Saturday, 30 April 2011

Vegan Gays

Ok, listen up you vegan gays...vegegays...vegays? Whatever you are called, here is the deal: I assume you are terrible in bed.

I mean, you don't eat meat. You must give the worst head...and then you probably don't even swallow. I have no time for you, only an experienced carnivore will be tasting me.

If I wanted a mediocre bj, I'd be dating girls.


Thursday, 28 April 2011

Whiskey Dix

There is a bar in Winnipeg called Whiskey Dix. My understanding is that it's quite popular - I'm just trying to understand the appeal.

I mean, I know it has the word whiskey in the name - which might lead me to believe that it's a fun place to drink. I also notice that the word dix sounds a lot like dicks - which might lead me to believe that it's a good place to go if I'm hoping to get some action.

What I think I am missing is the appeal of these things when you put them together. In case you weren't aware, when a guy has so much to drink that he can't get an erection, it's called whiskey dick.

Why on earth would I want to go to a place that promises me nothing but drunk flaccid penises?


Wednesday, 27 April 2011

Hockey Luvin' Homo

Oh joy, the Canucks have advanced to the next round of the playoffs. Can I tell you a secret? I was hoping that they would lose in game 7 and I would have successfully avoided their entire playoff run. I realize this is probably not a popular opinion - but I live two minutes from the arena and the people shouting and horns honking is more than I can stand. It was manageable during the Olympics...but that was an entire country coming together for two weeks. This could go on much longer, and that makes me nervous.

I have a few issues with pro hockey. I may not be an expert, but here it goes. First of all - I think they get paid way too much. Amazing that they get to do what they love for a living, but as someone who tries to do what he loves for a living and usually has to do it for free, I think it sucks. I was so hopeful when they announced plans for a salary cap, but there are still players who make 10 million dollars a year. Why should I have to work an extra job when some of these guys get paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a game? It's not fair.

I also hate when crazy fans decide to attack (verbally or physically) someone who supports another team. Let's think about this like adults here for a minute - I understand cheering for the team in your hometown, but how many players on the Vancouver team are actually from Vancouver? Maybe three? Are the fans even from Vancouver? It just doesn't make sense. I think players on teams in the NHL should have to be from the province/state/area that they play for - and I don't just think this because it would give Canadian teams a huge advantage. It would keep teams from buying the 'best' players and it would force them to cultivate talent locally - they could put that extra money into minor hockey leagues in the community.

Seriously - unless you are on the team, or you trained a member of the team, or you have a close relative on the team - it really doesn't matter if they win or not. Why people create such a personal relationship with a team boggles my mind. At the end of the day it is just a game. Of course you want them to play well, you want them to win...but whether they win or lose isn't really that important in the grand scheme of things. It shouldn't have a huge effect on your daily life. Don't place too much stock in things that you cannot control, because 9 times out of 10, you will be disappointed.

If my family ever reads this, I will be disowned. I am not a hockey luvin' homo.


Tuesday, 26 April 2011


Lately I've been trying out this thing called honesty. It's had mixed results. I recently caused a stir in the local dance community when I posted a negative review of a show. A few people privately told me they were proud of me for doing it, but most people who posted publicly seemed very upset with me. People were quick to defend the performers and the creator of the piece - but the show itself? Not so much. This told me that I was not the only one who had these views. Everyone else seemed intent on tip toeing around, trying not to hurt anyone's feelings - but not I. Not anymore.

So today I am going to write about someone I used to be friends with. Someone who I now consider a frenemy. Urban Dictionary defines a frenemy (a portmanteau of friend and enemy, in case you were wondering) as 'An enemy disguised as a friend. Someone who you pretend to like but really you both know you hate each other.' This frenemy and I were 'best' friends when I was in high school, but now I'm not sure if we were ever really good friends. At the time I was constantly trying to convince him to break up with his good for nothing boyfriend so the two of us could date - not exactly a selfless motive.

I think I realized our friendship was over on the day of my high school graduation - I'd bought my frenemy a ticket to the dinner but he didn't show up. The next day someone told me they'd seen him out in Winnipeg the night before with some new girl friend of I knew he wasn't busy with anything important. I guess this is when I realized how little our friendship must have meant to him, how fickle he was as a person.

