Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Hairadise City

The plight of the bald man, or the balding man in my case is a sad one indeed. You find yourself, albeit unwillingly, part of an exclusive club. This damn club that you didn't want to join in the first place and your membership becomes more apparent every passing day. I'm sliding on this downward spiral until what? BALD. In my mind I'm screaming it in front of my goddamn face in the mirror...BALD!

I'll be on the subway and all six guys on the train have full heads of hair...'ah fuck everything' I think. What are the chances? Every single fucking guy has all his feathers perfectly gelled into place. Six American Psycho wannabees and I want to kill 'em all! Then at the next stop, miraculously, a sad little bald man mopes his way through the sliding doors and I breath a sigh of relief; there is someone else to go through hell with me.


I hate that four letter word. It's so offensive and dirty. I cringe at the mention of it. Unlike most any other word I never say 'bald' out loud. I only type it. In response to the question 'Are you losing your hair?' I always use a silly turn of phrase like 'Oh that? It's just my forehead growing. That's all'. To me, saying 'bald' is like a guy screaming out NIGGER! at the Apollo Theatre. It's plain offensive.

There are many ways to give the illusion of natural hair: Wigs, plugs, spray on hair, transplants, combovers (Have they no respect for the eyes of others?) and who knows what else. Why not surgically remove the hair on my ass and topographically apply it to my head? What a shithead they'd all think. The sad truth is that I would be a liar sitting here typing before you if I wrote that I haven't entertained the thought of all these options at least once. What with science nowadays who knows what they're capable of! Those crazy hair scientists are somewhere right now feverishly working away in their top secret underground hair labs, and guess what? They're this close to a cure for male pattern baldness. This fucking close I tell you! Jeremy Piven told me so.

Going bald really brings out the worst feelings; in the darker moments my mind turns to bitterness and vindiction. I'll be at a bar and some furry headed kid starts in with me, 'Look at you you fucking scum, can't even grow a faux hawk,' He'd say.

'Ahh you think you're a big man just 'cause you got all your hair? You wanna get knocked the fuck out? Let's go punk.' I'd say. We'd take it outside like real men and I'd pull a knife and slice off his scalp and don it on my head and wipe of the excess brain splatter and pretend like nothing happened and go back in for a Vodka 7. There we go--problem solved!

But really, me...I'm a sensitive guy. I feel a pang of empathy when I'm strolling down the boulevard of life and I see another bald(ing) man. We're part of a special club remember? We're both victims of circumstance. For the common man I have sympathy but I secretly wish baldness upon famous men. Brad Pitt wouldn't be Brad Pitt with a shiny ol' chrome dome. Ladies would Legends of the Fall be the romantic fairytale it is (or so I'm told I haven't seen it yet) without Brad's luscious locks waving in the breeze as he rides a horse to claim his woman? I can picture Stanley Tucci bouncing on his saddle and a bird lands a hot one right on his shiny head. Shit, if a bird dropped one on Brad Pitt's head it would just disappear into paradise. Would George Clooney be the suave gent he is in Oceans Eleven if he was bald? It would be like that fella in Powder trying to woo Julia Roberts. Don't think so. By the way I haven't seen Powder either. I simply must start referencing movies that I've seen in my blog! This is a professional endeavor here. Ya know I was just thinking in addition to 'bald' I hate the word 'blog' too. Especially losers who use the word 'blog' in their blog. I mean do you know anyone cool who writes a blog? Mostly just a bunch of internet predators (nudge nudge wink wink).

But I digress. I can't wait to see who goes bald out of the young pop stars like Justin Bieber or one of the Jonas Brothers. Let's see how many tween girls chase them through malls when that happens. How tragically ironic it would be if that Bieber kid could no longer recreate the very thing that catapulted him to international stardom. Ah well...nothing lasts forever boys, not even fame and hair! Since I'm going bald I'll try live vicariously through my dad and coax him into growing a white Bieber Bob. My dads hair is totally blanche so it'll be blinding! Can you spell Silver Fox? Never ending white lights. My dad will be the coolest retiree pop star. I hope I catch some of the pussy shrapnel.

