It was fitting irony that, last week, after attending a swank party at an upscale auto dealership in Toronto, my car decided to blow up.
I was cruising home well after midnight, my favourite time to drive. The roads are quiet, the sun is down and rolling the windows down usually greets you with a cool breeze. All was well.
About 20 minutes from home, my engine light started flashing. "Nothing to get worried about," I said out loud, trying to convince myself that I wasn't in for a fuck-up.
My father's mantra has always been, "Just get it home," no matter if it's your car that's broken down, your body that's broken or pretty much anything else. So, I drove on.
A few minutes later, the engine light stopped flashing, and stayed on solid.
A few minutes after that, I noticed the heat gauge spike. The engine chugged and the transmission moaned. It was as if the car was having a heart attack; it was sluggish, slow to respond. If I'd had Aspirin with me, I probably would have thrown some in the gas tank.
"No, no no no. You bitch!" I yelled at the dash. "Don't fucking do this to me!"
But it was not meant to be. I threw in the towel, pulled down a deserted side street, and killed the engine. A quick inspection under the hood confirmed my fears. There was indeed something wrong.
The entire contents of the cooling system had vanished. No hoses were blown, no fittings let loose. The coolant had simply disappeared somewhere, at some point.
I called home for a ride/tow from my Dad, who showed up a few minutes later. We topped up the coolant with water, thinking we'd bring it back to life. I jumped behind the wheel, turned the key...and nothing happened.
Klonk. I tried again. Klonk klonk. The engine refused to come out of it's heart attack mode. After over 400,000km of somewhat rocky service, it had drawn it's last breath.
Dad towed me home, me with the windows rolled down and the radio on, riding along in neutral. A few minutes passed and out of nowhere I started to laugh. I mean, how fucking ridiculous was this? I'm having my last ride...er, rites...at 3am, with the windows down and the radio going. I didn't want to think of how crappy it was and the million problems the situation introduced.
I just ignored the crap and ran with the completely wacky thought of my last ride in the only car I've ever really called sort-of-my-own.
Thankfully, I've got a borrowed set of wheels for the rest of the week. After that...well, I'm not really sure what the future holds. If I were living in Toronto, I wouldn't really be pressed to find a more permanent car arrangement. Living out in small-town-bum-fuck-nowhere, if you don't have a ride, you don't go anywhere. Seriously, anywhere.
So now I'm doing the rounds trying to figure out who'll screw me less, a bank loan, financing from a dealer, leasing...
I'm not going to say I'll miss the old wreck, but I hear you always have a soft spot for your first. And while getting a new car is high on the 'awesome!' index, it gives me a pretty dim financial future.
At least I'll always remember my last ride, the summer breeze and the after-midnight radio as I cruised off into the night...
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Awkward romance...
Someone has a crush on me.
Actually, two people have a crush on me! It's quite flattering, since they're both attractive, intelligent and spunky and around my age.
It also happens that they're both women.
Yeah...as per my usual crappy luck, not only do I seemingly repel my own sex, I attract the opposite! What kind of a 'mo am I!?
Ever since starting my shitty Generic Office Job (I'll fill you in later), I've notice these two get a little...well..suggestive with me. One keeps asking if I'd be open to letting her take a nap in my lap, and the other one, in total chick fashion, told her female friend (also the one that wants to nap in my lap) that she thinks I look like Mufasa from Lion King.
Granted, I've been called much worse than Mufasa, but seriously, what is that supposed to mean? Like, is that a good thing?
Annnyway...the whole fact that I'm gay hasn't cropped up in conversation yet, so I guess they're both labouring under the idea that I'm straight and available. And it would feel totally presumptuous of me to simply tell them that while I'm flattered, they're missing the correct anatomy to attract me.
It just seems to carry on with my usual luck that, while two completely viable potential persons of romantic interest present themselves, they're just...uh...not my type.
Eventually, when one of them flat-out asks me, or if the opportunity presents itself, I'll out myself and be done with it. But I just don't want to be that guy who's all, "Guess what gang, I'm a homo!" out of nowhere.
At least I know, should I ever really run dry in the gay world, I can still live a totally heterosexual life and make it believable.
