Saturday, 6 August 2022

Bullet Train is

fabulous. I had not discovered David Leitch, now I understand that he is responsible for a bunch of action movies, including Atomic Blonde, which I sort of enjoyed, but Bullet Train is a thing-in-itself — kinda what a work of art should be; it creates it’s own world that does not abide by the rules of ours (see, Adorno), and is in it’s own way as mysterious and fantastical than the construct we live in, only different. Part of the charm is Brad Pitt being Brad Pitt which is just sweet, and honest, and of course good-lookin' to boot, and with a wry sense of humour that lies at the heart of the movie. Bullet Train is almost camp (it’s not pathetic enough) but when all this damn woke stuff is over, Bullet Train will be in The Criterion Collection; as it can be appreciated merely from a visual point of view. It all takes place in Japan, and Leitch is obviously in love with the place — and why wouldn’t you be? A friend of mine went there many years ago, and he came back moaning over another universe of sight and colour and sound, of intense confrontation with fanciful images and bright lights and music, a literal bombardment of the senses. Leitch takes full advantage of this, especially when he has an anime character (I think that’s what it is)  that is performing for children on the train — start killing people. ‘Alright!’ I can hear you saying, ‘With all the violence and mass killings what do we need with another ‘shoot-out’ movie?’ But Leitch is making a statement here, about — not so much pro-gun politics — in fact Bullet Train is not about that at all — but about masculinity. Saying this movie is ‘pro-violence’ is like saying The Taming of the Shrew is about the subjection of women (which it is not — see my upcoming book from Guernica  Editions: Shakespeare Lied). Bullet Train will be vilified — and already has been, on Rotten Tomatoes — and for good reason, as it is anti-everything you believe in right now, i.e. an excessively feminine culture that is smothering us. I don’t have anything against femininity; I’m very feminine and a drag queen. But I take things from femininity that soften me and make me (or they once did) — for a few moments, lovely —i.e. vulnerability, generosity of spirit, beauty, flirtatiousness. What woke culture has taken from the ‘feminine’ is victim politics — and all this is coming as close to wrecking civilization as anything since the Goths took down the Roman Empire (see my upcoming production of Titus Andronicus at Red Sandcastle Theatre). For me the penultimate moment —and the moment when Leitch’s not so hidden agenda became gleamingly transparent is when Pitt is killing a woman — a woman, who by the way is no victim and can certainly take care of herself, and who has been doing quite a good job of fighting him off so far— and is chatting with her about something (it doesn’t matter what) and he apologizes — as she is expiring — and says “Oh sorry, I’m ‘mansplaining.’ For those with a sense of irony — and I know there are not many of us left — this moment might be taken in two ways (which is what makes it so witty) Leitch could be very possibly suggesting that mansplaining literally kills women (which I’m sure to some degree it does) or he could be making fun of woke sensitivity politics. The second is more likely though, because Pitt plays a recently psychoanalyzed assassin who is trying to be more ‘sensitive,’ It’s kind of Tony Soprano’s dilemma writ large, as caricature, but Pit makes it totally believable as he mumbles to his operative on a mic buried in his ear that “I’m really trying to work on things, to realize that another window is always opening, oh sorry, is that a door?” his obsession with the accurate semantics used to describe each new step in his quest for mental stability marks him as a student of wokeism. He is a little man, in a funny hat, trying to get in touch with his feelings; (we’ve all met them) but it’s tough because people keep trying to kill him, including some women. One might be tempted to call this, or me (in this blog) misogynist (Christine Blizzard certainly did many years ago, when I hosted s/m sex parties at Buddies in Bad Times Theatre which were in fact for women — i.e. dykes —  but that didn’t stop her) but remember women don't own femininity. However I assure you I am not a misogynist, just as I am not anti-trans. I am however anti ‘victim politics.’ For what woke has done is take this one aspect of trans theory and feminism, and utilize it daily as cudgel to batter us with. The result is, for instance, that you are not allowed to say anyone is beautiful anymore, literally, unless they are ugly.  ‘Beautiful’ as in a 1984-ish nightmare has come to mean ‘deserving of my charitable attention’ and the word ‘ugly’ is simply not allowed, unless of course it is hurled at someone like me who dares to suggest that there is such a thing as beauty (see my last blog). My boyfriend and I saw this ugly boy dancing in the window of a store during Montreal Pride, and my boyfriend said ‘I really don’t want to see that.’ Are we cruel fags? Yes, but life is cruel. God has programmed all of us to be sexually attracted to healthy-looking people -- not unhealthy- looking ones (see: Darwin), it’s not our fault.  Bullet Train is a movie that sneers at sensitivity, and this is the kind of movie we really need right now, when we are drowning in hurt feelings. If you can laugh out loud at it, like I did, then you are still —despite it all — somewhat human.

