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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!)
                                Luna
                               

I didn't want

to write this; then I thought about my Vancouver fan base (3 people) and I just felt guilty. Maybe this will help. I have COVID PTSD -- you probably do too, there are 'after effects.' For me it's the incurable longing to be at the epicentre of a group. Writing this brings back nightmares of a year and a half alone -- for an unreprentent ENF on the Briggs-Myers scale (yes me and Oprah Wnfrey) you need followers, you need someone to inspire --  to be in a room with, not a million miles away-- not someone that you never see and who sends you emails once a month (thankyou Vancouver fans not that I’m not grateful!). But here I am, doing it. I’ve almost finished writing a book so I may need this again. So I might as well get started. How are you? Obviously, I don’t know, and I don’t care. Yes, I do care. I sincerely hope you are dealing with your COVID PTSD -- at least better than I am. You might be desperately wanting crowds -- like me, or perhaps fearing them, or you could be recovering from a COVID breakup or suddenly deep in a new COVID union, or just happy as a clam doing laundry, getting fat -- yearning for another lockdown. My biggest fear; that it will happen again -- the threats are a kind of pathology. It’s all for our own good, I know, it’s all about getting people vaccinated - but Jesus Christ how are you supposed to live under this kind of pressure? The government is not only our parent but a supremely dysfunctional, no abusive, one --  pulling out the rug from under us at every other moment. I recently saw two wonderful movies, and yet they just made me mad because the reviews were so friggin’ lousy — I Care a Lot and Flag Day. Well of course Sean Penn is going to get bad reviews. He's an asshole in real life. But the quality of an artist's work is in direct proportion to their ass-holeness. (Sorry about that, but it’s true.) The more of an asshole — child molesters and Nazis go to the top of the list --  the better the art is. Sorry, it’s just a rule. (Like ‘wear a mask’). Flag Day is a film about an asshole, made by an asshole, and you've got to give Penn credit for that. The reviews are typically screwed up. Apparently the movie is not 'woman centred' enough for most critics. Sean is apparently promoting it as being about the character his daughter plays, but it’s really about the character he plays. How narcissistic. Well, duh. Anyway the film is about Penn’s character: a ‘flim-flam' man, a gangster shyster with a helluva charming personality -- I laughed out loud several times. The hypocrisy of all this is amazing, we’ve been enjoying The Music Man for years,  a musical classic about how wonderful a supreme asshole is -- a manipulative liar who takes everyone’s breath away. What’s really scary about the reviews for Flag Day and I Care a Lot are remarks like “These people are so unappealing; why would you want to watch a film about a bunch of people who are so evil?” Are you nuts? What were you expecting -- a medieval morality play? And you rooting for Jesus? Can you think of anything more boring than a play, novel, or movie about good people? (At least The Friggin’ Bible -- an okay novel, by the way if you haven't read it -- has Mary Magdelene and Pontius Pilate.) I Care a Lot is quite another matter; it’s a homophobic, auteur, thriller — it reminds me very much of Basic Instinct, we haven’t seen a ‘lesbian killer’ of quite this ilk for awhile. Rosamund Pike has the devilish heroine down pat (even  the bad hairdo— very accurate, most lesbian killers do have bad hairdos, by the way). Run, do not walk to see I Care a Lot because you get to watch two really sexy, evil, women kill people -- it’s something we all love of course --but in movies it's mostly men who get to be killers (unless they are comic book heroines)— well actually I should say who get to be truly effective at anything— so in that way this film is revolutionary. But one can’t ignore the blatant misogyny of it all, which I enjoyed, because it was so vile, and quite alarming. The film gets away with murder the same way the heroines do, because it’s supposed to be about greed and corruption. Anyway, if you can handle the usual sexy, cliched, misogynistic lesbian-phobia there’s lots of other juicy stuff here too. First there’s Diane Wiest, who is a saint as far as I’m concerned, an incredible Woody Allen actress who should be in everything, and thank God she’s not dead. Then there is Rosamund Pike’s hairdo. Then there is Peter Dinklage — I am assuming he is what is saving this movie from total damnation, because he is a short person in a huge part, which rarely happens. He’s also a juicy actor, and juicily naked at one point (I’ve always had a thing for midgets -- I know you want to hear -- I've never had sex with one, but I almost did once. It was like that thing that almost happened with Rudolf Nureyev -- I wanted to, but all I would have been thinking about during the act would be the specialness of it all, and there would have been shrinkage. (Shrinkage with Dinklage.) Anyway, this movie too, is apparently not rosy and cheery and moral enough for the puritanical Americans who have been watching and who are complaining that it has nothing redeeming to say. Jesus you are not in church, you are not in diversity training at work, you are not listening to your boss or the Chairman of the TTC giving you the requisite COVID lecture, you are watching a work of art, it’s not supposed to be supplying you with information or with the soothing sense that you are a really good person, it’s supposed to be screwing up your brain. That’s what art does. It leaves you wounded and panting, just like that guy with the giant-you-know-what who bursts into your room at the baths and suddenly plunges it into you at top speed, and you barely have time to check for a condom (but, of course, you do). You know what I mean. You always know what I mean. Because you are me. Or I can imagine you are. (By the way, it's good to be back.)

Stillwater was great.