Actually, two people have a crush on me! It's quite flattering, since they're both attractive, intelligent and spunky and around my age.
It also happens that they're both women.
Yeah...as per my usual crappy luck, not only do I seemingly repel my own sex, I attract the opposite! What kind of a 'mo am I!?
Ever since starting my shitty Generic Office Job (I'll fill you in later), I've notice these two get a little...well..suggestive with me. One keeps asking if I'd be open to letting her take a nap in my lap, and the other one, in total chick fashion, told her female friend (also the one that wants to nap in my lap) that she thinks I look like Mufasa from Lion King.
Granted, I've been called much worse than Mufasa, but seriously, what is that supposed to mean? Like, is that a good thing?
Annnyway...the whole fact that I'm gay hasn't cropped up in conversation yet, so I guess they're both labouring under the idea that I'm straight and available. And it would feel totally presumptuous of me to simply tell them that while I'm flattered, they're missing the correct anatomy to attract me.
It just seems to carry on with my usual luck that, while two completely viable potential persons of romantic interest present themselves, they're just...uh...not my type.
Eventually, when one of them flat-out asks me, or if the opportunity presents itself, I'll out myself and be done with it. But I just don't want to be that guy who's all, "Guess what gang, I'm a homo!" out of nowhere.
At least I know, should I ever really run dry in the gay world, I can still live a totally heterosexual life and make it believable.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Come together...
So today was culmination of Toronto's week-long Pride celebrations.
And I was not in attendance. Partly by choice, partly by scheduling conflicts, partly because I had no irresistible offers.
Of the few people who asked what my Pride plans for this year were, most were surprised to hear that I didn't have any. After all, Pride is supposed to be the big gay celebration, where Mo's from all across the region (and even from around the world) descend on the city, clad in booty shorts and skin-tight tank tops. And how does it all make me "feel?" they ask.
Well...sort of awkward. And anxious.
When I attended my first Pride a few years ago, I did so under the wing of the guy I'd been dating that summer. We went out with his friend, he made all the arrangements, and all I had to do was show up and try not to stick out in the crowd.
That sounds sort of ridiculous, since the crowds are largely made up of nearly-naked members of both sexes, clad with leather or spun out of their minds on a handful of different drugs. Since I don't fit into any of those categories, my simple jeans and T-shirt uniform proclaimed me an outsider. It was sort of like Alice falling through the looking glass, waking up in a world very far from my own.
I actually had a blast that weekend. It was fun and pretty meaningful for me, at that point in my life, to have been part of it. But this year, the thought of Pride just reminds me of how I still really have yet to find out how I fit into the gay community.
There's a whole other post I'm writing on that subject, since I find it pretty daunting to tack down the exact definition of 'modern gay', but that's for another time.
When I think about the thousands of horny homos, sweating under the pulsing beats of a club's sound system, complete with live sex show being simulcast on 50 foot screens...I dunno. I'm very torn.
On the one hand, it's like a huge high school party. There's all these people there having a good time, comfortable in their surroundings, confident in their swagger. All the 'cool' kids gathered together, getting drunk and trying to get laid. The sense of belonging.
Of course, in high school, I was definitely not one of the cool kids, and that's transitioned into my current status in the gay world - uncool. You know there's going to be this huge party, and everybody is going to be there, and it's all amazing and shit...but you're not invited.
I want to say that I'm mature enough to not give a shit about it. After all, at it's seediest, Pride is a cesspool of bad decisions, bitterness and thinly guised disgust for anyone who doesn't fit the perfect homo mould. When I think of it that way, I really don't have time or patience for such bullshit. It's ridiculousness on such a huge scale that they even have a fucking parade to cap the weeks festivities off.
No longer is Pride about gay rights, inclusiveness, acceptance. It's about a bunch of hot guys trying to fuck each other and chastising anyone who doesn't fit into their particular clique. And while I don't mind a bit of good-natured debauchery, when you feel like the odd one out it takes all the fun out of it.
And this is where I feel torn. Because as much as I understand that Pride is a rehashing of high school drama, and really isn't the lifestyle that I want to pursue, I still wind up feeling left out of the fun.
