Saturday, 1 January 2022

We love Digitalcapitalism,

 there’s no two ways about it. It is the way of the future; it’s all about convenience and pornography. Basically we all love pornography and we all love convenience and everything is to be sacrificed on the alter of that. Digitalcapitalism -- i.e. Amazon, Google, Apple, Meta, Instagram and Tiktok etc. -- all know this.  If you once imagined that the digital world was a place to learn, expand your horizons, or open your mind to new ideas well forget it. Now that capitalism has a hold of the digital world, your computer has become immoral — or perhaps amoral is a better word. The worldwide web is now fundamentally corrupt. Don’t get me wrong I’ve got nothing against capitalism, except that we like to think of it as inherently ‘good.’ Capitalism is not good, or noble -- it is simply greedy and pragmatic. As long as we remember this we will do just fine. When we imagine capitalism is good for us or has noble intentions we are sauntering down a dark road. Digital ads these days suggest that living salespersons in stores are trying to corrupt you; you are safer online. (This is similar to the myth that education is  better online; a toxic idea -- we know that now after trapping the kids in online education during COVID.) It started with the CARVANA ads. CARVANA ads make fun of car salesmen suggesting they are sleazy, pressuring liars. This is supposedly unlike online shopping for cars—where you will be treated honestly and not pressured. (Right!) Now you will find this notion everywhere; apparently going out to a store to buy something is automatically a nightmare, immediately a phalanx bevy of greasy manipulative sales people will descend on you and perhaps physically attack you in order to force you to buy. But online, of course -- you can make independent decisions without pressure. (So true, eh?) Digitalcapitalism is working towards the day when you don’t even have to point your phone at a cash register; there will be chips in our brains and if we think about a product or service long enough we will have bought it. It will all be magical, fantastical, and oh so convenient and filthy as hell. Because don’t forget pornography—  the motivating force behind Digitalcapitalism. You think I exaggerate. Well  my boyfriend gave me TIkTok as a gift last Christmas -- just to keep me aware (I’m very old you see, and these things are liable to pass me by). I watched it for 45 minutes— that was more than enough. I soon realized that I could have watched it all day. And then I realized that the more I watched it — the more shirtless cute boys kept appearing, over and over. I talked to a young straight guy about TikTok and he said: ‘I hate it, but I’m on it all the time’— this is akin to the way a heroin addict might talk about his needle. TikTok is Brave New World’s ‘Soma,’ we feel alive and fascinated even though we are actually being hypnotized by the flashing lights and appealing skin reveal, until we will eventually become immune to real human emotion and real life in general. Anyway the young straight guy I talked to said that he had noticed that a lot of cute girls were showing up on his TikToks, I said ‘well that’s pornography.’ Digitalcapitalism can read your mind, and unless you’re half-dead — and even some half-dead people still seem capable of getting vaguely horny — you want to see flesh, because we all respond —whether we are in denial or not — to physical beauty. It doesn’t matter how many times we’ve been told that beauty is only skin deep and that we are all truly deeply interested in the inner person not the outer, we are biologically programmed to respond to tits, ass and dick. Period. That’s what computers are about really; a hugely efficient delivery system for an entirely private voyeurism; when we open that computer we filled with tingling expectation  because we know that there is the possibility we might just accidentally see some human nakedness somewhere; we may pretend we are looking at celebrity photos or family photos or reading gossip — it is all really soft core pornography because ultimately it’s just there for us to wank off to really, in one way or another. I must admit that I have tended to get furious lately about  the young and their addiction to Digitalcapitalsm, but I recently chatted with a very philosophical friend of mind who calmed me down. He is a brilliant stand up comic. Brilliant standup comics are all fundamentally motivated by a deep inner melancholy — it drives them to cheer the world up. When I started ranting about the young rejecting reality and living in an onlne fantasyland, he just frowned at me in his somewhat goodnatured way. “It’s funny!’ he said. ‘Just laugh at it, I do!. Don’t bother getting mad.’ I asked him how he achieved this admirable state of equipollence (that’s a skeptical term for calm) and he said ‘well didn’t you do a lot of crazy things when you were young?’ Unfortunately I didn’t. That Is why I am now presently so screwed up— still discovering love and sex always for the first time. (I was a very good boy — and that can only lead to villainy later in life.) Nevertheless his point was well taken. My attitude now is this: if the young want to live their lives online, well more power to them. Let’s just see how that works out. I will amuse myself watching; let the bodies pile up where they may. I recommend we all recline on our elderly divans and enjoy watching this divine decadence, as the world ends gradually not with a bang, but a whimper. Let the young have what they want, as long as I'm alive, I will be amused by their suicidal online obsession.  If you catch me cursing the little darlings again, please stop me. I won’t mind.

