The Huffington Post deconstructs 3 myths about aging:


  1. Being fashionable after 60 requires expensive designer clothes.
  2. Looking fashionable after 60 = trying to look younger.
  3. It only matters how you feel after 60.


Click here for a list of 50 women who prove personal style gets better with age.


Daphne Selfe: 86

A beauty who didn’t make the list: Daphne Selfe, 86.


And gentlemen, click here to see how The Sartorialist tags old/man/style, providing a collection of fashionably dressed men – not past their prime, but extending their prime.


"Some age, others mature." Sean Connery

“Some age, others mature.” Sean Connery, 84.


Poor fashion choices are made by all ages. I have seen many an unfashionable youth. Age does not dictate whether or not one can be stylish. And being stylish doesn’t mean you have to be fancy or trendy all the time. Jeans and a t-shirt can still be fashionable. Fashion is about knowing your body and your personality and knowing what compliments both.


If you don’t come by fashionable choices honestly, then ask for advice. And don’t be one of those annoying people that do this:


“I really want something different. I want something that is current and looks fashionable. Can you help me?”

“Of course! Here try this.”

“I hate it.”

“What about this?”

“God no. Disgusting.”

“Hmm, and this?”

“I would never wear that, that’s horrible.”

“Okay, listen you crazy little shit. You don’t actually want to look current and fashionable. What you want is a recreation of the same old under-stimulating, tacky-ass coat hanger you call a pair of glasses.” Bites tongue. Tastes blood. Translates:

“So you hate everything new and different except for what you have been wearing for the last 10 years. Let me find you something similar.”


What they want that they should never have.

Here you go.


Don’t ask me to help you look fashionable and then laugh at how ridiculous you look when you’re actually wearing something presentable. Is it just a piece of metal? Is it just a piece of plastic? Allow me to leave you with a few words of wisdom from The Dragon Lady:


This… stuff’? Oh. Okay. I see. You think this has nothing to do with you. You go to your closet and you select… I don’t know… that lumpy blue sweater, for instance because you’re trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back. But what you don’t know is that that sweater is not just blue, it’s not turquoise. It’s not lapis. It’s actually cerulean. And you’re also blithely unaware of the fact that in 2002, Oscar de la Renta did a collection of cerulean gowns. And then I think it was Yves Saint Laurent… wasn’t it who showed cerulean military jackets? I think we need a jacket here. And then cerulean quickly showed up in the collections of eight different designers. And then it, uh, filtered down through the department stores and then trickled on down into some tragic Casual Corner where you, no doubt, fished it out of some clearance bin. However, that blue represents millions of dollars and countless jobs and it’s sort of comical how you think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry when, in fact, you’re wearing the sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room from a pile of stuff. 


That's all.

That’s all.

See Dick Doc


Health and wellness do funny things to people. We all have that friend or family member who takes every placebo medication under the sun and tries to force their homeopathic remedies on everyone. First of all, relax, it’s okay, you aren’t going to catch the homeo love by contact with these people. Ostracization is not the answer. We are more evolved than that. We need to lock them in a room and deny them everything that’s natural. That’s the 21st century way.


Three cheers for medical research!

Three cheers for medical research!

I used to work in the natural medicine industry and there is something enticingly primal about only taking what you need from the earth. Over time, a superiority complex develops and one begins to look down upon all the poor souls surviving on synthetics. But in the last few years, I have learned that I can still be superior to everyone even without my Coenzyme Q10. I weaned myself off the natural meds and now I only use casually to boost my immune system after an illness.

Words of wisdom from Britney.

Words of wisdom from Britney…

You are right Britney Spears, there are only two types of people in the world: those who entertain health and the ones who observe. Whether or not you are entertaining health in a more natural or a more Western sort of way, you are actively making decisions to become immortal. The observers just sit back and let themselves live or die as the world turns.


The other night Tales and myself were having dinner with my parents. I reminded him that he is well-past 25 now and should go for his first medical. He keeps putting it off and making excuses. His fear, we discovered, is that a strange doctor will hold his balls while he coughs and then diagnose him with an erection.

Sometimes it just happens.

Sometimes it just happens.


