Used to Think...

Hello Friends.

I just saw the BEST movie. A friend and I spent a lovely cheap Tuesday night watching The Theory of Everything. Friends, run, don’t walk to The Theory of Everything. It’s a movie about Stephen Hawking’s life, which sounds like it might be too science-y at best or boring at worst, but it’s neither. Eddie Redmayne, who plays Stephen Hawking, is really something. As Hawking’s body degenerates over time, Eddie has less and less to work with in terms of physicality and speech, but the character is so well-rendered, you know exactly what he’s thinking and feeling. Anyway, I’m overhyping it surely, but just go watch it because you’ll like it and because what else are you gonna see? Beer Farts? Rage Girl? Dying Tears? Actually, I hear Katherine Heigl gives an amazing performance as Jonah Hill’s mother in Beer Farts.

A lot of things will stick with me about the Hawking movie, but one thing in particular about Hawking’s life and work has burrowed in my brain. Apparently, Hawking spent much of his early work as a Physicist promoting a particular theory about black holes. That theory was the basis of his thesis and his early published work. Later on, however, he determined that his black hole theory was probably wrong and set about disproving it. Think about that. Arguably the most intelligent man of our time looks at his own work and says, “Oh, that’s probably wrong. I was wrong. I should try to fix that.” Amazing! I wish more important people looked back on their actions and said, “I was wrong, let’s fix it.” What if Prime Ministers and Presidents did that? What if the Pope did that? Maybe we’ll never get Bush to admit the invasion of Iraq was a mistake, maybe Cosby will continue to insist that dozens of women are just making stuff up, but I can change my mind about some stuff. Let’s do it now.

Dream: Admit that some of my past beliefs, ideologies, opinions were wrong, and revise accordingly.

Goal: Achievable. I’m just a guy. Who cares if I used to think one thing and now I think another? But I do think it’s important to question one’s values every so often. I feel so young in so many ways. I can’t possibly know exactly what I believe about the world when I have had (comparatively) so little life experience.

Plan: Think of things I used to think, and think about whether I think that thing anymore.

I used to think night was better than day. I was a night owl for many years. At jobs, I would always take the afternoon/evening shift, so I could sleep in, and the night was mine to do whatever I wanted. Turns out all I wanted to do was eat bad food and otherwise defile myself. It would be a different story were I out on the town every night, trying new bars, going to concerts, socializing and cultivating night-based friendships. But I was on the internet in my jam-jams. Now that I work during the day, guess what I use my nights for? Hours of glorious sleep. I indulge in a different kind of gratification by turning in at 9.30 to wake up at ten after seven. If you’re keeping track at home, that’s more than nine and a half hours of bedtime. I can read for as long as I want. If I fall asleep right away and wake up in the middle of the night, I don’t panic like I used to. If I have a lousy night of sleep, I have the next night to do it over. I do this for all those friends with kids, or spouses that work opposite hours, or have such a full life that this amount of time dedicated to sleep is a ridiculous pipe dream they will never realize.

I used to think cream rises to the top. In creative fields, I had faith that the truly talented would prevail eventually, and everything else would fall away. Then I revised that opinion and believe more strongly that it isn’t about what you know, it’s who you know. Now I think it’s a little of both, or a lot of neither. It’s arbitrary. It’s a crap shoot. I know so many talented performers and writers who might not “break out” in any meaningful way, in spite of being incredibly talented. I also know many people who are so good at the game of networking, or making connections. For a long time, I watched the glad-handers, the ass-kissers, and the people who show up to everything, desperate to sell themselves. But I think that desperation comes across.

I knew a guy who was (and I think still is) the Artistic Director of a prominent theatre company. That is to say, I knew him personally more than professionally, and so didn’t consider myself among the networkers and hangers-on, of which there were dozens. People are overly-friendly with him, and slyly working in references to their own ability and wide open schedules. They might say, “So great to see you!” when they mean, “Give me a job, already!” He sees right through it and, while he is gracious, seems pretty immune to the empty compliments. I think honing your talent is just as important as making the right connections, but I also think some people “make it” and some people don’t thanks solely to dumb luck. And lest you think this is a self-pitying diatribe, I make a living writing copy, which is not creative, but I still consider myself among the dumb lucky ones.