Thursday, 16 December 2021

Let’s face it,

when it comes to the preponderance of evil, men have  it all over women, meaning, they have the physical prerequisites to commit it -- women don’t. This blog is not a defence of the male gender (yes there is a gender called male, these guys have penises) some of them would sooner cut out your tongue and torture you for months as look at you; honestly, I guarantee it. The evil that the male of the species do is without end; yes you may be raped and mutilated at any moment, that’s a given. But this is not about that. I have not written here for ages, and apparently I have three loyal fans. I owe them this. I thought the reason was that I had come to associate these writings with the COVID lockdown. No. I associated this blog with a woman who claims to have been hurt by my writing. Yes, this happened long ago, and you might well wonder who I am talking about. Well wonder away. But I will not speak of her specifically  — I will speak of the evil women do; for it is not often interred in their bones, but floats again and again through the generations. I knew this first through my mother — who I will always love — who is forever blameless — but who taught me of women's twisted ways. She was pretty, but dark inside, and cold as ice, and wanted desperately to take you in (as Barbara Streisand sings in Woman in Love) and wanted, just as desperately, finally, to put you out. That is the trick; a friend of mine once said this about his lover (a male), paraphrasing Tennessee Williams: ‘the light shines so brightly, but when it is shut off, it hurt so much.’ This was my mother to a tee, she loved me to death, but also made it very clear that -- if certain conditions were not met --said love might disappear. This is what a woman who shall remain nameless did to me. (You will think I’m talking about Evalyn Parry, go ahead, it’s a free country). She took me in, she had me. This is the loving part, where you can do nothing wrong; where you are told you are perfect -- and perfectly loveable  --and everything you do is brilliant and gorgeous. You can’t believe that you have found such admiration. But the castle is made of sand. Was I ever truly loved? I doubt it. It was a careful calculation; I was a strong male, and in this case, a writer, and I was assured that support was there for me. Yes, woman as support — a misogynist cliche. Can you blame them for taking that abuse and running with it -- for perverting that boobytrapped gift —  a role, after all, that is forced upon them?  No; and you can’t blame them for gleefully grabbing the knife when at last they are given power -- some power. For they have you between their legs -- or as they are prone to say —  in their hearts — and now they are going to kill you and toss you aside.This must all sound terribly misogynistic. You will put it down to my homosexuality. Just don’t bother, as I will say again and again that male evil, in so many ways --  is much much worse. But a woman can get you to physical agony soon enough; the mental illness becomes physical, she knows that. She too is a monster, and what is most monstrous is that she will never admit it. No, for there is no end to the depth of a woman’s suffering — they gave birth to you (or someone else) and must bleed for you monthly, whatever the case. Of course, this is not all women. But then again, it's not just one. There’s no point in shaming a whole gender — let’s leave that to trans theorists. There are good women and there are good men. But what makes the evil ones evil? Well, there is evil of the Iago kind; the motive seeking of motiveless malignity, no reason; it just is. It may get you some day; it may not— that’s what horror movies are about. (After all, contrary to what you hear in the media, lots of us won’t die of the horrific COVID, we will simply die in our sleep.) Then there is the second kind of evil; born of self-hatred. For what evil these people do to others is inconsequential next to the evil they do themselves. The woman who tried to stop me from writing this blog attacked me as a writer; it was because she was not a poet herself. And she wished she was. You see, she had failed. (Sorry Evalyn). She looked at me with admiration, loved me, encouraged me, and deep down all the time was thinking: ‘That should be me! I should be him! I should have his accolades — and it’s all because I’m a woman that I don’t!” No, it’s not because of that; women have a much harder time of it as artists, for sure, as do gay men. Women and gay men can triumph, but when you do there is always someone who wants to kill you for it. So that’s it. I was knifed; it was some time ago. But I’ve recovered. I’m back. I’m wearing the knife in my head right now; I’m one of those guys who walks around with it sticking out of his head and people have to tell him it's there. And no, finally, for the millionth time, this isn’t about Evalyn Parry; I don’t know how to convince you. I know I doth protest too much, but it’s oh so nice to be back again and lying to you. Remember — the poet doesn’t lie in order to be found out; or to be interpreted, or to be understood. (There is no ‘key.’). The poet does it to seduce you. Like so many others.

