More than half of all people polled now believe that being gay is NOT a choice. Biological? Really?! Wow! Look, ma — you gave me the gay gene!

All kidding aside, it’s about goddamned time the tide changed and people began realizing that “gay” isn’t something you line up before God, thinking, “Wow, gee, I’d love to have a penchant for musicals, enjoy taking it from behind, and look FABULOUS in the colours pink and chartreuse! Gimme that gay gene, Godguy!”

One out of three suicidal kids tries to off themselves ‘cos they have fears of being gay. As much as it might seem like a ticket to cool when shows like Queer Eye for the Straight Guy sets the style standard (arguably) or when it seems like all the cool kids have diddled someone of their same sex as a party favour at a kegger, being gay’s still not exactly the easiest thing to be in most parts of North America, let alone beyond our continent’s doors.

But, hey, let’s turn that frown upside down, boys and girls! After all, back when I was a wee lass in the ’70s, only about 10% of the population thought gays were born that way. Since then, people who’ve been able to clue in have been growing by more than 10% per decade. They’ve grabbed a brain when it comes to the fact that being gay’s not really a choice– I mean, not like chosing to stay in with a movie and a vibrator on a slow weekend night, all right?

Yer either born into the Streisand appreciation club or you’re not. Just ‘cos you fucked someone you could’ve shared a locker room with in school doesn’t mean you’re gay. Slutty, curious, open to adventure, maybe. Not necessarily gay.

While we’re talking all things gay, I noticed that there’s a group on Facebook getting popular in my circles — “Against Gay Marriage? Then Don’t Get One and Shut the Fuck Up!” or something — the other day. The title made me grin, but in reality, it’s just not that simple.

Those arguing against gay marriage the loudest are those shouting the “sanctity of marriage!” mantra. Some of the hipsters want to solve the problem by saying we’ll give ’em marriage, but we’ll call it “civil unions”. Every time I hear that, I see the impassioned angst expressed by my dear friend GayBoy in his arguments against this Band-aid fix’er of calling it a “civil union”.

“If you call it something else, then it’s not marriage, is it?” GayBoy would comment. No. Then it’s some piddly little fucking crumb you’re throwing the freaks outside in order to placate them. Marriage, however, will still be the secret-secret thingie-thing held sacred by breeders and straight people everywhere, held tauntingly just outside the grasp of gays.

I’m for gay marriage. I’m also for realizing that the sanctity of marriage went up in smoke centuries ago. I’m for acknowledging that love and decency and sacrifice and death-till-we-part are not trademarked by straight breeders. Passion knows no chromosome. Love knows no genetic markers. Faith and optimism aren’t wholly owned by religious types.

I’m for living in a world where we all have the chance to be what we want, love who we love, and dream the same dreams, no matter who we are inside.

Clearly my glasses are thick and rose-coloured, but I insist on trying to hold on to this worldview. I mean, what, we’re only four decades away from acceptance at this point, and that’s something. Isn’t it?

(Facts? Who needs facts? But if you wanna read where I read the original story that prompted my pugnacious little posting, here it is.)

I’m going to Buddhist hell. That or I’m coming back as a bug.

I killed a moth tonight. Not just any moth. One of those ones that you hear when it flaps its wings. And it flaps, not flutters. Not only that, they can’t fly straight. They keep bumping into the fucking ceiling.

“Yeah, dude, if you hit the ceiling at that altitude THERE, chances are yer gonna fuckin’ do it nine inches to the RIGHT, too.”

Fucking stupid bugs!

This moth, I shit you not, was ginormous. 2.5″ wingspan. I kept trying to guide it out the fucking FIVE FOOT WIDE OPEN SLIDING GLASS DOOR THINGIE, but is it intelligent enough to know that cool breeze was indicative of outdoors, ergo freedom?

Fuck no!

So, there I am, in all my brilliant Steffness, trying to talk the moth out of the place. Hell, it works for bees, for some strange reason (well, they’re colonizers. Smarties, really, them bees.) but clearly moths are not of the therapy-liking varieties of insects.