My father Jebediah also has a strong aversion to doctors and the word colonoscopy makes him very uncomfortable. He threatened to finish his dinner downstairs when I showed him how far up your ass they shove the scope.


“Jebediah, this is important,” my Mom said. “It isn’t pleasant, but it could save your life. I go for mammograms and they hurt worse than nipple clamps. Dick, talk some sense into him.”

“The fun part is when they give you a plastic syringe and you get to give yourself an enema.”

Of course you should trust your doctor.

Of course you should trust your doctor.

“Dick! That’s not helping,” my Mom scolded as my Dad’s face lost a bit of colour.

“This conversation is over,” my Dad said, getting up from the table.

“Dad,” I explained, “This is actually very serious. The doctors could catch something early and it could save your life.”

“I don’t care,” he retorted.

“Then we will have to send you on vacation. To Colonoscopy Island.”

“Oh, and where is that?”

“Butt-Fuck nowhere.”

Don't be afraid of knowledge.

This is what they teach in Butt-Fuck Nowhere.


Natural medicines and pharmaceuticals both have their advantages and disadvantages and can be exploited in propagandist marketing campaigns. One needs to sift through all the excrement in order to find the kernels of truth that have not been digested. Some things are important. Some things are superfluous. What works for you, may not be what works for someone else. Do your own research. Don’t treat your body like shit. Eat well. Sleep well. De-stress. Exercise.

See Dick Teethe


Every time I go to the dentist they try and force me to get a mouth guard. Apparently, I’m a clencher. Quite often I find my dream-self running around fighting supernatural battles and escaping dangerous villains. I guess it’s only natural, when witnessing myself endure all that action and suspense, to clench my teeth in anticipation for an epic showdown.


So finally I caved. Maybe it was Tales telling me he wouldn’t kiss me if I lost all my teeth. Which then led to dreams of broken teeth. I consulted a dream journal and learned that my mouth is getting me into trouble.


I tried an NTI mouth guard first. This is a small, prefabricated polycarbonate matrix that covers only your two front teeth, leaving a gap so that your back teeth cannot clench. Problem: I clench my front teeth instead and they feel so loose in the morning that I have visions of my toothless refection in the mirror.


How I envision my elderly toothless grin.

How I envision my elderly toothless grin.

When I went back to my dentist, they recommended a full mouth guard. A large woman took me into the back room, sat me down and asked,

“Are you wanting top or bottom?”

“Ummm, what’s the difference…?” I asked, wondering if she was joking or entirely clinical.

“No difference. Some just have a preference for how it feels.”


After I made my decision, the large woman began to explain what I would experience during the procedure.

“You will lean forward, relax your jaw and open as wide as you can. I will shove it in. You will feel it expanding into the back of your throat. Try not to gag. I will finish very quickly.” Once again, I tried to look for a wink or a smirk or something that would reveal her perverted sense of humour. Nothing. Dead pan.

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “I got this.”

Just be like Lil' Kim, I thought. She can make a Sprite can disappear in her mouth.

Just be like Lil’ Kim, I thought. She can make a Sprite can disappear in her mouth.

“Some people get the white goo everywhere. Here is a cloth to clean yourself up afterward.”

“As long as I don’t get it in my eye.”

“One time, when we were practicing, my friend got it up my nose.” Nothing. No hint of comedy at all. This woman has the driest sense of humour for someone who engages in such a moist activity. Little does she know how hard this is for me. How hard it is to keep my mouth shut. How hard it is not to spit out something truly perverted. I managed to swallow everything and remain professional, but god damn, she just set herself up so perfectly.


I tried to spit out the white residue, but because my mouth was still numb from having a cavity re-filled, everything just poured down my chin. On my drive back to work I refused to swallow, because I thought it was unhealthy, so my mouth filled up to capacity with saliva and little white bits. When I returned to work, I ran down to the washroom and let it all flow out.


I was a mess.

I was a mess.

When I came upstairs, Naomi pointed out the little bit of schmutz on my beard.

“Good lord, Dick, at least clean up after yourself.” Thank god for perverted friends. Otherwise I would have imploded a very long time ago.


