Since the fun is

gone I’ve been downloading lots of computer games. My latest is Fishdom and it’s lots of fun. You match gems and decorate little fishbowls. It’s good for loneliness, because the fish talk to you. They are pretty funny looking, and have personalities. Because it’s ‘interactive,’ you put your name into the app and the fish call you by your real name. And basically I have a lot of trouble getting together with my friends these days (they don’t answer emails, they’re depressed, it’s cold outside, etc etc) so the fish are like well — substitute friends. The only problem is they can get a bit sucky, and one of them reminds me of my father. Every time I win a game he says: ‘The way you win is just amazing Sky!” Near the end of his life my father used to call me and ask: “Any new achievements you want to tell me about, son?” I couldn’t  just talk with him about the weather, it had to be an achievement. So the only real problem with Fishdom is the one fish who lays it on a little thick and  reminds me of my father. Truth be told? I’m lacking an audience. I’ve always needed one, must have one, in fact. I’ve been zoom teaching, but the students are on Christmas break. So who am I going to entertain? My boyfriend resents it when I treat him like an ‘audience.’ And my friends, well as I said, it's just that the elements -- rain, snow, sleet -- and a dreadful fear not so much of COVID-19 but of being spotted on the streets laughing or having fun and then shamed by their Facebook friends  --  keep us apart. But I need to perform. Which made me think about Fran Leibowitz, and the HBO documentary Public Speaking, when she says: “All the best ones died.” And she’s right. Fran is so right, because the gay men who had crazy sex and died of AIDS were not only the greatest artists but the greatest audiences, because those three things go together, and if you don’t get that, then there is no hope for you (sorry for being so judgemental.). But anyway, she talks about how these arty sexy fags would go to the ballet and hold court on the way Susanne Farrell would turn her leg or flick her wrist. And that made me think about audiences. Because I need them so badly right now. I mean not just one person -- tons and tons of people to appreciate me -- and clap. (I can’t help it. It’s just the way I'm constructed. Some people are just made that way. It’s part of diversity okay?  Just like some people are made to hide in corners? Some are made to -- not.) Like Jerry Seinfeld said, there are people whose worst nightmare is to be dead, and there are others whose worst nightmare is to deliver the eulogy. In other words some people would rather die than speak in public. Me, I need to speak in public or I’ll die. Recently I caught myself speaking to the cat, and well -- the universe -- yesterday (my boyfriend was out, it would have bugged him; he would have thought I'd finally gone senile). That’s how desperate I am for applause. So let me make a case for audiences. What is an audience and why is it important? Because in the COVID-19 world there are no theatres or concerts or crowds of more than five (and what is the sound of ten hands clapping?) So what are we missing when we do away with audiences — i.e. if either they die of AIDS, or they just are not allowed to ‘audience’ anymore, like now, in the lockdown? A case could be made by conspiracy theorists that all these pandemics and epidemics have been whipped up to wipe out audiences forever. And it’s an important case to made, because audiences are important. I’m not saying that just because I love audiences and need them (though I do) but  because the world is a spectacle.  It’s not real or true, or right or wrong, it is simply a spectacle, and the wise ones know how to appreciate it (or critique it) in all it’s craziness.  And that means also realizing that it is a spectacle. And what is a spectacle? It’s something made up (i.e. in this case, by God). It’s fake. Spectacles are not real, they are manufactured. And that’s what the world is, it’s fooling you. Truth is a lie. I know that’s always a tough one for people to get, but if you understand this secret it will save you — it will save all of us. ‘The wise man,’ said Gorgias (who the f-was Gorgias? I’ll tell you someday) is the one who is fooled. But to be fooled means to know you are being fooled. I remember when my boyfriend and I (why does he keep cropping up in this blog -- probably because we are at home together all the time these days) we were walking down the street in drag on our way to the Dora Mavor Moore Awards many years ago, (what could be more natural?) and some kid lept off his little bike  and  yelled at us kinda fiercely: “You’re not fooling me!!!” It was very odd. But my answer was -- I can’t remember if I just thought it in my head or I actually said it -- ‘Relax — we were just putting on a spectacle.' Meaning it’s completely fake and we know it. And if you were a smart little boy you would know it too. It’s like COVID-19. (You knew I‘d get around to it eventually, didn’t you?) I’ll tell you some actualities (I won’t call them truths because I don’t believe there are any.) The COVID-19 test doesn’t mean anything. Any scientist knows this. It just means you might have a little COVID in your system. You are not a ‘case.’ If you test positive your life is not in danger and you are not necessarily even infectious. And in addition to that, they are going on and on about how all these people are dying — but I know for instance in Britain -- and I’m sure in Canada -- the overall national death rates have not increased. So it’s all a big deliciously juicy, scary lie. And what they should do is protect the people in old folks homes and those who are marginalized (what are called the poor 'black and brown folk' on TV)— those with no money for the doctor or health care. But instead they close theatres. And then there are no more audiences. And you know why they are closing the theatres? (Here's a conspiracy theory for ya!) Because if you were a discerning audience you wouldn’t just accept everything as truth. You’d be critical. You would question everything-- yes even the so-called truth.  You would see everything as a big spectacle, and enjoy it, but then say 'all this spectacle needs a little critique!' You would be like that old faggot, in the pink frilly shirt, and gold, too-tight, spangly pants, who died of AIDS, who would stand up all by himself at the opera, and give a standing 'o,' yelling 'brava!,' because he thought some fat opera diva sang Casta Diva as good as Callas -- which  of course is impossible. Where oh where has that very special faggot gone? Not only I— but you and me -- all of us, we shall not survive, without him.