 I was waiting all movie for a glimpse of Matt Damon’s new ‘Dad Bod’. Well, he shows it off (coming out of the shower near the end); he’s so big and gorgeous and bloody masculine he can hardly speak. Anyway I do hope that this brings lots of converts to the Dad Bod — as I seem to have one. At least a young man complimented me on mine the other night after we had sex. ‘I just love Dad Bods,’ he crooned. I was not the least insulted — just grateful he didn’t call it a ‘Grandad Bod’ which is what it definitely was, in terms of him. But as to the content of Stillwater, it’s all very ‘relevant;’ it aims to heal the divide — well — all divides really — as it’s the story of a redneck’s trip to Cote d’Azur, and sure he enough, he learns to love it, and it learns to love him. You see? It will all be okay. What’s fascinating to me is that Damon’s love interest Camille Cottin — who is meant to represent the opposite of the 'redneck' i.e. French high culture (and high culture in general) is into —you guessed it — theatre. It’s nice to know theatre retains its pride of place representing all things esoteric and pretentious. It’s nice to know that being a playwright still means being tedious, pompous and obscure! That’s what we always were and always will be. At one point Cottin kisses a theatre director— he's skinny with a ponytail -- but we know he is no competition for the slightly-saggy-titted-and-massive-bummed-Dad-Bod that is Matt Damon. And then there is a scene where the same bun-headed wimp is directing an avant-garde play (I direct those too, by the way) and in the play they are intoning: ‘There is no truth.’ The line is meant to personify the height of balderdash — i.e. egg-headed bullshit — and when Damon is asked about the play all he can do is shrug and say is “It was good.” (But you just know he hated it.) Dare I amend the error? Of course theatre must etnerally epitomize the height of coma-inducing boringness, but these days a playwright would ever write ‘there is no truth.' Now every playwright knows what the truth is; I shan't bother to tell you, we all know anyway, and we go to the theatre to have our egos stroked for being really good, tolerant pro-trans people, pro-Indigenous folk, guilty as hell but penitent, who want to save the environment, wear masks and just generally be better than God. It’s nice to know that films are still not only earnest and occasionally thoughtful but also well made and suspenseful (as Stillwater is). The big moment is a critique of ‘Woke Folk.’  When Cottin refuses to talk to a racist man — even though the man might save Matt’s innocent daughter from prison -- Damon confronts her saying something like ‘we have people like that back home -- and we talk to them.’  He becomes the messenger of tolerance from the right. But for all its good intentions, no one is going to buy this. Yes, Damon says he didn’t vote for Trump, but he does own two guns — something he mumbles as a kind of caress when he screws Cottin for the first time. Nothing can come of this kind of well-meaning dramaturgical compromise, because compromise no longer exists in life. Come on, you know who is evil --and it's not you  - she’s on Facebook or he’s at the shop, and you nurture your anger against them, aging it — like fine wine. There is nothing quite so satisfying as knowing you are right, and so many ugly numbskulls are wrong. Well I can solve all of this, literally with my butthole. Susan Sontag calls this an ‘erotics of art.’ I’ve figured out what is wrong with the world. None of us gets screwed in the ass enough. The fact that you might think I am cursing you or demanding you suffer just indicates how messed up we all are. Yes, I seriously mean this. We all need to get screwed in the anus— it has to be in the back -- the front just won’t do. In fact I suggest you do it now. I had this startling revelation last night when someone was screwing -- well, back there, I think. With something. His penis was somewhat involved (and yes it was suitably sheathed, so for chrissakes calm down) -- but probably also fingers and god-knows-what. It was fabulous. And I kept thinking — what have I been missing? And why? In Allen Ginsberg’s interview with Playboy in 1969 he said “The anal-sphincter-prostate orgasm… is a great opening of feeling and delight and an extraordinarily beautiful experience, and rare. Possibly everybody should experience it.” Well, no one listened. He also went on about what tolerant people we would all be if we all had rectal ecstasies. This I agree with, too. Then he went on about men understanding what women go through. This is a bit too essentialist for me, as first of all we’ll never understand what they go through, as we don’t go through it, and second of all not all women go through that -- I mean -- are screwed in the front. One of my best friends, who used to go on about how big her husband’s penis was, once told me when she was drunk — “I never let him screw me.” Apparently she just adores his penis, in various other ways, which is fine too. (But everything is fine.) The reason why you need to be screwed in the behind is because it’s a nasty place, a bad place, a place that yucky things come out of, and nothing should go in to. Wrong! Can’t you see that both conceptually and biologically anal sex is the definition of revolution? Which begins at home,  so please start sticking things up there right now. I know. You’re going to say that Allen and I believe this because we are homosexuals. No. I mean we are, but — stop me if you’ve heard me say this before. Straight men are much more obsessed with anal sex than gay men are. I’m practically dead — and I’m only coming to terms with my asshole now. What took me so long? Whereas straight men have been obsessing about putting it up women’s bums (and doing so) for centuries. Vive la difference! Except when it comes down to it, there isn’t any, really. Unless of course you want to have sex with it. And then for most people (sad but true, I don't know how to tell you this--all you 'genderqueers') it matters very much what kind of ‘it’ it is.

It’s mainly about

trying to forget it all happened, now. But all these bulging stomachs keep reminding me. Everyone is fat, I don’t even recognize some of my friends. Then there’s the friends. I depended on them so much during lock down -- needing them desperately-- which is all part of my abandonment complex, which  lock down put into warp speed. I think a couple of them are now scared of me —' Is Sky being clingy and needy again?' You see I got into the habit of urgently filling my life during lock down, planning weeks ahead what will I be doing at every moment?  I’ve always been a 'scheduler' and the fear was — I tried to explain this to my partner and he totally didn’t understand (that’s why I’m calling him my ‘partner’ today) -- the way my life was organized in the past, was I drank to — well nearly to --  but not completely, to — oblivion, two nights a week, and the rest of the week I was home watching CNN, writing, feeding the cat, and arguing with but sometimes loving (though arguing can be loving) my partner. That worked for about 20 odd years (and they were odd). Suddenly the spectre of every night is empty lay before me. I realize now that the reason previously I was able to endure five nights a week of no drinking, and oh yes this is very important -- 5 nights of no promiscuous sex -- was because I had the other two nights of the week to be a crazy drunken slut. I know this pre-COVID-19  life plan might sound unhinged -- but all of my therapists approved of it. They said — 'Hey if it works for you, then go ahead!'  So then the wrench got thrown into the works, that is I got hit hard by tet COVID-19 wrench and suddenly weekends spent drinking with a friend and not getting laid just didn't hack it. So okay, yes I admit it.  All alone in my room in Toronto (what could be more sad?) late at night every Friday and Saturday I would jerk off with the help of poppers and porn. It was poppers I was looking forward to, all week, really. (It's my drug of choice). But weekdays became difficult too, because poppers filled my nose but -- to be pathetically poetical -- not the hole in my soul. At home during the week, my worst fantasy was that at I might end up siting in my room staring at the walls at 11 pm wondering ‘why is there air?' (that’s a quote from Bill Cosby, sorry). So I would work furiously in the evenings until quite late at night. And yes I have managed to write most of a book, and far too many blogs. But it all had to be scheduled, every moment, and if I went off my schedule I panicked. So the trick now is, abandoning my abandonment issues, as there is now a shitload of stuff to look forward to (yes sex and even plays, maybe). So I threw the poppers out the window. I made a pact years ago never to buy them, and to rarely use them even when offered, as they rot your brain and are the same as huffing cleaning products under the sink. So can you see why many of us don’t take kindly to all  you self-righteous masked do-gooders warning us ‘there will probably be another lock down?” I really couldn’t care less about my or anyone else’s physical health, when our mental health is at stake. And the kids! I can’t imagine! When you see another fat belly jiggling by just imagine it's the brains and emotions of those kids bouncing up and down, locked in a their rooms when they should be running free, more lonely, more alone, than you and I could ever imagine, because for them it feels like forever. Perhaps my popper confession; was just too much? My unsavoury drug addiction? My masturbatory habits? It’s all I can offer; it's the way I crucify myself for you. It's the least I can do as an artist  i.e. strip myself naked emotionally -- because hey, your life isn’t easy, either, I’m sure. Speaking of which, if you want to see a very witty non-artist pretending to be an artist, watch Bo Burhnam’s Inside. It’s squeaky clean and politically correct, although he does get three-quarters-naked a couple of times (he has a lovely treasure trail leading to….?) and he -- somewhat like me -- also endlessly castigates himself. But Bo, if you’re going to put yourself down, you need to talk about having a popper addiction and jerking off to porn alone in a dark Toronto flat. If the best self-criticism you can come up with is ‘I’m a white person and I feel guilty, and know I should shut up, but frankly I just care too much’ well you need to go back to your electric piano and start over. Getting popcorn at the movie theatre before Inside -- there were only 3 other people there (you can watch it on Netflix. I just wanted to go to a movie theatre, because I can) -- was a lonely little family. A fat mother and her two fat sons.The sons were of indeterminate age but teenagers basically, and probably gender fluid. I had to stand behind them as I was waiting to get to the mustard for my hot dog (they were taking an enormous amount of time picking out toppings). Passing my time gazing their giant backsides scared the hell out of me. This is the youth of today, living with mom, fat, gender indeterminate, depressed about everything, generously accepting apologies ('No worries!'), nurturing their inner victim, and hoping they never have to do anything or live in the world-- or god help them -- lose weight.  I don’t want people to be fat. I know, you think I’m shaming them. It’s about COVID-19, okay?  I never thought I’d say it, but that crazy lady Marjorie Taylor Greene did utter one wise thought (yes she did, bad people can say good things, i.e. I agree with Trump on free speech) when she said -- "Instead of doing all these crazy lock downs, people should lose some weight!" It's difficult to hear, but most of the people who die of COVID-19 are overweight. The fact that this crazy Qanon wingnut got booted off twitter for saying that just means… beware, everyone. When speech and thought become  crimes they will  be drawing outlines of all our bodies on the pavement. We need to say and think whatever we like honey! On pain of death, or just on having having to read a solipsistic, narcissistic diatribe like this.