I just want to feel like I belong, like I'm not still an outsider, even amongst my own people. All these years later, and I'm still trying to figure out just how I fit into the gay community, where I can befriend some like-minded guys and finally have some fun times in a part of the gay world that I would be comfortable in.
I usually tell myself, "There's always next year." But I've been saying that for a long, long time, and still things have yet to change. I always thought that once I got to university, moved to the city and came out that things would sort themselves out, yet here I am still feeling like a total outsider on the one weekend a year when I should be feeling part of the 'big picture'.
And, alas, the pendulum of my mind swings back and forth between 'this is bullshit' and 'wow I wanna be a semi-cool kid'. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Now that Pride week is over, I'll roll out my excuses for not taking part in any of the events. And I'll probably not feel so wracked with anxious tension about not 'fitting in'. And in another week, it'll all be a distant memory.
But then, there's always next year.
And I was not in attendance. Partly by choice, partly by scheduling conflicts, partly because I had no irresistible offers.
Of the few people who asked what my Pride plans for this year were, most were surprised to hear that I didn't have any. After all, Pride is supposed to be the big gay celebration, where Mo's from all across the region (and even from around the world) descend on the city, clad in booty shorts and skin-tight tank tops. And how does it all make me "feel?" they ask.
Well...sort of awkward. And anxious.
When I attended my first Pride a few years ago, I did so under the wing of the guy I'd been dating that summer. We went out with his friend, he made all the arrangements, and all I had to do was show up and try not to stick out in the crowd.
That sounds sort of ridiculous, since the crowds are largely made up of nearly-naked members of both sexes, clad with leather or spun out of their minds on a handful of different drugs. Since I don't fit into any of those categories, my simple jeans and T-shirt uniform proclaimed me an outsider. It was sort of like Alice falling through the looking glass, waking up in a world very far from my own.
I actually had a blast that weekend. It was fun and pretty meaningful for me, at that point in my life, to have been part of it. But this year, the thought of Pride just reminds me of how I still really have yet to find out how I fit into the gay community.
There's a whole other post I'm writing on that subject, since I find it pretty daunting to tack down the exact definition of 'modern gay', but that's for another time.
When I think about the thousands of horny homos, sweating under the pulsing beats of a club's sound system, complete with live sex show being simulcast on 50 foot screens...I dunno. I'm very torn.
On the one hand, it's like a huge high school party. There's all these people there having a good time, comfortable in their surroundings, confident in their swagger. All the 'cool' kids gathered together, getting drunk and trying to get laid. The sense of belonging.
Of course, in high school, I was definitely not one of the cool kids, and that's transitioned into my current status in the gay world - uncool. You know there's going to be this huge party, and everybody is going to be there, and it's all amazing and shit...but you're not invited.
I want to say that I'm mature enough to not give a shit about it. After all, at it's seediest, Pride is a cesspool of bad decisions, bitterness and thinly guised disgust for anyone who doesn't fit the perfect homo mould. When I think of it that way, I really don't have time or patience for such bullshit. It's ridiculousness on such a huge scale that they even have a fucking parade to cap the weeks festivities off.
No longer is Pride about gay rights, inclusiveness, acceptance. It's about a bunch of hot guys trying to fuck each other and chastising anyone who doesn't fit into their particular clique. And while I don't mind a bit of good-natured debauchery, when you feel like the odd one out it takes all the fun out of it.
And this is where I feel torn. Because as much as I understand that Pride is a rehashing of high school drama, and really isn't the lifestyle that I want to pursue, I still wind up feeling left out of the fun.
I just want to feel like I belong, like I'm not still an outsider, even amongst my own people. All these years later, and I'm still trying to figure out just how I fit into the gay community, where I can befriend some like-minded guys and finally have some fun times in a part of the gay world that I would be comfortable in.
I usually tell myself, "There's always next year." But I've been saying that for a long, long time, and still things have yet to change. I always thought that once I got to university, moved to the city and came out that things would sort themselves out, yet here I am still feeling like a total outsider on the one weekend a year when I should be feeling part of the 'big picture'.
And, alas, the pendulum of my mind swings back and forth between 'this is bullshit' and 'wow I wanna be a semi-cool kid'. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Now that Pride week is over, I'll roll out my excuses for not taking part in any of the events. And I'll probably not feel so wracked with anxious tension about not 'fitting in'. And in another week, it'll all be a distant memory.
