Ten Reasons Why The End of the World is Nigh

When I say ‘The End of the World’ I mean the end of the world as I know it.

1) Gay apparently only happened in the past and is now exclusively played by straights.

I know we’re supposed to be really happy that we have three gay Christmas movies this year but could they be any straighter? Tom Hardy, Cate Blanchett and Eddie Redmayne all play gay people from the past. But umm…they’re all straight in real life. And um…what

about dealing with modern gay issues? Carol made me cry, but what about a real gay situation like: ‘‘My girlfriend and I are dykes but now she wants to get dick surgery!’ or ‘I want to marry my 23 year old gay boyfriend but he’s on meth and is addicted to hooking up for unsafe sex online?’ Oh no, it’s all 60s British psychopaths, kisses in the snow, and butch Eddie Redmayne — so damn straight in those interviews about The Danish Girl that I could kill him with a gun. Ugh. Well, I’m sure he just wants another Oscar.

2) Tyler Oakley.

Have you seen this guy? He’s a youtube sensation. He’s 27 and holds mass slumber parties for fat girls and jumps up and down in ‘onesies’ and high heels (if you don’t know what a ‘onesie’ is then you are definitely very very old) . And what is the Tyler Oakley phenomenon? Well, remember once, there was Dan Savage — kinda out there, kinda non-monogamous — and kinda sexual? Well the new gay role model is  Youtube Sensation Tyler Oakley, and like everything else these days, he is all about the kids. The fan base for his shows is mainly female and 13-17 years old (this would be the crowd that feels they have moved beyond Hunger Games). I was trying to figure out exactly what Tyler Oakley stands for and all I could come up with was — he supports your body image issues and he is very much in favour gay marriage. But where do you stand on anal fisting,Tyler? 

3) Donald Trump and Rob Ford.

Need I say more?

4) No more cocktails or Splenda.

This is beyond huge. I walked into a Queen Street bar the other day, gazed lovinglyup at the thirty or so whiskey bottles under the mirror and politely requested a cocktail. The very hot guy behind the bar looked at me like I had lost my noodle. “We don’t serve cocktails,” he said, with great disdain “only wine, beer and booze straight up." Well pardon me for being such a girly man. But much more distressing is the disappearance of artificial sweeteners from the coffee bars on Queen Street West. You should have seen the expression of the face of the bun-headed barista when I asked for Splenda. “We have honey.” Well sorry, I didn’t take a shit on the floor, I just didn’t realize that  craving aspartame was now actually a crime.

5) You can’t get a good blow job anymore

without having to chat up some damn hipster. What are you doing hanging out in a back room if you just want to have a caustic chat? And why do you want to have sex with me? I’m old enough to be your very old….father.

6) My computer knows more about me than I do.

No, really. I used to ignore those purchasing suggestions that Amazon used to make. But, oddly chillingly and frighteningly, those suggestions have recently become, well….right on. 

Jeesh.

7. My students at university don’t shock me anymore.

I shock them.

8. You can’t turn on a tap anymore. Or flush a toilet for that matter.

I go to plays and movies and operas etc a lot and there we are, the sad guys, all lined up at the sink flicking our hands around under the faucets, this way and that, randomly touching things that look like they might trigger water — and swearing. ‘How do you turn this damn thing on? Oh great you found one that worked. Can I put my hands under it? How come it worked for you and not for me. Do I have the wrong hands?’ I mean Is this sanitary? All the toilets now have piles of shit in them cuz all the toilets are supposed to flush themselves but don’t. Can somebody call the health department pull-eaze?

9. The oddest people are suddenly aboriginal.

I know I’m going to get into trouble for saying this. But what’s going on?  I knew you as a white girl but suddenly you’ve found out that you have an aboriginal ancestor somewhere and you just won’t shut up about it. I’m all for learning about another culture

but not from some mainly white girl who looks white and who everybody thought was white until last week she decided she suddenly discovered she had a proud heritage that is the very essence of her and that she now talks about, everywhere, every day, on every freaking website there is. 

10. The end of intermissions is the end of the world.

I’ve ranted about this before. But it’s gotten so out of hand. Routinely now, house programs say the show is an hour and a half long with no intermission and then you get there and find out that it’s really  two hours long and it’s Soulpepper and you’re in the middle of the row and you can’t leave without waking up some oldster who’s asleep beside you.

Enough already. 