I am on

the train beside a madwoman. I hope she doesn’t read this. She is very small, has long straggly hair -- constantly runs her fingers through it -- then waves those fingers in my general vicinity. She also has a gigantic suitcase about the same size as she is, and when she arrived she tried  to shove it into the bin above the seat. Everyone around said — ‘No No! It won’t fit!" I refused to help her for that reason. The suitcase almost crushed her; she almost fell to the floor, but I rescued her, and then insisted she put the suitcase somewhere else. Whew. She doesn’t seem to know anything about train protocol (‘Where is the bathroom ? Am I permitted to go now?’) She is now slumped down in her seat in her track suit sleeping(?), I think she just craves attention before mainlining whatever drug is the cause of her crazy. She is part of the new normal. During COVID-19 no one traveled, and when we did, we weren’t allowed to sit together — now we are packed together like sardines wacko beside wacko. Speaking of the future, here’s what to expect:
1. People Will Be More Divided
It looks like ‘health’ will take the place of race, and gender and sexuality as the primary issue of the day — i.e. maskers vs anti-maskers. Like all excellent polarisation issues, this one is a matter of life and death Those who hate homosexuality think we are killing you with AIDS, those who hate abortion think women are killing babies, those who want to give their children puberty blockers believe that if we don’t we are killing trans children, and now those who do not wear masks are killing you -- but especially your children — even though children don’t even get very sick with COVID-19 (don’t listen to anything they tell you about kids and COVID-19, it’s just  news porn, and fun for you to worry about, but that’s all it is, trust me). Add to that each ‘side’ has been online chumming it up with their dumb counterparts, the thickheaded numskulls on Facebook who scream  ‘Anit-vaxers should be shot!’ or, conversely ’Vaccinations will kill you.” Well they can eat each other for all I care, but they may accidentally munch on me in the process; so I am forced to pay attention. It’s all about conspiracy theories — the Anti-vaxers believe the government is trying to kill its citizens, and the Vaccinators think the Anti-vaxers are trying to kill everyone. But you may say— ‘The  anti-vax movement is a lie.’ It is, But everyone’s lying these days anyway, and that doesn’t give you the right to hate someone who doesn’t want to get vaxed, or to want to kill them. But you will, anyway. That is the new normal.
2. People Will Hate Other People More
If there’s one thing COVID-19 taught us, is that we don’t need other people. Don’t believe any of those commercials where vaccinated people are running into each other’s arms — hugs, kisses and certainly oral sex are now officially suspicious activities. You see, humans work like this: they fear everything until it becomes humanised. (The Nazis were able to kill Jews because they became un-human to them.)  As the world becomes less human,  it becomes more dangerous. You have spent a year in a half being  told the only way we will survive is by not reaching out and touching a person of another colour, a queer, or just anyone outside your little tribe. This is going to screw us up.
4. Nothing Works
You will have to go online for everything now, and nobody is going to answer the phone anymore, because they work from home. Everything will break i.e. be hacked, and no one will know how to fix it. The world will become more and more dysfunctional. Now that we have been told our lives revolve around the internet — bad people will try and destroy our lives by destroying it.
5. The best way to survive is be  human if you  can, i.e — have lots of sex with lots of strangers, talk to strangers, assume anyone who is different from you is probably a good person, and constantly touch other people, and — most important — stay off social media at all costs, and avoid the internet when you can. You must see Pig — a new movie with Nicholas Cage.(It’s funny that people are falling all over themselves to assure us this is not a ‘Nicholas Cage movie.’) In one scene (in a restaurant) Cage talks to a chef — and in doing so, says it all. I don’t want to spoil it, but Pig is about a man who loves a specific pig more than anything else (he specifies that he does not have sex with the pig it's not that.) In this movie, you must read  'a pig’ -- as 'a human being' (remember pigs are nearly as smart as us, and for sure smarter than the guy who is cursing you on Facebook presently!). Last night I did my bit to survive the new normal, I went to a strip club and happened upon a young man there who was once in a play I directed. He is now a porn star. Wow. Please don’t rush to be in one of my plays. His case is quite unique. When I worked with him, I found him very ‘interesting’ -- kinda beautiful in an odd way, very original, and perhaps on the autism scale. I really liked him. So I got his phone number. I don’t want to screw him necessarily. But he is doing his part to keep us all human by having as much sex as possible. You can rant all you want to against porn, but sex trade workers are kind of like Gods, so please try and be nice — even if being nice is  not part of the 'new normal.'
6. I think the very strange woman beside me on the train is masturbating. I think the man in the couple in front of me is talking to the baby in his wife’s belly. These are people. We must somehow learn to live with them. It's the only way,

I feel an

obligation to my two faithful readers, I know I have at least two. One of them is a dear friend who keeps saying “Where are your blogs? I live vicariously through you!” Which I’m sure is unusual, as I stand as a case study in how not to life your life. What has happened is merely this; I’m trying to enter the world again. Those damn blogs took five hours a day to create — two hours of movie — three hours of writing. It was a perilous daily deep sea dive into a underwater cave when there was nothing else to do; but now I must exit the cave and stand in the sun, naked. I can’t begin to tell you how difficult that is. Have you noticed? First of all I don’t trust that anything is actually going to happen again. Then there is the craven nature of the Toronto theatre community. What are you doing? What are you afraid of? As far as I know, theatres in Ontario are permitted to open today at 50% capacity. So what's up, Ontario? People have been going to plays in Montreal for quite some time. I hesitate to speculate, but of course I will, could it be that COVID19 is an excuse? Could it be that the incredible socio-cultural changes (#MeToo, BLM etc) are causing theatres to take time to deal with well — whatever it is they have to deal with? I won’t imagine — yes I will — the endless, fraught, boring, vile, accusatory meetings, as theatres become social work, and it’s suddenly necessary to please everyone in the community, and theatre artists become politicians who must placate their audience, rather than innovators who lead. I hope I’m mistaken, I hope the next six months is just about putting in new air filtration systems and sanitising the seats. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great that women will no longer be abused (good luck just slapping a  new coat of paint on that!) and trans people will no longer be neglected and rejected, but shouldn’t theatre be about something other than ideas? For the great artists, ideas are just fodder, tools, you throw them in the audience’s face but you, yourself don’t actually believe anything, except that the world is scary and delightful, brimful of sex, candy, death, and putrefaction; and difficult to define, in words — but something you wish to have your audience experience during the two hour traffic of the stage. All you can do if you are an artist (I stole this from James Baldwin) is try and somehow understand the riddle of the world —but not by articulating it, or god forbid solving it. Well, one part of my life is solved; sex. My abandonment issues are over (for now). I thought it would all go away — that I was too old, that no one would ever want me again. Okay: so he was about 6’4”, furry, breathtakingly handsome, lean, probably an older man (but still younger than me) and from the moment he entered my room at the baths I knew he was taking charge. That’s all I really need. And I  realise now that I was rehearsing — all those years as a breathless feminine drag queen  — and have now compressed that into what has become my requisite sexual rputine. (If you’re going to have sex with me don’t bother, as I’m going to tell you how it usually goes). I become a shy, yearning, doe-eyed female in straight porn movies -- or a semi-reluctant, moaning, yielding boy in the gay ones. Every touch — that is every touch of his — is magic; he likes that  and continues to touch me. I’m in agony and ecstasy and he has all the power. Let’s get the distasteful stuff over with. Yes, there was a teeny-weeny bit of strangling, but I trusted that he was acting, he only took it so far, and yes, he put it inside me, and yes it was heaven. Is that euphemistic enough for you? I must differentiate between euphemism and euphuism. The first I detest; my life has been devoted, up until now, to telling it like it is, it’s what’s gotten me into so much trouble, like when I said that Viveck Shraya was homophobic (latest infraction) or that perhaps HIV was not the sole cause of AIDs (my midlife misdemeanour) or that sex is good and everyone should be doing it constantly (I make that mistake all the time, to this day). I know I should just talk about how lovely dogs are (i.e. actual dogs, not gay male ‘pups’) and how thrilled I am to be doubly vaccinated. Aren’t you thrilled? Doesn’t it just give you a tingling sensation knowing the blood clots got somebody else, and you are squeaky clean -- in anticipation of the fourth wave (or is it the third; I’m such a ditz)? Anyway, I digress, yes euphemism is what an artist doesn’t do, it’s what Rod McKuen did. Euphuism is something else; it is the key to Shakespeare and all Elizabethan writing. I am convinced now that Shakespeare was John Lyly and invented euphuism -- which is simply language for the sake of language in the tradition of the Greek rhetor Gorgias — and the beauty of that language is its own persuasion. It cares not for truth, and yet it does. The truth is in the spaces between the things you say, and in what does not make sense, but primarily in the contradictions. I have a date tonight with an older man, his name is Roger (pronounced Roget) and we are meeting at the Eagle in Montreal. To me, it’s like a dream -- that I might have friends in the town where I mostly just screw and don’t as yet have a stick of work to call my own (i.e. theatre work). But I am trying to talk to the guys at the baths more. I really am. Mikey, I think that was his name (on Wednesday night) was a hardcore submissive, and he mentioned dogs in just the right way (i.e. that he was one) and serviced me mercilessly. There was something about him that makes me think he is working class, and that he hangs out under the bridge in Hochelaga. (That's a secret place; we mustn't talk about it, so I won’t.) I will be back. I promise -- not that any of you care!  But I have to get out there and feel it all eat it all (not food) and submit. Perhaps I will submit until I disappear; but remember you will always find me here, eventually.

