Photos from the CD release party

I put the photos from last night’s gig into a page that I’m still working on. I thought I’d put the page up even thought it’s not complete because Lindi’s dying to see the photos. See the performance, check out the muscians, marvel at my silly hat and stripey pants. Check ’em out and come back, because later on, I’m going to add some more text detailing what happened that evening.

Saturday night jammage

Lindi’s invited me to jam with her at the Art Bar tonight (Saturday, Feb. 2nd), where she’s playing as part of the entertainment for Rannie Turingan’s photography show. Rannie did the photos for Lindi’s album and website. I’ve also been invited to join a jam at Eclipse (College and Dovercourt), which is supposed to be a free-for-all musical improv night. I’ve been told to think of it as a “licensed living room,” which sounds like fun. I’m going to try to do both, and maybe even busk after last call to raise money for my trip to CodeCon in San Francisco.


Mars and Venus vs. Mars and Mars on a date

The Bloggie award-winning site little.yellow.different makes a great point in showing the difference between a man and woman on a date and two men on a date:

A straight date

The Setting: At Claim Jumper.

Guy: Waiter, I’ll have the giant rib platter.

Girl: I’ll have the chicken caesar salad. Wait, can you put the chicken on the side? I would like to have the chicken steamed, not fried, if that’s okay. Well, broiled would be alright too, but make sure you put it in a pan with olive oil and nothing icky like lard or butter, because that would just NOT be cool. Ohmygod, what is the salad dressing? Is it a light vinegarette? It HAS to be a LIGHT vinegarette, NOT those icky creamy dressings. Heck, can you just cut off a crust of french bread? I’ll have that with a glass of Evian. Please.

A gay date

The Setting: At Claim Jumper.

Guy: Waiter, I’ll have the giant rib platter.

Guy #2: Make that two.

Mars and Mars, goin’ at it

On the more raunchy end of the scale comes a tale from my friend Z’s wilder days. Z was at a party with a lot of other gay men, mostly bears (now if you’re not familiar with gay parlance, a “bear” is a large, hairy man). He somehow got into a game of high/low — everyone draws a card from the deck and whoever draws the low card loses the round — a game of strip high-low, that is. Needless to say, unlike strip poker, the clothes get lost pretty quickly. The game had an extra twist: the person who ends up naked becomes the personal slave of the whoever drew the high card. Z drew the high card during that round and earned himself a personal slave.

“Wow,” I said at that point in the story, “you’d never get girls to agree to that. I really must switch teams.”

“So I’m doing the guy in front of a mirror,” Z continued with the story, skipping any extraneous details of what happened after he drew the high card (conciseness — another wonderful guy trait), “when suddenly I push too hard and he goes head first into it and breaks it. I ask him ‘are you okay?’ and he says ‘yeah, keep going’!”

Keep going. Keep going. Geez, a girl would stop if she heard a strange noise coming from three blocks away.

Even within the queer community, the guys know how to have fun much better than the girls do. At the last Pride Day Weekend here in Toronto, a friend of mine said “Note the difference between the two cultures. We have a Gay Pride Parade. The womyn,” — and believe me, you could hear the alternative spelling with the way he was pronouncing it — “have a Dyke March.”

In spite of all the overwhelming evidence, I still prefer this:

to this:

(Oh, my wild moustachio’d years…)

“I can’t read your crazy moon language!”

Actually, I’m starting to comprehend. I’m kind of like the universal translator in the pre-Captain Kirk world of Enterprise: not all the bugs have been worked out, but sometimes the message gets through.

There was an incident this week where a female friend of mine was very frazzled and gave me this wan look and stood a certain way, which I read as “I need a hug.” I approached her, arms in the hugging position, when she actually said “I need a hug.” Eat your heart out, John Gray!


Gig Update

Lindi and me on stage. Never underestimate the stage presence of a cute girl in a pretty dress or a goof in a silly hat and sillier pants. Thanks to Nathan Ng for the photo!

The gig went quite well. I’m a little too busy to post the details and photos right now, but I’ll do so soon. In the meantime, check out this review of Lindi’s album, which appeared in this week’s edition of eye magazine (one of the free “alternative” weeklies here in Toronto)

The Taste of Forbidden Fruit

(4 stars)

Not to be confused with the friendly giant of local guitar-pop [they’re referring to a popular guy name Lindy — Joey], this Lindi (also blond, also well-known to local audiences) is an emotive piano chanteuse par excellence. Judging by the quality of the compositions on this, her debut, she’ll soon leave her indie status behind for the next level. Whether she’s playing a sympathetic ear (“Nothing at All“), dreamy romantic (“Coffee Shops”), craftycabaret singer (“Sweet Jezebel“) or naughty little thing (“Naughty Little Thing”), this ingenue displays a remarkable poise and class that belie her 22 years. The bandwagon starts here and now — the intrigued are advised to jump aboard before being forced to shell out 40 bones to see this precocious crooner headline at Roy Thomson Hall.

One point of information: she’s not blonde. Well, not anymore. She was, when the photos for her album and site were taken.

As for the Roy Thomson Hall remark, I have two things to say:

  • A high compliment ending a great review! Congrats, Lindi!
  • Cool! I’ll get to play accordion at at Roy Thomson Hall!