I never equated baldness with old age; I've no problem growing old, I don't really fear it in the least. Well I fear it but it's not a crippling soul destroying fear. I've always felt older than my years anyhow. The problem is with physical attractiveness. I suppose the two go hand in hand but I certainly wouldn't dread growing old with all the wrinkles and erectile dysfunctions if I could do it with a thick thatch on top of my head.

But no matter how much I sit here whining and complaining I know that nothing compares to the pain of a woman losing her hair. Ah yes, the plight of the bald(ing) woman. My heart goes out to you gals. Although it's quite rare for a woman to lose her hair it just makes the sting that much sharper when you come across some hapless girl with a patchy scalp. I remember once being at an A & W in Georgetown, ON. This poor girl, barely out of her teens and her beautiful face was unfortunately adjacent to her hideous hair. Thin wispy strands fluttered as she walked back to collect my burger and fries. I still remember you balding burger girl! SEE I do care!
I like to think that no matter how bad my life gets, no matter how many times I scrape the bottom only to find there's more bottom underneath I know I don't have it half as bad as this girl. The irony is she's probably happier than me with a husband and kids. 'Who cares if I'm bald?' she says to herself, 'I've got my family.' And here I am wasting my time feeling sorry for her.
Or...maybe she's dead in a ditch somewhere, drove off the road into a lampost, killed herself--and I could have saved her, cut some random girls scalp off, given the burger girl a local anasthetic and carefully stitched the scalp onto her poor head. I'd water it everyday and then the hair would start to take root and we'd fall in love and get married and paint our picket fence white and have 2.5 kids.

One night I was out with a friend at an Indian restaurant on Bloor St (though after many a night its been turned into Blur St). My buddy was facing the outside window which is my seat of choice so I can watch the wildlife of Toronto pass by; I was stuck looking into the empty restaurant with its boring decor. After reacquanting ourselves my attention turned to the short unsteady busboy ambling towards us. There was something vaugely off about him. That was the subconscious conclusion I came to. Then I figured it out: He was an East Indian man with Down Syndrome! He started piling up the dishes from a nearby table. 'Have I ever seen an Indian guy with Down Syndrome?' I thought, 'Not that I can recall' came the answer. Here is this mongoloid with a goofy look on his face with hall of fame rockstar hair. Why, oh why must fate torture me so? What is he going to do with that beautiful thatch except give himself retarded haircuts in the dark? Now I on the other hand could use that hair. I would be on my knees pleasing Jesus every goddamn night if I had hair like that. I would kill ordinary men and famous men! I don't care anymore! That busboys jet black mane just flowed so suave and natural; way out of touch for his general demeanor. You could tell, this guy couldn't handle what he was packing. I shake my fist and curse at the angry hair Gods!
I wonder how someone with such an obvious genetic mutation can mature with such healthy follicles. It's the same thing with the homeless. The endless Toronto winters, the endless hits of the pipe followed by the endless swigs of the bottle, shouldn't that affect hair loss? Their bodies look withered but the hair is healthy looking, growing wild like a stubborn weed. I walk by a few bums almost daily on the way to the LCBO and they're grimy, foul creatures but guess what? Great fucking hair. Me bitter? Naw.

I'm sleeping, dreaming about having a full head of hair. I'm in a bar and I feel so secure, so alive like I can do anything. I can have any girl. The world is mine for the taking! Then the cold slap of waking life hits me in the face and it's back to the grind. I suppose I can do what a lot of bald guys do nowadays and grow facial hair. That seems to be the move, huh? But I question the raionale behind it: 'I'm bald so to distract everyones attention I'll grow ornamental hair on my face. That will divert their eyes from my head. I'll fool them all!'
I guess there's some validity to this for I'm currently sporting a goatee. Man I get bored and there aren't many hairstyles to choose from when the hair starts falling out. I've had the same bland style for the last decade. Should I frost the tips or something? Help me out here.

Maybe in the coming years when I'm totally bald I should grow the S & B (Sides & Back) long and put it in a ponytail a la Mick Fleetwood. Isn't that a look? Well I have to hand it to him he somehow pulls it off where most guys with the bald ponytail probably have a rape kit in the rear left quadrant of their trunk.