I used to think whether or not you were gay was nobody’s business. Now, with important caveats, I think keeping yourself closeted for the sake of “privacy” is a dumb cop out. Obviously, there are exceptions here. If you are young, still figuring life out, and you stand to get the shit kicked out of you, stay in that closet until you can safely get out of there. If you are dependent upon parents who are assholes and will disown you, cut you off financially, etc., then of course don’t come out. If you live in a part of the world where identifying as gay puts you in legitimate danger, stay in the closet with my deepest sympathies and open invitation to Canada. If, however, you are an adult, if you support yourself, and especially if you have some poor secret same sex lover, lurking in the shadows, available for trysts, but not invited to the work Christmas party, then come the fuck out. The water’s fine. I regret waiting as long as I did to come out, as I experienced no fallout, but I also wanted to get out of high school first. I went to a great high school with great friends, and probably would have been fine there, too, but it can be a rough road for any teenager. I knew, on the cusp of adulthood, that I had no reason to hide, and no excuse.

There are still people who will say, “But it’s nobody’s business who I sleep with!” I completely agree. But there’s a big difference between saying, “I have a boyfriend named Greg and this is his home address and we have sex on Tuesdays and Fridays” and telling someone that you identify as gay. Consider, for instance, a person of ambiguous ethnic origin who is learning English as a second language. Maybe they are Japanese or maybe they are Korean, but it’s hard to tell. Another person might ask them, “Are you from Korea?” Maybe that’s a little forward, but it’s not an invasion of their privacy. The person would likely respond, “Yes I am” or “No I’m not”, and that would be that. It would be rude to say to that person, “What are your parents’ names? What do they do? Where do they live?”

Maybe I’m getting too activist-y, but I don’t think telling someone you’re gay is personal; I think it’s political. It helps out. The more straight people know gay people who are cabinet ministers, construction workers, Moms, Dads, colleagues, best pals, and douchebags, the more we’re just part of the world. That’s why I always wake up mad at Kevin Spacey, who plays the “Nobody’s business” game. Or Queen Latifah who “won’t discuss it.” Why not? You’re rich and famous, but made terribly insecure by this part of you that’s supposedly “nobody’s business”? The famous person who made me the angriest was Sean Hayes, who played the flamboyant Jack on Will & Grace. That was the most progressive show on television at the time, he was obviously gay, if not as stereotypical as the character he portrayed and he “refused to discuss it” until finally coming out for The Advocate several years after the show had been off the air. What does that do to the gay kids watching your show, buddy? Man up. And actually, the reason I’m mad at Queen Latifah was that her show was playing in the dentist’s office the other day, and she was taking a picture of her audience with her phone to put on Twitter. She said, “That’s not a selfie! That’s a somebody-elsie! We invented something new, y’all! A somebody-elsie!” The audience laughed and clapped while I seethed. YOU DIDN’T INVENT ANYTHING! A SOMEBODY-ELSIE?! YOU JUST TOOK A FUCKING PICTURE! YOU’RE SO STUPID!

I used to think the world was a magical, wonderful place. I don’t mean that it’s not from a poor me, doom and gloom perspective, because I have been a lucky person for whom the world has been a magical, wonderful place. Everything has been sunshine and lollipops for me because, as a white male, I was born on the sunny side of a lollipop field. Loathe as we are to admit it, much in our lives are dictated by privilege and circumstances, not our positive attitudes. I’m not explain myself well. David Rakoff said, and I’m paraphrasing, that you can believe in all the positive thinking that you want. You can have the sunniest attitude, and a “relationship with the universe”, and the belief that, by putting positive vibes out into the universe, positive vibes will be returned to you. But, Rakoff continued, if you’re a labourer in Bangladesh making 10 cents an hour at a fucking sneaker factory, you can think all the sunny thoughts you like, you’re still going to wake up tomorrow and have to work at the fucking sneaker factory.

