You gotta have

friends, or so Bette Midler said. I do agree, especially now. I gave up for awhile, I don’t know about you. I realise now that it all had to do with my mother. (What doesn’t?) I was going through this ‘I think I should just stop contacting people’ phase. The justification was: I’m bothering them, so many of them are depressed, or busy (with what, tell me what, exactly — now?) . And I couldn’t take the rejection anymore. Then I thought of my history with ‘friends’ — that is, that I’ve never had enough. And that's because I basically hate people. No, I do. I loathe them, generally, even though there are very specific and resounding exceptions. I don’t want all people to die, it’s not that type of misanthropy, it’s just that I would rather they were all a crowd at a bar or a party ,and I could drift through them aimlessly, flirt, and randomly impress— and finally observe them, drunkenly, from a corner. That’s the kind of narcissist I am. However I must be entertained, and I enjoy entertaining back. I know, it’s a tall order. That’s why I enjoy actors. But actors, (don’t tell them) are scary to have as friends. (Are they telling the truth? And how do you break the news that those collagen shots are just getting a bit much?).  What I’m trying to say is — if I always had trouble making friends it’s not only because I am a pretty appalling individual, but because I don’t really like people that much, so I deserve what I (don’t) get. But I’ve always wanted to have friends and counted them (I know an alarming habit) as in, how many friends do I have now? When my mother had finally descended into the bleary old deluded drunk that she became, she said ‘You’re so lucky to have so many friends.” And I was so f-in annoyed with her. I mean did she think friends fall from heaven? The sad little collection of comrades I had collected, separating the wheat from the chaff,  that is, the Sky Gilbert flatterers looking to get somewhere -- from the people who really liked me  — well it was hard work getting that crew together. I tried to explain to my mother once that  you have to work your ass off to get friends, and work even harder to keep them. And lo and behold, you do have to actually listen (my worst thing). Listening would have been beyond her. What I figured out today (my therapist helped) is that I learned from my mother that I was a 'star,' and that I shouldn’t ever have to beg people to be my friends. My mother (in case if haven’t mentioned it) was gorgeous (unlike me) and a narcissist (very much like me) -- and a misanthrope too. She detested people, though she was very funny about them. We would go out with ‘friends’ but the real treat was — coming home with Mom and ripping them apart afterwards. She was completely caustic, and evil, and unforgiving. We had so much fun. And of course she and I were always fabulous, and the rest of the world was execrable (unbearable!). Anyway, my mother assumed that most men would fall in love with her or at least want to screw her (and she was quite right) and that she was so smart and fascinating that everyone would covet her friendship (which was not so true). I learned from her that under no circumstances should I ever ever put myself in the position of needing people. Needing people was demeaning, according to her. I should be above that. Well -- as my therapist always reminds me--  my mother ended up a very sad, lonely, old woman. And I don’t want to become her penis-bearing equivalent. I will say this: I take Metamucil because of my mother. I know this is gross to talk about, but she wouldn’t take Metamucil or go to a gym. (She called me once and she said — “In order to get into that gym you have to walk up two flights of stairs — No, I mean I'm sorry, are they kidding?!!?”) And after she died, I don’t know who told me this — probably my sister because she was much more attentive than I to my mother’s medical issues —  when she died my mother’s intestines were hard as a rock. Why did I find it necessary to tell you that, as that anecdote is not charming and will certainly not get me any friends? So I can talk about my friends here because none of them (except two very sweet guys I know, hi, G and H!) read this. In fact I will talk about the people who I am really angry at now. Ex friends. First. One guy. I hate him now; I met him in November at an outdoor patio and he went on about how wonderful I was, so I emailed him and we hung out together naked now and then (no sex, but I was willing to try it out) and then he dropped me like a hot potato, and will not return my emails. Well good riddance I say. And then a very old friend who is very dear to me has just stopped communicating as of six months ago. And I used to talk to her every day? Where are you? Are you dead? (I know you’re not.)  According to sources on the ground you're happy reading books and drinking wine swaddled in a comforter. I’m friggin' mad though. So anyway, those are the lousy ex-friends. The rest of them I just adore, but so many of them are not seeing me for whatever reason. I refuse to take it personally, after all this is f-in COVD-19 and we’re being told daily that our noses will fall of and our genitals will erupt in sores if we so much as graze an unwashed surface with our un-gloved hands. Can you blame people for staying home? I promise I will never turn into my mother. (I’ve promised this before.) I’m not going to be a gorgeous, arrogant bitch like her, and demand that friends come to me. I’ve just emailed  several friends saying actual true things like ‘I miss you’ which my therapist assures me is okay to say to someone (I absolutely don’t want to pressure anybody). Well it’s important to remember that ‘no man is an island’ to quote John Donne. Listen, I have to tell you — I've got a new ‘zoom’ friend— he’ lives in Spain — and he believes that John Donne was Thomas Nashe AND Edmund Spenser. I know, no one cares about such Early English Ephemera except me. And Donne was Shakespeare’s pupil!  That’s the part that interests me — because Donne is the only poet besides Shakespeare that ever appealed to me from that era. Well that little tidbit of irrelevant scholarship is not going to get me any friends. But as my therapist says, I shall go with the flow, and be myself. And not be my mother. Wish me luck!

