Personal – Page 11 – Nicolas Demers

Flying High

Last weekend some friends and I went up to Whistler for a bit of zip-lining. Being afraid of heights I was pretty nervous, but it turned out to be one of the most amazing thrills of my whole life. I got to soar high above Fitzsimmons Creek with the wind and fog in my face, surrounded by the beautiful mountain scenery of BC.

There are five stations built high in the treetops, connected by lines going back and forth across the creek. The first one was moderately scary: It wasn’t so high above the ground as the others, being further away from the water, and surrounded by trees. I started the first zip screaming (of course, because hello, height), but that turned into hysterical laughter when I left the trees and flew above the water. Yes, it was scary, but nothing like a rollercoaster. There are no sudden twists and turns, and though there’s a bit of a downward motion, it’s nowhere near free-fall. And the view was magnificent. Once I actually got moving, I found I could do this all day.

When I landed at the second station, I had adrenaline shooting through my body. My hands were shaking, my knees were wobbly, I was close to hyperventilating. But I’d done it, dammit! I could fly!

I hit a bit of a snag when it was time to cast off from that station. This one was right next to the water, much higher off the ground, and way more exposed. Even though my harness was securely fastened to the line and I couldn’t possibly fall, it took all my willpower to walk to the edge where I could just let gravity pull me forward. Because HOLY SHIT I WAS VERY VERY HIGH ABOVE THE RUSHING WATER AND THE NASTY HARD ROCKS OH MY SWEET JESUS CHRIST I’M GOING TO DIE

Interesting factoid: wind drag tended to turn me around so I spent about half of each zip facing backward. I wonder if it’d help to hold out just one arm (on the side that’s moving forward more than it should), to keep me facing the right direction? Now that I think about it, I remember the guides doing just that. I’ll have to try it next time. Because oh yes, I’m doing it again someday. Meantime, here are some more pictures.

Though I wonder how this patch of (relatively) untouched wilderness will be affected by the 2010 Olympics. Construction for the games was taking place practically right next door to the ziptrek. It’d be a shame if this area got polluted or damaged by idiot tourists.

That night we watched Team America: World Police. The censored version, which was all the video store had. Just as well: I’ve already been traumatised by the uncensored kinky puppet sex scene.

Dancers, Drag Queens and Devout Nerds

Taking a brief break from Web development, with the coding and the styling and the restructuring, to write a quick entry. (A month between entries is not good. At least I’ve got a good excuse this time.)

So anyway, last Saturday I went to Davie Days, a street festival sort of thing where the businesses (queer and otherwise) along Davie Street all have booths displaying their stuff; there were a couple of beer gardens, a guy making balloon hats for the kiddies (of all ages) and a couple of stages for entertainment. A friend of mine was in a show in front of Celebrities, as a backup dancer for a drag queen lipsyncher by the name of Mina Mercury. Great show, preceded by another great show by a belly dancer troupe. Did I take pictures? Why, yes I did.

Continuing from last entry’s tradition, here’s another hilarious link: Jesus of the Week. And ohmigawd, did I ever flash back to my long-ago Catechism classes when I saw this one. Mind you, I had to look up the exact passage, but I remember so clearly reading those illustrated booklets with all the feel-good parables from the New Testament: the Good Samaritan, the house built on sand. Lots of others. I loved reading them. Well, partly because I loved reading, period. But I liked the stories too, and I effortlessly memorised them, to recite back in Sunday School. Damn, but I was a devout little nerd back then.

Well, enough lollygagging down memory lane. I’ve still got a site to upgrade.

Pride Day 2005

Hey, that was fun.

Here’s the thing: I hadn’t been to the Pride parade in six years. I swore off in ’99 because I was disgusted at how commercial and corporatized the whole thing was, with the huge floats for the bars or mainstream sponsors (Air Canada, CIBC, Royal Bank, VanCity… come to think of it, is there a single major bank who’s not hot for gay money these days?), with less and less visibility for community or political organizations. (The worst part for me was seeing parade volunteers with the KFC logo on the backs of their t-shirts.) It was all just a big show, long on glitz and short on substance and meaning, and I simply didn’t see any point in going if I’d just get riled up. So I didn’t, and everybody was happy. Plus, I got to keep sleeping in on Sundays.

So what’s changed? Well, for one thing, I’ve gotten used to getting up on Sunday mornings for volleyball. And there’s the news of same-sex marriage being legal now—which, I know, is not the end-all and be-all of queer politics, but is still a big deal. I’m still as cynical as ever, but not politically active, and I think I’ve gotten a bit more relaxed about some things, ready to take the good with the bad. And there is bad: corporate sponsors are even more visible now, especially at the after-parade festival at Sunset Beach, where booths for actual community groups were even more sparse than six years ago, edged out by the mainstream corporations. Though I have to say, I was grateful to the Fabutan booth for giving out free sunscreen. Sweet Jesus, but yesterday was a scorcher.

