Lawn Bowling

My dear friend Chessy [Yiddishe for Caitlin] the original RosedAlian has recently migrated from the family home on Binscarth to Davisville Village. Here she has alligned herself with the local lawn bowling club, established 1928. I'm still not quite sure what lawn bowling is - but I'm pretty sure it's about as gentry as you can get in Canada without going duck hunting with a member of the Eaton family up in Caledon.

This weekend Chessy roped a bunch of us to spend the afternoon power sanding, power washing and power painting. Power bottom jokes went unnoticed by this crowd of private schoolies and National Post writer's. Gay? I spent most of the day leering at one of Chessy's sisters friends (established 1986) whom in my mind was a repressed Upper Canada old boy waiting for an older man to show him the joys of gay sex... Chessy said I could day dream; just not touch. Sigh. He was wearing a polo and madras shorts... I'm only human.

A friend called me while I was the club, "You're lawn bowling? I didn't know Jews lawn-bowled."
"We don't."
"So why you going?"
"Same reason I go to the Toronto Lawn."
"Find a man?"
"Yup. Where else can I meet my gaygetz?"
"Maybe your WASP boyfriend doesn't lawnbowl?"

Embracing my weekend of extremes I attended a fundraiser for the Sex Professional Workers of Canada on Sunday evening. Bitches are unionizing and if you thought CUPE Local 4400 was militant, I suggest you talk to an angry transvestite prostitute. She knows pain; over paid transit workers, not so much.

As I waited, awkwardly, for my friend to arrive, as videos of boys jerking off played in the background I looked down had a Marisa Tomei, in My Cousin Vinnie moment. Really... did I have to wear a lacoste polo, cardigan and loafers? Contemplating what exactly is the correct outfit to wear to a fundraiser for sex workers I realized that at the end of the day - you can take the boy out of the village, but you can't take the village out of the boy.