Saturday, 6 November 2021

At last the demisexuals

are speaking out, spilling their tortured testimony. One can imagine the weight of the burden they carry, the onerous hardships they face every moment of their abject lives. They, in case you don’t know — and you’ve probably never heard of them (this is a measure of their oppression) — are those of us who cannot feel sexual desire unless it is accompanied by an emotional connection. Imagine for one second, the agony of life as a demisexual. Your friends and acquaintances — and most of all, tragically, your romantic partners — all out for that quick sexual fix, that blowjob in an alley, that cold lay in the backseat of a car, or (worst of all!) that furtive hand job in a backroom. Pornography is everywhere, everywhere too is the ubiquitous teen rock star wagging her perfectly dimpled ass in your face, demanding instant arousal. You — the beleaguered demisexual — find all this not only damnably disgusting, but deeply troubling. Let the powers that be try and tempt you with their demeaning, unemotional sexuality.  Your private parts remain unmoved. And you are persecuted not only by your own loneliness but by those who say “Hah” — why don’t you just get off — like any normal person?” Of course masturbation is not in your sexual bag of tricks, unless you can forge an emotional connection with yourself — which, at the very least, sounds suspiciously narcissistic. To understand the utter abjection of the demisexual lifestyle, imagine the demisexual ‘coming out’ moment. What would it be like to tell your parents? Obviously — like all parents these days, yours will be expecting — in some cases enforcing — promiscuity and sexual wantonness, urging you to engage in random sexual encounters that result in abortions and/or unwanted teen pregancies. You will have to go to them, your eyes lowered, your cheeks flushed, and venture ‘I…I don’t know how to tell you this but my sexual preference is…well I know you’re going to think I’m horrible but —alright I’ll just say it out loud! Okay! Well…before I have sex with someone it is necessary for me to well — yes, I admit it — to be in love with them.’ Imagine the outrage! The sorrow! Fathers will be throwing furniture and mother’s crying into pillows. 'Where did we go wrong? How could we have raised a daughter who is not a diseased slut, or a son whose penis is not numb from jerking off to online porn?’ Okay. I’m somewhat pulling your leg here, because I find the notion that demisexuals might demand they be part of the LGBT community almost as ridiculous as asexuals demanding the same thing. Sorry guys. There is an L G (and a B!) at the head of that acronym — which in case you have forgotten, stands for lesbian, gay and bisexual. We fought — and yes many of us died — because of our sexual preferences. We could fall in love with anyone we wanted — of any gender— as long as we didn’t have sex with them. For years, women lived with other women, these were called a “Boston Marriages' -- but as long as the carpets were laid only on floors, and girls were never tempted to munch on them, all was fine. Men could hunt together, clap each other on the back, snap towels at each other in the locker room, and hug when they got a touchdown, as long as nobody caught someone blowing someone else in the showers. Our culture is not anti-love, it is anti-sex. Sure, people may not have the slightest idea anymore how to love each other because the digital world has made most of us unpracticed at one-on-one contact. But the pornography that you jerk off to on your computer every day, along with the scantily clad movie stars that you so love to fantasize about — not to mention the sexual desires you feel guilty for and don’t dare tell your partner about for fear of offence, until you end up perishing in the uniquely soul-destroying loneliness and frustration that can only be provided by the most unnatural sexual practice ever invented by mankind: monogamy — all this is not the result of a pro-sex culture. We are still Victorians. We will be until long after I’m dead. We haven’t the slightest idea what it would be like to live in a culture where sex is a physical function, and only occasionally and happily, but not necessarily usually — an expression of love. The pornography and sadomasochism we so enjoy — like every form of sexual expression — would be different in a society where sex was as normal as passing gas. If that sounds horrible to you then you are afraid of your body. This is understandable because bodies do get sick and die; mine is doing a very good job of preparing me for that at age 69. It’s what we don’t necessarily look forward to, but must expect. It is the human riddle. Life is only pleasurable because we die, and all that thrives must disappear; the teaming buds of May all too soon are blasted, and every perfect face is, at some point (if you are lucky), desiccated by age. Coming to terms with this is what makes us human; it may seem like the essence of heroism, but it shouldn’t to be, it should be something that we learn and understand from the time we are born (as Beckett says) astride the grave. I highly recommend paganism and Shakespeare. Stay away from sex-hating Christianity, and especially from those Godforsaken demisexuals. Yes, (sigh!) they have a right to be who they are. But they are not going to be invited to my parties, where I will be kissing young men like the one I was kissing last night —he was hungry for love — and yet I will never kiss him again. Indeed, he was a young man from an as yet unarticulated, uncelebrated, and spanking new sexual category — he is the very opposite of a demisexual — i.e., he is one who only falls in love after he has had sex. Who is fighting for him? I am. I know you demisexuals want to have your own fabulous parties.  Well please have all the fun you can! But I would ask you to stop crashing mine.

