The Reminder.

Going on vacation gives me the picture-perfect excuse to see as much art as possible. Incase you've been wondering what I've been up to since I dropped off the face of the earth, I've rounded up a laundry-list of the art that's mattered to me over the past few days.

Richard Avedon's black-and-whites of Rudolf Nureyev, Bob Dylan and Edie Sedgwick were almost the end of me. The Foam exhibit, which was the first major retrospective since his death, was probably the best thing I've seen since hopping across the pond.

Alain Jacquet and Gerard Fromanger informed me that in France, the pop was very, very political. Take that, Warhol. In other political "news", while Obama was chatting with Mr. Harper, I was staring at Francis Picabia's L'adoration Du Veau and thinking that it sums up the Harper prime-ministry quite well.

George Grosz's work from Ecce Homo was the most fun I've ever had being sad. Joseph Beuys used felt insulation to protect his art's inhabitants from the noise and dangers of the outside world. And I have to say, I felt safe.

Daniel Buren proved that stripes are always in season, Jeff Koons Ushered In Banality, and Gilbert and George took a dump on religion.

And at the Palais De Tokyo I signed wavers, played with electricity and found out that the United States is controlling my every move through electro-waves in Alaska. Five dollars says Sarah Palin is involved.

Last week I got an unexpected call.

It was Canadian Blood Services. They were interested in having me donate, again.

I thought back to the donor form, ticking off where I had travelled, what I had pierced and which medical problems I suffered from. Luckily, I haven't got any tattoos in Thailand, but I did remember one line on the form I couldn't ignore.

"I'm sorry, I'm no longer able to donate." I mumbled.

"Oh? Is it a medical problem?" the woman asked.

I was silent and focused on the word "problem". Eventually I spoke. "Um, sort-of.." I hesitated. "I guess."

I was transferred to another woman, who was to take me off the donor list. She asked me what kind of medical problem I was having. Awkwardly stumbling on my words, I made announcement I have stumbled over in the past. One I have lied about, avoided and side-stepped whenever possible.

"I uh.." I took a deep breath. "I had sex with a man."

"Oh.." she said. The woman was clearly uncomfortable. "When did this happen?" she asked.

Really? I thought. Does she want to know the details? Regardless, I told her when. And I insisted I hadn't donated since. She seemed to believe me.

"Just so you know," she said. "This is a permanent closure. But I want to thank you for saving six lives."

I wanted to say something. Something about hypocrisy and outdated stereotypes and a tory government. Or something about the people dying from a lack of transfusions. But all I could think about was the lives I wasn't saving. And why I wasn't saving them.

I probably should have said something. But I didn't.

I just mumbled a goodbye, and hung up.