It’s not that UNCOUPLED

is bad. Though it is, kinda, I can’t say it’s not entertaining at times — but it paints such a bleak picture of gay life! And I’m not coming from a ‘GLAAD’ perspective here. I don’t think that gay men must, or should, be presented 'positively' in the media. Gay men are people; which means they are flawed. On that level Uncoupled is realistic; it represents the state of gay life right now -- it demonstrates how desperate all of us sad ol’ fags are for straight approval. I say this because Darren Star and his gang obviously yearn to impress on us how straight gay life is. Like,  if you’re straight, what agony to have your partner/wife (whatever) leave you just before a surprise birthday celebration you so carefully arranged for them! And how lonely life is -- after the breakup! We all feel that -- because gays and straights are so alike, aren’t they? Um…no. Gay men have dicks. And they can go out and have sex anytime they want to, and although there is such a thing as ‘gay rape’ there is no gay rape culture, unlike heterosexuality —  where rape and violence towards women is kind of a tradition. No. Gay life is not the same as straight life. Period. And no, AIDS did not stop us from hooking up. It just put it on line where we could lie about it and pretend we’re not. And besides -- there are still back rooms, bath houses, alleys and bushes —  and yes urinals (unless they disappear with the advent of non-gendered washrooms). In other words guys can pull out their thingy-dingies at any time (as long as no one else is looking) and get off --  pretty quickly -- which they can, and will, do, whether they are straight or gay. (The only problem for straight guys is they have to persuade women to co-operate, which in a rape culture, can be tough). Men are men, which is not always a good thing — and must be challenged constantly — but is nevertheless a fact, because of our plumbing, which frankly leaks if we don’t pay enough attention to it. Where is this reality in Uncoupled? What is this fiction that after a breakup you need to find a lover in order to get laid? Or even to get affection? Gay men have something called fuckbuddies. (Some gay men have them and their partners don’t mind.) Our romantic/sexual lives are simply not like yours.  And it’s not that we’re not romantic. We are exceedingly so, mainly because all the ideas we have about sex and love come from straight movies or gay porn. Uncoupled is fiction of the highest order — meaning it’s a double lie — i.e. it’s not real life but a tv show, and the lie it is telling is that gay relationships operate exactly like straight ones. It’s interesting though to think of Uncoupled in the context of Sex and the City, which I loved. I mean, yes, Uncoupled is a gay version of Sex and the City. But Sex and the City, as many have noted, was really about gay life, not about women. And is that a bad thing? Well, the fact is that Darren Star -- like so many gay creators -- writes better when he is not writing about himself (see: Tennessee Williams, Edward Albee, etc -- though Star is obviously not in their league). First of all I enjoyed Sex and the City even more than some straight women, because whatever was inaccurate about it didn’t’ bother me. I could watch it without worrying whether or not it was accurate because I don’t know what it’s like to be a straight woman and never will. (But I can imagine -- and often enjoy doing so.) What I think was good about Sex and the City was that -- because it was gay life pretending to be straight -- it facilitated the depiction of straight women who were openly sexual and horny, something that we had certainly never seen on TV before. The tradition continued with Girls, and Lena Dunham got pilloried; we are still a very puritan, patriarchal culture and straight men just can’t handle women who crave ‘the dick’ —the bigger the better (and there are some women who actually do so). So will we ever get to see shows made by women, about women, that are truthful?  Or shows by gay men, about gay men, that tell it like it is — not like gays wish it could be? Probably not. This is why we have art, i.e. lies. And yes, I am going to go on about how wonderful lying is yet again —  because if you expect art to provide you with a moral prescription — that is to present you with an ethic that will help you to live a righteous life, well forget it. Shakespeare knew this. That’s what Titus Andronicus is about. A bunch of dumb folks who have read Ovid a little bit too much start trying to live their lives according to what happens in Ovid's poems. So, sadly, they end up raping people, cutting off their tongues and baking them into pies. It's kinda funny (kinda not). Shakespeare knew art should, and must, not present us with a lesson. I have no problem with the fact that Uncoupled is a lie, I just wish it was a better one, and not the one we hear all the time. Maybe I’m homophobic (and I am) but it’s embarrassing to watch the gay men in Uncoupled acting like a bunch of adolescent girls at a high school dance (should I return his glance? his caress?). But most of us gay men missed out on their adolescence, and therefore we are either too slutty or too celibate — which is what teenage girls are generally. If only people just had sex! And didn’t ever ever worry about it! (Sorry to paraphrase Marcuse, I know he's out of fashion) Anyway, is  that too much to ask? And sex, of course, is not the answer -- that is, to everything. But Jesus, it sure helps. 

Bullet Train is

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

 

My therapist told

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

It’s natural we

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