Or...I could sport the 'Skydome'. That's where you grow the hair on the Sides & Back (a.k.a The Horshoe) so that it looks like the Skydome--when open of course. I think that's a preferable alternative to shaving everything off like a cancer patient. Just keep it nicely cropped on the sides. What is with that anyways? Why does only the hair on the top of your head fall out and not the sides and back? Ahh just one of the many questions I'll have for your God when I get to the pearly gates.

The hair Gods don't just rob you of it all, they leave no evidence behind--the once lush scene of the crime reduced to a smooth rounded marble surface. No scars or bloody gloves. As you can tell I'm coming along nicely in my quest of coming to terms with hair loss. Over the years I've been forced to become a lot more comfortable or risk madness though I'm occasionally stabbed with pangs of insecurity. Going bald is part of the human condition, so many people go through it and even I can't escape it. The thought use to mortify me a lot more. When I was in university I would tell myself 'Well Nezbit you got about a year or so left with a decent amount of hair so enjoy it'. I've said the same damn thing with the same damn voice in my head every year since. Is this the end of HAIR?

Plus I use a special shampoo that seems to slow the whole process down. It cleans the DHT out of your scalp. The DHT--if you were wondering--chokes the follicles until they can hold on no longer and they are jettisoned from the head to land on a pillowy grave. We humans, worry worry worry about our dire little problems and then either accept them as inevitable or go insane. I've chosen both.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

I'm Going Straight . . .To Trannytown!

I’m a straight shooter. I’m talking pure heterosexuality here. But sexual identity isn’t as black and white as some think. On a chart where one is perfectly hetero and ten is perfectly gay I’d say I’m a solid three. Everyone has their creepy little sexual taboos that they’re into even though sometimes they try to hide it even from themselves. In the spirit of withholding nothing I thought I’d divulge some of my sexual fetishes.

Now at first glance they may seem strange but trust me if I sat down and analyzed your fantasies I’d find some weird stuff locked away in the dark recesses of your imagination. Don’t worry we’re just humans. See that’s just it: I don’t worry about it! I worry about a million other things but not this. I’m entirely at ease with who I am as a sexual person--bizarre sexual fantasies included. Hang-ups are for telephones man. I wish I was gay. I would have come out of the closet when I was a toddler. Could have hosted a preschool Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.

I’m too goddamn honest, I wouldn’t be able to hide such an integral part of who I am unless I grew up somewhere like Uganda where my head could get lopped off for admiring another mans pectorals wishing they were mine and dreaming about all the dirty things I would do to this town with ‘em. I’m eternally baffled by gays in countries like Canada who have vast support networks and still feel inclined to stay in the closet. I know everyone has their reasons and my heart goes out to them--there must be a gnawing pain in their gut that makes them want to scream: “I LOVE COCK!” in the middle of some place entirely inappropriate like church or gym. I should start a support group for gay people stuck in the closet. A very clandestine group, like the Marines or the Seals. We’ll go around to sports bars and wait for the Leafs game to end and then we’d straight-bash the heteros with baseball bats emblazoned with slogans like Straight-Hate, or Gay Power or Fag Force One.

I detest macho behaviour. I detest small talk about the weather, I detest most humans, and I probably detest you…well not you but definitely you.
My sexuality will never be a problem for you so I’m going to pre-emptively tell you to STFU already and go suck a lemon. Stop being threatened. Look outside it’s a wonderful day, go and do something with your life.

(Note to the reader: From this point on I will refer to any and all transexuals as ‘she’ and not ’he’ just because I feel like it and it looks better in print to just pick one or the other. Biologically speaking yes a tranny is a ‘he’ but for these purposes it makes sense to use ‘she’ out of respect for the trannys because after all wouldn’t they want me to use ‘she’?)

I suppose that technically speaking I’m bi-sexual but as I stated at the beginning (remember I’m a three) there is a continuum on which to judge sexuality. I like to occasionally sniff cocaine and for those of you who do not partake in the devils dandruff it can make you do things of a sexual nature that you wouldn’t do while sober. Me? Among other things I like transsexuals. Yeah I said it, and what the fuck are you gonna do about it? Tell my mommy? I’ve jerked off to tranny porn on the internet. Ahh…I feel so much better. I just want to scream it from a mountaintop: “I”VE JERKED OFF TO TRANNY PORN!”