YOU’RE JUST AFRAID THE CRITICS ARE GOING TO SAY YOUR WORK ISN’T PROFOUND ENOUGH TO WARRANT AN INTERMISSION. WELL SO WHAT IF THEY DO? WHO CARES WHAT THEY SAY ANYWAY?

I saw an old (1905) play in New York City this fall. There were three acts and two intermissions. Each act was a half hour long.

Sigh.

DOMESTICATED: NOT JUST A COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN

I must say I have mixed feelings about Paul Gross. Mainly because he is so beautiful.

When I was a young, semi-handsome gay playwright desperately running a theatre company so that I could get my plays produced, he was a supremely handsome, younger, straight playwright with the world at his feet.  

Also, I have always wanted to lick him all over — and only Martha Burns gets to do that — which makes me cranky.

I only met Paul Gross once, when I was having lunch with Jackie Burroughs in Yorkville. She dragged me over to his table and gushed in her irresistibly childlike way— “Oh you just have to meet Paul Gross! You would love him, and he would love you!”

Sadly all that ‘loving’ never came to pass. But that doesn't mean I can’t be objective about the play Paul Gross is starring in — Domesticated (recently produced by Company Theatre at Canadian Stage). 

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not going to review the damn thing. These plays that come from New York City are pre-reviewed anyway; what we say about them (way up here in the provinces!) doesn’t really matter.

But I must say I am fascinated by what these American cultural products are selling. And in this case it was clear to me that Domesticated makes a very sharp, entertaining, and carefully crafted case for ‘men’s liberation.’

Men’s liberation — in case you haven’t noticed — is a growing movement in North America. Straight men everywhere are getting a little tired of feminists pushing them around. Poor boys —  they’ve been blamed for everything — when most of them are just nice guys who happen to get a little horny now and then. And sure — and they acknowledge this — they might also be, occasionally, just a teeny-weeny bit insensitive once in awhile. But hey — being horny and insensitive -- isn't that what being a real man is all about?

Though playwright Bruce Norris has laboured to convince us he has created a balanced view of the feminist cause and its effects, Domesticated is clearly focused on the leading male character’s journey. The leading female character never gets to articulate her rage, she just gets to break his (spoiler alert!) guitar.

Afterwards I chatted with two female friends and one female acquaintance about the piece. I was astounded. My two friends agreed with my opinions about it. But the third (younger) woman expressed a surprising idea: “I didn’t think it was an anti-feminist play,” she said “I mean Paul Gross’s character was so obviously an asshole.”

I looked at her, knowing I might regret playing the ‘age’ card.  “Are you a millennial?” I asked?

“”I’m on the cusp,” she said.

“Well I’m awfully sorry, and this is going to sound very condescending,” I said “but I’m very very old, and I noticed that millenials have a tendency to be overly cheery when confronted with racism, sexism and homophobia. They’ve been brought up in a product-oriented, celebrity dominated cyber-world where everything is nice (except for the occasional comment on Facebook). You young’ uns  just figure racism, misogyny and homophobia  are over; that everyone is ‘super aware’ of what is right and what is wrong. I glanced at a middle-aged men sitting next to me at Domesticated, and when Paul Gross’s character was raging against feminism, he was leaning forward, drinking it in; the play was speaking directly to him.”

“She screwed up her attractive face. 

“Hmm. I don’t get it.”

And this young woman is actually very smart.

So.

Be forewarned; Domesticated is not just your garden variety anti-feminist diatribe — it’s for everyone. And millenials, especially, like it too.

Please Don’t Hate Me — I’m a University Professor

I’m a university professor. I think most of us know that being a university professor is nothing to be proud of; in fact, these days if you are a university professor it’s probably best to keep it to yourself. Why are we so unpopular? Well people generally seem to think that university professors are lazy because a lot of us spend more time researching than teaching. But I would suggest that the animosity goes far deeper than that. People resent university professors because they think that what used to be called ‘higher education’ is just a waste of time.

Take for instance, Republican presidential candidate Marco Rubio. He spoke out in favour of vocational schools and against universities at the Republican presidential debate a few weeks ago. He said: “Welders make more money than philosophers. We need more welders and less philosophers.”

Well, as a university professor it’s my job to deconstruct statements like this. 

(Yes, deconstruct — I know, that’s Derrida, sorry). 

Rubio’s statement is sure to win votes. But why? What’s he really saying?