But there’s also good, because the parade and the Sunset Beach festival—KFC and Air Canada notwithstanding—are safe spaces where you can be as queerly outrageous as you want. And now that I’m back home in the suburbs, what are the odds I’ll see same-sex PDA’s, or gender-bending freaks, or topless women walking around? If I had a boyfriend, I’d never have the nerve to walk down the street hand in hand with him here. Hell, I’m not even 100% sure I’d necessarily do that in the West End either.

So. This was a good outing after all. I got out of the house, I ogled buff boys in their underwear, snapped some pictures… and I’ve got some food for thought. And you know something else? I think I’ll go back next year.

Welcome to the 21^st Century

Equal Marriage Bill Passes Final Hurdle

It’s times like this that my cold, cynical heart thaws a little, and I’m proud to be Canadian.

Thirteen And Counting

Every year around this time, it hits me: the nagging urge to write and post something for the anniversary of my coming out. I’m not sure what to write about, exactly: something deep and meaningful where I’d explore issues politics or identity, or just how I’ve changed and grown in the time since coming out. But that essay kept on not being written, year after year. Maybe it was laziness. Maybe it’s that I always remembered at the last minute, and realized by the time I got my thoughts together and wrote it and posted it, it’d be too late. An essay like that has to be timely. Maybe it’s that queer identity and politics weren’t terribly important to me for a while, so—even though part of me wanted to—I wasn’t actually too inspired to write about the day I “officially” adopted that identity. Besides, why was this milestone any more important than all the others in my life: when I stopped going to church, or moved to Vancouver, or took up Taijiquan, or started playing volleyball again? I didn’t celebrate those anniversaries, after all. Still, this is the first milestone, the one that made all the others possible and drove a lot of my life for years to come. “Every saga has a beginning,” right? (Except my saga doesn’t star Ewan McGregor, although it’s still better written than those crappy prequels. But I digress.)

For a while, though, I did celebrate my coming-out anniversary. Between 1995 and 1997 I made up a ritual that involved going through my diary to sort of get the big picture, see at a glance how much I’d changed. (There was a bit more to it, but I won’t go into details.) Before that, nothing. The 1- and 2-year marks came and went with hardly any mention in my diary; but back then, I was just barely ex-Catholic, and still not big on rituals and spirituality. And no rituals after 1997, for a couple of reasons. One, going through years of diary entries was getting to be too much of a chore. Two, my Pagan-ish spiritual phase was over. Cynicism and skepticism became the thing, and this annual retrospective looked more and more like simple wallowing in the past, pointless navel-gazing (which, granted, is exactly what I’m doing right now. At least now I don’t pretend it’s anything more). Though it had felt important at the time, in hindsight all of this spirituality and pretty symbols and things hadn’t really made a difference in my life. Better to look at my present and future than my past. Better to live my life, and continue my coming out process, than count the days and years since it started. But… it is and always will be an important date to me. As important as my birthday, if not more so. And part of me still needs to celebrate it in some way, however small.

It’s been thirteen years and one day. Happy anniversary to me. I’ve come a long way, baby.

Odd Skeptic Out

Last night I was over at a friend’s house (we’ll call her “S”) for dinner. At some point (I forget how) the conversation wandered over to Edgar Cayce. S told a brief story in which Cayce was about to enter a crowded elevator but, seeing that all the occupants’ auras were dead or dim or something, decided to wait for the next one. The story concludes with the elevator falling, and everyone inside dying horribly. But Cayce was safe, ’cos of his second sight.

Okay. There are several questions to ask at this point. At the top of the list, of course, are “Did this really happen?” and “How do you know?” And also, “So Cayce just saved his own ass and let everybody else die? Well, good for him, I guess.” But I didn’t say anything. Part of me didn’t want to offend (S is a dear friend, and I was a guest in her home). Part of me figured I probably wouldn’t be changing any minds (there were a couple of people nodding along, though I don’t know if they were just being polite) and it’d just be wasted energy. And, well, I’m just not that quick on my feet. By the time I got beyond raising a skeptical eyebrow, the conversation had moved on. I do a lot better when I get urban legends in my email. Then I can take a minute or two to gather my thoughts, check my favourite debunking sites (Skeptic’s Dictionary and The Urban Legends Reference Pages, if you’re curious) and carefully craft a reply.

A little thing, maybe, but it’s not the first time it happened to me. It soured the rest of the evening a little, and it’s been bugging me all day. Should I have said something? Or not? In a way, it feels like being in the closet, and gathering the energy to come out as a skeptic. (And, funny thing, everybody at the party knows I’m gay, but I don’t know how much they know about my nonbelief). Sigh. So, I’m venting here. Isn’t that what personal sites are for? At least I’ll be better prepared next time.