Every day I

hate this lock down more. When we returned to Hamilton today the GO station doors were locked. They decided to close it because —- why? More buses are running, but the station is closed because of COVID-19? Stop the insanity!!! This was Susan Powter’s 1990s diet catchphrase and nothing could be more appropriate — other than perhaps: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not taking it anymore!” (i.e. Network). I’m tired of being schizophrenic, a split personality — sexually frustrated and drowning in friends in Toronto -- having sex every night, but no friends at all, in Montreal. (Oh whine whine you say.) The newspapers are filled with articles about how difficult it will be for people who haven’t left the house for a year to hug other people again.  Oh — ‘boo hoo!' What about all of us who have been attempting to have a life for over a year, calling people every other day, begging them to spend time with us, walking when we don’t want to walk, trying to find things to talk about with people who we see every day -- because there is no one else to see, getting tired of people who we love — or used to love — but now we question everything —including ourselves — because there is no variety change surprise excitement suspense, there is nothing but a vast wasteland of endless sameness. And to be confronted with what might be our own self? And  to be bored to death with it? But this is not me! I have sex, go to the theatre and hug my friends (sometimes simultaneously!). Jesus H. Christ (as my Dad used to say)! Better Davis is all bug-eyed in In This Our Life — I have no idea why this movie has that title, nor can I -- or anyone else -- explain why it is about two sisters with male names: ‘Stanley’ (Davis) and ‘Roy’ (Olivia de Havilland). This movie is also quite schizophrenic — halfway through I figured out it was an ‘anti-racism’ movie (all very admirable — the novel it was based on won a Pulitzer Prize), before that I thought it was just a melodrama about a selfish slutty woman — who Davis plays to a tee. But unfortunately, Davis is a bit bug-eyed —  always a sign she doesn’t like her part. Olivia de Havilland is forced to play Melanie from Gone With the Wind -- yet again— she’s so nice you just want to smack her. There are echoes of Gone With the Wind throughout — Davis’ character is very ‘Scarlett,’ George Brent looks like Clark Gable —and even Mammy’s here! (Hattie McDaniel!). The ‘Good Witch' from The Wizard of Oz (Billie Burke) is also present, and so is Lee Patrick. I’ve mixed them up for years, the reason being (IMDB tells me) -- not only do they look alike, but they both played Leo G. Carroll’s wife in Topper (the movie and TV show, respectively). I am Bette Davis in this movie. All I care about is myself (that should be obvious by now). I am very impatient and not easily satisfied. I just want to dance all the time, smoke, wear pretty dresses, pick up a different man every night, and drive fast cars. I have no sympathy, empathy or actual human warmth; I am such a narcissist I make Donald Trump look like your kindly grammy. Yes you will find me, like Davis, all alone in a bar full of men, smoking and shaking my can, while they try and ignore me -- until I leave. Then Walter Huston the bartender (John Huston — his father and the director — gave him a bit part) says “I hope she breaks her neck.’ Indeed  eventually she kinda does. I have no doubt I will end up dead in an alley somewhere, not sure why I haven’t, I learned about life from these American movies, I was shaped by what I would call the ‘aesthetic’ of AIDS -- which was shaped by the ‘aesthetic’ of old Hollywood movies i.e. if you live fast and look hot you are sure to die young. I’ve never actually been ‘hot’ but I’ve acted as if I was, which is essentially the same thing. I kinda got picked up last night on a patio in Montreal (we didn’t have sex, so maybe we’ll be friends). Yes, L'l ol' me. He was a retired schoolteacher, and I noticed that he was handsome, elegant, and reminded me of one of my best friends who doesn’t really like me anymore. What could be a better recipe for friendship? I told him I was an alcoholic slut, in an open relationship, with a popper problem — which I think is an extremely accurate assessment of myself at the present time. He seemed somewhat entranced; we’ll see. I think he might be sexually attracted to me, and I’m sexually attracted enough to him to have sex with him, but if we don’t have sex that’s perfectly fine too. Actually I was simply flattered because he laughed at my jokes. That’s how pathetic I am! I’m trying desperately to make you laugh here — am I trying to hard? Is my mascara running, the sweat pouring from my brow,  due to my backbreaking effort at being eternally captivating? On my last night in Montreal I watched the strippers -- wistfully-- before sailing out the door to the bathhouse. It's really not so much about their beautiful penises (there, I said that word, but in a very chaste sentence!). It’s about the fact that they are compelled to show them to us, and really do enjoy doing it -- no matter how much they claim it's only for the money. There was a boy at the ‘Bearwear’ store (ashamed to admit I shopped there) with the most luscious skin. I almost told him that. Thank God I did not. I bought a sequinned tank top. It’s in my closet in Hamilton now; how appropriate. Trust me; I really am very entertaining, I am also selfish, I love to dance, and I’m very good at ruining people’s lives; driving them to suicide, that sort of thing. I’m sure I would be the life of any party. Will you please invite me to one? If not, I’m liable to accidentally kill somebody, then engage the police in a car chase, and then drive myself off a cliff. I see Bette Davis’ face as she looks at herself in the rear-view mirror. It’s a valiant death — all of the best people go that way, they do not expire peacefully, in their sleep. At least it will be sudden. And I will be as self-obsessed in death as I was In This Our Life.