“Okay, now, six inches below you — no, dude, come on! Fly down. There, there you go. Six more inches. FUCKING MOTH. Why are you– FucketyFUCKfuck.”

Finally I thought I’d trying mindfucking it out of the apartment. The plan? Near-miss swatting with a rolled newspaper. What’s it do? Start batting itself against the ceiling, then ramming into walls before sitting down again.

All the while, I’m still doing the talk-it-out-the-door thing. “I honestly don’t want to kill you. But I will.”

Finally, after jumping onto my fourth piece of furniture, I swatted the moth against the wall–

Keep in mind I spent the previous five hours babysitting THIRTY-FIVE pre-teen and teen hip hop dancers backstage at the year-end show. I was MAJOR fucking stressed and tired upon arriving home. Then this MOTH shit happens? GAH.

–and it was a slimer! IT SLID EIGHT INCHES DOWN MY WALL AND LEFT A TRAIL.

I was fucking horrified! I did the icky-icky-pee-pee dance and squirmed my way around my apartment, feeling all dirty and never-gonna-be-Buddhist-now inside.

But I will further justify my exceedingly cruel ending of that moth’s life by saying this: It was that kind of big ugly fucking moth that leaves that dirty splat stain every where it hits on the wall. I have mottled walls now. It’s not a look I think I’ll keep. And so then the moth deserves to die for adding more labour to a 70-hour work week for me.

Yeah. I’m full of shit. But my apartment has no moths. And I’m about to drink wine and watch Letterman.

Turns out my new neighbours are two gay males. These are the ones I caught the rather blessedly nice full-frontal nude vistas of last week.

There’s something to be said for people hanging out naked in their living rooms with the blinds wide open.

But then the dilemma arises — is it permissable for me to sit around like the gawky whore I feel like being, or is that gauche?

Well, it’s definitely the latter, but I’m going to give it a go anyhow.

Especially since one’s on the knees giving the other head in the middle of the living room on a sunny Thursday evening.

It’s about time I start getting a little extra thrown in with my rent, even if it is gay porn happening just 80 feet away. They’re hot 20-somethings, too, so fuck it.

My evening’s looking up. Time to retire to my patio with a glass of wine, perhaps.

Oh, and so my week? I’m about 37 hours into my work week and have about another 25 to go before I’m done. One more office day (a 14-hr day — six hours spent working backstage in a theatre) and two full days in the theatre. Don’t expect to see a lot out of me this weekend, but I might surprise us all. Could be a fabulous rant ahead, knowing some parents. Who knows. Stay tuned, just keep your expectations low. Love ya.

I had that epiphany yesterday that the end of my insanity is around the corner. Two weeks from now I will have passed the hardest, biggest test my job has to offer in its academic year. And then I will feel like a god. Until then, I’m hanging on, keeping to myself, and fighting the good fight.

Yesterday I finally took my bike to work. I threw it on the bus and only cycled a couple klicks in the morning, but did the whole ordeal on the way home. The sky was heavy with clouds and that five-minutes-from-raining scent lingered on the air. Just as I was getting to the dykes, I thought about the fact that I had my camera and wasn’t taking many pictures in the last two weeks. I stopped, pulled it out, and set a challenge to take 20 pictures in the next 20 minutes.

That’s when I noticed this wharf that had previously been obscured by big low-lying trees along the river’s bank. Just as I stepped foot on the planks, juicy raindrops began splattering the boardwalk before me.

My iPOD hit upon a fresh song, the Detroit Cobras’ “You Don’t Knock”* and found myself doing a little twist as I walked down the wharf, completely alone out there. And then I remembered a quote I found recently at work:

And the rain was falling, so I began to sing and dance out there at the end of the wharf, overlooking the river, the airport, and all the planes coming and going. It might have only been a 2.5 minute song, but I shit you not… it did more for me than any swath of personal time I’ve had in the last few weeks.

It’s hard sometimes getting past the “I’ll look stupid” paranoia that finds us all, but in the end, I’m the one with the shit-eating grin. And that reminds me of a quote on my refrigerator: “I find that smiling keeps people guessing what I’m up to.”

