See Dick Stick

www.kopeikingallery.com
Credit: http://www.kopeikingallery.com

Usually I am a beacon of health with an immune system like a thick layer of polarized hull plating or a resilient flame that burns away any disease within a 10 mile radius.

www.moviesonline.ca
Casting things back into the fiery chasm from whence they came since 1981.

Sadly, two things have already slipped past me this year… well maybe three. The first thing was the island fever. I was stuck on a beautiful island, bedridden with a raging temperature of 104 degrees. While everyone was out swimming with the ocean creatures, I was swimming in my own pool of sweat and tears. This story is too sad, so let’s move on.

The second thing that slipped past me actually got lodged in my throat and made its home there, refusing to leave. Singing wouldn’t release it. Not even with the assistance of Cameron Diaz and the entire cast of The Sweetest Thing.

A few of my colleagues wanted to know what was happening to me so I gave them a complete blow by blow:

My naturopath explained that my sinuses were draining into the back of my throat and congealing into a sticky glue-like substance of biblical proportion. And from the primordial glue grew a mighty forest of angry fungi. The angry fungi reached up with their pesky little phalanges to tickle my swaying tonsils. Their light touching released body-quaking hacks, but no amount of throat tremors could release the stubborn glue.

“Dick you’re a fungi!” Exclaimed Naomi.

“It’s too bad there’s not mushroom for you to breathe,” said Floyd.

geyserofawesome.com
Credit: geyserofawesome.com

Just when the angry fungi thought they were about to take over my throat, a hero rode in on a pale capsule with an army of herbs to save the day. The fungi began to wither and the glue began to loosen.

One would think that I would be used to a high level of activity in my throat, but this battle was a lot to handle. As soon as I felt the rumbling, I started to run for a tissue. I only made it a couple of steps before I sneezed.

The primordial glue released it’s hold and splatted onto the kitchen floor. Immediately Kobo ran over and tried to eat it. I managed to keep him away and clean up the mess all the while feeling like that Dilophosaurus in Jurassic Park who killed Newman.

dilophosaurus.jpg
Stupid Newman.

The moral of the story is that now, with my newfound power, I will be able to literally sneeze on the beat and make it sicker.

straightfromthea.com
Bless you Bey.

See Dick Meditate

 

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Photo credit: gawker.com

Don’t you hate it when you’re so tired and your bed is practically screaming your name, but when you jump in your mind won’t shut the hell up? Your body says

sleep,

but your mind says

let’s remember that annoying thing that happened earlier that led to that other annoying thing happening which was exactly like we predicted but nobody would listen so let’s convince ourselves again that this doesn’t matter and to help us forget about all that let’s repeat this other annoying thing over and over again.

Sometimes I think we have tiny DJs in our brains that start playing our day right before bed; they loop the most frustrating parts of our day to make a very catchy club anthem.

goodwp.com
Parasitic Brain DJ. Photo credit: goodwp.com


The other night I was restless so Tales offered to lead me in a meditation story.

“Listen to my words and follow me on this relaxation journey,” he said. “Imagine that you aren’t lying down in a bed, but you’re lying down in warm sand. But it’s a special kind of sand that doesn’t stick to your body and get stuck in your crack. The sun is warm on your back, you hear the ocean washing up onto the shore and the sand is wrapping itself around you.”

“Am I in quicksand?”

“What? No.”

“It sounds like quicksand and I’m going to die.”

Quicksand
This is fine.


“Shut up and listen to my relaxation journey. There is one lone rock on the shore and the waves softly break against it. The sun is warm, but in this world you don’t have to worry about sunburns or sweating, you just feel the heat. You’re all by yourself and there is no one else around.”

“Where are you?”

“What?”

“I’m lonely. You put me on a beach all by myself and now I’m sad.”

“Fine. I guess I can join you. If I have to. Look, I am laying beside you. So… here we are. Just us. On a beach. There you go. Are you relaxed now?”

“I think you missed your calling.”