When it comes

to Baby Doll — what was all the fuss about? It was the Catholic Church’s Cardinal Spellman who denounced the film from the pulpit  in apparently unprecedented fashion, calling it a “moral danger.” Yes there is something shocking in it, but there was something much more shocking about Warner Bros  changing the title of Tennessee Williams' play 27 Wagons Full of Cotton to Baby Doll. Then there’s the publicity photo they decided on -- Carroll Baker (a 25 year old woman) curled up in a baby’s crib sucking her thumb. Okay, so this is all about sexualizing children (bad). Or is it just ubiquitous? Are we  not all hypocrites? What healthy heterosexual male doesn't find teen-age girls attractive? I was standing at a bus stop the other day in Montreal. There was a young woman wearing a plaid Catholic schoolgirl skirt. She looked young enough to be a schoolgirl — but she was also wearing an exemplary pair of  ‘Mary Janes’ -- a schoolgirl's buckled shoe -- which I immediately recognised as a fetish object, as a male friend of mine used to get orgasms simply from putting them on. So she could very well have been a prostitute. No,  children should not be sexualized by adults, but we fetishize youth — that’s just the way it is, so stop pretending it never happens. But Baby Doll is not about feshizing youth — it is about a young woman discovering her own sexual desire, moving from being objectified by her older husband (Karl —the nose! — Malden) to a loving relationship with the handsome self-confessed ‘wop’ Eli Wallach. The scene which shocked so many people is the one where Wallach woos Baker. There is nothing wrong with it; it's a celebration of a young woman's sexual maturation. It’s also incredibly hot (it made me horny). We pretend we are shocked by sexualising children, but what really shocks us is the the idea that a woman might  urgently desire a handsome man. Interesting though, that the priest who denounced this film (Francies Spellman) in the name of the Catholic Church also happens himself to have recently been denounced by Michaelangelo Signorile as "one of the most notorious, powerful and sexually voracious homosexuals in the American Catholic Church's history.” The sight of a ‘sexually voracious’ closeted homosexual priest attacking a gay playwright (Tennessee Williams) triggers me. I’m in Montreal. And I have spotted my nemesis the Toronto Reverend Brent Hawkes. I say ‘my nemesis’ because I’ve always detested him -- first because he made virtue signalling popular even when no one else was doing it -- disguising himself as a paragon of moral purity while at the same time getting up to some pretty suspicious activities with underage men. But that’s not why I hate him. I will never forget about 35 years ago (and I don’t hold on to a lot of grudges, I don’t) when Buddies in Bad Times Theatre (my own theatre at the time) was in deep trouble because Toronto city councillor Rob Ford and Christian Right Activists were blocking us from taking over what would become our home at 12 Alexander Street. We knew that public support from the ‘Right Reverend Hawkes’ would be crucial for us -- as the Christian numnuts had labelled me a misogynistic sadist, and called our theatre an orgy palace and  den of sin and debauchery (something which we attempted to be but could never quite achieve). Hawkes refused to come out in support of our theatre; for him (and some of the gay community) we represented s/m, promiscuity, and camp, all of which they hoped would go away (it did pretty disappear quite soon, as what Hawkes represented has now come into vogue for queers everywhere — virtue signalling, TVSAFE-unsexy-RuPaul drag queens, church attendance, support of the police, and the adoption of children. Well everywhere I look I see Brent Hawkes. He hasn’t turned up at the baths yet thank God — but I saw him and his ubiquitous partner walking down the street. And lo and behold I was sitting in Le Stock (my favourite strip bar) and they were right behind me. He has been known in the past to come up to try and apologise to me — mumbling something to the effect of “Sky why this negativity —." Oh dear.Well this negativity ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby. If you are gay and in Montreal (living or visiting or whatever) it is likely for one reason; you are an inveterate slut, a low-life, looking for nefarious nelly and non-nelly males to have you way with. I would have no problem with anyone else being here for that reason, but I can't abide Hawkes here, still pedaling his hypocritical, unpalatable, public display of virtue. My old friend Christopher Newton once described the type of play he was forced to schedule at the Shaw Festival just to fill seats and keep the board happy.  He called it ‘the Vicker’s Knickers.' At one point the vicker runs ends up running around with his pants around his ankles chasing some screeching wench. When I see Brent Hawkes I can’t get that image out of my mind. On the positive side, last night at the baths I met the same man I caught balancing a cookie on his you-know-what last summer. At least I think it was him, I don’t forget such a gorgeous prodigious member easily, And he was the same; tall, tattooed with an inch of his life, lean, muscled OMG! I choked on that monster for as long as I could, and then stupidly I tried to insert the thing my you-know-where but that was impossible — which I think he realized — he’s probably tried that with others before to no avail — as such a venture would be like shoving the Leaning Tower of Pisa into a paper straw (I’m thinking about the environment, even now).  I’ll never suggest we try that again. I hope he comes back. When I’m choking in that particular fashion it wipes the image of Brent Hawkes clear out of my mind. Like Carroll Baker in Baby Doll I defend to the death my right to desire the ‘wop’ of my choice.

I watched The

Fugitive Kind because I'd heard it was a failed Tennessee Williams play. In fact it is. There is just not enough conflict, and the bad guys are simply bad and the good guys simply good. It’s a bit of a lecture too -- a beautiful one at times, about the difficulties for those who are of the ‘fugitive kind’ -- a bird that can never land,  must always be in the air. Yes, certainly I get it. I’m that kind of bird, and it has caused me endless trouble. But you’re just supposed to want all the ‘fugitives’  -- Anna Magnani, Marlone Brando and Joanne Woodward  -- to get together and be happy -- and that’s kind of impossible for fugitives -- by definition. And then Anna Magnani’s mean husband Victor Jory burns her dream to the ground at the (sorry spoiler) end. What to say about Marlon Brando? He was 36 -- a tad too old for the part-- (like Magnani) but still breathtakingly beautiful. However the lizard-skin jacket -- well, I'm not quite buying it. The same for  his perpetual mumbling.Williams was very much writing about his lover Frank Merlo, and every other young man who he spilled his seed upon, and he writes about him lovingly. and makes this sort of male prostitute-ish character — i.e. the much maligned desired male — into somewhat of a real person. But Brando is an angel; his name sounds like saviour (Xavier). Again, a bit much. It’s all a bit much. Anna Magnani is astounding as usual; everything she does is real. And Joanne Woodward manages to be beautiful but not sexy, few can manage that (except perhaps Meryl Streep). The film is virulently anti-racist, and that’s good. But I hate preachy plays. There is a subtler and more controversial theme -- at least for us these days -- about the importance of art, as Brando and Maureen Stapleton (Vee Talbot) are both artists — she a painter, he a musician. Brando’s guitar means everything to him, he won’t let anyone touch it (gee -- what else might he be that protective of?). But he only plays it once, and is dubbed (Elvis Presley was supposed to play the part which would have made more sense). Stapleton goes blind (I think, the scene happened so quickly -- she appears in the distance yelling ‘I can’t see!’) And people keep threatening to take Brando’s guitar. All this makes sense if Brando is ‘Opheus’ but also I think this is all about Tennessee Williams sensing that his writing career was nearly over -- that the critics were trying to take away his guitar. Stanley Kauffman wrote that article in 1966 saying gay playwrights were undermining American culture, and the love of William's life -- Frank Merlo -- died in 1963, and basically Williams had nary a success after 1964.  I can’t imagine someone taking away my guitar (i.e. this writing) but I’m sure it will happen, especially if I continue to say the kind of things I am about to say here, now. Theatre Passe Muraille is suggesting, for Canada Day, that we read The Truth and Reconciliation Report ‘with them’ (whatever that means). I have nothing against the Truth and Reconciliation Report (except the title is too long), but the fact that a theatre has told you to read a certain political document -- one  that has a certain political point of view -- is offensive to me, and offensive to art. How many times do I have to tell you that I never wrote plays saying 'gay is good,' I wrote about what bastards gay men are, and got in a lot of trouble with my own community. Gay men are horrible wherever you go, I should know, I’m in Montreal and I’ve been having sex with as many horrible men as I can (it's research). When I ran Buddies I never made rules saying we wouldn't do work that was homophobic, or that we would only do plays by queers -- there was no 'screed.' Never mind, if you are an artist but not a polemicist you might just as well just send in a letter of resignation saying “I am not worthy, please burn everything I have created.” I have some friends who are already doing this — if I was to burn all my books I might as well just set myself on fire —  as I am them. What's the difference between IKEA and The Holocaust Museum? I was at IKEA with my ever-controlling partner the other day (we shall call him partner after what he put me through-- none of this 'lover' stuff) and I happened to notice that not only are The Holocaust Museum and IKEA essentially nightmares, but they are set up in exactly the same way. The sadists who designed the enthralling Holocaust Museum (it is beautiful architecturally, conceptually) designed it so that you cannot wander around and visit things at random you have to go through the museum in chronological order, visiting the various terrifying incidents one by one -- as if you were a Jew watching your life disintegrate. Similarly, in IKEA you cannot turn around and go back, you must view the various furniture 'stagings' in a manner that has been decreed by IKEA management, and it is generally torturous and frightening and claustrophobic (like The Holocaust Museum) that is, if you have the notion that you are an independent human being, not just an automaton who buys things. My partner is no amateur sadist. It was precisely at the moment when I said ‘I can’t stand this anymore I have to go home!’ when he decided that he would take another hour picking out bed sheets (striped or white, what do you think?). But that’s love for you, isn’t it? (I mean, my putting up with that is love, isn't it)? Or maybe it’s just s/m — as in, when you think that you can’t take anymore your ‘master’ just goes a little bit  beyond your limit, and then your tits are sore as hell the next day. Mine certainly are. I was drunk as a skunk at the bathhouse last night of course. Then this guy came along and twisted my tits while I moaned like a lady, gazing up at him imploringly with my big 'baby-hazels.' It turns out he was a massage therapist. He was kind. And when Tennessee was writing great plays (unlike this one) he said something about that. And it all had to do with strangers. Or something.