I’m finding it hard to transition out of the “magical, wonderful place” model, especially because, as I say, my streets are paved with gold. I’ve got a job and a nice fella and have never been followed around a store, let’s say, or turned down for a job based on anything other than my qualifications. As a white dude, I’ve never felt vulnerable walking alone at night, or standing alone at a bar. I’ve never turned on the tv and not seen myself reflected back a hundred different ways. I haven’t seen hundreds of young white people go missing or be murdered, and if that happened enough times that it was noticeable as a larger trend, it would be on the front page of every newspaper every goddamn day.

It makes me heartsick when well-intentioned people like me say, “I just prefer to see the good in people.” Someone on my Facebook feed, in response to a Ferguson post said, “This whole situation is so negative! There are so many good things happening in the world, why not focus on that?” When someone says something so inane, what they’re really saying is, “It doesn’t affect me.” War in Iraq? “Doesn’t affect me.” Missing and murdered Aboriginal women? “Doesn’t affect me.” Unarmed black teenager shot dead by a police officer? “Doesn’t affect me.” It should affect you, it does affect you. To pretend otherwise is to be at best, a shitty person, and at worst, culpable in the injustices being committed.

It’s so tempting to deal in absolutes. I always do this, I never do that. I believe in this, but not that. I’m not a religious person, and I used to think that was a trait of religious people—the world is black and white, good and evil, etc. But now I think that’s true of only pious people, and the truly faithful struggle as much as the rest of us do.

In the course of proving and disproving his theories, Stephen Hawking became known as the most brilliant mind of our time. David Rakoff, in spite of his pessimistic nature, wrote some the funniest and most elegant prose I’ve ever read. I still can’t read his last book, published shortly before his death from cancer at 47, because the idea that such a writer has nothing left to be read makes me incredibly sad. The point is, neither man was content to say one thing and leave it there, they were furious and curious. Furious and curious aren’t bad things to be these days. At least that’s what I think.

Break the Internet, Volume One

Hello Friends.

Poor Kim Kardashian’s butt. Can you imagine being such a butt? A butt with so much attention? It must be so weird. I’m sure my butt has only received attention for something negative. I almost never look back there and say, “Good job, butt.”

By now you’ve seen or read about Kim Kardashian’s bare-assed cover of Paper Mag with the headline, “Break the Internet.” The suggesting being, I suppose, that this photo will be downloaded and viewed by so many people as to somehow exhaust the very medium that transmits it. We’ll wake up tomorrow internet-less thanks to this malevolent butt. Would that be so bad?

Dream: Break the internet.

Goal: Unachievable. There’s no way to shut down the non-stop garbage parade on the information superhighway (remember when we called it that?). But maybe if we thought a little more critically about what we are constantly consuming, we wouldn’t have to break the internet in order to get it fixed. This topic is a big one, so I suggest we approach the tear down and rebuild of the internet in stages, and this is my first idea.

Plan: Let’s start by revising the definition of pornography, shall we?

Is this naked photoshoot of Kim Kardashian labelled “Break the Internet” meant to evoke the nude photo hacking that occurred a few weeks ago? Classy move, magazine. Is it a commentary on the event, or just capitalizing on the trend of naked ladies? So much ink has been spilled about this, I know I’m just adding to the noise but beyond the fact that making someone’s private photos readily accessible to a public audience is a violation and a sex crime, I still think it positions a woman’s body as currency in a really gross way. The idea that women with their clothes off will somehow create chaos and corrupt us absolutely is just wrong. Again, I haven’t seen a lot of the photos, but these aren’t women having sex, these are women who are nude. Why does Vanity Fair, in their recent cover story concerning Jennifer Lawrence, print her statement in full about her feelings of violation at the release of those photos, with an accompanying pictorial of her naked in a swimming pool (albeit strategically positioned to cover her nipples)? In other words, Vanity Fair prints that accessing naked pictures of Jennifer Lawrence is a violation (which it is), while splashing sexy pics inside their magazine to sell more copies (which they did).

Famously, a member of the United States Supreme Court, when ruling on whether or not a particular film qualified as obscene, couldn’t explain exactly what made something pornography or not said, “When it comes to [porn], I know it when I see it.” Is that true? Do we really know it when we see it anymore? A woman breastfeeding her child is not pornographic, but what if the child hasn’t latched on to the breast, and someone takes a picture of a bare-breasted woman about to but not in the act of feeding her child? Such distinctions are ridiculous, at least to me.