But then, there's always next year.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Bad mogambo...
I felt really weird yesterday.
Lately I've been doing better, feeling calmer and a little more sorted out. Things are looking up once more and while I have several things I would like to be different in my life, overall I really don't have a lot to complain about.
But I've had varying degrees of a strange, clenched, choked feeling. Like all the bullshit I've waded through over the last two years is simmering just below the surface in my subconscious. Like I'm too tightly wound, and for no good reason.
I'm not an angry person. I don't blow off steam by screaming loud enough to shatter crystal. When I drink a bottle of wine, I don't become a blithering, melancholy mess. So why do I get the sensation that I've got some crap bottled up inside that's keeping me from climbing out of a funk?
Yesterday was particularly bad, and for no reason that I could specifically name. By mid-day I was wracked with vague, mild grief. I soldiered through the rest of the day and finally felt more normal when I was cocooned in bed, watching crappy TV while skimming an equally crappy book. It felt like for the better part of the afternoon I had some bizarre voodoo dragging me down; I had no real reason to feel anything but content, yet I couldn't shake the feeling there was some bad energy/karma/whatever floating around me.
I don't really know if I believe the whole karma thing. I've always put good out into the world, never really doing wrong by anyone. But for all my good deeds I can't say that I've reaped what I've sown. If "Violence does indeed recoil up the violent," then the reverse should be true; my noble actions should come back to me in noble ways.
From my observation, the saying, "Nice guys finish last," seems a touch more accurate. But hey, that's not me complaining! If for nothing else than to prevent that negativity from whiplashing back to me...
This morning I did my usual coffee-newspaper-pajamas Sunday morning routine, and I feel quite content. Maybe I just had some bad vibes screwing my day up yesterday. If such things even exist.
I'll just steer clear of black cats, ladders, 13, and any other ridiculous superstitious mumbo-jumbo in an attempt to avoid any bad mogambo that might happen to float my way.
Lately I've been doing better, feeling calmer and a little more sorted out. Things are looking up once more and while I have several things I would like to be different in my life, overall I really don't have a lot to complain about.
But I've had varying degrees of a strange, clenched, choked feeling. Like all the bullshit I've waded through over the last two years is simmering just below the surface in my subconscious. Like I'm too tightly wound, and for no good reason.
I'm not an angry person. I don't blow off steam by screaming loud enough to shatter crystal. When I drink a bottle of wine, I don't become a blithering, melancholy mess. So why do I get the sensation that I've got some crap bottled up inside that's keeping me from climbing out of a funk?
Yesterday was particularly bad, and for no reason that I could specifically name. By mid-day I was wracked with vague, mild grief. I soldiered through the rest of the day and finally felt more normal when I was cocooned in bed, watching crappy TV while skimming an equally crappy book. It felt like for the better part of the afternoon I had some bizarre voodoo dragging me down; I had no real reason to feel anything but content, yet I couldn't shake the feeling there was some bad energy/karma/whatever floating around me.
I don't really know if I believe the whole karma thing. I've always put good out into the world, never really doing wrong by anyone. But for all my good deeds I can't say that I've reaped what I've sown. If "Violence does indeed recoil up the violent," then the reverse should be true; my noble actions should come back to me in noble ways.
From my observation, the saying, "Nice guys finish last," seems a touch more accurate. But hey, that's not me complaining! If for nothing else than to prevent that negativity from whiplashing back to me...
This morning I did my usual coffee-newspaper-pajamas Sunday morning routine, and I feel quite content. Maybe I just had some bad vibes screwing my day up yesterday. If such things even exist.
I'll just steer clear of black cats, ladders, 13, and any other ridiculous superstitious mumbo-jumbo in an attempt to avoid any bad mogambo that might happen to float my way.
Friday, June 24, 2011
These four walls...
Why is everybody I know buying houses?
Seriously, more and more of my close friends are suddenly purchasing their first real estate. Granted, some of them are a touch older and wiser, and have a little more in the bank than others. But my best friend, who is all of 24, just purchased her very own place alone, without a boyfriend or roommate.