Our friend and colleague Kimberley began shaking with terror, just hearing about my experience at the dentist. After learning about her irrational fear of dental work, Naomi and I decided that it was our duty as good friends to help cure her of this affliction. I explained to Kimberley that every Monday night we would lay her down and practice putting things in her mouth.

“You’ll cry the first few times,” I explained, “but eventually you will become conditioned to receiving foreign objects orally. And then you’ll be normal – just like everyone else.”

A little game I picked up for game nights with Kimberley.

A little game I picked up for game nights with Kimberley.

See Dick Picnic.


My Goal: experience life stories and write about them. Reality One: Too much time experiencing life stories and not enough time to write about life stories. Reality Two: Too much time set aside for writing life stories and not enough life for the stories. I am nearing the end of four whole days off in a row and somehow I have managed to fill my free time with doing all the things. Now for Reality Three: live and write.


My journey with Kimberly today was quite magical. We encountered a strange little castle, complete with turrets and a small toad that, despite how many times Kimberly kissed him, refused to turn into her prince. Maybe that only works with frogs, but there was a castle right there, come on. I was quite sure he was the dashing Prince of Rural Fergus and that Kimberly was destined to reign over all of the dusty side roads. Alas, I was wrong. Failing our attempt to make her a princess, we travelled on.


It's all just practice for when you're older...

It’s all just practice for when you’re older…

Our greatly anticipated destination today was Kimberly’s bush. She isn’t very good with directions so we had to back up a few times and try again, but eventually we got there. Everything else about Kimberly is so pristine that I was a little surprised at the wilderness that opened up before me.


“This place is so quaint,” Kimberly said. “Just follow me down this path. I made you delicious sandwiches for our picnic…” I stood, looking down a dark tunnel of twisting ominous tree branches and sharp curling bramble, an empty MacDonald’s bag to the right of me, a dead sheep to the left. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had reached into her picnic basket, pulled out an apple and said, “Come my child, only a little further.”


Nature walks with Kimberly.

Nature walks with Kimberly.

I decided to trust that Kimberly was a great friend and had no reason to kill me even though I am quite pretty. Our friend Naomi, though, is quite literally the fairest of them all. Naomi, if Kimberly ever invites you here, please make sure that you bring an entourage of small men, trust the birds and don’t swallow (anything poisonous).


We made our way to a clearing (and by clearing I mean an area in the forest where nothing was taller than our thighs) and laid out the picnic blanket. Kimberly’s arugula, mushroom and Swiss cheese sandwiches were absolutely amazing. We also dined on fresh Ontario strawberries, glutarded choco-choco-chip cookies, vegetable skinny sticks and washed it all down with swigs of lemonade straight from the bottle because we’re so fancy. The mosquitoes also had a delicious meal, tapping in wherever the little whores could find a spot to stick it.


Our mosquitoes sang "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole," by Martha Wainwright.

Our mosquitoes sang “Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole,” by Martha Wainwright.

After lunch we decided to walk down to the water, but Kimberly tripped over all the wood and ended up on her back. We opted for a casual stroll down the country road instead. Despite the tractor that almost hit us, the walk was quite peaceful; it was just what I needed after a busy week of work and a busy weekend of playing. Just when I was thinking that nobody actually lived out here and that all the houses were abandoned because some mysterious creature was ravaging the countryside, a young man on a bicycle came out of nowhere. He was lean and muscular with sharp cheekbones and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He also had blonde dreads swept up behind his head that we decided, after a brief debate, were attractive because it was summer and his skin was like gold.

Hard to find. Harder when you find it.

Hard to find. Harder when you find it.

I tried to leave a voice reminder about the pros and cons of Caucasian dreads and was left with this message on my phone:


Remind me in 5 with stick to talk about white boys having summer dress being OK with a banging can but in the winter can you just add Pacey guy with the winter drives and that’s really trashy.


All in all, a golden tan with luscious twisting dreads are hot. Pale skin and greasy dreads are not. The really hot dreaded cyclist smiled with the corner of his mouth and said hi. If this were a real fairytale, then he would have been the prince that Kimberly took home. Unfortunately, the only thing that Kimberly took home was the stench of dead sheep on her dog’s breath because dear old Mildred must have snuck a nibble from the carcass when we were not looking.