I didn’t used

to like science. I stopped taking science in grade 9, along with math and gym (I guess that explains a lot). Anyway COVD-19 has alerted me to the wonders of science. Science has all the answers; you shouldn’t trust anything else. I used to think science was contradictory— that one scientist might say one thing, and another scientist another. Now I understand. The reason why there are sometimes contradictions is because scientists are constantly discovering new things. This causes them, understandably, to change their minds from time to time. You see, scientists are always doing experiments. And sometimes those experiments come out one way, and sometimes another. Scientists never actually make mistakes, they just ‘revise previous knowledge’ — which means when you think they are being just plain stupid — well that’s impossible of course! Scientists are not stupid. And they have your best interests at heart, they really do. You see, a new experiment can turn the findings of an old experiment upside down. It happens all the time, and it’s a good thing. Take for instance, the latest scientific findings that have come to light in Ontario. For those ‘international’ readers, I should explain that Ontario is a ‘province’ (which means, like a ‘state’) in Canada, near the American border. Here in Ontario we have a wonderful ‘premier’ (which means a ‘governor’) named Doug Ford. He just brought some new scientific findings about COVID-19 to light.  (Don’t mix up Doug Ford with Rob Ford. Rob Ford was the mayor of Toronto many years ago. You may have heard about Rob Ford on the news — he was the fat older brother of Doug Ford, and he was a drug addict. Doug Ford is much younger, less fat, still alive, and he is not a drug addict at all). So, the news is this, get ready — hold onto your hats! Scientists (God bless ‘em, really) are now revising their previous findings about COVID-19. It was once thought that it was dangerous for people to be indoors, but now it has been discovered (isn’t science amazing? Always changing….) that COVID-19 spreads most easily outdoors. So in Ontario, they have just brought out a whole bunch of splendid new rules responsible people must follow. Really, you must all follow them. If you don’t, then you don’t care, and you don’t love your fellow man, and you are selfish, and if someone’s grandmother dies in an old folks' home it will be your fault, and you should feel guilty about that. So these are the new rules. It is so dangerous to be outside during COVID-19 that the police are now going to stop you and ask you: “Where are you going?” — if they catch you outside. You must be either going to a grocery store or to a pharmacy. If you are not, you will be fined $750. The second most important finding of these new scientific experiments is how dangerous parks are. Gee whiz, I thought parks were dangerous because of the crack needles you might find there! But now we know — COVID-19 can be spread very easily in parks. So never to go to parks. But the most important finding is this. Children —who we previously thought were immune from COVID-19 — are not. Children are ‘spreaders’ and probably will start dying in droves at any minute. There was a horrible ‘inflammatory’ illness that many young children got many months ago. Children were thought to be safe from COVID-19. But no, they are not. In fact children are so dangerous to us — and to themselves — that they are not allowed to go to school anymore, and they are not allowed to go outside.  I would not take your child to a playground. No. Doug Ford said that playing on playgrounds is the most dangerous activity of all -- then he took it back -- but that still makes me suspicious of playgrounds (you never know!). Whatever you do, do not let your child play outside. Lock them up in the house. The safest place to put your child, actually -- is in the attic. And you might put a mask on your child up there, or better yet wrap a scarf around their head to cover their mouth to make sure they don’t get — or spread —- germs. It might also be a good idea tie your child up- — attach them to the wall with hooks or something. You may have to bring food to them occasionally — but don’t do it more than you have to (it takes a child a very long time to starve, really, don't worry--  a child only really needs water — and so I would just stock up on water bottles and leave them in ‘Little Johnny’s reach.) Some children may get bored or depressed by all this (especially if they have ADHD) and — of course — you could give them an iPhone up there in the attic. But that’s not such a good idea. Iphones are one of the biggest spreaders of COVID-19 (not many people know this). I would just lock the attic door and turn out the lights. Your child will probably get pretty weak  — from lack of food and exercise — but after a lot of crying your child will probably just go to sleep, maybe even for a very, very long time. I do thank the wonderful COVID-19 scientists for coming up with these new findings, and Doug Ford for implementing these important rules. I thought for a minute that Doug Ford might be accused of being irresponsible, of playing Russian Roulette with people’s lives. But no way. Premier Ford has proved that he is a follower of science and that he is really trying to save us all — so I would vote for him again! All in all he has done surprisingly well — around COVID-19. As you can see, an added bonus is that due to COVID-19 regulations we don’t really need to be bothered anymore by children or seniors — both were kind of a bother before the ‘new normal.’ But it’s not a good idea to visit ‘seniors’ (vaccine or no vaccine — you can’t be too careful) and with ‘Little Buster' or 'Mary-Anne’ or ‘Keefer’ (if it’s a ‘they’) locked up in the attic, our lives should be a lot more peaceful from now on. Thank you Science!  We all really appreciate it! And I apologise for casting aspersions on science in the past. I‘ve sure learned my lesson! Let’s hear it for continuing and dedicated experimentation — and for the right of each and every scientist to change their mind!