I guess we all have different priorities. I've been part-home owner my whole life, dealing with the million and one things that come with being responsible for your property, and I'm sick of it! My aim is set on a nice, cozy one-bedroom apartment somewhere downtown, not on a semi-detached dilapidated wreck of a house, complete with knob-and-tube wiring and an ancient furnace.
Of course, when they tell you about it, it all sounds peachy. "My very own house!" is the typical ecstatic line. It's an incredibly exciting and nerve wracking prospect, but more of my friends are taking the plunge and planting their own white picket fence.
Not that I'm afraid of commitment, but owning a house is so... permanent. Unlike an apartment that you can leave at practically any time, trying to sell your house is not exactly the most painless process. That coupled with the insane 30-year mortgages people are signing is enough to keep me a renter for the foreseeable future. (Well, that is to say, I'll be a renter when I finally move back downtown.)
Like many milestones, these first homes are lampposts on the path of life. I guess it's just hard for me to reconcile the fact that we're growing up and settling down. I've been mature practically my whole life, but I haven't reached the life-stage of home ownership just quite yet.
So for all you new home owners, congratulations on your success. I'll gladly come to the housewarming, but please don't bitch to me when your toilet is stopped up, your water heater breaks, your windows need replacing and the driveway need re-surfacing.
Ok, we all know I'll grudgingly be there to help when I can, pulling the best Mr.Fix-It I can.
But it's not my fault you had no idea what you were getting into.
Seriously, more and more of my close friends are suddenly purchasing their first real estate. Granted, some of them are a touch older and wiser, and have a little more in the bank than others. But my best friend, who is all of 24, just purchased her very own place alone, without a boyfriend or roommate.
I guess we all have different priorities. I've been part-home owner my whole life, dealing with the million and one things that come with being responsible for your property, and I'm sick of it! My aim is set on a nice, cozy one-bedroom apartment somewhere downtown, not on a semi-detached dilapidated wreck of a house, complete with knob-and-tube wiring and an ancient furnace.
Of course, when they tell you about it, it all sounds peachy. "My very own house!" is the typical ecstatic line. It's an incredibly exciting and nerve wracking prospect, but more of my friends are taking the plunge and planting their own white picket fence.
Not that I'm afraid of commitment, but owning a house is so... permanent. Unlike an apartment that you can leave at practically any time, trying to sell your house is not exactly the most painless process. That coupled with the insane 30-year mortgages people are signing is enough to keep me a renter for the foreseeable future. (Well, that is to say, I'll be a renter when I finally move back downtown.)
Like many milestones, these first homes are lampposts on the path of life. I guess it's just hard for me to reconcile the fact that we're growing up and settling down. I've been mature practically my whole life, but I haven't reached the life-stage of home ownership just quite yet.
So for all you new home owners, congratulations on your success. I'll gladly come to the housewarming, but please don't bitch to me when your toilet is stopped up, your water heater breaks, your windows need replacing and the driveway need re-surfacing.
Ok, we all know I'll grudgingly be there to help when I can, pulling the best Mr.Fix-It I can.
But it's not my fault you had no idea what you were getting into.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Have I got a guy for you...
...was the first thing out of her mouth.
I've become friendly with that local guy I seem to be continually talking about, and by extension I'm acquainted with his coworkers and boss. On one of my routine visits, Julie, his boss, grabbed me the moment I walked through the door.
"Seriously!" she said as I tried not to scowl too much. "He'd be perfect for you, I've got a feeling. He's mature and actually a really great guy."
Of course, you could describe me that way as well, but I've been overly-cynical lately and immediately gaffawed at the idea of being introduced to a sane, normal guy. "Oh come on, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is," I half-joked.
Julie's reaction was, uh, typical of her. "What, you think I'm going to set you up with a douchebag?"
"OK, fair enough," I said. "But seriously, I just have really bad luck." Bad luck and a still very much broken heart.
Her phone rang, so I was spared any further matchmaking.
Maybe this guy is genuinely nice, and maybe he would be interested. And I do want to meet some people the 'traditional' way through friends. But I just can't muster the energy. I've lost my mojo/groove/whatever.
