Welcome to my online portfolio, home to what I feel constitutes my best literary nonfiction, poetry, flash fiction, & photography, with links to my published work, as well as the occasional editorial or research update.
Married in North Battle-ford Saskatchewan in January 1956, My Dad was an RCMP officer and my mother was a nurse at the provincial psychiatric hospital.
Just married! Leaving to fly to the east coast and set sail on the Queen Mary to London on their honeymoon.
Mom sitting on the deck of the Queen Mary. My father was seasick the entire trip and never left the room. I'm guessing it wasn't the best honeymoon.
Mom, on the boat, stylish as usual.
My parents waited 11 years to have me. So, I guess the name Allan was inevitable. Although to retain my sense of "individuality" they spelled mine with two l's and an a. Not with an e like Dad.
Meeting Dad for the first time at 30 days old. Concerned about the rising conflict in Viet Nam, they decided Mom would return to Canada to deliver.
Patty Cake, patty cake ...
I think I was a little porker there!
Santa, aka Dad,
My yellow rubbers. Don't even say it.
Allan with his garden hose and what appears to be one full diaper.
No, it is not a doll. Well, in the traditional sense. Oh, never mind! It's a fucking doll.
"He had wanted to be a paramedic for as long as he could remember."
1'st pet, a white miniature poodle named Frisky. 20 years later, I would jokingly remind them that buying me a small, white, fluffy dog, was the sole reason why I was gay.
What the hell am I wearing?
My birthday, no idea which it was, but this was one of two times I remember my grandmother from Edmonton visiting us.
12, and lucky enough to be the water boy for the Canadian Olympic basketball team. One of the perks when your father is executive director of Basketball Canada.
The unfortunate grade 7 year. Grew 3 inches, hair turned frizzy, needed braces, and started getting zits.
Oh, and the unfortunate habit I developed of smelling my armpits in class, hyper concerned over the potential of BO. Add all those things up, well, it made for not my best year.
In Barbados. Don't I look thrilled. I think I was pissed off because the heat was making my hair turn frizzy.
Grade 8 grad. Things were starting to come around. But still had that damn curly hair!
Tenth grade and happily well out of the awkward stage.
18, final year of high school, and just coming out to friends.
Cut to age 20, and I was in every way your terminally preppy, carefree second year university student. Yeah, I miss those days.
Home from university in the late 80's.
At the airport leaving for my first overseas paramedic job at a mountain climbing base camp in Central Asia.
Home from grad school at UCLA in the early nineties for Dad's birthday.
With Dad, visiting extended family in Edmonton in the late 90's.
The week I got Singher from the pound in September of 2000.
David, my first partner at 25. This was the front page of the invitation we sent out for his 50'th.
Roughly a year before he died.
Mom and I at the National Museum Of Canada.
The entire time I lived at home, Mom never ventured farther into the pool than she is there. I finally said to hell with it, she was going to learn, and I taught her to swim over the summer when I was home from school.
Mom and Dad with Singher in Toronto.
Singher wrapped in a towel after Mom had given her a bath with milk soap. Spoiled rotten every time.
Dad in Greece wearing some unfortunate and disconcertingly tight shorts.
Mom looking great at 77, a year before she lost her battle to cancer.