Grins Are Not Enough

I had a couple of interesting dreams over the holidays. In the first, I was biking home (from work, I think) on Broadway through East Vancouver (which in reality would be out of my way). The sky to the north, over the mountains, was a gorgeous sunset gold, so I decided to take a picture. I turned north and biked a few more blocks looking for the perfect view. The street where I stopped was also the inside of a house (or large building) in the process of being renovated. There was a roof overhead but somehow the mountains were still visible.

One of the people there (worker? owner?) and I started talking. Apparently the place was going to be turned into low-income housing. The guy somehow knew what I did for a living, exactly how much I made and where I lived, and made me feel guilty about how relatively privileged I was. Also, I think I was trespassing. And I never got to take a picture of the northern sunset.

In the second dream, I was in a school—possibly a high school, possibly a university. There were bits of Ottawa U, at least. A friend of mine, a nice-looking FTM transsexual guy (blond, short, a bit chunky, with a wispy soul patch; nobody I knew in real life, but probably a composite of a bunch of people) was dealing with harassment and bullying, and had set up a meeting with the school administration. I went with him, mostly for moral support. The meeting took place in an empty classroom, with spectators and guests sitting in those little schoolkid desks. My friend’s issues were never actually discussed, because there were a lot of invited speakers from a bunch of big corporations including McDonald’s. While the McD spokeswoman did her spiel, my friend stood up and started an anticorporate protest chant. A few people joined in, but I didn’t. I just sat there, grinning silently, enjoying the show.

Okay, I get it already. I know what my subconscious is trying to tell me, and it’s nothing I haven’t known since the US elections last November: I need to get political again, to be better informed and more active. It’s a fact that I’ve grown pretty (well, hugely) apathetic in the last few years, what with my burnout, followed by a touch of introspection that today seems a little self-indulgent… followed by graduation, and work. I don’t think my politics have really changed—though I’m on the sidelines, I’m still grinning with the activists—but my angry activist self is gone, maybe forever. Which isn’t such a bad thing: I don’t need anger anyways, just compassion and a sense of fairness. And the will to use my privilege for the greater good. Which maybe sounds really trite, but I don’t care since right now The Incredibles is my most favourite movie of all time.

I don’t think I’ve got the time to volunteer anywhere, but I can make monetary contributions. The only question is, to whom? Well, there’s the UNICEF Indian Ocean Earthquake Appeal—a no-brainer, really (plus, all donations received before January 11 will be matched by the Canadian Government). The James Randi Educational Foundation: another great cause, and I’ve enjoyed Randi’s weekly commentaries for the last couple of years. Some donations to User Friendly and Fametracker, two excellent sites I’ve loved for a while. They’re not out saving lives or changing the world, but damn do they brighten my day. The Vancouver Independent Media Centre? Yeah, I think freedom of speech is worth some of my money. And… other groups. I’ve got time to think about it, the year’s still young. The point is to do something.

Winter Wonderlands

I’m flying back to Ottawa tomorrow, to hang with the family over the holidays. Frankly, I’m a bit torn about it. On the one hand, it’ll be good to see everyone, since I usually only fly home once a year (plus exceptional events like weddings, etc…), and I do love me a white Christmas. On the other hand, living on the West Coast for eight years has turned me into a huge wimp, and I can’t take Ottawa winters anymore. So, I guess I’ll be doing what I do every year: stay indoors as much as possible, get cozy with space heaters, and admire all that beautiful snow from where it’s warm. And if I have to venture outside, bundle the hell up.

Just for fun, let’s see what the weather in Vancouver was like today, shall we? A high of 9ºC, which is a bit above seasonal; low well above freezing, so no lovely frost in the morning (it usually dips just below freezing at night); reasonably sunny (though with nasty dark clouds piling around the North Shore mountains); not much wind and no rain at all, which to be fair is unusual for this time of year. There was just one half-hearted snowfall a couple of weeks ago, but the flakes melted as they hit the ground. I wore shorts to finish the last of my Christmas shopping. It got a bit nippy after the sun went down, but it was totally worth it just so I can brag to my family that I wore shorts the day before the winter solstice, while they huddled together for warmth in the frozen wastelands of the Ottawa Valley and Montreal Island, peering out at the polar bears walking by. Heh.

(Just kidding about the polar bears. They wouldn’t last five minutes against the roaming herds of carnivorous penguins.)