There’s a guy in this town that I fucking hate and I don’t even know his name. This guy, who goes by a ridiculous pseudonym and Twitter handle, is a bigot who couches his vitriol in the guise of right wing ideology. The only reason I know he exists is because his stupid blog is widely read (much more so than this one, I can assure you) and, in his review of a Fringe show called a particular performer, “A flaming Fringe faggot” (referring to the fact that this performer has been in several Fringe shows that are queer-positive, some are drag cabarets, etc.) Somebody got ahold of it, told local media, they ran with the story, there was requisite outrage, blah blah blah. I don’t know why, after reading some article about it, I was compelled to look further (the cyber equivalent of picking a scab), but I went to the writer’s blog and Twitter page. The rest of his Fringe Festival coverage was other play reviews, and then each “day” of the festival featured several pictures of women who were attending. Their heads were cut off in the pictures, so it was just the (fully-clothed) bodies of women walking around the Fringe grounds! This guy takes pictures of women clearly unaware they are being photographed covertly on his phone, then uploads them as “scenery.” As in, “There were many other great sights to see at the Fringe this year, heh heh heh!” followed by pictures of these women! From the “I know it when I see it” file, that’s ABSOLUTELY obscene to me. This disgusting man who doesn’t put his real name on anything is the type of person who the internet ought to break down on.

I guess we’re no closer to breaking the internet. Women’s bodies, the male gaze, and what constitutes pornography can’t be solved in a thinkpiece (even one as scattershot as this one). All I can control is what I watch which, for the moment, won’t be the famous butt that seems to be everywhere. I guess we can’t break something that’s already broken.

Old Yeller...

Hello Friends.

Dr. Jon teaches a class on Thursday nights, so I usually use those nights to cook the dinners only I like and watch the shows Jon has no interest in. I’m embarrassed to report that those shows include a program I will call by its Spanish name, Escandalo!

Escandalo! is a soapy, melodramatic program that centres around Kerry Washington and her impossible cheekbones, and together they fix what’s wrong in Washington (the place), and the presidency. Kerry is having an affair with the President (Escandalo!), but has also uncovered a secret government organization that exists beyond the powers of the White House (Escandalo!) and she’s having another affair with the interim leader of that organization (Escandalo!) who holds the position previously held by Kerry Washington’s father (Muey Escandalo!). While the show purports to be about corruption and intrigue in the highest office in the land, it’s basically House of Cards for stupid people. In spite of myself, I am hooked.

One thing the show likes to do (with the subtlety of a freight train, btw) is examine the effects of power. Who has it, who wants it, what will they do to get it and keep it, etc. Kerry Washington is especially good at playing this dynamic as every subtle shift reads on her stunningly beautiful face. She’s a great actress, but lately her job has been to simply react to horrifying things, and you couldn’t find a better canvas. But I digress. Because it’s all about power, and because the show is a little ham-fisted in delivering emotional punches, everyone on Escandalo! is always yelling at each other. As much as I enjoy the escapism of a night time soap, I couldn’t last in that world for two seconds because I can’t handle being yelled at.

Dream: Handle being yelled at.

Goal: Achievable. When I say, “Being yelled at”, I’m defining things very loosely. I don’t mean someone screaming obscenities in my face, which nobody should put up with, I mean when someone belittles me, or chastises me like a child for some perceived transgression. I don’t understand this practice at all.

When I was a child, I stupidly thought that kids yell at each other, sometimes grown-ups yelled at kids, but grown-ups don’t yell at each other (and yes, that naiveté is the incredible privilege of growing up in the stable, happy home that 1/10 of 1 percent of all kids get, my brother and me among them). Consequently, as an adult, I don’t know how to respond when someone starts yelling. My stomach churns, my heart drops, and I am immediately cowed and subservient, even when I know that I’m not in the wrong and have nothing to be chastened for.

Plan: Shake it off.

How does Taylor Swift do it? With all the haters, and the fakers, and the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world?

Sometimes I wonder if I have one of those easy-to-yell-at faces. Like a droopy, “duh-duh” face. During one job I held, I caught my reflection in a window once after I was yelled at from a supervisor who had actually gathered other coworkers around for some kind of public shaming. My posture was defensive, my hands were shaking, and I had the stupidest look my face.