It's all quite

hopeless. I was going to write a blog recommending suicide. But I can’t do it. Just now I went back to Dorothy Parker’s poem Resume, hoping for some insight, but I got caught up in the polysemous nature of language (a big problem for me). All I could think about was the line ‘nooses give’ — her argument against hanging yourself. What’s lovely is that ‘giving’ is such a nice thing, and even nicer in this context. But what’s also lovely is her lackadaisical lack of enthusiasm for life, which is what I have presently but am not used to having. Frankly all I have to look forward to -- besides writing this -- is getting drunk on weekends and eating too much food. I can easily see why people gain weight and OD on drugs — so there’s no need for me to recommend suicide as an alternative to lockdown; it’s happening all around me anyway — slowly or quickly as the situation permits. Last night — well I don’t know how to describe it. He's a film maker, but mainly a cameraman, and he looks a little bit like Iggy Pop. Please don’t imagine me having sex with Iggy Pop. Although a friend of mine did have sex with Iggy Pop, apparently — I think it happened before her sex change. At any rate she told me once about an incident in bathroom stall in Detroit. Those were the days. The highlight of my evening was when my friend and I, (yes I shall call him my friend? even just because he was generous with his private parts, but it was more than that, really) we watched a punk video which was so gloriously inept and hilariously appropriate: You’ve Got to Fight for the Right to Party — never have the Beastie Boys seemed quite so relevant. The video was very badly done in that 80's way —the girls' hairdos were odd, and the boys were trying to be sexy, and they needn’t have tried at all really. There was a lot of pie throwing. So anyway, I rented a room in a guest house for myself and my paramour. I got there first, and when I opened the door it was absolutely fabulous, only 80$ a night, and after I climbed three flights to our little love nest I was impressed not only with the cleanliness, but with the elegance -- of the bathroom. There was a balcony so my paramour could smoke, and it was nice to shove open the doors and let in the night. When my paramour arrived (paramour is definitely better than friend) we drank and watched sad, bad old videos together on the ‘Retro’ channel. The most surprising thing he said was that he was very much an extrovert and sometimes scared people away with his aggressive behaviour. I saw none of this, and wonder now if perhaps he had imagined it, or perhaps he was aggressive only not with me,  or perhaps what other people call aggression I quite enjoy. It happened exactly as I hoped it would, we got to know each other (for I hardly know him, or only knew him hard, or more accurately, semi-hard) and I really do think he is a nice guy; that is not aggressive in the way that I know aggression, not driven or competitive or tortured. He was not exactly zen, but just, well, there. And he did travel to the ‘Sky Gilbert place' for a moment, but I deftly redirected him: ‘I haven’t read any of your books...’ he said, and I said it didn’t matter, because it doesn’t, it isn’t my books that I wanted him to be paying attention to at that particular moment. We got down to it gradually in the kind of way I like to, which means chatting and getting drunker and revealing things and then beginning to take off clothing. But there was really only one thing to get to, really, and that was me committing the act of fellatio upon his person. (How’s that for euphemism?) That lasted for most of the rest of the night. I left and he slept there. I’m trying to get it to happen again next week; it’s my coping mechanism. I’ve shown you mine, will you show me yours? It’s either this or suicide; I’ve chosen the easy way, I think. So I’m not going to recommend suicide. I can’t do it. Instead this is now going to turn into a plea. I’m going to try and keep at least some of you alive, the ones that can be kept alive during lockdown. What I’m going to say now I don’t even believe myself. Yes, I do. I must cease being ironic immediately -- and just tell ‘the truth.’ You must live because — why? I think mainly because we don’t really understand what living and consciousness is, it is, as far as I know, God’s experiment. By that I mean whoever or whatever (I’m not big on God) is running things took a startling turn with human consciousness. Whatever we are — and I’m not quite sure — there is probably nothing else quite like us in the universe, and we were not meant to be, nor are we necessarily a terribly successful experiment. In other words, matter — life — was not meant to think about itself; because if it has consciousness of itself, it immediately gets worried and anxious and bored, and wants to have sex with guys who look like Iggy Pop. Consciousness is, in this way, not entirely practical at all really, because you cannot think about yourself, you