 

Thursday, 4 August 2022

My therapist told

me that I have to remember the good sex I have -- which sounds stupid but in fact it might be an absolutely necessary component of my future mental health. This is, of course, where it gets complicated and embarrassing -- because I have to admit that I am still very attracted to beautiful young men. This fault is characteristic of a gay writer who I admire very much -- but I don’t necessarily admire this fault in him. Anyway, Tennesee Williams is supposed to have once said that he needed to ejaculate on the chest of a beautiful young man regularly in order to be truly happy. It doesn’t really matter where I ejaculate, or even if I ejaculate, but I do need to be naked with a beautiful young man now and then. I know, this is something you fully expected, and it makes me a gay stereotype, and it probably disgusts, or saddens, or disappoints you. Too bad. I couldn’t care less. I don’t judge you do I? I don’t care what you do in bed, really I don’t. The difference of course is that I tell you about what I do. But everything I write here is lies, don’t believe a word I say, because it’s all from my point of view, just like your notion that your sex life is somehow more mature or better or more stable than mine -- is also a fanciful construct of your abundant imagination -- which you have a regrettable habit of referring to as either ‘intelligence’ or even just as ‘the truth,’ Anyway, today's blog is an exercise assigned by my therapist -- and if you are erotically or psychologically inclined, you might find it interesting. Not that I care. I don’t care if you are not interested in what I have to say but I do want you to be interested -- and I suspect you are, even if you feel guilty about it. So, back to beautiful young men. Well I can’t seem to get naked with a lot of beautiful young men in Toronto. There are certain logistical reasons for this, and also some practical ones, i.e. I am rather old and not as desirable as I once was, and also in Toronto, I was — as of four years ago — once again, regrettably terribly infamous (I get infamous every few years for just being ‘me’ — don't ask me why, it just seems to happen). But in Montreal these disadvantages don’t factor in. Why not? I mean I'm just as old and unattractive here. Well perhaps more younger men fancy older ones in Montreal than Toronto, I don’t know. I do hang out at a great bathhouse here: that could be it. (And yes I’ve had the damned monkeypox vaccine -- but I’m not getting another one! Jesus. Are you nuts? How many vaccines are we supposed to get? And why is there no information about all this? I have been vaccinated against both monkeypox and smallpox-- so why do I need another vaccine? And there aren’t enough vaccines to go around anyway, so-). So this last week in Montreal there have been three beautiful  young men, who I will tell you about here, so I can finally stop counting. Yes I count. When I get back to Toronto I will be saying things like ‘I haven’t had sex with a beautiful young man for a month!’ And other stupid shit. I know, (I’m a very sad person.) But if I look back at this blog I will remember that I am desirable and that a beautiful young man will -- and does always -- cum my way at some point. Sometimes they even cum in droves. Anyway, the first one was Arab, at least he looked very Arab, and yet his name was Melvin. I don’t know what to say about him except he had beautiful brown skin and I sent him out of my room at the baths after awhile, because I got tired of choking on 'it' (I presume you know what ‘it’ is) as I occasionally do, but he kept coming back -- and then I would choke some more, and then we got into other things. And he was remarkable versatile, and just very nice to be with, in bed. Sensitive. The next night was crazy. I wasn’t drunk (which is unusual) and there were two boys in the room beside me — one tall and thin and hairy and another -- well he was just a beautiful blonde punk. I got into a bit of a threesome with them -- but of course it was the blonde punk I really wanted. He came into my room later, and I did very nasty things him which I won’t go into here.  But I will say, he was very good at moaning like a porn star -- as if every bit of pain I inflicted on him brought him nothing but the deepest pleasure. I’m sure it was all an act but he was so pretty! And I got to kiss him on the mouth! And he was a very good at whatever that performance was he was doing. Finally, there was last night's offering. A tall willowy brunette was lurking outside ay room --  and he was so slender, and so extremely tall, that one would have expected him to have a gigantic you-know-what, but he didn’t, but who cares, as he had a classically kind of beauty --a straight-jawed handsome face - and I was aching to kiss him, and when he ejaculated, his balls were nestled in my hand. (How’s that for explicit?) And he was grateful to me -- which is a strange turn of events -- as I am usually the grateful one, or expected to be, or whatever. So I must remember this; that a kiss is much more than a kiss. And that beauty will come my way again. I believe in that 'Oprah Mantra'— if you imagine it, it will come, that is -- in your face, or on your chest, or between your thighs, or inside your 'nether regions.' So I appeal to you! Imagine it! You can create your own reality. I do it regularly here.