Saturday, 30 October 2021

I’m sitting in

a restaurant on Church Street having breakfast. It far too much resembles the dining room in a rest home for for my taste. We are all single gay men, older (some ancient, I heard a dialogue at a nearby table yesterday about hearing aids). And we are all alone, which is different than being lonely. Some of us like it that way; my  boyfriend and I are both loners who somehow fell into each other (the way politicians fall on dicks by mistake when being questioned by the press in the TV show Little Britain), and we are happy to be alone together — which means to live very separate lives but meet now and then to argue, make up, and kiss. I must say that the hostess in this lovely Church Street restaurant encourages the feeling we are in an old folks home — right now she is sitting patiently, far to my right in a solitary chair, wearing a mask, just watching. Her excessive suffocating cheerfulness is the very epitome of condescension. Of course you wouldn’t dare suggest this to her as she is just being ‘nice.’ For her, everything is ‘fabulous!’ — and she always asks how you are. I want to say 'I’m old and cranky and slightly hung over' but instead I smile and nod, and understand that it must be a difficult job taking care of all these effeminate ex-talks of the gaytown. It all reminds me of a storefront my boyfriend and I saw in a Las Vegas mall: Elder Daycare. He was ecstatic ‘At last! Somewhere to put you during the day!’ Indeed, it did actually seem to be an elder daycare centre; it was, sadly, no joke. So I’m closing a show tomorrow. None of you will have heard of it, none of you came. I am being harsh — some of my very best friends came to see it, and some of the best friends of the actors too. We had a great time. In fact it seemed as if I had come alive again. I realised that I had not been truly happy for months, and it was all because I was directing a play that I wrote— something I’ve been doing since I was approximately 10 years old. Back then I wrote a musical using Beatles songs from the A Hard Day's Night. I’m sure I've talked about this before, but yes, my theatrical career began when I told my mother that I needed something to look forward to (she was perplexed and frightened that a 10 year old was depressed in such a relatively sophisticated manner). So we  had the idea that creating a little theatre in our home might cheer me up (I forgive my mother all her transgressions because of this!). So she asked my father to put up a curtain (all you really need is a curtain, right?) in the basement. And I organised the neighbourhood kids in various productions. Often, the other kids were reluctant and I felt like Bing Crosby in The Bells are Ringing. (I’m sure it was a way for me to make contact with other little boys — because as you may have guessed, I was not too good at baseball.) So yes, for the last 60 years I’ve been doing plays in the basement to cheer myself up. And when I got back down to it this fall, it didn’t matter that we had no money, and it didn’t matter than no one would come. We all just had to do it (I think the actors felt the same way, to some degree, though it’s hard to believe that it meant as much to them as it did to me.) The performers were all friends of mine, and all quite brilliant. Opening night was amazing: all 15 people seemed enthralled, some ran to the dressing room after. I realize now of course that this is my fate. I am not only an old gay man (a regrettable example of humanity — ready for the junk heap of ideology and sexuality), but also, I was summarily cancelled in 2018 (remember?). This is what cancellation means. I still have my job and I still am privileged (I remember Carly Maga, in what will probably prove to be one of  my last 'interviews'  --  little did I know -- asked me if I would acknowledge that I have privilege, and I said yes Carly I will do that, just don’t think that that acknowledgement is all that is required to silence me.) At any rate, yes, I still have my job and my privilege —  but cancellation in case you are interested, takes subtler forms. For instance I am no longer likely to mentor young professional actors. The cast for The Little Show is not quite as old as me — but it is only older professionals that will have anything to do with me. The young are shocked, some were shocked by my script, I sent The Little Show  to some young un’s and received comments like ‘do you want to die on that hill?’  (which I think is a reference to heroism in extreme warfare). I answered that yes I did, I’ve been dying on controversial hills for ages.  All in all dying on hills is something that I  enjoy, or let’s just say I'm quite used to sabotaging myself by constantly telling the truth as I know it. But I want you to understand that I am content with my fate. I knew it would come to this -- that I would be back in my basement and I would have to rely on my father for a curtain and my mother for encouragement. I have my work, and even if just one person comes to see it and there’s no 'set', it’s still theatre (that’s what Peter Brook says, anyway) The deafening silence that now surrounds my work only makes me strong. I think this is something people have never understood about artists, that we thrive on rejection  — most of us are perverse in particularly that way.  The  critics called Ibsen’s Ghosts “an open drain, a loathsome sore unbandaged, a dirty act done publicly” and it just inspired him to write An Enemy of the People. I’ve aspired to create my own personal fictional open sores, open drains and certainly made public countless dirty acts through my own creations. I must ask you to please understand that being alone is not the same as being lonely.  I don’t miss the life I used to have. I  know now that what I always loved was the work. And the best moments happened in rehearsal.Yes I am playing the martyr here; but please forgive me, at the very least I deserve to play that, and if you don’t think I deserve to, more power to you!  It will only fuel the anger in my heart; the anger that drives me to write.