cannot imagine yourself, because when you die you don’t think anymore, so what it is you are experiencing now, when you are alive? It’s a quandary. But the reason you must stay alive, and I sincerely wish that you do -- despite the fact that the whole universe right now is conspiring to kill you —  is precisely because, meaning, it's because it's all so essentially hopeless. that you must live. There is something heroic in that, there always have been, you have to give people credit for living their pretty senseless lives, and suffering so much, and still managing to love and produce poetry (because poetry is love really). The present suffering will be over, I guarantee it. Even as I say this I don’t believe that. But we must. We will be let out of our homes, we will hug and laugh and dance again. Yes we will. Until then I would recommend you do absolutely anything you can to survive. Anything. Yes drugs, yes alcohol, yes yes overeating, yes seeing people you are not supposed to see. And touching -- do it! -- touch them — because that touch might keep you alive, and who knows how long this will last?  I can’t imagine why I’m trying to keep you alive. I don’t even know you. But I see you daily, trudging down the street, your mask dangling forlornly from your ear, and I do identify. We have no idea of why or wherefore we persevere, but precisely, for that reason and that reason alone, we must.

The Mauritanian is

one of those perfect movies we are likely to see more of; by perfect, I mean perfectly flawed. It is very well made, and features big stars, but is the kind of lecture we get on TV every day. We must treat it like it was  a COVID-19 newscast, there’s nothing new here,  certainly nothing we haven’t heard before, just perfectly groomed excellent people who will clear their throats and prepare to tell us what we already know. In The Mauritanian, as in COVID-19 (but alas, not in life) the good guys win, and the bad guys -- to their chagrin -- don't (that is  — as Oscar Wilde sagely observed — not life, but art). Just as we know anti-maskers are evil, and are pleased to see them denounced on social media, just as we know that there is one way to live — these days— and that is — to stay home and die of boredom, The Mauritanian teaches us that the U.S. government is an evil thing, and there is no one more virtuous, loving, handsome and fun than A Persecuted Arab. You see, the tables have turned somewhat. There was a time when we laughed and frolicked, and ridiculed boring bumpkins who stayed home. There was a time when The Arab was the villain, and it was enough for him to appear with his unruly black beard; we detested the ground he walked on and gleefully threw popcorn at the screen, expecting — nay aching — for the knives and swords to appear —  props that so typified his treacherous race. But now The Requisite Handsome Arab is inevitably gracious, and if we don’t love him for all the injustice done to him then we are not worthy. I cried at the end; I cried several times -- mostly  from watching Jodie Foster grow older by the minute, and Benedict Cumberbatch making a fool of himself.  Of course it’s a pleasure to see two gay icons kind face off -- alas they don’t, really, the film is missing that 'scene-a-faire,' as Cumberbatch (spoiler alert) plays a decent man who comes eventually to understand The Noble Arab’s plight. It would be nice to see Jodie and Benedict in a gay movie, with Jodie going down on a likely wench while Cumberbatch greedily munches on some fetching swain. Both have (I think?) played their own sexuality on screen — but the Gods have decreed that it will not happen too often, and they must certainly not appear together in such a manner —  for it would be too sinfully delicious, like eating dark chocolate ice cream and watching old Woody Allen movies with your younger sister. Jodie  simply is a lesbian, 24 hours a day; she is a movie star, not an actress. I’m not saying she doesn’t deserve those academy awards, she does— along with Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant —who also played themselves superbly and honestly. But Jodie is always much butcher than a man, more inhibited, harder, fending off feelings with a steely kind of courage that threatens to consume whatever tenderness she has left. Cumberbatch is another kettle of fish. Here, he is all red hair and red eyebrows, as if someone had just given him a ginger bath. Seeing the two of them together is a like watching Crawford and Davis, you watch Crawford eat up the screen with her own hypnotic narcissism while at the same time being somewhat distracted by the fact that Bette Davis can actually act. Cumberbatch is the Meryl Streep of gay actors, he is so consumed by his role, that we are amazed to forget, for a moment, how open-minded we are for so enjoying a performance by an admittedly homosexual actor -- but somewhat glad of it, for it is irksome to be constantly reminded. Jodie Foster, on the other hand — though she was chided for not properly coming out in that silly speech she made at the Golden Globes so many years ago— can’t help affirming her sexuality on the quotidian. And on top of that she insists on being beautiful. This is something that — come on — admit it — we don’t expect from a lesbian. And the movie is dauntingly earnest, and wishes to lecture us, and we come out of it thinking we are better people, when of course we are not. This is all we want from anything that pretends to be a work of art.  