There was a director I have worked with who is notorious for his verbal tear-downs. Years of doing it had given him a lot of practice and he could, without warning, really decimate someone he was displeased with. People will always work with him, though, and I’m certain his tenure as a great director will continue because he gets great results. Loathe as I am to admit it, he knows that intimidation works. After a particularly blistering rebuke of someone on a rehearsal day, he sputtered, “I care about putting on a good show. I don’t care about everyone having a good time” or something to that effect. What bothers me is that both things are possible.

I can think of bosses, supervisors, directors, teachers, and other people of authority who get stuff done willingly by a happy crew. I have stayed in lousy jobs and worked really hard to please people like that. I might put forth extra effort into something if I don’t want to get yelled at, but I’m going to give my truly greatest effort when I’m helping someone that I respect. If you want to find stressed out people, go to a retail store or a restaurant. If you want to find calm people deftly handling stressful situations, go to the some of the stores where I have worked. I’ve seen managers on the floor all day getting shit from customers, then get a call from some head office and get shit from corporate when the day is done, and those managers then take their shit out on nobody. People don’t get yelled at, people get treated with respect, and the work gets done.

There are always going to be people that behave badly, who believe that threats of catastrophe is greater motivation than positive feedback. There’s no point in trying to change people who exhibit that behavior because often it gets results from chumps like me. But chumps like me can change how we respond to bad behavior, even if it means faking the shake off until we can successfully make the shake off.

Dr. Jon never yells at me, nor do my work colleagues, nor friends, nor family, and I don’t yell at anyone myself (at least I don’t think I do). Still, I think it’s important to remind myself that yelling itself is inevitable, but valueless. The more import I give to this lousy method of communication, the more likely I am to internalize it the next time someone yells at me. If yelling at James gets results, James better stop producing results to reinforce the behavior. It is then that I am the worst version of myself and likely to treat someone badly in turn, and that would be truly scandalous.

Sexy Man Costume...

Hello Friends.

Halloween falls on a Friday night this year, it’s not uncomfortably cold, I don’t have any children, and I’m not deathly ill. For all of those reasons, I really should go out and have fun. I’ve complained in the past about adults celebrating Halloween is juvenile and just a chance to get skanky, but really, who am I to deprive my contemporaries of the privilege? Plus, I am told that Halloween is truly the gay man’s holiday. It’s an event where outlandish behavior and dress is not only tolerated, but encouraged. Actually, considering the ceremony and pageantry associated with Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, I’m fairly certain that any holiday is the gay man’s holiday, but anyway.

This ghoultide season (ha HA!), I’m stymied as to what to dress up as, particularly since the practice is encouraged around the office. My only idea (and therefore the strongest contender) is Business Cat. This costume will involve wearing my normal work clothes, plus maybe some cat ears, and going about my day.

If we do go out on Friday night, I’m not convinced Business Cat will play well at the bar. As much as a truly original costume like Business Cat is appreciated, funny’s no money when it comes winning the prizes offered at the night spot we might visit. There will be some women dressed in sexy lady gear and, because it’s a gay bar, there will also be men dressed in sexy lady gear. Since the only lady I’m comfortable dressing as is Diane Keaton, I need to find a Sexy Man’s Costume.

Dream: Design or discover a Sexy Man Halloween costume.

Goal: Achievable. My feeling is those sad Halloween stores really miss the mark when it comes to costumes for men. One I saw recently was lumberjack. I don’t know any actual lumberjacks, but I think if I met one, I wouldn’t be turned on by virtue of his profession:

ME: What’s your job?
LUMBERJACK: Lumberjack.
ME: Oh! So you… chop down trees?
LUMBERJACK: Basically.
ME: Huh! Don’t they have machines that do that now?
LUMBERJACK: Do they?
ME: I think so.
LUMBERJACK: I’ll be along now. Exuent LUMBERJACK

Plan: Design prototypes for Sexy Man Costumes based on the following ideas:

Sexy Single Dad. This one is for you, ladies. I’m not sure why, but many straight ladies I know turns all jello-kneed at the sight of a handsome single father. This costume is simple, fellas. Dress somewhat conservatively and walk around the party calling out modern names. “Makenna? Zaden?” People will be like, “Awww, those must be his kids!” Although I suppose they would think you were calling for your kids because they were missing at a large party, I don’t know how you dig yourself out of that hole. Okay, wear a t-shirt obviously made by children. So it has paint handprints on it and says “WE LOVE YOU DADDY” in crude font and then something like, “PS OUR MOMMY IS DEAD” so that everyone knows you’re a single parent, down to clown.