That was when the frenemy dynamic between us began. It has continued to this day, at least on my part. We pretend like we get along when we run into each other (which doesn't happen often, but still) but behind his back I've said awful things about him. When he told me about a guy he was hoping to date, I drunkenly messaged his future boyfriend to warn him about the personal and financial danger he could be in if he decided to link himself romantically to my frenemy. More recently I took my feelings public and posted a comment on my frenemy's Facebook to say I was not a fan of something he had worked on. I'm not sure what my motive for this was either. We ran into each other a few days later and he invited me to something he was working on, and I invited him to a show I was in a week later. I didn't attend his event, and he didn't attend mine (even though he lives in the building attached to where my performance was.) It's these petty little things that I'm done with. Why say we're going to be there for each other when it's clear we have no interest in following through? It's my high school graduation all over again.

Maybe this is what everyone does? Maybe it's better to be a fake friend than a real enemy? Though, I think enemy is probably too strong a word for what I feel. Being indifferent doesn't seem so bad. Maybe it's immature for me to be carrying this grudge with me years later but I can't help it, I was hurt. Maybe he's changed and he's a better person now...but can people really change the way they operate?

Frenemy, if you're reading this, I assume you've figured out by now that it's about you. You're not my friend anymore...but were you ever, really? I don't think it will make any difference now, so I'm putting it out in the open so I can be done with it.

I feel better.


Baby Proofing

Last weekend I spent a night at my aunt and uncle's place in New Jersey. Princeton is an old university town and it made me feel smart just being there. Not that I went to see the school...I did eat some bourbon vanilla caramel sea salt ice cream though, and it was delicious.

At dinner my cousin Ted suggested that he had recently put on some weight, so I took any opportunity to poke fun at him. For example, when he asked what my other cousin's husband does for a living I said: He's a geneticist who specializes in fat people - maybe you should go see him? When Ted said he was watching Dancing With The Stars and that he loves Kirstie Alley I said: She's almost fat enough for you.

I thought it was funny.

Ted's sister Rachael lives in California now with her husband Caleb and their baby Declan. I talked to her on the phone and asked what they were up to:

Rachael: We are baby proofing the house!
Me: You had him in September...shouldn't you have done that a while ago?
Rachael: Well he's just started to crawl - until now he just sat around all day and sucked on things.
Me: We have that in common.


Monday, 25 April 2011

Cream Puffs

Went for dinner with my aunt and uncle on Saturday. Linda made cream puffs for dessert and she was discussing the proper technique for making them with my cousin's friend. I was drifting in and out but what I did hear was very funny.

Shannon: Do you have a frosting bag?
Aunt Linda: I cut the corner off a ziploc bag
Shannon: Do you have any tips?

Of course this was misheard as tits around the room and my uncle was quick to defend Linda's 'tips.' "They are small but they are under that shirt somewhere!" I felt like a perv but I added "You have very nice tips, Linda." To show her gratitude for this she hugged me and her tips were pressed to my face.

The instructions continued:

Aunt Linda: I don't bother cutting them in half before I put the cream inside.
Shannon: Oh, me neither. I poke a hole and then stick it in.
Jeff: Are you paying attention, Brett?
Me: Jeff! I don't need to worry about sticking it in - I'm a bottom.



So much has been said about New York City that I wonder if I have anything original to add to the discussion. For example, I keep coming back to this quote:

 "If I can make it here, I'll make it anywhere." Liza Minelli originally sang these words, though they have become more closely associated with Frank Sinatra. On my second night in NYC I went to a gay piano karaoke lounge called The Monster - when I told the men there I was visiting from Canada they decided to sing "New York, New York" for me as a welcome present:

The pianist Phil was possibly the most incredible musician I've ever witnessed - you could hum him the tune of a song he didn't know and he'd compose an entire orchestration of it while you drunkenly forgot the words. I was possibly the only person around the piano under the age of 50, but it was a memorable evening - more on that later. Back to the quote I mentioned a minute ago - Jay-Z recently adapted those same lyrics in his tribute to the Big Apple. I can't seem to make it anywhere so I'm not sure why I think I'll be able to accomplish anything if I move to NYC - but it does seem like the land of opportunity. I went to more auditions in 2 weeks there than I've been to in the last 2 years in Vancouver.