But I’m very particular about which trannys I like. I mean come on I don’t like just any guy in a dress with tennis ball tits. What am I a fag? Hell no! I like refined trannys; the more fem the better. Particularly I like Asian trannys because Asians it appears have the softest most womanly features of any race I‘ve come across. I swear, some of them are so fem that it’s difficult to tell if it’s a man or a woman. And just so we’re clear I definitely don’t want to do any gay stuff with a tranny. I want to think of her exactly as a girl. I’m not going to be S’ing any P or getting F’d in the B. The way I see it is I’m so straight and I love women so much that I even like men who are dressed as women. Maybe I’m really a One masquerading as a Three?
I’ve only had one encounter with a transsexual. It was five in the morning and I was high and drunk out of mind downtown Toronto (Isn‘t that how every good story starts?). Actually it was a mistake. It should have been an encounter with a female prostitute but through my drunken wandering I ended up, after walking for kilometres in what is branded as--wait for it--Trannytown. The wrong side a’ tha tracks Jack. I wasn’t looking for a tranny per se but I thought what the hell I at least have to see what I’m missing. Now you have to understand that by this point I was hell bent on making it with a prostitute (a female one) and I was so horny that I just wanted to get it on with someone, anyone. Doesn’t anyone love me? I didn’t even think anything was non female about this neighbourhood until I got closer to one of the girls. Shit I saw one that looked like Gene Simmons with shaved legs.

I went up to the first passable tranny and said hi. She was white, about twenty five, blonde blue eyes, the whole package huh guys? Take her home to meet the parents and everything.

“Take a walk with me honey. You wanna get a room?” She said in a semi-fem cigarette stained voice.

“Yeah but I don’t want to pay for a room let’s just go into this alley. I just want a blow job, no sex.” I didn’t want to go all the way with this tranny, somehow I thought that would be too gay if I fucked her. If I’m just sitting back, relaxing and getting a blowjob, how gay can that possibly be?

“You sure you don’t wanna fuck the shit out of me?”

“Ah yes I’m quite sure.”

She begrudgingly agreed with a sigh and we went into a nearby alley. The sun was coming up and it was turning into a beautiful July morning. I grabbed her tits and gave them a good squeeze--what were they made of? I was like a detective. I was about to ask her but thought it would kill what constituted as a mood. At the same time I felt a pang of guilt for the people in the house right by the alleyway. What if they look out their window? They get to see a guy whacked out of his mind on booze and drugs about to get his dick sucked by a man masquerading as a women. What a world.

She unzipped my pants and got on her knees. I was starting to get excited. At this point I had long abandoned any care that this is indeed a man--I just wanted a human being to suck the poison out of my system.

She took me into her mouth and began expertly jerking and sucking my penis. Something was up though because she kept stopping and looking around nervously. Christ another tranny whore dope fiend.

“Ya know I really think if you want to continue we have to get a room.”

Again with this fucking room. I was out of my head but had enough sense to know that going to a slime ball tranny hotel full of gender bending debauchery with two grams of cocaine tucked into my sock was a bad idea.

“I am definitely NOT going to a hotel with you!” Geez what’s a guy got to do to get his rocks off in this town? And with that she got up in a huff and started to walk away. I made some futile attempt to make her stay, an “Aww shucks come on” or a “Please baby don’t leave” but what could I do but watch her walk out of my life. Parting is such sweet sorrow. In the end I was out eighty bucks and an orgasm.


After getting that horrible quasi-gay experience out of my system I feel a need to restore my impoverished masculinity. As gay as that last story was you must know that I’m incredibly hetero when it comes to my non human species relationships. I would never in my life consider getting a male cat. Ewww…that’s disgusting! And totally gay! How could I cuddle up at night with a manly furry animal? It has a penis no less! I couldn't hug and lovingly shake a male cat. No! Cuddling and kissing are for fags and grandmas.