I too, am

The Wrong Man. Like Henry Fonda in Hitchcock’s film I have been unduly punished for a crime I never committed. I am innocent. I recently watched the engrossing Truman and Tennessee (a new film about Capote and Williams in their own words) and was shocked to hear that Williams' sexual history is not unlike mine. At one point, when interviewed by David Frost I think (dear me, what were people watching on televisions back then!) Williams says ‘I never masturbated.” And then later he admits something like ‘The first time I actually had sex with a man was when when I was 27 - no — 28.’ This is exactly my story. Precisely: I didn't touch myself until I was in my late 20s, I used to rub up against the bed (I could pretend it was not happening) and I slept with women until I was 28. What I’m realizing now, being in Montreal and stepping out of my COVID-19 cocoon (yes I am somewhat like a butterfly now -- while I was dour, creeping, and furry in an unattractive way during lock down) is that having sex with men constantly (which is my wont) changes the way I look at men, generally. When I was in the closet I was not just not having sex with men, I was punishing myself constantly for wanting to -- for desire -- writing in my ‘journal’ about how to stop fantasizing about men, about how I was a good person and didn’t need to give in to my emotions (i.e. sexual desires). This meant a daily exercise in which I saw men on the street who aroused me but I tried not to be aroused. Also; much more horrifying, my resolve was never to be gay, ever -- which meant I could never partake of these impossible pleasures, though that banquet was laid before my eyes, daily (men are beautiful). So until I was 28 years old I viewed all men really with regret — they were something that I wanted but could not have. When I started having sex with men, suddenly I allowed myself to be attracted to them. This is a proof of my essential puritanical nature; it just didn’t make sense to me that I would desire and not act on that desire. So why desire at all?  When this lock down happened, it was impossible for me not to fall prey to the same exact feeling once more, to fall back into the dark pit of repression. So for months I have been gazing at men, feeling attracted to them, and then feeling bad about myself. I can’t have sex with them, so I will not desire them; as before. (Please don’t ask why it is so necessary for me to have sex with men constantly in order  to give myself permission to desire them; leave that to my therapist, but the point is that after 28 years of being a puritan in the closet, it became a kind of habit.) Anyway, when I was walking along St. Catherine last night I noticed that I could relax, that I could breathe again, look at beautiful men and desire them; because later I would have one. And I did. Last night -- he was as delicious as an ice cream cone and twice as sweet, and I melted under his lips into helpless, messy pleasure. He had skin as pale as — but I won’t go on. But "rough winds do shake the darling buds of May" and I’m sure one day he will be older. (Fortunately I got to him before that all happened. Sigh!) The Wrong Man is fascinating because it is Hitchcock’s attempt at realism (he actually filmed on location, something he didn’t like to do) and it is the very opposite of films like The 39 Steps which are sheer candy floss. (How many German spies are missing the top of their left baby finger? How many times does a flock of sheep interrupt an arrest? And try hiding under a waterfall, geesh…) But there are things that are not real in The Wrong Man, for instance the credits say that Fonda’s wife in the film (Vera Miles) recovered from the insanity that was induced by the wrongful accusations and temporary imprisonment of her husband. In fact Manny Balestrero’s  wife never fully recovered. Hitchcock couldn’t resist giving us a happy ending after showing us this nightmare. Also Henry Fonda is very good at just thinking,which is a rare quality in an actor. Finally, what I find fascinating about this film  is that the real Manny Balestrero was almost jailed due to eyewitness accounts of his ‘robberies’ (when he was in fact somewhere else -- apparently a quarter of all eye witness accounts of crimes are bogus). So much for trusting your eyes. Hitchcock includes the icky scene in which the two women who swore that they had for sure seen Henry Fonda rob them, are confronted with Henry Fonda after the actual robber is brought to justice. They of course avoid his gaze. Don't trust your eyes. Trust your dreams instead. And definitely don’t trust a soul who says 'I saw it!' Or worse yet 'I have proof!' Or (mostly found in those who claim to want safe sex)  -- 'I’ve had the HIV test and I’m negative!'. I saw a robbery with my own eyes last night at the bathhouse, or rather I should say, I had finished my lovely business and was attempting to exit the place, when someone started screaming ‘Voleur!’which even with my pigeon French I know means 'Thief!' I think he was accusing a meth addict. I immediately felt guilty because I had allowed some guy to smoke his pipe in my room on my first night there. First, I guess I should not do that, and second, I apologise. Jesus who am I apologizing to? You’re certainly not there -- and God doesn’t exist -- so I guess I’m apologising to my mother. Sorry Mom, for letting a meth addict smoke his pipe in my room at the baths, but frankly I wanted to suck his you-know-what and that was the only thing that would make him stay. They leave, all of them. I don’t mind. I prefer it that way. They do leave me with a warm heart though. I get along a lot better with my lover now that we are both getting laid.This may seem odd to you -- but frankly I don’t care, because you don’t exist. You may insist that you do.  But I press on disbelieving you because what I share here is private, and should never be read by anyone, and certainly never believed.