Some say that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone, but even the prospect of hooking up holds relatively little appeal to me. I haven't 'been' with anyone since the ex, and that part of my brain, that drive to get out there and meet people and, yes, have sex, has seemingly gone into remission.
Of course, I know why, to a degree. I'm still reeling, dealing with my feelings, trying to reclaim the normalcy that was once my life. The thought of boys exhausts me (which sounds totally frightening, as if I'm an 80-year-old).
And to make this post even more cliched, it really isn't 'you', it's me.
What happened to good old, horny me? Have I put up so many emotional walls that I've boxed myself in, effectively freezing my underwear to my body?
An old friend of mine who now lives out of town was back for a visit and thinks I've 'grown up' from the person I was. "Before, you were on a mission to find a boyfriend," she said. Honestly, I don't really like the way that sounds, and I immediately challenged her.
"Was I 'looking' for a boyfriend? Yes, absolutely. But it's not like my whole life was devoted to finding a man." We agreed that at that point, I had my bases pretty much covered, minus a relationship: a good academic career, good family life, good friends, good health, etc, etc...
Of course, that can't be said for the present. No career, a group of friends I barely ever see, living in the fucking country with my parents. Granted, things could be much, much worse, but I've got a shitload of life stuff to get sorted out before I even think about men.
Actually, yeah, that's probably what's cut off my zest for guys. With the rest of my life in disarray, what energy do I have to put towards the next campaign to meet men. So for now, the 'perfect' guy that Julie sees me with will have to wait to be graced with my presence.
At least having frozen underwear should help keep me cool this summer.
I've become friendly with that local guy I seem to be continually talking about, and by extension I'm acquainted with his coworkers and boss. On one of my routine visits, Julie, his boss, grabbed me the moment I walked through the door.
"Seriously!" she said as I tried not to scowl too much. "He'd be perfect for you, I've got a feeling. He's mature and actually a really great guy."
Of course, you could describe me that way as well, but I've been overly-cynical lately and immediately gaffawed at the idea of being introduced to a sane, normal guy. "Oh come on, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is," I half-joked.
Julie's reaction was, uh, typical of her. "What, you think I'm going to set you up with a douchebag?"
"OK, fair enough," I said. "But seriously, I just have really bad luck." Bad luck and a still very much broken heart.
Her phone rang, so I was spared any further matchmaking.
Maybe this guy is genuinely nice, and maybe he would be interested. And I do want to meet some people the 'traditional' way through friends. But I just can't muster the energy. I've lost my mojo/groove/whatever.
Some say that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone, but even the prospect of hooking up holds relatively little appeal to me. I haven't 'been' with anyone since the ex, and that part of my brain, that drive to get out there and meet people and, yes, have sex, has seemingly gone into remission.
Of course, I know why, to a degree. I'm still reeling, dealing with my feelings, trying to reclaim the normalcy that was once my life. The thought of boys exhausts me (which sounds totally frightening, as if I'm an 80-year-old).
And to make this post even more cliched, it really isn't 'you', it's me.
What happened to good old, horny me? Have I put up so many emotional walls that I've boxed myself in, effectively freezing my underwear to my body?
An old friend of mine who now lives out of town was back for a visit and thinks I've 'grown up' from the person I was. "Before, you were on a mission to find a boyfriend," she said. Honestly, I don't really like the way that sounds, and I immediately challenged her.
"Was I 'looking' for a boyfriend? Yes, absolutely. But it's not like my whole life was devoted to finding a man." We agreed that at that point, I had my bases pretty much covered, minus a relationship: a good academic career, good family life, good friends, good health, etc, etc...
Of course, that can't be said for the present. No career, a group of friends I barely ever see, living in the fucking country with my parents. Granted, things could be much, much worse, but I've got a shitload of life stuff to get sorted out before I even think about men.
Actually, yeah, that's probably what's cut off my zest for guys. With the rest of my life in disarray, what energy do I have to put towards the next campaign to meet men. So for now, the 'perfect' guy that Julie sees me with will have to wait to be graced with my presence.
At least having frozen underwear should help keep me cool this summer.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Demos...
Probably not that any of you care, but we had a federal election on Monday.