Anyhow, it’s back to the grind. I just wanted to share. Personally, that was the thing I loved about myself between 18 – 22… I used to do things like that for the hell of saying I’d done them. And I loved it. Somewhere along the line, I stopped that voyeuristic, indulgent approach to life, and in that I lost my ability to feel truly individual. In the last year, I’ve begun remembering how much one has to live out loud to live at all. Can’t just think about the things you wish you do, but you gotta actually do them.

Sounds so stupidly simple that only a human could possibly fuck it up, eh? Thinking: The human’s curse. Doing: Not just for Nike anymore.

*The Cobras are a post-punk low-fi pop band with a great mix of ’50s and garage sounds. Infectious, great groove. The lead singer was a butcher turned exotic dancer, with killer pipes. Been around for years and never went far, but I’ll stand by the recommendation. An old coworker got me hooked.

You know what part of the problem is? Huh?

My job. I have to be discreet. Can’t tell ya nothin’. Can’t gripe. People who write about their work are twits. That shit usually comes home to roost, so you gotta be prepared to sack up and own up to what you write. Or be like me. Say nada.

I said too much early in the game and now I’m hip to it. All hush-hush.

Today, though, was almost enough to break me. Crumble me to bits and spit me out like a bad cracker, man. That was how bad a Monday this Monday was. Ooh.

It started off: People leaving shit on my work desk — incomplete things that I had to finish and “solve”. But I was just pissy and it wouldn’t have normally been a big thing. Until, that is, I proceeded to spill my coffee over the entire desk. And not one of those shitty from-the-canteen crap-ass weak coffees sanctioned by the work kitchen. No. This was a four-shot Americano.

Yeah. Four shots. Fuck that single/double stuff. I go hard, I go long. Actually, four shots is because Starbucks Ain’t What It Used to Be (sorry, gb!) but I get three shots at the local Italian guy’s shop. The guy’s English is horrible, but the Americano’s so beautiful it has head. Leave it to me to appreciate the head, all right?

And I spilled it. Over paycheques. Over sales slips. Over Every Fucking Thing on my Six Foot Long Desk.

Picture this: Me, frantic. “I need some help! Can someone come hold up my very expensive phone?!” I shouted into the packed lobby. Suddenly 3 moms are helping me as I try to sop up the eightyfuckingmillionzillionbadass ounces of woulda been soooo good coffee.

Needless to say, the day could only get better from there.

How much better, well… that’s the debatable part. I’m not sure the judges would accept “neglibly” as an answer, but let’s give that a go.

My day SUCKED ASS, man. Ha. Fortunately, and I’ll bold it so you see it good, I still loves me job. If I knew all this shit, I’d still accept it.

After all… in the middle of all that crap and morass, there was a shining from-a-movie moment. A little boy came in and brought me a card: a photocopy of my picture in the paper, surrounded by little stars, and “steff… you are a star” was what it said.

I know the mom made it and he just put the stickers on and signed his name, but it made my fucking day.

Tomorrow morning it goes on my fridge. For now, I’m drinking a blu-tini. Blueberry juice martini. It’s the lime spritz that really makes it come together, but next time: lime cordial.

Boo-yah.

Sting is wailing in my living room. A hazy grey light filters in through the semi-raised black cloth-bamboo blinds. Sirens punctuate my morning as an indication that staying in might be the wisest choice of the day.

Kill Bill, Vol. 2, is providing me with intermittent graphic violence as an antidote to the boredom of my sedate Sunday. I’m having a fantastic morning.

I’ve already enjoyed a French press brimming with dark coffee. I’m padding around barefoot, tackling a bit of cleaning here and there in between chapters of Tarantino’s kill-fest. What more can a girl ask for?

Well, an epiphany would shure hit the spot. Thank goodness I’ve had me one of those, too.

Perhaps you’ve already read yesterday’s shameless financial de-veiling of a girl called me? I’ve had some new thoughts about that.