It is sheer

entertainment; sheer joy. I return to The 39 Steps, first just to wonder what so enchanted J.D. Salinger — it was his favorite film. It’s clear to me that there are two reasons for this. One, the essential innocence of the film. It’s sweetness. It’s one of Hitchcock’s early sound films, made before he went to Hollywood, and in it he seems to be laying before us all his concerns -- quite exuberant about what he has discovered he is capable of doing, about what he is going to do. The film begins with  ‘Mr. Memory’ performing at a music hall. Hitchcock is obviously in love with this atmosphere (he brings it back at the end with The London Palladium). He loves the interaction between audience and performers — the uninhabited candour when they are dissatisfied with the show, but — this is all in good faith — he says — take it with good humour. The audience might complain, but no one really dislikes the show or the performers — we’re all in this together — we just want you to know you’re being fooled, and, ultimately, it’s all foolishness. This kind of goodwill would not have been lost of Salinger, who — for all his faults — was remarkably innocent, or at least thought himself to be so -- a child really -- whose fate was to be disappointed, then destroyed, by evil. The film proceeds with many delightfully unlikely adventures. Like Shakespeare’s Pericles — or any of his romances — it is about transformations, about the uncertain relationship between the outer and the inner self, and how do we find the truth inside? Robert Donat is certainly meant to be handsome — I do not find him so really -- but his too carefully groomed mustache gives this away. Madeleine Carroll is handcuffed to him half-way through the film, and their spirited banter is grand — you know they are attracted to each other, but unlike Hepburn and Tracy we know it would be impossible for her to be in love with him — as he is supposed to be a murderer (but he is not). My favorite moment is when they are handcuffed together in bed, and just before going to sleep he gleefully recounts his crimes — all lies of course -- and she can’t help laughing (she turns her head away so he won’t see). Of course she is in love with him; somewhere deep down she knows he is good. Because we all know, don’t we, the fundamental difference between good and evil? This kind of trust in the redeeming power of love would have appealed to Salinger. So would the hero’s mistaken identity as killer. Salinger grew to be a kind of criminal — first for falling in love with women who were inappropriately young, but really for daring to detest his fans. This is what I take from Salinger. Nothing I write here -- or anywhere — is for you. It's for me. One or two people may read it now and then, but I owe you nothing. Only this, because it’s all I have. It’s appropriate that I should be watching The 39 Steps (O I just have to tell you one more moment, when Carroll and Donat touch secretly at the end, as they are watching the capture of the German spy. Their hands drift together, quite naturally of course, and no one can see it but us. And Donat still has the chain dangling from his wrist. What does that mean?) Yes I am in Montreal. And I can’t quite believe I’m writing these lines. My lover said that he was tired of me being unhappy; all I could say was “It isn’t likely to change until I have a real weekend in Montreal.” I’ve had it; and we’re still here. Now I know what it is I missed. Men. The everything of men. The smell of them, from stem to stern. The way they strut around — men strut their stuff you know, they know what they have down there, and many of them know how to wield it, and they are proud of it too. They are even proud of what’s behind. I must tell you that I haven’t had quite so many men sit on my face — one after another — for quite a long time. This is what I missed, most of all; it’s always been, for me, amazing, just giving into the sheer ‘mannness’ of men, by letting them take advantage of me in that particular manner. No one has sat on my face for approximately a year. The very few strangers I have met online — well I didn’t feel comfortable doing that with them; there has to be something really gorgeous about you if I am to submit to you in that way. The first one was hairy and muscular and sweet (adoring) and was pretty intoxicated by calling me ‘Daddy' and having ‘Daddy’ tell him to do things. The second was a young man — who, it took me a few seconds too realize— was pretty hypnotized by his own butt, and it only took me a few minutes to be hypnotized by it too. This is where I was meant to be, and what I was meant to do; I realize now what I suspected. And I’m sure it’s true for many queers. During COVID-19, I went back into the closet for a year. It’s been just like it was back then; the trauma of this is pretty severe, I think it’s probably why people are ODing on drugs like clockwork, committing suicide and shooting each other. Not because they are queer — though I’m sure some queers have joined that club — but because whatever particular nightmare is your worst fantasy, has -- for many of us -- come true during this time. If you have read this far (God help you!) you will probably understand what I’m saying. But many will not. “What in God’s name are you whining about?," they say. “You don’t have it that bad.” It’s like the husband who says “Why are you divorcing me, after all, I don’t beat you." A quote: “Ever allow the implacably objective to come to power, and that will spell the end of compassion and imagination on earth.” (Jakob Wassermann) We have been ruled by ‘reason,’ by left brain fanatics who have given us twenty thousand reasons for not loving each other, not hugging each other, and not sniffing each other’s private parts. Like dogs we will now take to the streets, and reclaim our destiny— because what is human about us is that we are animals. The problem is only when we dare to  imagine — even for one moment -- that we are completely 'objective.' That is a kind of fatal fooling.

Rebel Without a

Cause is about masculinity, it can best be understood in light of Shakespeare’s The Two Noble Kinsmen. The imagery and symbolism are chivalric in nature — the questions ‘how can one be a man?’ and ‘what is a man?’ are asked often, and this is James Dean’s central issue. It’s amazing to see how times have changed; it mattered very much in 1955 whether or not your father was a good father, but it does not so much matter now. Being a good father nowadays means simply being a good human being; being kind and gentle and understanding, etc.. But In 1955 being a good father meant instructing your son about 'how to be a man' (terribly important — and very different from raising a daughter -- well perhaps she would need to learn from her mother: ‘how to be a woman’). In Rebel Without a Cause being a good father is about men and boys (although Natalie Wood’s father mistreats her -- he won’t kiss her because he considers her ‘loose’ --  back then what happened to her is of less importance). What is of primary importance in this film is the look on James Dean’s face when he questions his father Jim Backus: “If you had to do something, and it was dangerous, and it was a question of honour, what would you do?” This question means little to us today, and in fact would not be asked by a young man, as we live in a culture which has rejected the orthodoxy of masculinity, and indeed we consider masculinity to be fundamentally toxic. In The Two Noble Kinsmen as in Rebel Without a Cause -- men must be noble. This means that they respect their enemies, even love them — the men they may kill in battle the next day -- it’s all about honour, which means acting bravely together, whether on the same team or on opposing sides. When Dean is about to race a car to the edge of a cliff with another boy — to see who jumps out of the car first —  he and the boy talk, quite respectfully — man to man. The boy says to Dean “I like you.” And Dean asks ‘Why do we do this?” And the boy replies “You gotta do something, don’t ya?” It’s evident that strong young men must use their bodies, fling them about, compete, and sometimes kill each other. It’s a matter of honour. It’s all about men, and it all has deeply queer implications, to those of us sensitive to that sort of thing. Nicholas Ray himself was a homosexual; his marriage with Gloria Grahame was a strange sort of sham, he was a drug addict, he hated himself. He tried to insert a scene in Rebel where Dean and Sal Mineo (Plato) kiss. Apparently it was actually shot (where is that footage?) but ended up on the cutting room floor. Everything about Plato is tied up in his name — platonic love — ideal love that can only exist between men, because it is by definition the purest love, and has nothing to do with women’s bodies. Women’s bodies  -- according to early modern sexuality (and still, to some degree today) are mired in blood, and mud, and deeply attached to the ground. Women’s sexuality is not pure— however men’s can be, that is if they do not habour excessive desire for women, but only procreate. The two noble kinsmen (in the play of the same name) love each other purely, as warriors, until they both fall in love with the same woman. The woman, of course, comes between them, drags them down with her body -- which is of the earth. Similarly in Rebel Without a Cause the relationship between Natalie Wood and James Dean is only pure, is only acceptable, because it is ‘platonic’ they talk a lot about love and kiss once, chastely, with their faces only, their bodies are not involved. But their love is also inextricably tied to Plato, it is somewhat about him; they can love each other purely because they both love Plato, who of course must die, because he is an angel, and not of this world. What are we to do with all this, today? The ‘moral’ of Rebel Without a Cause is that Jim Backus (famous for voicing the myopic, nerdy, cartoon character Mister Magoo) is dominated by his wife, and men must never be dominated by women, they must always be strong, and brave, and fight with honour. As I said above, presently our values are reversed. We live in a feminized culture that essentially rejects masculinity — except in it’s least ‘masculine’ forms. Am I a ‘men’s libber' standing up for male rights? Of course not; I’m would not be very happy in the world of Rebel Without a Cause, as in that world the gay boy always dies; and Dean and Mineo can only love each other chastely. This old veneration of masculinity is an anachronism. On the other hand -- though we must protect women and embrace feminine values — it will not do any good to assume that all masculinity is toxic: this will merely drive masculinity underground (QAnon) where it becomes a cult of fascism and male worship. This is the danger of trans theory, which is anti-sexual, anti-body, and homophobic. We all have bodies. Men have bodies, male bodies, strong bodies, they are stronger than women, and they have too much testosterone; it effects us emotionally and spiritually. This does not mean we have a right to abuse, it means that if you do not allow us to be masculine — which means to be, proud, brave, strong, compete in extreme physical activity — then yes we will most certainly turn toxic and destructive. The world of masculinity is alien to me; I am an effeminate gay man and a drag queen; I’ve never understood masculinity, masculine men are generally alien to me, and scary, I’m not even attracted to them. I prefer femininity. But just as I think I should be able to express my femininity, I think that men should also be able to express their masculinity -- and women too! Lastly, the most plaintive cry in this film comes when Plato, disillusioned, screams at Dean “You’re not my father!” Everyone in Rebel Without a Cause is looking for a family. COVID-19 has ripped many queers from their non-biological families, for many these are the only family we have. Some of us are wandering about -- right now -- wide eyed, lonely, like Sal Mineo -- we can only hope the guns we carry are not loaded.

