I read articles about home renovations. They've sort of replaced the "Vows" section of the New York Times as my guilty pleasure. I sit in all my renter's glory and read about people who think nothing of buying two Manhattan apartments and converting them into one (the NYT doesn't tend to profile the people who buy one Manhattan apartment and convert it into two then rent one out to a Korean family looking to open a sawmill but I'd read that article if it existed - I'm no snob).
Anyway, yesterday, having been directed to the Toronto Globe and Mail by at least FOUR people who were kind enough to send me links to the story of the Greyhound bus beheading, I got to scanning the rest of the front page and found a home renovation story. This is the home:
It was built in 1842 for Charles Whitelaw, the first mayor of Paris, Ontario (just like the original Paris, except that it's totally not). Alexander Graham Bell used to visit. I like to imagine his reaction, were he to return to visit his dear friend Charles today, and get a gander at the front hallway:
I mean, it's possible that IS Alexander Graham Bell in the ladder painting although I seem to recall him having a beard, and I doubt the man with him his Paris' first mayor, but I can't swear to that either.
It turns out the present owner of the house is a gay icon in Toronto. Perhaps had there been some mention of this SOMEWHERE in the accompanying article, the photos would have been less jarring. But even knowing this, as I now do, the decor still gets me:
I mean, does he have to remind himself he's gay? I picture him wandering into the "lounge" thinking, "Man, I got me a six-pack of Molson and the game's on tonight and... DAMN! That's right! I'm GAY."
The same might happen at dinner (that's the dining room above). Maybe he gets a little too wrapped up in talk of small engine repair or boobs (or whatever straight guys talk about at dinner), then he looks to his left and sees the white guy getting it on with the purple guy while the weird, bearded man-monkey holds an umbrella over them and he thinks, "RIGHT! I'm GAY! Gay gay gay gay gay. God. You'd think I'd know that by now." Then he chuckles self-deprecatingly and changes the subject to waxing or Mamma Mia! or whatever gay people talk about at dinner.
I can only tell you for certain what I'll be talking about at dinner for the next few weeks - the Greyhound bus beheading. Be warned.
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8 years ago