Sexy Vet (like veterinarian, not war veteran, let’s not make fun of that). One of the loveliest thing about Dr. Jon is how much he cares for animals. There’s something so appealing about that quality in a fella. So a Sexy Vet could wear a stethoscope, but have scrubs with puppies on them. Or he could carry around a bandaged bunny rabbit. No, that’s weird, that’s weird.

Brendan Fraser. Just dress like Brendan Fraser. Where is that guy? I miss that guy. Or rather, I miss him from 20 years ago. I remember seeing Encino Man when I was 11 or 12, where this dude finds a prehistoric naked and vulnerable Brendan Fraser and thinking to myself, “This shall be my life’s work.”

Sexy Apologizing Bastard. You know how there’s that person in your life, from work, or high school, or college who was/is a bastard? And there’s something about him that could potentially be attractive if he wasn’t a bastard? This costume is that guy, but he spends the whole night apologizing for being a bastard.

Sexy “What About You?” Guy. This one will be an even bigger hit than the Apologizer. This guy’s costume could be a mirror, or a t shirt with a big question mark on it. All he does is ask about your life and seem genuinely interested. Yeah, that would get annoying and suspicious after a while, but it could be sexy over the course of a party.

Sexy “Strong Without Effort” Guy. I don’t mean muscle-y juiceheads, or the guys at the gym lifting insane amounts and screaming with each movement like they’re making Sophie’s choice. I can’t explain it, but to me there’s something incredibly attractive about a man (a woman too, come to think of it), doing something taxing without obvious strain. Again, I don’t know why, but when a guy competently helps to move a couch or does pushups because he’s bored, that’s insanely hot.

Guy in a suit. Gentleman, just buy a basic suit that is TAILORED TO YOUR BODY and wear it around. This is so easy, especially because the resourceful guy can wear many combinations of one suit and a well-made suit lasts forever. Just wear a suit. Just wear a suit!

It says a lot about our culture that a sexy lady costume requires wearing some variation of a skimpy garment and who cares about the context, and a sexy man costume just asks that guys not be dicks for a night. I’m not the one to solve this quandary, but in general, I do think the sexiest thing anyone can be is an open, honest version of themselves. Or a Business Cat.

Do Not Not Disturb

Hello Friends.

I had to give up my little office last week to make room for a new guy. Now I work in a more communal area alongside my colleagues. Not really a cube farm, just a corner of a much larger room with three other people and a bit of foot traffic. Higher-ups broke this news to me as gently as possible, as if I might burst into tears, or cling possessively to the inspirational picture mounted to my wall. “No! I need my solitary space! How else will I LIVE?”

The answer is, quite comfortably. Though it was cool, when I got this job, to have my own office, it quickly became weirdly isolating. I found myself wandering over to the common area that now includes my desk to ask innocuous questions about a task, find out if I could help anyone out, or just chat. Turns out, unless I’m deep in the throes of a complicated assignment, I’d rather have some activity around me than none at all. Though I still would consider working from home the gold standard, but only because I imagine it the way Homer does, where Jon brings me a lemonade and a beer and we dance while I wear my fat guy muumuu.

There have been times in my life when I’ve really wanted to be alone. When I was a kid, I wanted my own room and when I finally got one, I guarded it fiercely (although it wasn’t as if anyone was desperate to gain access to the inner sanctum of a disgusting teenaged me). When I moved out on my own, I dismissed the idea of roommates entirely. At the time, my rent was so low I could easily afford a one bedroom apartment while working a crap job (something all but impossible now). Even after I met Jon, we kept separate residences for four years, and then have lived apart for long stretches since due to his work and mine.

