The only thing we were parading was ourselves.

This morning all the gays will shake off their cocktail hangovers and and head back regular rainbowless Mondays. But its been a colourful few days. All of the city's straight girls got giddy and headed to the gaybourhood to shop for new bestfriends. And I found the only place in the country I could my wear bright yellow shorts in a crowd and look mundane.

Thanks to Marc for saving me from a forest of hungry bears, without you who knows what could have happened. It's been a blast, but until next year I hope I won't find myself in another situation where no one is alarmed when creepy strange old men are trying to touch my chest.

Keep it your pants gentlemen.

Meet Kerry. You probably won't be seeing much of him around these parts anymore. He's heading to Alberta this morning. Having him around our condo has been fun. My relationship with Kerry is like my relationship with my dad. He doesn't understand the things I do, but he thinks my jokes are funny.

Or at least he pretends to, like my dad does.

They had no idea we were kidding.

To get into the spirit of the pride weekend I have made a list of things I would and wouldn't be proud to be caught wearing, doing or even standing near during pride. And I took photos of them so I can forever remember my own do's and don'ts.

1. At pride don't sport: Armbands. When did those come back? I clearly missed the boat. But I have to confess, I think the jumper is a hit.


2. At pride do: skip the Eurotrash, and instead hang out on top of the trash bins.


3. At pride don't: support your friends with anything but crude laughter.

4. At pride do: remember to hydrate yourself. And pick something fruity.

5. At pride don't: break any laws, there are gay cops everywhere.

6. At pride do: incorporate colour into your outfit. But be careful how far you take it.

7. At pride don't: take your shirt off, you never know where your photo will end up.

With that in mind, parade photos may follow tomorrow, depending on if I can get out of bed.

It's Saturday afternoon, and I'm exhausted.

The last thing I want to do is go to work. But in 74 minutes that is what I will be doing. I have three minutes to finish this blog, 10 to shower and 12 to pick out an outfit that I can wear both to the restaurant and out afterwards. People think I am crazy for working 60 hour weeks. I am. But I'd rather go out at midnight with money than at 10 without it.

Big Primpin' tonight.

Oh, and I'd like to say thanks to Max Cameron for the exquisite impromptu backyard concert last night.

Northern Yonge really does put the "We" back in "The West".

Regardless of where we move, we'll always be in Winnipeg.

My story is age-old. The naive bright-eyed kid heading to the bright lights of the big city. Macaulay Culkin did it much better than me in Party Monster. As I count my minor successes in Toronto I am awaiting the second half of my film-story. 

Underdog-in-the-big-city stories are like films about drugs. In the beginning everything is fun; there are drugs, money and parties for everyone. But if you make it to the end of the movie you have to see Johnny Depp or Jared Leto face down in a dirty motel bathroom toilet bowl. 

Will this happen to me? I secretly hope so (I've always been a Jared Leto fan). But odds are it won't, because as far as I migrate, I leave with friends. Winnipeg is a city that follows you around like a lost puppy; even when you kick it, it wants to be your friend. 

So instead of kicking dogs, I'm having drinks with my former city. And Genna and I intend to have many drinks this summer. 

Here's to hoping Jared Leto isn't hogging the toilet when I have to throw up in the morning.

Strangers are always taking my photo. 

The thing about strangers taking your photo is that you never know where the picture will end up. And now everyone who owns a digital SLR thinks they are a party-blogger. You can thank Mark Hunter for that. 

Its not that I care about my privacy, I really don't. I work in a cubicle with portable walls, and there are cutouts where you can look into adjacent pods. And I live in a comfy two bedroom condo, but the only thing separating my room from my roommate's is two thin sliding plastic walls. I sometimes worry she can hear my breathing loudly in my sleep. 

Plus, I spend a good amount of my time exposing my self on the Internet. I write online and have few qualms about embaressing photos of me making their way onto Facebook. But still, even if I look good, I don't want to end up on one of those tacky photoblogs; the type with bad lighting and 905ers.

At least I have no aspirations for fame. If winding up in a photo on You Got Pegged scared me, I can only imagine what being featured on Go Fug Yourself or having Perez draw cum on my face would do to me.

With that in mind, say cheese.

When did we become people that stay in?

Winter in this city is frigid. It's warmer than Winnipeg, but it's not cardigan weather. So from December to April everyone cabs to and from work, hides out indoors and refuses to leave their apartment for anything. Or at least I do.

When it warmed up this spring, suddenly people were walking their dogs; carrying coffee cups and smiling. Couples held hands on the subway, and it wasn't irritating. That lasted about a week.

Now the city is filled with tourists and awkward suburban high school students on summer vacation. Families are everywhere and the bars are filled with American college students.

Now I'm looking for someone to drink wine on my balcony and watch traffic. You bring the wine, I'll bring the binoculars.

q: What's an arts festival without big name sponsors and branded content? 

a: Don't know. Don't care. Ask someone who lives in Montreal.

Now that I have that out of the way, check out my corporate blog for Marketing. I did daily coverage on L'Oreal's Luminato festival.  

Every year I dread it. And every year it comes. 

Friday was the first day of summer. That means beaches, picnics and long drives down abandoned roads, right? Wrong.

It means tourists, noise and way too much Hollister. Let's get this out there right now: I am one of those people who happens to look better with their clothes on. There are lots of us. We're usually quiet, unassuming and immaculately dressed. Until summer comes. 

Flip-flops hurt my feet. I have awkward legs, which I like to cover with comfortable, full-length denim. I stay almost dangerously thin, regardless of how much I eat. This rules out tank-tops. I'm not even a big fan of t-shirts. And I know most people dream of being bronzed like a greek god, but I think tans are tacky. 

To combat my disillusions of summer I have come up with a new look for warm weather: Miami Vice. 

At least I don't have to wear socks anymore.