Saturday, 11 September 2021

We were always

suspicious of parties. And for good reason; they often involve mingling and we all know what that leads to — a dangerous exposure to people we were really never intended to meet. Torontonians have decided  there is something about the dreaded lockdown that we quite like. It suits us. We hope it will never go away. It’s a challenge, after all, maintaining the ‘lifestyle’ necessary to support a million dollar condo. To do so, we must necessarily work — and very very hard. But we have always been hard workers — work is a virtue; only good can come of it. Many of us are descended from New England United Empire Loyalist stock — most all of us, at any rate, came here to escape disorder, decay, disarray, random associations, the irrational, the unmentionable, the frankly wrong. Toronto is a good city. That is why it was once labelled ‘Toronto the Good,’  It will get better every day. People mask everywhere — in cars, bicycles and and on street corners — such a joy to see! There is something about masks that is comforting and right. Not only is masking important, but remember Robert Frost’s New England dictum: ’good fences make good neighbours?’ No one said it better than that. A mask decrees: ‘We certainly are required to live in this world together -- but we do not necessarily desire it, nor do we wish necessarily, to be ‘intimate’ with each other. In fact, I am quite happy if we are not. Each of us must stay in our own little world. After all, exposure to that which is different — or even more alarmingly -- to what is radical and upsetting — is something we do not wish for, or want!' A mask says ‘stay away’ in a kind, and respectful way. Masks are courteous, polite, and part of a gentleman’s agreement that we not only will be apart, but we want to be. This suits Torontonians to a 'tee'. That there once were wild parties  — orgies even (! apparently, I have only really heard of them) — and people mixed willy-nilly and God forbid swapped sweat, and infected droplets, and God knows what else — for no apparent reason really, except to propagate disease — well we don’t do that now. We are not only suspicious of parties; we are cautious about fun in general. Sports are a different beast; they celebrate excellence, require work, and encourage speech only among the 'team.' There is such a thing as decadence — it destroyed the Roman Empire. And there are temptations--  in bars and restaurants -- and even really in anything that is loosely described as ‘fun.'' Humans are weak. Behind our masks, in our homes, we are strong,  nodding to fellow humans on our way to work,  socializing only within our families. This is the way -- dare I say it -- God meant us to be?  Perhaps we got sick because we went beyond home and family? And it is hardly a co-incidence that the family — more than any other social construct —  happens to deliver capitalism with unparalleled efficiency. And what's so wrong about that? There is of course one problem, one fly in the ointment, one testy irritation, a feeling that gnaws at us, like a canker — but we know it is not in any way that serious. (A tiny doubt.) It must surely disappear. For now and then our eye happens to settle on one of the 'unfortunates,' one of the opioid addicted, the mentally ill — one of the lost, the irascibly poor, who is a kind of blazon of failure, a symbol of all that does not work,  a reminder of what happens when life fails us and we fail it, too. The unfortunates seem everywhere right now. They crowd the streets; those who have fallen through the cracks. We feel pity for them of course. But we must not let the very sight of them erase our confidence in masks — for perhaps the unfortunates will follow our sterling example. At any rate vaccine passports will  likely keep the away from us; we will be unlikely to bump into an unfortunate by accident. There will in fact be no more accidents — Toronto will become what it has always meant to be, relentlessly middle-class, a kind of haven for those people who wish to lead unblemished and carefree lives, unvarnished by the kind of brutal intrusive exhibitions that some carelessly call ‘reality.'  A salient danger is FOMO — ‘fear of missing out’ — it does not strike many, but it does have a sting. We, however, the fortunate, the masked, are missing nothing -- only illness an death, which we are quite happy to avoid, and which the dreaded anti-vaxxers are now courting with their unGodly ways. Who says we hate pleasure? Nothing brings us more pleasure than working, and being considerate, thoughtful and kind. It's true that  in the past fun might have meant meeting a young man half our age on St. Catherine Street in Montreal. A handsome young man who used to work as a coat-check boy at a strip club, one who you were immediately fond of,  but you didn’t know why, perhaps only because he read books and liked to chat with you. You met him, by chance -- and then what happened? He appeared to be taking stock of your physical appearance -- because you were wearing, well, not very much, as it was still summer. And to top it all off, he also appeared to be flirting with you! Was it possible -- you wondered -- at your late age, to still be flirted with? Then he invited you to a masquerade party at a bar called Cabaret Expose. Cabaret Expose— the very epitome of decadence, of ‘fun’ — one can’t even venture to imagine what might go on there. At any rate, I think you get the picture. This is what some of your might think you are missing, only because it is representative of the kind of regrettable incident that did take place in the past. But think for a minute, really. Think about the rewards of being a present day Torontonian. You have meaningful work that sustains your condo. You know why you are here. Your relationships with others are firmly circled by barriers that clearly say 'do not cross any boundary I set without permission!' Most of all, the class system is firmly in place -- and getting stronger every day! To call this bliss is perhaps a hyperbole — and inappropriate — as bliss suggests mental impairment of a drugged sort; or even loss of control. Let’s call it contentment. Yes, let’s just leave it at that.