Thing is, money’s been playing a constant theme in my head of late. This being able to cope and even buy a thing or two mode is throwing me for a loop, and that’s why I’m trying to sort out how to improve upon the things I’ve learned and incorporated into my ways of late, so that I can have my cake and eat it, too. I’ve fucked this up before, and my older-wiser self is loathe to see that happen again. Don’t look now, but I’m all grown up.

So it’s with great intrigue that I’ve been trying to figure out what was the major catalyst in the last two weeks to send me into this Financial Figurings Funk I’ve been mired in. And a little while ago I coulda sworn I heard a blink! as the proverbial lightbulb flicked on overhead. AHA. I finally figured it the freak out.

There I was, standing perched over my old school 1991 Sony 5-disc CD changer, taking a boo at what aural delights lay ahead for me, when I should glance upon The Police’s masterpiece, Synchonicity. So I decided to program the back half – tracks 8, 11, 7, 10, 9, in that order – as a soundtrack to my cleaning/puttering.

You see, a week or so ago the Police flew into town and blew two packed houses away, back to back. It was the gig of the year, and I wasn’t there. It didn’t compute until I saw the disc there, shining up at me, but it’s the proverbial last straw.

It’s fucking WRONG that I should miss the biggest gig of the year! There was a time when I was the one who’d always get the tickets to the hardest shows to get ‘em for. Santana? Sure. The Hip in a small 250-seat club? Done. I’ve seen hundreds of concerts/gigs or more in my time. I’ve seen fights, fucking, and fireworks of all kinds. I’ve seen first-ever gigs and last-ever gigs. I’ve smoked more dope and tried more stuff at concerts than I care to remember. I’ve perfected how to smoke dope in a club, in the middle of the dance floor, and not get caught. I’m that chick who can make a beer last for an hour and a half if it means I’m able to afford another gig next week that I just saw the poster for when I was in the washroom.

I’m an audio geekette. I’ve gone out with more music geeks than I care to own up to. The times of my life have all happened hi-fi, y’know? Every period of my life has a soundtrack. I even have a CD I burned for my mom’s funeral, that I gave to all her friends, of her favourite music – John Lennon, U2, Joan Baez, Janis Joplin, et al. And, yes, even the Police’s King of Pain made the cut.

So, it pisses me off that they should roll into town and I shouldn’t be able to get tickets. Why? Because, in an effort to change my financial ways, I renegotiated debt a couple years back and chose to cut my credit cards up as part of the terms. Then I fell on hard financial times and my credit just disappeared because I didn’t have a permanent job. Creditors don’t like it if your employers won’t commit to you, you know, as a casual labourer. That sucked.

But now I’m solidly employed. You know what this means, don’t you? This fall I’ll get a credit card and be able to order gig tickets. This won’t happen again. I’ll be at the best gigs.

See, it’s not enough to sit around and ponder how to change your life and what you’re gonna do to make that happen. Everything that happens to us happens because something we’ve just experienced has triggered something in our subconscious. You can bravely go forth into the new now without understanding what set you off, but knowing what tripped the thought process in the first place can be an important part of coming to terms with why it’s necessary to change the status quo.

For me, it’s realizing, jealously, that so many people I knew got to be at that gig. Funny thing is, I’m not the biggest Police fan. I like some of the songs, love singing along, and think Sting’s about the coolest thing since Breyer’s, but a lot of other musicians matter more for me. I just never got swept up in the Police craze. I just woulda liked to be at that gig ‘cos now I know—hindsight, 20/20, et al—how significant they’ve been on the landscape of music in the last half of the 20th century, and how hard it is for anyone to out-vocal Sting. I don’t have to be a fan to understand, is what I’m saying. It’d have been pretty fucking cool.

Add to that, that in a span of 20 minutes I had the above thoughts and also discovered how cheap Greyhound fare is to places like Seattle & Portland, and my summer’s just taken a huge detour, man. It’s nice to have my priorities on track with abilities/reality again. It sure changes the way the world looks. It’s nice. Music and travel were once the two most important things in my life. And my priorities felt peachy fucking keen back then. Somewhere along the way, that changed. Looks like my eyes are opening to that, and change is gonna come.