This has movie has all the fire and passion of a magamusical (though considerably more narrative skill). if we were living in civilized times we would be leaving our  houses to see it, now we sit at home huddled over our little silver meme machines, no one to share it with — unless we are family (God help us). And this is certainly a family movie. Even the torture is for a good cause. 'Great for the kids!' says the reviewer from The Christian Science Monitor. I’m so terrifically tired of being told what is good for me. And it has a sneaky, dangerous effect. It’s not so much that I am becoming right wing — though I was enormously tempted to become a fascist after seeing the QAnon Shaman’s magnificent belly on the evening news — it’s just that I always want to do everything I am told not to  -- i.e. make endless human contact (which I am hoping to do with a fetching swain tomorrow night). But if we are cursed with a curfew I will make Love in the Afternoon. That’s the title of a movie with Audrey Hepburn and Gary Cooper that I reviewed last summer. It was a tiresome star vehicle like this one — its only redeeming characteristic being that it had no redeeming characteristics — it was blatantly sheer entertainment and slightly politically incorrect, thank God, as Gary Cooper appeared to be making passionate love to his granddaughter. Apparently they only filmed him in the dark; I understand -- dark rooms were very kind to me when they existed. If a curfew occurs I suggest you all just sink into the couch and fear everything, which is what they seem to want, or masturbate yourselves to death with all the bad porn available for free online. Just stop initiating things, stop yearning, stop passionately needing. It should be easy enough -- at least that's what Public Health says. “Is this what you call living?” Someone asks in The Threepenny Opera. That is a question I’m afraid to answer. I look at the walls of my room -- and yes, they are a prison, but unlike The Arab in The Mauritanian, I have no mat to pray on. So instead, I inflict — upon you, well — this.

Writing in code

is the thing. I’ve been thinking about it ever since I saw the HBO special on QAnon. It is clear that QAnon — whoever he is —  is a poet, and his poetry is the writing of the future. One of the wonderful things about QAnon (if you are Russian agent of chaos) is that there is no ‘party line’ in the sense that no one knows exactly what it represents, because the spectral prophetic musings of the poet who is QAnon are impenetrable and must be deciphered — they descend from on high much like the Ten Commandments or the Gospel According to St. Matthew, offering the possibility of endless, all-consuming exegesis. This is a Godsend in COVID19 times — we all need something to do; better yet something to obsess about. (We used to be obsessed with the ‘real’ world — sadly, no more.) QAnon is undoubtedly a religion, but it is one step ahead of the Woke Folk’s creed. In the Woke World there are rules, they are the modern puritans. The puritans read The Bible for content and insisted that ‘spilling  your seed on the ground’ meant one thing and one thing only. The punishment for such a transgression was swift and clear. I don’t know what religion will appear next, it is abundantly evident that human beings need one, and that it did not work, ultimately, for Nietzche to claim that God was dead. People need God or Gods, they need fantasy (hence Harry Potter, comic books, the endless science fiction and mystical/religious TV shows). We know intuitively that real truth is mysterious, and anything that we feel gives access to the truth is not only attractive but addictive. I learned all this from my studies of Shakespeare and Renaissance England (I have expanded my studies somewhat and I’m now trying to make my way through Spenser, tough slogging, let me tell you, I will never love Spenser, but it is all too engrossing a mystery.) The early modern English writers wrote in code, and there was a good reason for it. Shakespeare, on the one hand, chose that his work be only about deception. And he is the wisest of all the Renaissance Brits, because he became obsessed with one key thing; how do we know what truth is? It’s an unanswerable question certainly, but absolutely rewarding. These early moderns wrote in code because they had to, England was a hotbed of spies and sedition; Catholicism was banned, the monasteries pillaged, it behooved you to practice Catholicism in private. If you did it in public you were