One fundamental first principle underlies Rubio’s dictum. This principle (not to be too melodramatic, I hope) indicates the eminent demise of western civilization.

For Rubio’s statement assumes that the most important thing in the world is money. Only if money was the measure of all things would it make sense to pick one profession over another because of it. 

So if it is true that philosophers, historically, make less money than welders (and I’m not quite sure that historically speaking this is true) why would anyone have ever thought it necessary to be a philosopher in the first place?

Let me tell you.

We choose to be doctors of philosophy because we care deeply about two questions — why are we here, and what makes a good life. Yes, it is the belief of philosophers of all persuasions, that the most important questions are  metaphysical and moral. Philosophical questions touch on belief, faith, the nature of reason and reality, and the origins of right and wrong. Philosophy helps us understand why we might — or might not — blow ourselves up in defence of a cause, why we might overthrow a tyrant or give to the poor, or why we might — or might not — rape a woman or beat a child. Essentially we can learn from philosophy what constitutes a good life; a life that is ultimately worth living.

I don’t wish to be classist. It is certainly very good to be a welder. If welders do indeed make more money than philosophers I don’t mean to suggest that they don’t deserve it. After all, in an earthquake, I think we we would all prefer to be standing in a building that did not spontaneously burst apart at the seams.

But frankly, does it matter whether or not we die if we have no idea why we are living?

You might think about this question the next time you consider siding with Marco Rubio against universities in favour of vocational schools.

Houellebecqu’s Submission, Drake's New Video — and Ontario Sex Education

Michel Houellebecq’s Submission was overshadowed by the Charlie Hebdo massacre when it was published in France less than a year ago. Houellebecq’s fascinating book describes France in the year 2022, after a Muslim political party comes to power.

Houellebecq is famous in France for his engrossing, politically contentious, ideologically heavy — and extremely sexual — novels.  He has won both the Prix Novembre and the Prix Goncourt. His plots often feature cynical, hilariously morose misanthropes as narrators. True to form, the narrator of Submission is a middle-aged university professor who lives a dull unrewarding life; in part because he hates the dehumanized product-obsessed capitalist society we live in, and in part because women don’t seem to sexually arouse him the way they once did.

When the Muslims take over, the de-secularization of education puts all non-Muslim professors out of work, and our disgruntled hero seriously considers suicide. However, in a surprising plot twist, he meets a charismatic Muslim philosopher who dangles before him the prospect of a new teaching job and the possibility marrying (not one, but —) four young wives — if he can only convert to Islam. Our cynical academic anti-hero, in a sudden epiphany, rediscovers his reason for living and converts to Islam overnight.

Houellebecq has — up until recently — identified as an atheist. So critics of the novel have accused it of being Islamophobic. However Houellebecq’s genius is that the book can be read as much in praise of Islam as it can be seen to critique it. As Vinay Menon said in a recent review of the book in The Star: “This is the opposite of Islamophobia. It is Islamanirvana.” 

Whatever way you look at it, Houellebecq’s novel is incredibly relevant.

For instance, watching Drake’s Hotline Bling on YOUTUBE I couldn’t help thinking of Submission. Drakes much maligned dancing technique was of less interest to me than his lyrics: “You gotta reputation for yourself/ you started wearing less and going out more/ glasses of champagne on the dance floor/ hanging with some girls I never seen before.” The singer’s admonishments to his girlfriend carry a distinctly Muslim undertone; after all Islamic women are also encouraged to cover their bodies, be chaste, and save flirtation for the marital bed. Houellebecq observes pointedly that many sexist western males might prefer sexually obedient Muslim wives (many of whom, apparently wear lingerie under their burqas!) to modern western women who sometimes forget to dress up seductively for their partners, and sleep instead in yoga sweatpants and old t-shirts.

Some Muslim parents in Ontario have unceremoniously yanked their students out of public schools to protest the new sex education curriculum. This is also very relevant to Houellebecq’s novel. Some Muslim Ontario public school students are now attending Muslim institutions, while others are home-schooled. In Houellebecq’s Muslim utopia, universities become obsolete, as non-religious enquiry of any kind is is discouraged. Students are encouraged to attend post-secondary vocational schools instead. Ontario is certainly heading in this direction; post-secondary courses in the humanities (poetry, philosophy etc.) are increasingly being replaced by courses that teach students how to do — or even just find — a job.