Monday, 1 August 2022

It’s natural we

might feel a yearning for the lockdowns of the past; that indeed we might long for their return. There was something in that certainty, What did it bring us? Paradoxically -- for the vast majority of us --  it brought an escape from death. Before COVID-19 there was old age, and then we expired. Then suddenly, it was not right for old people to die. Old people are people too you know. And you can save them. You can save your parents, If only you get the vaccine, wear the mask. Never before in the history of mankind did we have an official, foolproof, universally endorsed antidote to death. Wear a mask, follow the rules, don’t touch, don’t whisper 'sweet nothings', don’t love — unless you love from afar. Then you will be safe. Perfectly safe. You will not die. How could you? You have been so good. Then there was the moral certainty too, Christianity promised us heaven, but COVID-19 — for the ones who followed the rules — brought a kind of paradise in life. It was so, so reassuring to know that not only were we safe — that we would not expire — but we were such perfectly good perople! There were so many —  of course —so many — the evil ones — who didn’t execute the rites perfectly (remember: you must sing the entire Happy Birthday song when you wash, if you want to live!), those who didn’t wear the mask — or God forbid, didn’t get vaccinated. And one couldn’t help wishing a little bit for their passing, because -- when the microphones were shoved into their deathbeds -- they were so stubbornly obstinate in their denial, so much so, that, we, well, dared to imagine that they deserved it. Not like us. We cared for our fellow men and women, and all others -- of all diverse genders — we were not only good but so much better than the rest, the careless uncaring ones. And finally there was the COVID-19 lifestyle -- itself a reassuring confirmation of the lives we had always longed for. It was always so much more comfortable being cocooned at home, clicking on social media and demonizing others. We were right, and safe, and there were so many bad people who  pranced around in the so-called real world, screwing each other and being politically incorrect — it was so reassuring to denounce them. For surely the only true friends are online friends? Not like people who we meet in cafes or bars or in the schoolroom or office -- people who might betray you — with a glance or a touch.  Surely our real friends (and enemies!) live in other continents, other worlds — you caress and revile them with a tweet, and Facebook them, people who are anywhere but near, who cannot invade your space, who you never see, really, except virtually. It’s so much better to  cuddle up with our pillows and stuffed animals and the Facebook pages of our very best best friends. And we can eat and drink and smoke, and even take our favourite mind expanding drugs, i.e. indulge in whatever vices are at hand —- what, after all, does it matter, when we are being such good people, and are so safe? There is nothing to match that matchless ecstasy. Even now so many cannot stop wearing masks, they know the air must still be infected (we saw those droplets on television; the horrid live animations — the spreading of the disease — and we saw the molecule itself,so ugly and hairy and spiked, poised to kill). So nowadays you often find yourself getting sick again — It’s called ‘rebound’ now -- and it is with a twinge of nostalgia that we nowadays succumb yet again to the mild illnesses that characterize the heavily vaccinated. And yes, we still work from home and are suspicious of those who venture into the public square with abandon —  but most of we are suspicious of their touch. Is it no wonder COVID-19 returns again and again! For some just won't stop touching each other, shaking hands, and God knows what else! That fear will be with us forever. And is that a bad thing, really? Monkeypox is not quite so satisfying; it does not kill -- in fact rarely does so -- and we so loved the fear of Covid, just so that we might be delivered from it. Sure. Monkeypox does have the horrific sores and the social stigma — they are in fact like 'stigmata' those horrible wounds — called lesions — that mark the 'men who have sex with men' (we don’t call them homosexuals anymore), those who live for pleasure. It is a kind of 'Mark of Cain,' for we know that it is the bad ones who get it, the ones who touch too much, the ones who are libertines, careless and unloving. The WHO has warned us that  Monkeypox may terrorize the whole world the way AIDS did. This all comes from AIDS actually; it was from AIDs we first learned of this special, paralyzing fear, and of hiding, and how to separate the good from the bad, and what it felt like not to be a pariah when the pariahs are cursed with death. Of course they have commercials on television for AIDS drugs these days that claim to keep the victims alive and keep them 'uninfectious' (!). But we know this cannot be true, we know what is right and who is good, and the dreaded speckled monkeypox hand will strike them down, those who dare to touch each other anonymously, deep into the night. It’s safe here. And we will  live forever -- in our imaginations — because it is only the real world that lies.  Our imaginations tell the truth. They always have and always will. Because it is from the imagination that we first learned the possibility that we might live forever.