in danger of being locked in The Tower or torn apart by horses. We live in a similar atmosphere today. Being cancelled on social media is apparently something akin to being torn apart by horses — at least I hear — when I was cancelled I had no access to social media, or at least I didn’t want any — so I don’t know. What’s lovely for QAnon is that outside of a few truisms (Trump is God) they argue quite endlesslessly — like Hasidic Jews — over the meaning of the prophets and the existence of angels. In contrast we all know all too clearly what the Woke Folk think, and as they are the young, and the young are where the money is, the business wing of the digital world (which is taking over the web) — wants to be on their side. So we now have creeping censorship on Youtube, Amazon, Google, etc.. (It’s no use saying the web is not government — and that what the web censors is not censored —frankly what is on our computers is all we have these days.) Sure, much of what is censored is, actually, 'hate speech,’ and I’m sure it is somehow connected with the endless human suffering that we we now experience daily. (It does seem to be more endless than usual, doesn’t it? Or is that just the media? Or is it just me?) I believe lots of speech is hateful -- but that no speech or thought should be illegal. It’s not about the deceptive manipulative phrases that come out of our mouths, words are instantly and ultimately deformed (as Plato said of all poetry) and separated from ‘reality’ at the moment of conception. Forget censorship; all that matters is the human heart. True, that’s hard to get at, but religions work hard to gain access. What we call reason is a failed project; human beings are not reasonable and do not want to be, and reason has it’s own manipulations (you can prove anything). But as the digital world polices what is ‘hateful’ and what is not — it becomes necessary for the true writer to write in code. For instance; one could not at this time seriously critique the COVID-19 elephant that is racing around the room— and I don’t mean the illness, I mean the social imperatives that accompany it — isolation, the rise of the rich, mass depression, dependence on drugs and digital media etc — one dare not challenge the COVID-19 orthodoxy. So…the answer is poetry. I highly recommend it. I try and practice it here, but rarely achieve it. One can look to Shakespeare — though I know that for some, he is just another old guy. However exploring ‘truth’ in the den of lions that was England under Elizabeth was good for him as a writer. Everything is a boat to float, all is fantasy, we are the stuff that dreams are made on, lies are truth, and the most fantastical the better — the more resonant the better. There is — Shakespeare knew it — a way of speaking -- nay dancing -- through veils and fog; the artist will find it.  So many years ago Kyle Rae the eminent Toronto gay city councilor (where is he now? I do hope he’s lost some weight) said of my column in Eye magazine ‘everything Sky writes is fiction’ So true; it is my saving grace. I’m really not sure what I am writing here, at this point in the blog the words just carry me away. There is a wind in the willows, and toad is overeating, and Craig’s Cookie's is doing very well on Church Street right now. I really wish Craig’s Cookies had a dark room to have sex in.  But that is impossible; at Craig's Cookies, you may only buy cookies. That is what ‘gay liberation’ has come to. But remember; cookies are dangerous.  Oh, sorry that’s only on your computer. It’s all so confusing. I wish you contentment I really do. But you will find it in fantasy, only. If you can wade your way through it - to the real.

I wish they

would just leave Darren Star alone. In case you don’t know he created Sex and the City as well as Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place. I am in lock-down desperation mode and will do anything to keep myself entertained, so I just found two recent Darren Star series that I didn’t know existed: Younger and the more recent Emily in Paris. It must be said that Darren Star is an excellent TV writer -- faint praise I know -- but considered in the context of the busloads of unfunny crap that’s out there, he gets a shitload of credit. But ever since Sex and the City went out of style he’s been getting very bad press. Of course Sex and the City was considered controversial at the time, but Lena Dunham 'out controversialed' him with Girls -- written by a woman and well frankly less 'consumerist' and more contemporary. All that said, I don’t think it’s fair to throw old Darren in the garburator quite yet. To do so (yes, I’m going to say it) is homophobic. He's a fag who writes about women, okay? Yes, it irks me that he doesn’t just write a bloody gay show, but let’s face it no one would watch it — unless the leading characters were friggin’ boring — they’d have to be deaf, married, raising an autistic son, and virtue signalling all over the place for the public to accept them. There