The thing that surprised me about getting the solitude I thought that I wanted was that I became the worst version of myself. I’m not a depressive, but I am incredibly neurotic, and left unchecked by the presence of others, I become a literal and figurative mess.

Dream: Live in less privacy.

Goal: Achievable. I know that doesn’t make sense on the face of it. Who wants less privacy? Especially when one considers, beyond the tinfoil hat sort of way, that we lack so much privacy as citizens. Surely our emails are monitored, our money tracked, and suspicious movements subject to surveillance, and we’re not even important people. I wouldn’t mind if that scrutiny was lessened a bit; it creeps me out to think that none of us has any autonomy as a citizen of the world, I’m just saying I want people around.

Plan: Find ways to make myself more accessible and less imprisoned by my impulse to isolate. Such as:

Secrets. I don’t mean that I’m going to spill anyone’s secrets, anything I’ve put in the vault stays in the vault. I mean that I’m going to try to keep less secrets about myself, not that I have many anyway, but you get the picture. Anything I’ve held inside, for whatever reason, eventually festers and feels gross. Whether it’s times I’ve been bad with money, bailed on a commitment, treated somebody like shit, I have to own that stuff.

Relationship criteria. In my case, I’m not talking about criteria for a romantic relationship, as I’ve already got a good one of those; I’m talking about developing more connections and friendships with people. To generalize with wild abandon, I feel like straight women and gay men feel this need to have an inner circle, or maybe one or two confidantes, or one bff, and nobody else gets in. I look at the Facebook walls of my straight women/gay men friends and they’re filled with self-centered platitudes like, “I’m officially done with apologizing to people!” Or, “This is me, deal with it!” Or my personal favourite, “If you can’t handle me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best!” Did you ever notice that people who say that actually have no best and are always the worst?

I’m not saying don’t be who you are, but never apologizing? Really? Isn’t life full of the mistakes we make and how we choose to correct them? Shouldn’t we be pliable as people, willing to accept different points of view, especially if it means changing our own? Isn’t that growth? If you’re going to summarily dismiss the people in your life who occasionally rankle or upset you, be prepared for the loneliest life! Ironically, these are the same people whose social media platforms are filled with Oprah quotes about “Living in the moment” and “Practicing gratitude”, but they can’t seem to do much of either.

Every body (even mine, even yours) is fine. The older I get and the more my body changes, the less I understand our collective insistence on privately (or publicly) tormenting ourselves about how we look. I don’t mean to be all free love and creepy, but they’re just bodies, man. Who gives a shit? It was awful and a huge breach of privacy when some person (or persons) hacked into the phones/computers of a bunch of female celebrities and posted their nude photos. A terrible violation, to be sure. But as I understand it, these aren’t pictures of people engaged in sex acts; they’re just naked selfies. The more we clutch our pearls and ready our fainting couches over nude photos that don’t depict anything sexual, the more we send the message that there’s something inherently wrong with our bodies.

I know taking this view is a little gross, it sounds like I’m defending the people that stole and leaked these photos, of course I’m not, but I read this article about teenagers and sexting recently that gave me a lot to think about. Because teens are perpetually horny and disgusting, and the dangers of sexual activity are hammered into them at every opportunity, a titillating but physically safe option seems to be sending each other naked pictures. I was surprised to learn that, at least among the teenagers surveyed for the article, there is rarely, if ever, a fallout as a result. It is only when parents find out and involve schools who in turn involve law enforcement, that it gets truly awful. Senders and sendees are interviewed, monitored, and in some cases, charged and arrested. The subjects of questionable photos have scarlet A’s permanently affixed to themselves as they walk the halls. Remember that this is not the result of explicit imagery of people engaging in sex with each other (though those do exist among teens and ought to be handled quite differently), these are kids standing there with their clothes off. Granted, if a naked picture of me was circulated among my classmates when I was a teen, I would be horrified and embarrassed. If cops showed up to interview me about it alongside my parents, I’d actually want to die.  

Again, I’m speaking only for myself here. And I think perhaps I’m confusing privacy with secrecy, or being alone with loneliness. There are private parts of my life that I keep close to the vest, and I wouldn’t want that to be violated, but I also know that I want people around that really know me, warts and all. I like how nobody has to awkwardly knock on an open door to get my attention at work now. Nobody needs to be invited into my space; you’re already here.