It was an election nobody really wanted to endure but the results were actually historic; for the first time ever, the Liberal Party did not win or come in second, but were slighted down to 34 out of a possible 308 seats.
Add to that the historical factor for the New Democratic Party, finally gaining enough popular support to become the official opposition.
Oh, and add to that the first win of the Green Party, who finally got one seat after years of campaigning.
All in all, if you're interested in politics, then the election results have certainly delivered a lot to talk about and analyze.
I'm incredibly pleased to see the near-destruction of the Liberal Party. They have lost so much support, even from their traditionally strong ridings like Toronto. I know most people will try and blame it on the now-former head of the party, Michael Ignatieff, but I'd like to attribute it to the colossal arrogance and wishy-washyness.
Firstly, they consider themselves 'Canada's natural governing party'. As in, we're the defacto rulers of the land, we're that fucking awesome. It irks me to no end that they truly believe they ought to play the role of the 'people's party' and that their way is the natural order of things.
Secondly, the party has tried to be all things to all people. They court the vote of every minority possible, play the multiculturalism card at any opportunity yet have a hierarchy of mostly old, white males in powerful positions. Their very fabric has been stretched so thin that I suspect the average party member has no idea what ideologies they stand for.
If you thought John Kerry was a flip-flopper, you should watch the Liberal Party dance.
Of course, ever the optimists, the Liberals have spun their crushing defeat as a 'good opportunity to do some soul searching' and get back in touch with their roots. I have no doubt that they'll be back, perhaps even in the next election, but it's a sweet moment to savour for the next four years.
This is all not to say that the Canadian public, Joe 12-pack (our average Joes drink more than your average Joes), is intelligent or has made its choices based on sound judgment. In one Quebec riding, an NDP candidate who lived 300 kilometers from the seat she was trying to win ditched the campaign mid-way for a trip to Vegas. She won her seat handily, which is a shocking outcome from such a shoddy campaign.
So, now we have four years of political stability, with a new official opposition. I'm actually looking forward to seeing what will come out of the newest Parliament and hoping that there are no political curve balls that screw the whole thing up.
But as with all things in life, time will tell.
It was an election nobody really wanted to endure but the results were actually historic; for the first time ever, the Liberal Party did not win or come in second, but were slighted down to 34 out of a possible 308 seats.
Add to that the historical factor for the New Democratic Party, finally gaining enough popular support to become the official opposition.
Oh, and add to that the first win of the Green Party, who finally got one seat after years of campaigning.
All in all, if you're interested in politics, then the election results have certainly delivered a lot to talk about and analyze.
I'm incredibly pleased to see the near-destruction of the Liberal Party. They have lost so much support, even from their traditionally strong ridings like Toronto. I know most people will try and blame it on the now-former head of the party, Michael Ignatieff, but I'd like to attribute it to the colossal arrogance and wishy-washyness.
Firstly, they consider themselves 'Canada's natural governing party'. As in, we're the defacto rulers of the land, we're that fucking awesome. It irks me to no end that they truly believe they ought to play the role of the 'people's party' and that their way is the natural order of things.
Secondly, the party has tried to be all things to all people. They court the vote of every minority possible, play the multiculturalism card at any opportunity yet have a hierarchy of mostly old, white males in powerful positions. Their very fabric has been stretched so thin that I suspect the average party member has no idea what ideologies they stand for.
If you thought John Kerry was a flip-flopper, you should watch the Liberal Party dance.
Of course, ever the optimists, the Liberals have spun their crushing defeat as a 'good opportunity to do some soul searching' and get back in touch with their roots. I have no doubt that they'll be back, perhaps even in the next election, but it's a sweet moment to savour for the next four years.
This is all not to say that the Canadian public, Joe 12-pack (our average Joes drink more than your average Joes), is intelligent or has made its choices based on sound judgment. In one Quebec riding, an NDP candidate who lived 300 kilometers from the seat she was trying to win ditched the campaign mid-way for a trip to Vegas. She won her seat handily, which is a shocking outcome from such a shoddy campaign.
So, now we have four years of political stability, with a new official opposition. I'm actually looking forward to seeing what will come out of the newest Parliament and hoping that there are no political curve balls that screw the whole thing up.
But as with all things in life, time will tell.
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