would be no gay hook-up apps, shame, AIDS, sex in alleys, male prostitutes, butt plugs, or drugs. Though these are all still staples of gay culture, they are nevertheless unmentionable. So maybe this is why Darren has to write about middle class straight women. Or maybe he just wants to? But nowadays -- with appropriation -- you have to not only be what you write about but be authentic as hell to back it up. Okay, I get it. Darren Star is not a middle class straight woman, do I need to say it again? I get it, but people are being so mean and stupid about Emily in Paris. It is what it is -- very entertaining, but also thoughtful   --and I’ll tell you why. I’m sure lots of women and gay men just love seeing Emily get it on with that hunky chef, she’s so adorable and very Audrey Hepburn, and her potential boyf is even more adorable and sensitive than her, and has already shown us his fab abs! Anyway, Emily is getting it from the uptight-puritan-frowning-critic-woke-folk because she just moved to Paris and doesn’t speak French.  Duh. That is a central issue in the series for Chrissakes! It is the very focus of her conflict with her boss, and all the French people are quite rightly yelling at her about it. Secondly, the series is criticised for portraying French people as snotty and elitist about their culture. I don’t know how to tell you this but The French are snotty and elitist about their culture -- and Jesus, they have every right to be!  Anglo culture just doesn’t measure up. We have Shakespeare but they have Rabelais, Proust, Hugo, Voltaire and Flaubert -- and they basically own modern philosophy. And what about the French feminists (Catherine Millet etc.)? And what about Michel Houellebecq —my favourite author in the world? You don’t have to convince me-- French people have every right to be stuck up -- anyway who cares if the show has something against French people (which it doesn’t)? Finally, the show is being criticized for being ‘consumerist.’ Criticized by critics on digital media. Well there is nothing more ‘consumerist’ than digital media. If you are making money writing for the web, then you are part of a vast corrupt plot to steal our data, and ultimately all our money, and most of all--  make money off our kids. So don’t lecture me about friggin’ consumerism Mr. Rotten Tomatoes Critic. So Emily likes to buy dresses. But who doesn’t? Now that I’m into the 4th episode I figured out why Darren Star chose to write about an American girl in Paris in 2020; it makes perfect sense to anyone with even half a brain. What all these idiot critics are ignoring is that Darren Star is valorising French culture and pillorying the puritanism of anglo culture; and he is absolutely right to do so. I can’t think of any other western culture that embraces the politics of pleasure like France. As one character says ‘you live to work, we work to live.’ Having spent a lot of time in Montreal (thank God they had a lock down protest last night — I hope they have five thousand more protests and start wrecking things!) I can tell you that Montreal is a culture of pleasure, and Toronto is a culture of work -- because Montreal is French and Toronto is English — and never the twain shall meet. But all this criticism of  Emily in Paris comes down to something more significant than just woke stupidity, virtue signalling and political correctness (now just as ubiquitous as COVID-19). Emily in Paris is Darren Star’s experience of his own life right now. And yes, he imagines himself to be a pretty 24 year old in Paris; that is his artistic translation of his own experience into entertainment. You don’t have to like it, and you can certainly challenge it’s accuracy  if you wish — I challenge the accuracy of gay representations all the time. But also recognise that Emily in Paris — like all art or even really good entertainment — is just someone saying: "this is the way I see it — and by ‘it,’ I mean — life!" This applies not just to art and good entertainment but to everything. In other words, this blog, and any review you read of Emily in Paris on Rotten Tomatoes, and anything you find in SLATE or SALON.com is simply someone’s translation of their own experience. It's not gospel and should not be treated as ‘the truth’ because nothing is. All writing and speech should be treated with skepticism, and that includes everything from Rex Murphy to Andrea Dworkin to Vivek Shraya to the latest TV analysis of COVID-19 and the latest Black Lives Matter pronouncement. We are all culpable, we are all liars, and everything that we produce in writing or speech should be viewed with deep critical suspicion and not accepted as the last word, or even merely the first word, as it might just be fictive crap. So listen guys, will you just leave Darren Star alone? Okay, so you can’t seem to imagine yourself as a beautiful Audrey Hepburnish young woman starting a new job in Paris -- falling in love with a hunky chef. Well, that’s your problem. Thank God, it’s not mine.