Anyway, early on during my stay in NYC I realized I was a.) walking everywhere and b.) everyone else on the sidewalk was a total bitch. Pushing, shoving, hitting people with their bags. These people are on a mission. I decided to use the NYC pedestrians as a metaphor for my life - I would walk faster, recklessly, dangerously, self assuredly. I would have great legs even though my diet only consisted of street meat and bigger pizza slices than I've ever imagined.

I need to be in New York. Vancouver is beautiful, but it's so relaxed - I sit around all day and feel ok about it because I'm probably not missing much. In New York you know there is always something exciting happening out there somewhere and you want to go and experience it. It was just the kick in the butt I needed. I was in search of hijinks and I found them. Which brings me back to The Monster.

So - The Monster is a piano lounge upstairs and a drag club downstairs. I went down to look around and discovered they were giving away prizes! Among them - $100 and Broadway tickets. I desperately wanted a chance to spin the prize wheel but the drag queen made me wait. After the first 3 contestants tried their luck she called me onto the stage. There were still 3 envelopes on the prize wheel and no one had won the big prizes yet so I felt good about my chances.

I was then informed before spinning the prize wheel I would have to remove 8 pieces of clothing.

Saying no was not an option. Or if it was, I decided against it. I quickly counted the items I was wearing - cardigan, shirt, belt, pants, sock, sock, boot, boot, underwear. I would be spinning the prize wheel in a jockstrap, but it would be ok...right?

Until the queen added: "Oh, and your socks and shoes count as one each." Before I know it I'm ass naked on the stage holding someones shirt over my crotch - I spin the prize wheel and win two tickets to see Priscilla: Queen Of The Desert but I can't even jump up and down with joy for fear of losing the shirt and my dignity (though, in hindsight, perhaps it was already gone.)


I spent the last 10 days in New York City (stay tuned for that entry - it involves showtunes, nudity, religious fanatics, and pizza. Literally something for everyone.) with my cousin Todd and his lovely wife Marnie. They have two cacti (I'm smart) in the corner of their apartment. One evening after returning from binge drinking I was sipping my nightcap (spiced rum on the rocks) and I became quite philosophical - it went something like this:

"I think we have a lot to learn from the cactus. They don't waste anything, they make do with very little. They are perhaps defensive on the outside, but inside they are soft and mushy. And they are so skinny."

This particular cactus surrounds himself with friends who are a bit plain to make himself look more impressive by comparison. What else can the cactus teach us?


Body Odour

I have been convinced to start a blog. Mostly by my friend Lucia ( but also by my auntie Jan, who told me this past week that she thinks I should become a stand-up comedian. This was funny to me because in high school when I did a career aptitude test, stand-up comic was actually the number one recommendation. I'm not sure why...the test didn't ask me if I was funny.

So here I am (about 10 years late) to start sending more thoughts out into the universe that probably no one will read - which is what I thought I had Twitter for (you can follow me @brettbretters.)

One assumes that the title of a blog is kind of important, so let me explain the reason behind mine. When I was younger I was picked on for many things - being chubby (the kids treated me like the Pillsbury doughboy, pressing my belly button in hopes that I'd say WOOHOO), being gay (though that seemed more like an obvious statement of fact) or my initials - BO. To this day whenever I initial a deposit at the bank I sign it BPO in hopes that no one will notice. I put on 5 squirts of Jean Paul Gaultier every morning to make sure I don't actually smell.

This isn't the only way bad initials factor into my life. My brother is MO (short for homo, in case anyone straight ever reads this), my cousin is HO, my favourite singer is BS, my dad's favourite singer is another BS, and my other possible blog title was DOG. It all seemed to boil down to bad initials in the end - so here we are. A blog named after body odour. In honour of this, please enjoy these sweaty pits.

'Sweaty armpit' is among the more random things I've ever googled.