Friday, 29 July 2022

I never thought

 I would bother to write about some dumb Netflix action movie. But dumb movies need love to, and truly entertaining dumb movies are hard to find. I’m talking about old fashioned values here - i.e. not going nuts from boredom. I noticed The Gray Man the way I notice everything on Rotten Tomatoes — any movie that gets called ‘limp’ by the critics but has a 90% audience rating  deserves to be noticed. Let’s say the silent part out loud; Ryan Gosling is the new James Bond — the movie hints at this when he tells someone his secret agent number is ‘6’ and then adds casually ‘You know — 007 was already taken.’ Right.  What does it take to be a true action hero? It means being a great actor, which Ryan Gosling is, while at the same time oozing accidental sex appeal. Keanu Reeves (John Wicks) has only his personal appeal; whereas Gosling can actually act sex appeal; but paradoxically, whereas Keanu Reeves, is, I would argue, studiedly masculine (He’s gay isn’t he? I mean who is that old lady he calls his girlfriend?) Gosling is ‘effortlessly masculine’ -- meaning you just want to lick whatever he’s got. On top of that, Gosling makes us believe he’s a nice guy — which he may not be. But it’s not just Gosling, it’s the script — which is actually warm and witty and has real characters who you get to know, and you want to see them again and again. The action in a good action movie must make sense, you must care about what’s happening, not just think it’s ‘cool.’ So why, if this movie is the new James Bond movie in disguise, is it getting bad reviews?  Well — right now Hollywood is probably working very hard to create the new, official James Bond hero — probably a woman, non-white, and politically correct. Meanwhile the Russo Brothers (who everyone seems to hate for some reason) snuk The Next James Bond Movie onto Netflix and the critics are mad, but the public is ecstatic. I remember when I used to read the Ayn Rand Newsletter (didn’t you know that about me?) and Rand used to love James Bond. She talked about some poor hapless guy (Rand was always talking about poor hapless guys who approached her with idiotic questions) who said — ‘If James Bond opens a bottle for a girl, he always does it perfectly, but if I do it, I might mess it up. I could never be James Bond, so what’s the point?” Rand aptly pointed out that if James Bond did not pop his cork in precisely the correct manner it wouldn’t matter to him, so it wouldn’t matter to the girl either. In other words a hero is not perfect, he just makes others believe he is. This is fiction, not real life, and definitely not therapy. And no, it’s not about seeing yourself ‘represented’ up there, it’s the opposite of seeing yourself, because you are a bumbling fool and always will be. There’s no hope for you, me, or any of us, so we must see visions that are not in any way like us, i.e. Caliban who is half fish half human, or Miranda who has never seen a man before and is dangerously impressed by Ferdinand. This is fiction folks, and fiction does not teach because there must be no lessons in art. If you are a better person after reading that book or seeing that play, it is not because of ‘the message’ — but because great art has it’s source in the imagination of a person in touch with something very deep, and offers you an alternative reality which you might as well not necessarily strive for  — because you will never achieve it -- because life is dull, tragic, painful and pointless.  But this alternative reality may redeem you nonetheless. The fact that The Gray Man can’t get a completely good review anywhere — although it is an entertainment masterpiece — is a big problem. I mean you know me by now, don’t you? I desperately need to be entertained, and I am trying to do that right now — trying to keep myself from slashing my wrists on the bus on the way back to Hamilton after an uninspiring rehearsal of a play that is going to need a lot fo work. And yes I found the cat on the porch this morning (when we came back from signing that stupid piece of paper for the lawyer). How did she get out of the house? She’s not supposed to ever leave, because she’s not an outdoor cat, she’s a housecat with no front claws. Yes, that’s the brutal truth. Yes, we tortured her in that particular way, we allowed a sadistic vet (one of the only ones left who will still do it) to pull out her claws because we were selfish enough to want to keep her as well as our furniture. But as she has a tiny cat brain she loves us anyway, and after we accidentally let her out of the house this morning, there she was, chewing on a leaf, and soon after docilely submitting to being taken in. This is reality; a cat on the porch and facing your own cruelty for defanging her; it is a tale told with sound and fury signifying nothing. So when we get a chance to see something sublime (and I mean that in the Edmund Burke definition of the word — both beautiful and frightening simultaneously) it is incumbent on us to submit. Submission is highly underestimated — though it is much valued by Muslims, who made it their religion. I advise you to submit yourself to art, to the imagination, to wit, to beauty, to yes —entertainment — to senseless fictional violence, to the unknown — to all that is not real and beyond life. I don’t know how I arrived at that particular idea, but it it was The Gray Man that took me here. Odd as that sounds.