This will be

 a tribute to my friend ‘H’, one of the many lost to COVID-19. By that I don’t mean that she died, I mean that she disappeared from my life. There are so many like that. Anyway, maybe I’ll send her this blog, maybe I won’t. As soon as I started watching The Bat, I thought of her. An awful movie. 'H' is a lesbian and a huge fan of film noir (as many lesbians are -- but ‘H’ is a very special lesbian). Since we are on the subject of lesbians — wow, apparently Agnes Moorehead was one. Wikipedia says there was much speculation about her sexuality, and Paul Lynde said "Well, the whole world knows Agnes was a lesbian – I mean classy as hell, but one of the all-time Hollywood dykes.” That explains a lot. The only reason I chose The Bat was because of Agnes Moorehead — Vincent Price bores me, and yes, it’s about a killer called ‘the bat’ (yawn) who is terrorizing the town, there is a very complicated plot which I didn’t even bother to follow, and it was taken from a stage play, and they’re all in an old house, and he’s killing people. Kind of Agatha Christie without Agatha Christie (who you really do need, if you’re 'doing' Agatha Christie). Anyway, at the centre of it all is Agnes Moorehead, who plays Cornelia Van Gorder — a mystery writer who buys an old spooky mansion. (It sounds like a great plot idea but nothing comes of it.) However, Agnes gets to prance around and be Agnes Moorhead. First of all there’s something enormously strong about her — which means she played a lot of spinsters and teachers etc., but then when she gets to play the lead you see what an amazing actress she is. She’s in an awful lot of movies with bad actors, like -- let’s say Rock Hudson -- and all of a sudden when she walks in the screen comes alive. Immediately you know something is up with Cornelia Van Gorder — she’s got something on her mind, always, I can see Moorehead’s actress mind working on the character mind of Cornelia; I presume Moorehead’s approach would have been ‘Well she’s a writer, so she’s always plotting things. Very pragmatic, down to business, everything serves a purpose, she gets things done.” How can I explain it, Moorehead always comes up with something that drives the scene. In Bewitched, where she played Samantha’s mother Elvira -- it was disdain, she was simply disdainful of everything, and she was the funniest thing on the show. 'H' is writing a play about Cornel Woolrich, so now I will write about how obsessed both of us are with him. Cornel Woolrich is a little known American mystery writer; he is little known because he was gay, okay? Yes he was a very sad little alcoholic gay man who lived with his mother all his wife (I identify, as I drink too much, and my mother took up residence in my psyche long ago -- and refuses to move out). Probably the most interesting thing about Cornel Woolrich is that Hichcock based the leading character in Psycho on him. (I may have written about this in another blog, but at this point, I don’t give a you-know-what). You see Rear Window was based on Woolrich’s short story, and Hitchcock saw him on the set, and well -- how could he resist? Woolrich was a very gaunt, shy, sallow, half-dead looking sort of person. He in his mother lived in a hotel — in the days before apartment buildings, when you could to that sort of thing. (My mother lived in a hotel — Sutton Place in Toronto— people who live in hotels are very special people, or at the very least they think they are, which is much the same.) The details of Woolrich’s life have kind of left my brain, but I know after his mother died, he was devastated and continued to live in the same hotel room for awhile, and then moved to another hotel, where he drank himself to death. There were many movies based on his books, including Truffaut’s The Bride Wore Black. He wrote as well -- or better -- than Raymond Chandler and Dashiel Hammett, but he wasn’t heterosexual or dashing like them, and often wrote from the point of view of a female character -- so everyone ignored him. What captured Hitchcock’s imagination about Woolrich was a man who was in love with his mother. I was once in love with my mother so I get it. (I’ve written about that over and over. I just wrote another play about her.) Suffice it to say that I believed that she could read my mind. I told my therapist when I was 19 that I wanted to tell my mother to f-off — just in my head. And the therapist said -- 'well why don’t you?' and I said, 'because I’m afraid she’ll know I cursed her in my head' and she said -- 'but your mother can’t read your mind.' This was a huge revelation to me; I started to tell her to f-off in my head all the time after that, and then actually did it to her face which she didn’t like at all. But I’ve abandoned 'H' (which if you knew the rest of the letters in her name, would be a very poetic statement). I love 'H' very much. You know those COVID-19 friends you lose for awhile— you didn’t used to see them very much, maybe once every two months. But after COVID-19 she moved out of town and of course no one was supposed to see anyone. 'H' is tall, lanky and looks just like a boy, even though she is definitely a girl. I think the reason I am a little in love with her is because she is -- like me --completely unsuited to live in the world. There is a sense that she wouldn’t know how to turn on a tap if her lover didn’t tell her how to do it. I have the same relationship with my partner. He imagines that I am totally inept and dysfunctional without him and — it’s not true! It’s simply not. He says I would still be living in a hovel over the Kentucky Fried Chicken Take-Out at Church and Wellesley, if it wasn’t for him. This is only partially true, and anyway I really didn’t mind living there. But 'H,' like me, really understands nothing but the fictions she makes up in her head; she kind of lives in there, and when she has to suddenly do something in the world (you see this sometimes when she’s thinking, and then turns and looks at you) you realise she’s saying to herself ‘Oh yes, life! I have to deal with that, don’t I?' I identify. For people like us it's a difficult life, but unique in a way that you perhaps will never know.