I had my

vaccination party last night. Roy, Mark, Joe, Rosemary and Donny were there, as well as Jewel -- who is the man I share an apartment with in Toronto. We had a lot of fun. My friend Roy arrived early looking very dapper; I am always amazed at his hair, at age fifty it is plump and perfectly coiffed — and he was wearing purple pants which I quite coveted. (Roy is my ‘conspiracy theorist’ friend who often says ‘I’m just asking a question, that’s all’ which I try and ignore, but when he’s not ‘just asking questions’ he is being very smart and funny and dirty which is what I really value about him, or anyone.) Roy is an ex-concert pianist but Jewel couldn’t get him to play the piano —that night, anyway. The first person to arrive was Mark, I had no idea that meeting him would be momentous, but it was. I went down to let  Mark and Roy in, so Mark ran up to the apartment as I chatted with Roy outside. When we got back up Mark was dancing (Jewel had set up a disco ball and had put on some disco music). I noticed right away that Mark looked like a slender young man — even though he was not one — and ‘ex-slender young men’ are precisely my type. He was dancing in a winsome sort of way, which was his wont. Mark is generally gentle and unassuming. I have seen Mark 'around' for years, but barely said hello to him, which says something about me, and about COVID-19. But coming back up to the apartment and finding him all by himself dancing -- I was suddenly taken with him. So Roy and I started chatting with Mark immediately, and right away I was afraid Roy was captivated by Mark’s winsomeness also. But really when it comes down to it, the party was for me. Mark was one of the two gay friends Jewel had invited. Even though Jewel is not himself gay, he has many gay friends — and it seems that Joe and Mark were both somewhat taken by my celebrity, or my ex-celebrity. I know. It all sounds very sad, doesn’t it? That I would be obsessed with my own ex-celebrity? But truth be told it’s nice to be recognised now and then. Next to arrive was Joe — Jewel’s other gay friend. Joe was definitely a handful, meaning the most sex-obsessed queen I have met in a long time, and that’s saying a lot. He immediately cornered me and asked my opinion on just about everything. Later it turned out — and I had suspected this — that Joe and I had sex at some point in the distant past (at the bathhouse) -- he had quite the tale to tell about me leading him around on a leash, or something. I honestly don't remember. I felt bad for Jewel —who suddenly burst out of the shower — all freshly washed and handsome — because the only people there were two of his gay friends obsessed by my ex-celebritiness, and my personal friend (the conspiracy theorist and ex-concert pianist). But after all it as was my vaccination party -- and no one else's -- so I tried not to feel bad about it. Soon Rosemary arrived —   a lovely very dark girl with large breasts, etc., and Jewel began to insist that she pull up her shirt, which I think she did, but honestly I was too busy to notice. Sometime much later Donny arrived —a straight filmmaker who wears a black ladies wig and is extremely unprepossessing. I don’t dislike him, but he makes himself hard to notice by sitting in corners and chatting with Jewel all the time. So the party went on — I at one point became obsessed with hearing Tom Jones. (I know Jewel has one of his albums.) I adore Tom Jones, partially because when I was 12 I went to visit my aunt, uncle and cousins in Connecticut. My aunt was about 45 at the time and addicted to sherry (she used to work at the liquor store). 'Aunt Peg' was very large and loud — and while downing a glass announced:’We’re going to see Tom Jones in New York City. He’s going to get me through menopause!” I quite know how she feels, now. Even to this day I still have fond memories of my Aunt Peg, though on that very trip she chased me around the picnic table because I refused to eat my crusts “You’re going to finish this sandwich!” she yelled. I think she thought that I thought I was 'above' eating crusts. She didn’t mention the starving people in Africa but they were also on her mind. So finally Tom Jones came on and I was very drunk. Mark said he was going downstairs to have a cigarette so I followed him. As soon as we got outside  we started necking — it just happened, honestly — he just hiked himself up on a flower box so he was perfect kissing height—and it was just so easy to kiss him. He is certainly very old, maybe even as old as me, but his long hair hangs down over his face (he kind of resembles ‘IT’ on the Adams family) that if I closed my eyes and kissed him he was suddenly a very sweet young man. We went back upstairs and people were very very drunk. Jewel makes fabulous videos of himself singing and doing various other.things -- often shirtless -- as Jewel used to be a male stripper and is the gayest straight man I’ve ever met. This does not mean that he has any desire to have sex with men, he just kind of wishes he was gay, and has a gay soul, and there aren’t many straight men like that. (For instance, Jewel sculpted a bust of John Waters which is also signed by John Waters. Not many straight men would do that.) Anyway Jewel took his gang — Donny and Rosemary—  into his room to look at videos of his fabulous shirtless self, and Joe and Roy were talking (Joe never tires of recounting his sexual exploits which are very very extensive) so I dragged Mark outside again and we fooled around. I was pleased to see that Mark was well endowed — it is amazing what nature giveth -- and what she taketh away. He just said modestly: ‘Yeah, I’m a skinny little guy you would never know.” He told me he was staying at The Town Inn where his friends had been having some sort of orgy for days. Before the party ended Mark gave me his ‘card’—  I still have it. It really was the nicest way to celebrate my vaccination; I hope to have another vaccination party in August after the second dose. That is, if I don’t die of a blood clot after the first (it was Astra Zeneca). If you play your cards right, you might just get invited.