Thursday, 21 July 2022

I finally figured

 out what drives me crazy about Starbucks. It’s not just that they’re all 'Woke Folk' (though they are) it’s that they’re having so much damn fun. It always irks me when the waiting staff at a restaurant is having more fun than I am. I mean they may frolic privately — but they should hide it, because their job is to serve you so that you will have fun. They are not the pleasure seekers but the purveyors of pleasure, and as such they should remain polite but silent. Strolling into any Starbucks is like attending a trans birthday bash in somebody's private home, all 'The Young Wokies' are whipping out their politically correct ‘isms, cooing their pet names at each other and sharing private inscrutable 'Woke Jokes.' Sorry guys. but I should be the one partying, not you. This used to drive me crazy years ago when I first 'came out.' It was fashionable then, to eat at Bemelmen's on Bloor. Of course all the waiters were gay, and probably screwing each other in the washrooms or the kitchen, and having a grand old gay time. And here I was, young and unsure of my new gay self, and as yet, unlaid, as I was finding it impossible to navigate the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I resented those waiters terribly and even imagined they were laughing at me. (They probably were, as I sported an unruly curly mop top in those days, very unfashionable, which it took me nearly ten years to shave off so that I might morph into a respectable, if not exceedingly attractive, faggot.) If all this may strike you as classist, it is. I inherited it from my mother who was dastardly to all waiterly persons, in fact to any staff anywhere. Especially cab drivers. She considered all working people her private servants, and  treated them with the utmost disdain. One time she was in Port Elgin (she had followed an abusive man there; he wore 'transition lenses' — never trust anyone who wears those) and she was out in a taxi with her friend in some 'hell-and-gone' byway outside Port Elgin. Well, she started yelling at the cab driver and he (good for him) threw her and her friend out into a field in the middle of nowhere, and promptly disappeared (needless to say my mother and her friend survived). In restaurants with her I wanted to hide my head in shame because she was always browbeating some hapless waiter or other. I wanted to whisper  —“I’m sorry, even though she is my mother I know she’s a relentless bitch!’” The reason she was so classist is because she was working class -- her father was a farmer (my grandfather died young, mysteriously, in a barn fire) and my grandmother was a single mother and a teacher with no money. Because my mother (before she met my middle class father) spent most of her life struggling to make ends meet it was absolutely necessary for her to pretend she was rich, and to condescend to the 'little people.' For awhile she lived at The Sutton Place i.e. in a hotel. The moral of this (yet another tale of my mother) is that those who are most classist are often those from humble beginnings, as it is incumbent on them to shroud their origins in mystery. Noel Coward was such a person; he was born in a working class suburb and his father used to demonstrate organs in an organ store (sounds filthy doesn’t it?). Noel changed his accent, dressed up (but not too much, as he didn’t want to appear effeminate) and fooled most of the world into believing he was very upper class indeed -- which explains his affection for Princess Margaret and The Royals. Just a poor boy trying tomake good, and incidentally lying-- like a very fancy Persian rug. Noel Coward was the quintessential homosexual and always will be. Most gay men aspire to be like straights, and to be loved by them. Ever since gay marriage there’s been a kind of epidemic of this (though I’ve heard the the young are rejecting gay marriage, and I do hope so.) All this explains why you hate homosexuals so much. I know, I certainly do. (At last, the cats out of the bag, of course, I’m homophobic!) Most gay men are odious, pretentious, and repellent. But wouldn’t you be too -- if you’d gone through what they have? They resemble what James Joyce used to call ‘the New Irishman.’ These detestable men made a performance of not drinking and not being carefree and imaginative, but instead posed as down-to-earth, respectable citizens. Joyce found these ‘new’ Irishmen alarmingly pompous and wished them all dead. I must say I sometimes feel the same way about my own kind. Gay men are not effeminate because they take it up the ass, but because they are prissy, purse-lipped and uptight. They are the very definition of hypocrisy.“I draw the line there,” they say -- "I will be pissed upon but no one defecates on me!” Well, La-te-da. When Christopher Newton was my lover many years ago (I’m trying to impress you now) he  educated me in table manners -- as he said I would someday be invited to grand gay houses fro dinner.  Needless to say I wasn't. I still chow down in my own way, thank you, and have no illusions about it. And of course, I’m not talking about food. 