Better Than Cursing The Darkness

Winter’s officially already here. Oh, I know the solstice isn’t for another three weeks. Technically, this is still autumn. But autumn’s gorgeous show is long over; the leaves have almost all fallen off the trees, and the remaining ones are dead yellows or browns. When the clouds clear up I can see snow on the North Shore mountains; even at ground level the temperature’s dipped below freezing for the last few nights.

It does make for pretty mornings, though, with frost on the ground sparkling in the sunlight. Good thing, because Vancouver winters are distinctly lacking in prettiness; not a lot of snow falls (at least, not in the lower mainland), so you don’t get lovely white landscapes like, say, in Ottawa. Here everything’s grey or brown and depressing. And let’s not forget the long nights, which are a lot darker that Ottawa’s because of the lack of snow. Then again, the clouds do reflect the urban lights more; so, yay for light pollution, but I’m not sure the dark orangey-red night sky is all that cheery.

But then, that’s what Christmas lights are for. I put mine up last night, for only the second year since I moved out West. Until last year I was never much into the holidays; I’ve always loathed the intense commercialism, and of course couldn’t get behind the religious traditions. But then I watched my TV boyfriend get all worked up about Chrismukkah… and damned if a completely made up uber-holiday didn’t sound perfect for me! So I went out and bought lights. And it feels good to see them shining out there. Maybe because part of me likes to participate in the season’s rituals, but mainly because… they’re bright. And having lights outside my place, shining through the night, is better than having nothing at all. That’s what it comes down to, right? Strip away the rituals and traditions, and it’s just about driving the night away, making your own light at a time of the year when light is in very short supply.

â€¦This I Know, For The Bling-Bling Tells Me So

So I’m driving to work this morning, grooving to La bottine souriante, when a car pulls up next to me at a red light. I don’t really pay attention, until I see the guy in the front passenger’s side pulling down his window, specifically trying to get my attention. What the hell? Do I know him? A quick memory scan turns up negative. Has he spotted my rainbow flag bumper sticker and now wants to cruise me? He’s cute, young, with a nice smile and dark spiky hairâ€¦ and wearing a huge-ass, gaudy gold crucifix, which he’s holding up with a hand graced by an equally huge-ass, equally gaudy gold ring. Get down with your gangsta self, white boy!

So I’m driving to work this morning, grooving to La bottine souriante, when a car pulls up next to me at a red light. I don’t really pay attention, until I see the guy in the front passenger’s side pulling down his window, specifically trying to get my attention. What the hell? Do I know him? A quick memory scan turns up negative. Has he spotted my rainbow flag bumper sticker and now wants to cruise me? Heâ€™s cute, young, with a nice smile and dark spiky hair… and wearing a huge-ass, gaudy gold crucifix, which heâ€™s holding up with a hand graced by an equally huge-ass, equally gaudy gold ring. Get down with your gangsta self, white boy! But wait, heâ€™s not just holding up the crucifix, he’s actually kissing it, in between trying to tell me something which I can’t hear because my window is still up.

Whoah. Is this is how the young queers dress and cruise nowadays? Okay, so the light’s still red, and Iâ€™m kind of curious (and kind of apprehensive) about this grinning freak. I roll down the window, and finally hear what he has to say.

â€œJesus loves you!â€

Oh. Well, thatâ€™s great. And Santa loves you too. So this wasnâ€™t about my rainbow flag sticker, but my â€œBorn OK The First Timeâ€ sticker, and Darwin fish.

Message delivered, my new hit-and-run missionary friend rolls up his window and, the light having turned green, we drive off in different directions.

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with these people? Did they just see a passing heathen, ripe for witnessing, and just unloaded their little catch phrase, which of course I have not heard a million times before, not in person, in print, on TV, on the Net, not me, because I was raised by wolvesâ€”atheist wolves, in factâ€”and have only just this week rejoined civilization. Then they move on, their bellies full of the warm glow of a job well done, having earned another brownie point from Jesus. Not interested in a dialogue. Or even in an argument. Not interested in wondering if this brain-dead tactic actually works. Because I can tell you right now, Gentle Reader, that it did not work on me. Not today, and none of the other times that shitâ€™s been pulled. Did I get all misty-eyed at the thought that some imaginary resurrected being loves me, me personally? Did I suddenly develop a driving urge to immediately explore the holy books relating the story of this Jesus character?

No. No, I did not. But was I pissed at the interruption of a kick-ass Franco-Canadian musical moment? Why, yes I was. Was I filled with disdain for the hiphop missionary, and all missionaries like him, repeating words that had no meaning outside their religion, unable to see any points of view besides their own? I believe that was the case as well. Was I motherfucking creeped out by the crazily compulsive kissing of the crucifix? I will not deny this. And was I more grateful than ever for leaving the baggage of faith behind, having seenâ€”as if I needed another reminderâ€”how it can mess people up? You better believe thatâ€™s a yes.