Thursday, 9 September 2021

The New Normal

1. If you are a disabled person you will have to stand up. There are no seats anymore for the disabled. They increase COVID-19 infection.

2. The people behind the counter at Starbucks will all be fat, and will have green hair (sometimes blue).

3. When you go to buy something, if you are wearing a mask, they will ask you to speak louder. When you do, they will say “There’s no need to shout!”

4. You will lose many friends. Some will hate you because you don’t follow the same COVID-19 rules they do. Some will commit suicide due to mental illness, exacerbated by COVID-19. Others will die of opioid abuse. It is better that you do not talk about these  deaths as they are not as important as deaths from COVID-19.

5. Anit-vaxxers should be denied entry anywhere — and they should be forced to be vaccinated. YOU MUST HATE THEM. They of course should not be treated by hospitals, and it really would be better if somebody shot them.

6. Everything the government says is true. If you challenge the government, you are evil.

7.  No illness is as important as COVID-19.

8. If your aunt or uncle dies of cancer — because there were no hospital beds due to COVID-19  --  it’s better if you don't talk about that either.

9. Nothing is anybody’s fault.

!0. No worries!

Sunday, 5 September 2021

Dear Kaitlin,

Alright, I’ll say it. I’ve had it with these anti-vaxxers. I really have. I think they’re horrible. They make me want to spit nails. They are killing people. I give you full permission to hate them, I certainly do. I mean how could anyone be so stupid? Chloe was going on about ‘don’t be so hateful’ —  she brought up something that Marjorie Taylor Greene (can you believe it?) said about the government being Nazism. Well, hating anti-vaxxers is about hating killers. Period. The Jews didn’t kill anybody, so they didn’t deserve to be gassed. But when it comes to anti-vaxxers — Jesus! They are threatening the lives of our children. No —  they are killing children! Innocent children are dying because of these freaks! So it’s okay to hate them. There are some people who deserve to be hated, because they are evil, and anti-paxxers are evil. That said, I am so glad we’re finally going to get our vaccine passports in Ontario. I love it, I really do. Oh yes, when Ford finally came around Chloe made another genius comment. She started talking about her brother George, — you know the one who’s very dyslexic? “George will not be able to manage a vaccine passport, he will be exiled from society!" Dear me. (I’m not sure that’s such a terribly bad thing!) First of all I pointed out to Chloe that George has always been ‘exiled from society.’ He’s never been able to function like a normal person. Chloe said: ‘this just makes it worse.’ I don’t see how. The point is this: any who can’t figure out how to put a vaccine passport on their phone deserves to stay home. And if they don’t have a phone, well spare me -- I mean, in this day and age? So some restaurants have been doing this whole passport thing — that is they are requiring proof of vaccination in order to eat there. I just adore it. Really, it’s like a breath of fresh air. Let’s face it, people who are doubly vaccinated are my kind of people. I mean they are actually people, unlike anti-vaxxers, who are no better than animals. It’s so nice to go to a restaurant and be surrounded by the kind of people I feel comfortable with. You know, well-dressed, highly-functioning, highly-articulate thoughtful people. But you know, I must say the thing that really makes me happy about eating among the ‘well vaccinated’ is that I don’t want to be around anyone who is stupid or hateful or