Wednesday, 20 July 2022

It’s not true,

really. That is, nothing is — and that’s the point. I haven’t written a lot of blogs, probably won’t write a lot more, mainly because I was traumatized by COVID — too many blogs — I wrote one every day and my life depended on them. My God, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in the heart of Leslieville and I don’t know if I can stand it here, the neighborhood is so bloody privileged and white and oh dear. Three girls trashed me in this Starbucks last week for walking too slow (i.e. arthritis). I told them to fuck off. They were three pretty, conceited, well-off girls and I just wanted to kill them. I said I was disabled and they had the gall to argue back— JESUS. The atmosphere in this Starbucks is incredibly toxic, everyone is super nice but at the same time totally poised to get into a fight about identity politics. And there are so many white people with babies. And so many nauseatingly perfect homosexuals. I just want to scream; but I’ll write this instead. Anyway, I have a bad taste in my mouth about blogs, after Covid-19. Strange, as I was fine after having my life somewhat destroyed by The Vivek Shraya Blog — or thought I was  fine— but it was writing movie blogs everyday during COVID that really did me in. I felt like a word whore, a literary prostitute; I was writing just to get through the day. But also what’s the point of expressing your opinions anymore? People are so generally hateful and eager to dismiss you as evil. Civil discourse is over as far as I’m concerned, so I try and keep my discourses uncivil. Like this. I wish it were a poem so I’ll try and make it more like one. I haven’t kissed a really pretty boy barely half my age — in at least a month — and it’s driving me crazy. I know I’m old and mouldy and to top it all off I’ve been suffering an arthritis attack (hence the slowness) which means I’m even scarier to the young than I usually am. Oh yes, I quite forgot (not to suddenly go all British on you!) but my therapist recently suggested that I need to not expect too much of myself anymore as I am aging. I know it sounds horrible but she’s right. In other words life just isn’t the way it was before; I’m not the centre of all things, and shouldn’t expect to be, and I should enjoy my anonymity and my work, as there is no need to get anywhere, I should just feel damn lucky that I’m still alive and have enough money to live on. Oh, by the way, can you believe all this hysteria about the two little black girls who were ignored by a mascot at a Sesame Street Theme Park? I mean yes, I would totally sympathize if it was a real human being that had purposefully ignored two black girls. But a mascot? My sister actually makes mascots (I hope she does’t mind me mentioning her) so I feel I have some sort of affinity with them. Sometimes I feel like a mascot, bobbing my way through life trying to make a good impression — but not really connecting — you know? Also a very dear friend of mine was once Polkaroo. He’s very tall and the costume fit.  (Also I was the genie in Dudley the Dragon once, and I had to act with a mascot-like creature, i.e. Dudley, which was weird.) I mean I know mascots are not real people. There are really people in them, but those real people are also trying to navigate a contraption, with fans on, and without really being able to see. And the person hiding in the ‘racist’ mascot claims that the mascot was not being racist, but just couldn’t see the girls because they were so short. That certainly makes sense to me, and I’m actually more worried about the mama of the girls turning them into professional victims by telling them that ‘Rosita’ ignored them because they were black. Let me tell you something, it’s probably better in the long run for children to come to terms with the fact that mascots may never notice you. Feeling depressed because a mascot won’t hug you is a bit like saying  “I saw Robert De Niro’ in The Godfather when I was very depressed. Yet he just refused to sympathize — and went on about The Mafia!” On the other hand what I do approve of, is that these little children obviously believe that 'Rosita,' a fictional character, really exists. I too believe that fictional characters exist. I have been reading novels by Stella Gibbons (of Cold Comfort Farm fame) and I’m telling you every one of Gibbons’ plucky little heroines is me. I live their anxiety with them, and I am obsessed with whether or not the beautiful boys they love will love them back.  If you think it’s odd that a 70 year old Doctor of Philosophy (i.e. me) imagines himself a teenage girl now and then — well get used to it. I never had a proper adolescence. This morning I was reading  Margaret Mead who was talking about the Polynesian Islanders sending their teenagers into little huts to experiment sexually when they reach adolescence --yet there were no unwanted pregnancies, and the kids turned into  happier adults than you or I. I never had my gay adolescence when I was supposed to — so I still want boys to notice me, and I’m still mortally wounded when they don’t. (Sigh!) Maybe that's why I shouldn’t write blogs. They become embarrassingly personal, as it’s useless to try and convince you of an actual idea anymore — as you’re all so set in your ways and resistant to thought. So all I can hope for is to send you a postcard from my reality, which, like any postcard, will be wacky, sad, and a little confusing. “Having a great time. (I think!) Wish you were here! Oh by the way, who are you?"