I have French kissed some of my male friends while extremely drunk. I really only did it for shock value--it’s not like we were all alone. We were at a bar--yes, a straight bar. It seems perfectly normal to me to engage in behaviour that is repulsive just to see what’s happening on the other side of the fence.

People say that your true intentions come out while you’re drunk but that’s not true. I've dry humped a fat old bearded man while singing Dancing In The Dark during Karaoke Friday at the Jekyll and Hyde. It was not my true intention. Anything done while drunk is excusable; shit I stuck a wine bottle up my ass sans lubrication. Though I was quite intoxicated I remember the bottle incident quite well. There was a group of us in my basement after a night of boozing at the bar. It was mostly just us guys but there was one girl there--a beautiful Iranian with pouty lips and a great ass; definitely not the niqab type. She was passed out on the couch and awoke to the drunken guffaws of our rowdy gang laughing like only you can when someone spontaneously tries to stick an empty wine bottle up their ass. She had the most distinct look of horror as she awakened from her deep drunken slumber to the sight of this skinny white guy cringing as he gets a good two and a half inches of glass up his butt.

It almost became a macho thing--like fast cars or arm wrestling. All the guys were rooting for me, egging me on. “Get MORE up there Tay! Get more up there!”

Without their support I don’t think I could have forced that last half an inch up there.

Monday, July 5, 2010


When I told my mother that my trip up to Wasaga Beach would have to be put on hold for one more day I had to divulge the naughty bits. 'Yes mother I'm going on a date with someone. I met her at a strip club.'

'Oh no don't tell me she's a stripper is she?'

'Yes mother fortunately she's a stripper.'

'Oh you must be careful with her. Use protection and all.'

I always liked the way my mom used the word protection, she does it with words and without.


One day you get to a certain age and realize your birthday just doesn't have the same old gusto that it did when you were young. I woke up on my birthday this year feeling tired and vaguely unnerved. It was hot and sticky like I was covered in flytraps.

That's the one thing I remember from my birthdays of the past. It was always such a hot, humid, hazy summer day. Today was no different. A 'Triple Threat' as the Star called it. While we're on the topic of headlines I must note the Sun's brilliant monosyllabic summation of the G20 protests--'THUGS!". Almost as good as 'BASTARDS' after 9/11. But back to me...I'm so glad that my birthday is tucked nicely into summer because I wouldn't be caught dead with a toque in any of those photos thank you very much. I have a small little pea sized head and though my hair is slowly but surely jettisoning itself in a suicide pact against my beauty I still look dumber in a toque. Go figure.

So on the day of the old B-day I got up and brushed my teeth and decided what the hell I was going to do with my birthday and by extension, my life. Just fucking get it over with man make a decision and get on with it. Yeah yeah yeah I say to myself it'll happen just be patient. You know you're getting older when you just don't care about having fun anymore. Shit. You wake up and haven't got a good goddamn thing to do on your birthday. A tragedy really.

I resolved to have a few drinks at a couples place. After all, I didn't need the pageantry of a big parade just the intimacy of a couple good friends. We sat around deciding what to do with the night and then since our female companion had never seen the enirons of a strip club the two boys thought what the hell, she at least has to see what she's missing. Truth be told she was probably more excited about going than me. I don't care much for strip clubs and I've only been a handful of times in my legal aged life. I approach these establishments with an indifference; there's no romance in here! Absolutely no chance of meeting my future ex-wife in here. Or is there? I'd rather go to a shitty bar and shoot the shit.

I can't clearly remember if we went to The House of Lancaster or Club Paradise. They're both just a few steps away on Bloor St. Once inside I it doesn't matter much which place you're in though. I always hated the atmosphere in strip clubs and there's only two types of people roaming the floor...strippers looking to make a buck and crusty perverts. My sexual instincts took hold of me, eyes scanning the scantily clad ladies for a slice of heaven. Out of the strippers half were probably crack-head babies; half were normal. Who was I to know the difference? Isn't it like that at every job?

I laid eyes on this beautiful girl sitting aimlessly on a barstool staring out into the nauseating view of the club. It could be a vista of Hollywood, or a shot of some lions grazing in the Serengeti. But it wasn't. I boosted the courage to go and talk to this beauty--blond, petite with a cute face. Kind of like the singer Jewel. I assure you I could see my unborn babies in her eyes.