dysfunctional enough not to get the vaccine. These days when I go to a restaurant I know that the people sitting around me are like minded. I am among friends. I’m sure I’ll make a lot more friends when I go out dining — I won’t be afraid to talk to people because everyone there will be of — well a certain level of intelligence and discernment — don’t you think? Anyway I can’t tell you how happy I am with the direction in which society is turning. I mean we’ve all known for a while, haven’t we, that there is another class of people, who surround us, and who lately, have been trying to sneak themselves into the ‘club’--  that is the club of polite society where the real people like you and me hang out? Have you felt it? I have. I mean there are people who still use the n-word — yes believe me they do exist! And then there are the people who don’t understand transgender people. I am deeply sympathetic with transgender people. The fact that Chloe’s son used to be her daughter, we all accept that. But all Chloe does is complain about it. Really sometimes I don’t know if we should stay friends with her. She has been double-vaccinated and is super scrupulous about masks, but she has actually said that if a booster comes she won’t take it! (She says she’s tired of being vaccinated, can you imagine?). I say if she doesn’t get the booster we just cut her. I mean why should we put our lives in danger? Anyway Chloe can only complain about Sylvan, when she should be happy that he has found his true self. She’s all worried that Sylvan’s  going to regret not having breasts and having a period. As for breasts — well all women know that when it comes to breasts it’s men who are fond of them, not us, and when it comes to menstruation I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Anyway I don’t want to be around people who are not kind and gentle and loving — and that’s who you and I are. We open our hearts to people of colour, I mean I won’t go to a party any more that’s all white people. When Harper was having a party two weeks ago I just asked her straight up, will there be any people of colour there? She treated my like I was crazy. As you know, I didn’t go. Should I have gone? I mean I’m glad I didn’t go, but you did — and I certainly don’t blame you for that, I would never blame you for anything. I just wondered, was it the usual Harper debacle or was it any fun at all? Apparently her young nephew was there — the doctor? Is he as handsome as people say -- as good-looking as in his Facebook photos? I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be. Anyway, I am assiduous, not only about vaccines, and masks, and distancing, but about acceptance of all people no matter who they are or what their sexuality is. I just love people! And I’m privileged to live in a world that has become so enlightened, kind and accepting. Oh one more thing about Chloe. She’s sleeping with somebody again. I think it’s that itinerate musical character? Hank? She thinks he’s some sort of genius, I don’t know, but is that an excuse for being promiscuous? Chloe pretends to be so innocent but really honestly I think she’s slept with more men then I have. I mean I certainly had my share of fun after the divorce, but when it comes down to it, if you count them, well there isn’t much to count. Not that I’m judging. I’m thinking about Chloe’s welfare that’s all. That’s all I do -- think about other people’s welfare. I sometimes think I’m kind of a saint, or trying too hard to be one. Except when it comes to anti-vaxxers, then I have to admit I lose my cool. I think they should all be shot.
                    Don’t be a stranger
                    (and hugs — now that we can do them!)