Tuesday, 19 July 2022

THE FORGIVEN is

a gorgeous film by John Michael McDonagh — Martin MacDonagh’s brother (Seven Psychopaths). But it will die an ignominious death -- killed by the cowardly, politically correct critics that would have it be something it is not. You see, because The Forgiven a film about decadent colonials in the desert, it, must, necessarily, be about how horrible white people are. But the critics have decided the white people in this particular flick are not bad enough. Generally the film is being damned with faint praise — “it has nothing fresh or insightful to say about the ugliness of white privilege. It’s like attending a weekend bacchanal and forgetting what happened once Monday morning rolls around, or perhaps not wanting to remember.” The Forgiven is ‘decadent,’ which means that people drink, and take drugs, and have sex (in excess) something which we prefer to pretend ceased after Covid-19, or after AIDS — or whenever it was that we all became so bloody self-righteous. The Forgiven has been accused of homophobia because the director is evidently “saying something by making two gay lovers the story’s most conspicuous embodiments of neocolonialist excesses.” Right. Sure, much of the action takes place at a semi-orgy hosted by gay couple Matt Smith (Smith is the new Neil Patrick Harris — see: Mobius) and Caleb Landry Jones (who must be gay, because he has no personal life on Wikiipedia). I for one, am ecstatic to welcome a decadent gay couple once again to the silver screen! Not since Michael York and Helmet Griem in Cabaret have we seen the likes of 'em! I’m so tired of  gay film couples who are mixed-race, married, living in the suburbs, adopting twins -- and who  have to unctuously deal with that homophobic/racist pa -- and one is a teacher and the other is a cop. And they don’t drink or swear, or do anything interesting. So, like — where’s the fisting? I have no problem with movies or plays that represent gay men as drunk, and/or stoned, and sex-crazy, and promiscuous, as that’s so, dare I say it — true to life! But apparently faggots in movies these days must be squeaky clean. And then there is the one moment — I kind of relished it, because I know people will necessarily be scandalized— belonging to  Ralph Fiennes (I forgot to mention he plays the leading character; a very sweet yet detestable man who kills an Arab child by accident, and then spends the rest of the movie paying for it). Well Fiennes goes on about how Morocco is the destination ‘vackay’ for ‘pederasts,’ citing Allen Ginsberg. (Unfortunately the word ‘pederast’ has been made meaningless by Christians who throw it around like an old football. They insist, for instance that Joe Biden is a pederast. Whaaaa?) But I don’t think Allen Ginsberg was a pederast. No, no, he was an epheberast, which is something quite different. In  case you don’t know what ‘epheberast’ means, it’s someone who falls in love with teenagers. You won’t find a definition online because of the prevalent societal hypocrisy. The whole of western culture is ardently epheberastic — it started with James Dean,  and climaxed, for many I’m sure quite literally -- with Miley Cyrus’ saucy twerks. And Fiennes’ character in The Forgiven, after all, is speaking the truth somewhat. Gay men who live in uptight western countries have, historically gone to Morocco to dally with gorgeous and very willing Moroccan boys. (You see sex before marriage is forbidden in Muslim culture, ergo, the ‘love that dares not speak its name’ flourishes. Homosexuality in fact flourishes anywhere the ‘powers that be’ forbid young men to touch young women — so, also in the city of Naples, and in the U.S. prison system.) Yes. I knew two quite celebrated epheberasts who loved Morrocco. They were both also quite prominent figures in the Canadian literary world: Bill Glassco and Scott Symonds. I can talk about them now, because they’re both dead (though occasionally dead hands do rise from the grave to grapple with me). I was told that Glassco had a house in Morocco -- by his fellow epheberast Scott Symonds  —when Scott visited me once. That was a debacle. I was sitting at home minding my own business when Scott knocked on the door and said “I’m Scott Symonds, and you’re Sky Gilbert, and we definitely should meet.” So I let him in. We talked for a bit about how repressed Canadian culture was, and then for some reason he ended up in my bedroom all by himself (I think he asked 'if he could see it') and when I came back with our iced teas (or whatever I was getting for him) I found he had slipped one of my porn videos into the VCR and was masturbating. I had to kick him out. But that’s another story. Anyway, The Forgiven tells it like it is, daring to see both white colonialists and Moroccan muslims as human beings — as flawed but still sympathetic, and the film kind kind of equates the two cultures. This is its fatal flaw, as presently right and left wing enthusiasts would have us see Muslims and Christians as irreconcilably different. Sorry to be the bearer of paradoxical tidings, but we’re all human, and kinda loveable  — that is, when we’re not being hateful — whether we are Muslims, Christians or just decadent fags.