'Could I trouble you for a dance?' I said non chalantly.


I was led to the private dancing area. A series of three sided black boxes where the empty space of the fourth wall had live action dancing human flesh. I liked what the decorator had done with place. Even though by this point I was nearly seeing double Gia (I had my doubts but she insisted it was her real name)--was being seen in high def believe me.

I was too drunk to get an erection but that didn't stop my wallet from ejaculating all over the place. I kept paying for song after song. We got to talking and she filled me up with fake stripper charm. But you know what? I was pretty lonely and fully loaded; plus fake charm feels better than no charm at all. Gosh, at some points I was staring into her eyes and professing my need to take her out for dinner atop the 360 restaurant at the CN Tower. We'd revolve over and above the entire city and marvel at the endless human madness. I get so bloody emotional after a few too many don't I?

I told her to slap me lightly and talk dirty. She served them both up to perfection. I just couldn't pry myself from this sensuous encounter. It was like she had an instant spell on me.

After $140 I decided finally that enough was enough so I went to the bank machine to get her the money and swiped my card about 7-8 times because I was too drunk to get the damn thing to work. Jesus fucking Christ I'm swiping the thing backward forward, slow then fast then flipping it upside down then using my other hand and reversing it. It's still not working!

Finally I get to the prompt where I enter my password. Shit. What's that again?

I recovered my wits and out spewed the money. We proceeded to sit down and have a couple drinks. We were talking and having quite a good time. I got her to agree to a date. Hell I don't get these strippers, these women that straddle the line between upstanding girl and downright prostitute. She's giving me her attention and her phone number. What is this game she's playing? I know strippers are paid to be nice and make you feel special but she was letting me touch her breasts and spank her and kiss her neck. And yes it was really her phone number because I didn't believe it and called her when we were standing together towards the end of the night.

Then it was her turn to dance.

'As soon as I'm done I'm going to come back and hang out with you, okay?'

'Yeah I hope so.'

I was starting to think leaving and going back to my friends house was the best idea.

I'm sitting there alone at some B- strip club on my birthday but at least I've fallen in love with a stripper. Can you spell sucker? What ever shall I do? I'm just going to sit here and text my friend and vaguely watch her dance out of the corner of my eye. Grab the odd peak at those sweet flanks. I felt oddly powerful sitting there looking about the crowd thinking, however deluded, 'Go ahead boys, get an eyeful she's coming home with me.'

Sure enough she sat down with me after her dance. The erotic dance, which by the way, is hilarious. First of all the girls slowly levitate up out of the undergound on a rising circular disco platform. Then they go to the pole and do their dance for the hungry masses. 'Could I live with this as a boyfriend? The answer came swift and abrupt: 'Yes, if she looked like her,' I thought as I watched and texted my friend to come back to the club and have a nightcap.

We had some more drinks and some more dances, maybe $60 worth for a grand total of $200. That's a lot in my world but really how can you put a price tag on love?

The final cue came; the lights in the club were turned up, the universal sign of closing time. I worried about how my thinning hair would look in this bright intense light. Shit, nowhere to hide. She didn't seem to mind and I left with the promise to call Gia on Monday which was an agonizing 2 days away.

I woke up much more hungover than the day of my birthday and couldn't stop thinking about Gia's body and calling her the next day. How to slice up 24 hours into neatly tolerable intervals? Buy an Iced Cap and read the paper, fuck me 22.5 hours left. Slowly but inevitably the next day came and I still I couldn't get her out of my mind, the little freckles about her nose, the thighs which were smooth as butter. She had a white trash tattoo of a lurching serpent or something or other on her back. I was too drunk to remember anything worth remembing of it.

I never did get the courage to actually call but in the spirit of the times I texted her twice, once at 11:30 and once at 4:30 and she never got back to me. I employed the 5 hour text rule.

Being sober from the allure of the situation I find it so difficult to actually call her. I feel like a different person now. What is a boy to do? I simply go on like a cork bobbing on the surface of another day.