I am now staying

in Toronto. (Gee, he does get around doesn’t he? What’s that about? Well I have to get out.) And the apartment I’m staying in reminds me of my grandparents house. My friend has an X chair, which he calls an 'emperors chair,' but apparently 'X-chair' is its official name. It’s medieval style, composed of curved wooden slats. My paternal grandmother had one. I presume this lovely thing was actually my grandmother's, because my grandfather was such a horrible man. Also, there are velvet curtains hanging in the hallways where I am staying. And my grandparents had those hanging on every room; they could be pulled for warmth, as there was a fireplace in every room. They also had a parlor  (yes a parlor) with a baby grand piano — the room was pink, the shelves were overflowing with family photographs. The parlor definitely would have been my grandmother’s room. (I don’t think anyone in my father's family actually played the piano.) I remember sitting in my grandparents' living room after I told them that I wasn’t going to fight in the Vietnam War. I remember them not talking to me; pretending I was not there, pretending that I was air. I remember my grandfather carving the turkey in the dining room, under a huge painting of what looked like a 19th century young girl. We would always ask 'Who is that?'--  even though we knew -- and my grandmother would always say: ‘That’s Uncle Arthur!’ And we would ask -- ‘But why is he wearing a dress?’ And my grandmother would say: ‘They used to dress little boys in dresses in those days.' (Perhaps that painting has something to do with my, well — what should we call it? — my personal sexual history?) And after the meal was done, my grandfather would see there was still some turkey left, and he would sigh and say: ‘It doesn’t pay to cook a meal, Helen.’ So the meal always ended -- if not in completely disaster -- then with the usual grumpiness on my grandfather’s part. And I remember the time I came to visit my grandmother when I was quite young, and I leaned up to kiss her -- she used to wear furs — real dead animals -- yes a real dead fox peeping at me! -- and she smelled of Tabu -- a scent which I cannot get a whiff of without thinking of her. And when I had finished kissing her, she pulled her arm from around my waist and exclaimed loudly -- “Well we’re going to have to start buying you fat boy's belts, now, won't we!’ I was mortally wounded -- I was a very sensitive child, which she must have known. So she I guess she was a suitable wife for my horrible grandfather. And my grandfather always used to tickle us until we became quite helpless. My mother never liked it, I didn’t know why, and when I grew up my mother indicated that she thought —   he was, in a subtle way, molesting us. I wouldn’t put it past him. He would take us driving in his car,  and when we got to a hill, he would ask us (sitting in the car) to push on the seats in front of us, claiming that if we didn’t, the car wouldn’t go up the hill. And he would always say: ‘I’m going to go visit Lizzie Katish’ and we would ask him: 'Who's that?' And he would explain it was his secret paramour, that my grandmother knew nothing about. I have no doubt there was a real Lizzie Katish, that is -- someone without that name, but with that 'function.' After all, I never remember my grandmother being beautiful. And you might say why would one’s grandmother be beautiful? Well my mother’s mother was, inappropriately attractive, while my father’s mother looked a little bit like Eleanor Roosevelt. (And yes, once she pinned a poppy on President Truman, so she kind of was Eleanor Roosevelt.) But that’s another story. Which brings me to the anal douche. I’m in a rage today because I went to buy an anal douche. I’m not going to tell you why -- it was for the usual reason -- let’s just say it was for ‘a friend.’ Anyway, I went to the Rexall’s and felt embarrassed and confused. Where would the damn thing be? I walked up and down the aisles, terrified to ask. I had lots of company because -- in case you haven’t noticed -- your local drugstore, grocery store and big box store are now just places to hang out, if you’re like me you go there just to get some human contact. Finally I asked the least threatening clerk I could find. She directed me to the ‘women's section.' I could only find  tampons and ‘Summer’s Eve.' Finally I went to the pharmacy counter and asked a gaggle of pharmacists where I might find an anal douche. They looked at me as if I’d just shit on the floor. Then they told me they didn’t have any. I said ‘This is a drugstore at Church and Wellesley, and you don’t have an anal douche?’ And then they giggled. Yes they giggled. (I finally had to go to a sex store to get the damn thing.) And I’m mad. I’m mad as hell and I won’t take it anymore. You call yourself a pharmacist and you have a giggle fit over an anal douche? What is the world coming to? These are called normal bodily functions,  and if you can’t get your puritan little mind around that, then you have no right to call yourself a pharmacist. This is, as far as I’m concerned, a sign of The Decline of The West. I don’t know how to tell you this, but if you’re a pharmacist you should be aware that people have bodies. (Or were you hoping to forget?) But of course no one else cares if pharmacists giggle at anal douches. Only I care. Because this is related to why we are all locked up in our houses right now. Yes, we have bodies. Yes, they get sick and die and have sex -- usually not in that order. If you weren’t all so horrified by all that, then maybe we might all be allowed to live normal lives. And in this way, we have come full circle. For I am as angry as my paternal grandfather. Yes, I will die angry. He, quite famously, stormed out of the local Episcopalian Church in a rage because they refused to hang an American flag. My grandfather was an Angry American Patriot. He drove each of his two sons to the draft board on their 18th birthday. Sure, my cause is somewhat different; I'm angry about a certain pharmacological skittishness regarding gay hygiene. But I am my grandfather’s grandson; it's frightening -- but useful -- sometimes, to remember that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.