In this — and many other ways — Houellebecq’s novel is shockingly prescient.

Are western post-enlightenment ‘decadent’ values a dead end?

I think it’s a question that many religious fundamentalists around the world are asking.

Perhaps we should ask it too.

For what Houellebecq would want us to understand is that what some believe to  be unthinkable might someday become the shocking norm.

Why I Hate Beards

I’ve had it with beards. You can’t go anywhere without seeing them. And men think beards are so ‘trendy’ and ‘hot.’ 

Why?

I’m a gay man who has never liked beards. And I know there are a lot of women who share my distaste for that pesky facial hair.

First there’s the scratchiness when you kiss the guy.

Then there’s just the general grossness of the fuzzy monster, things get caught in beards (egg salad — yulch!).

Finally — truth be told, what I find attractive about men is — their faces. (No, not that other thing!) Give me a good face — really, it doesn’t matter what’s going on anywhere else. Of course there are lots of different faces out there, and thank God, there’s something for everyone. But what defines male attractiveness for me (and this is just me, I know) is the square jaw with a hint of peach fuzz around the edges, and  a hint of nature’s own pink blush on the cheeks, and a big pair of lush pouty kissable lips plunked right smack in the middle.

Yup. 

If the guy’s got a beard all that luscious male beauty is covered up.

So what’s with the mania for beards these days?

In the gay community — where everything always tends to get out of hand, for some reason — guys are going nuts with this beard thing. You can’t get a date with a guy if you don’t have a beard. Remember obsession over penis size? Gone. It’s been replaced with obsession over beard size. The bigger, the messier the beard, the better. We even have a name for the (many) gay men obsessed with The Smith Brothers — we call them ‘lumbersexuals.’

So what are all these ‘beardos' trying to prove? 

(Because it is my contention that they are definitely trying to prove something.)

The clue came to me when I was looking up at a sign for a store in the gay village that sells stuff for ‘men with beards and those who love them.’ The sign said: “Be proud of your beard — it’s what your Dad gave you!”

Ahah.

So it’s all about Dad.

And then I remembered that other era where all the men in North America and Europe had beards. It was called the Victorian era.

You see it’s my theory that the beard equals patriarchy, oppression, and celebration of all things masculine.

Yulch, again.

I hope you don’t think I’m crazy if I tell you I have great deal of old fashioned affection for the feminine virtues: vulnerability, beauty, grace, tenderness, kindness, etc. And I’m a bit worried that after coming a long way baby — and celebrating women — we may have come to a full stop. I mean even some women these days value all that’s ‘masculine’ over what used to be called ‘feminine.’

So this celebration of Dads and ‘maleness’ just makes me what to puke.

I mean are we going back there again?

To the Victorian era?

Is that why the Christian Right is working so hard to get rid of Planned Parenthood? 

Okay, so you may think I’ve  gone too far, that I’m reading too much into this whole beard thing.

Maybe I am.

But that doesn't change anything.

I HATE beards.

Reading Too Much into Ricky Martin

The New York Times today featured a review of Ricky Martin’s recent concert in Madison Square Gardens. Martin is singular for — if nothing else — being the only out-of-the-closet gay pop singer of any stature to seriously entertain the notion of having a career.

I suggest, with all good intentions, that he give up now. 

Jon Pareles' review of Martin’s work is so subtly laced with homophobic innuendo, that —although it would take someone part culture critic, part detective, to tease it out (i.e., myself) — it nevertheless succeeds in effectively diminishing Mr. Martin’s career to zero. 

It’s up to you to decide if it is I who am reading too much into this Ricky Martin review, or if it is indeed the reviewer who is deliberately reading far too much into Ricky Martin.

Pareles starts out innocently enough. He quotes Martin as saying “I’m obsessed with performing.”

Nothing particularly gay there.

Let’s move on.

Pareles then goes on to describe Martin as ‘exultantly boyish.’ This appears innocent on the surface. But I ask you, what grown-up, heterosexual man wishes to exult in boyishness? Is that not more appropriate to a boy band member (which Ricky Martin once was and I’m sure wishes never again to be)?

Pareles goes on to quote Ricky Martin again, this time bringing up Martin’s sexual proclivities in the context of audience response: “In 2010 Mr. Martin told interviewers that he is a ‘fortunate homosexual man.’ On-stage, he was welcomed as an all-around sex symbol. He drew loud female shrieks.”