“Shut up and go to sleep.”

warwickrowers.org
I could go for a little bit of this right now. Photo credit: warwickrowers.org

See Dick Skinned

Handsome

As I sit here, listening to Beyonce and Jack White’s Don’t Hurt Yourself, I’m thinking, sorry Bey, I didn’t listen, I hurt myself real bad. The Region of Waterloo didn’t give me lemons so I couldn’t make Beyonce’s Lemonade; the Region of Waterloo gave me fucked up train tracks and I made what looks like barbecued cherry tomatoes on my right hand.

The train tracks at Weber and Wilhelm run almost parallel to Weber as they cross the road. Now, I’m not a city planner, but my layman logic tells me that a perpendicular crossing would be much safer – especially near the entrance to a new bicycle path close to a growing urban core. The reckless tracks were unprotected, lacking any rubber to provide me with a safe ride, and they grabbed my bicycle tire, twisting it into the wide slit, wrenching my handlebars to the side and smashing me down. My right hand dragged across the asphalt, acting as a flesh break to my speeding body and bike.

I stood up, looking like a villain from Kill Bill the way my hand was spurting blood.

The train tracks were my motherfuckin' Black Mamba.

Shock does strange things to one’s mental state of mind. I remembered the last time my flesh was stolen from me without my permission; this chicken on a farm pecked me, eating my skin and I cried so hard, demanding that the chicken give me back what was mine. We eventually ate that chicken for dinner so I guess I ended up getting back what was mine by eating myself twice-removed. I wrapped my hand in my tank top and then proceeded to wipe all the blood off my bike and saddlebags thinking, Oh I’m fine, I can bike the rest of the way home. When I realized my chain had come apart, that was when I decided that I needed help. I couldn’t get my clothes dirty with grease, obviously. Tales had lost his phone so I called my loving and dependable Mom to come and pick me up. Side note: not one vehicle, fellow cyclist or pedestrian stopped to see if I was okay. In fact, they gave me dirty looks. My friends did see me getting into my Mom’s car and they messaged right away – thank you Connor and Elvira!

Upon unwrapping my hand in my parents’ bathroom, with nurse Dad swabbing my wounds, I realized that my throbbing blood holes should probably have the road cleaned out of them. Getting to the hospital was an interesting algorithm to solve considering all the road construction in the Region.

Too much.

The nurses and the doctor (who happened to be a client of mine) were all fantastic.

“Dick,” the doctor said, “you realize it’s much better when I come see you?” He proceeded to stick a needle multiple times into my gaping wounds and I more than agreed with him. Once my hand was numb, he scrubbed out the gravel and asphalt and stitched me up. The holes went deep into my joint sockets, making me look like Wolverine with his claws ripped out, making me wish I could heal like Wolverine with his mutant power.

Wolverine vs. Edward Scissorhands

I went pee on the way out of the hospital and realized how interesting it would be to do things with only my left hand. The paper towel dispenser told me to pull with both hands. Fuck you paper towel dispenser. Naomi started calling me Poo-Hand thinking my poo wipes wouldn’t be nearly as precise lefthanded. Tales has already started researching how I can work out with only one hand; he now has to wash my left pit and deodorize it, much to his dismay. I’ve decided to wrap my hand up in gold fabric in honour of Games of Thrones this season; Jaime Lannister, I feel you bro. But unlike Jamie, I should regain the use of my hand; I will be having hand-surgery soon to make sure all my tendons are attached and in working order.

When I came home from the hospital, Tales had dinner and all manner of snacks spread out on the table. Beyonce was singing (not in person to my disappointment), but her new visual album was playing on loop because he knows me too well. Beyonce also knows me too well…

Sometimes I go off (I go off), I go hard (I go hard) Get what’s mine (take what’s mine), I’m a star (I’m a star) Cause I slay (slay), I slay (hey), I slay (okay)

See Dick Change

Image from yorens.tumblr.com
Image from yorens.tumblr.com

“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?

Mouflon
Maybe a mouflon?
I want to be a leopard.
I want to be a leopard.
Llama.
But I’m probably a llama.

See Dick Blend

fiercerthanyou.com
Image: fiercerthanyou.com

 

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

Clueless

Empire Records

American Pie

Bring it On

Scream

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

yogaformenonly.tumblr.com

 

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.”

“ – ”

“Tales?

“Zzzzzzzz….”

 

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.