Ah. So Ricky Martin can breathe a sigh of relief. Although he has admitted quite brazenly to enjoying both anal and oral intercourse with members of the same sex, nevertheless somehow female fans continue to be attracted to him.

Pareles goes on to say that Martin celebrates ‘seize-the-moment-lust’ in his songs. He then quotes Martin saying — “This is the moment where you have to allow yourself to be free!”  urging concertgoers to shout — “I don’t care” — and wave their arms upward and downward.

Now the reviewer’s intent becomes clear. This is no ordinary rock concert. It’s something akin to a gay revivalist meeting. Concertgoers have been nothing less than brainwashed into celebrating hedonistic non-monogamous homosexual lust.

Some will contend that since Ricky Martin has discussed his sexuality publicly, it’s fair game for a reviewer to include references to it in an assessment of his work. 

There is precedent of course; John Simon once spoked disparagingly of Liza Minnelli’s  “desperately uplifted breasts.’ He justified his comments by saying that since Minnelli had proudly displayed her upper body area, he had every right to review it.

I fear that Ricky Martin may have spoken too soon about being a ‘fortunate gay man.’ For unfortunately, like all openly gay musicians, he will most likely end up a fallen pop star.

Roland Emmerich Is Not The Enemy!

There is much outrage over Roland Emmerich’s film STONEWALL. 

Outrage in the queer community that is.

I doubt whether any straight people will even see it.

STONEWALL got 9% on Rotten Tomatoes; straight critics have dismissed it. That along with ‘queer outrage’ over the film will probably kill any chance the film ever had of being seen.

That’s a shame. For as it is, it is a damn fine film — and an important one.

First let’s clear the air about what’s wrong with STONEWALL. Yes, it’s definitely a problem that Emmerich chose a pretty white boy to play the pretty white middle-class leading character. It’s also a shame that the movie is a traditionally constructed, sentimental, romantic tearjerker in the old-fashioned Hollywood tradition. In that sense, STONEWALL is certainly no cinematic milestone. 

But let’s look at the criticism levelled against it.

CBC news says: ‘Although eyewitness accounts cite black, trans activist Marsha P. Johnson as the instigator of the riot, the trailer for STONEWALL seems to give a fictional, white, cisgender character named Danny with a key role in starting the riots.’ 

There are several things wrong with this statement. First of all, Marsha P. Johnson was not a ‘trans activist’. She was a drag queen and the founder of an organization for transvestites; there was no such thing as ‘trans’ (in the modern sense of the word) in 1969. Second, no one knows who threw the first brick at the Stonewall riots, and no one ever will, because there is no filmed footage of the event. 

So why are queer critics of the film turning Roland Emmerich into our enemy? At worst, he is a well intentioned gay man who has created an important movie that makes the mistake (as so many gay and lesbian films do) of trying to present its radical ideas in traditional, mainstream style.

The theme of STONEWALL is fundamental and significant. The film’s protagonist struggles with an important dilemma — do you change the world through anger and violence, or through gentle, reasoned argument? To Emmerich’s credit (and to the credit of the excellent, unsung, gay screenwriter Jon Robin Baitz) the film unequivocally sides with anger and violence, clearly sympathizing with the drag queens and sex trade workers — the black and hispanic outcasts who radicalize the leading (white character) and turn him into an angry revolutionary.

At last! A film that dares to criticize the middle-of the-road politics that have dominated gay activism since AIDS. A film that dares to imply that although gay marriage is fine and good — it will not clear homophobia from people’s hearts. The message of STONEWALL is that it takes anger and radical action to effect change. STONEWALL says that acting polite, wearing suits, and sucking up to the straights is simply not enough!

Gee whiz, everybody loves ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK even though everyone also knows that the outrageously talented Lea DeLaria should be the lead. But no network would ever dare star a out butch lesbian actress in a TV show no matter how talented she is. Emmerich made the same mistake as the creators of ORANGE IS THE NEW BLACK —he chose a lead that is palatable to a middle-class movie-going public. So why is he being pilloried for it?

Crazy ‘victim politics’ like this is what killed the Queer Nation movement. It’s what will eventually kill what’s left of gay liberation. We have to learn to pick our enemies. Our enemies are Ted Kruze, The Pope, and Robert Mugabe — to name a few.

Not Roland Emmerich.