Katy Perry's Superbowl of Love

Hello Friends.

For an event I’ve never watched all the way through in my life, I have some pretty distinct Superbowl memories, and all of them involve performers. The Superbowl was where Whitney Houston sang that iconic version of The Star Spangled Banner. By the way, isn’t it sort of weird that the American national anthem is called The Star Spangled Banner? A star spangled banner sounds like a festooned sash at a children’s beauty pageant or the décor at a homosexual-hosted house party. The Superbowl is where Justin Timberlake grabbed the breastplate off Janet Jackson’s breast, momentarily exposing it to a pearl-clutching nation. I’ll never stop being mad about the fallout, by the way. He ripped her top off. Regardless of whether this was pre-planned, it’s an act of sexual violence to rip someone’s top off, why didn’t we get mad at him? A wall of shit really fell on Janet from which I’m not sure her career ever recovered, but Timberlake got off scot-free. Micheal Jackson did a half time show one year where everyone in the audience had to hold up placards to form a shitty picture of children holding hands, which is arguably the greater crime against humanity. The Superbowl was where Madonna and Beyonce led the half-time shows of 2013 and 2014, respectively, in a blatant attempt to bring women and gays to the tv for ten minutes and it worked.  

This year, it has just been announced, will feature a half time performance by Katy Perry. Madonna was good, Beyonce was fine, but Katy Perry? It’s like okay, universe, I get it: this is the most important Superbowl of all time in history, and I want to be a part of it.

Dream: Katy Perry performs a song about me in The Superbowl.

Goal: Achievable. Listen, stranger things have happened. Nobodies have star making turns all the time. Have you seen that “Apparently” kid? He hosts Ellen now. With viral memes, videos, and blog posts (right??) dictating popularity, it’s only a matter of time before something I produced gets beamed around the world into millions of homes, and I think Katy Perry is the perfect conduit.

Plan: Write to Katy so she has adequate time to rehearse James Is My Friend, Look At Him Go.

Dear Katy,

Hi! I’m such a fan of some of your music. I think you can craft a hit like no one else. Teenage Dream? Roar? Birthday? Forget it. Those will be pleasantly stuck in my head until the end of time. I even have an hour long workout mix of your tunes that I listen to while I sit around eating.

I’m not sure why you’re not given the credit of a Lady Gaga or Beyonce. To me, your songs are more instantly memorable, and you’re far better looking. I bought the issue of Vogue with you on it because look at you! You’re a goddamn painting! Wow!

Anyway, I know everyone is looking forward to a medley of your hits (but leave off Dark Horse, that one never really burrowed into my brain like the others), but what I’d like to do is really shake up your forthcoming performance with a brand new hit called James is My Friend, Look At Him Go. I’m not super good with music, but it should be upbeat and poppy. Lyrics below.

James Is My Friend, Look At Him Go

Who is the boy who has all the moves?
Who is the friend that’s closest to you?
Who is the man you want right by your side?

He is the guy who’s healthy and strong
He works in the day and sleeps all night long
He can’t drive a car so I’m taking him for a ride *Katy, good place for a sexy move here*

CHORUS:

James is my friend, look at him go
He is a friend I think you should know
Patient and kind
He’s not your friend he’s mine
Go Big City James Go!

There comes a time when you’re all alone
No Likes on your status no texts on your phone
There’s only one boy who can make you feel alright

So give him a call and there he will be
He’s not just your friend, he’s friends with me
I’m Katy Perry and our friendship lasts all night

CHORUS

BRIDGE

James is his name, and that’s all I know, Go Big City James Go (Go go GO!)

CHORUS x2

And that’s basically it. Easy, right? I don’t have any suggestions for dance moves, but maybe point in random directions in the audience like you’re pointing at specific people, in a “You! You! You!” sort of way.

Alright Katy, realtalk, that time you sang with that girl at an autism benefit makes me cry buckets when I watch it. If you want to do something as poignant and meaningful in your half time show in lieu of singing to me, I can’t stop you (though I have some musically inclined friends who just might decide to record this track if you take a pass). I’m just a fan and a nice person and it’s been such a long time since someone publicly performed in my honour, so…. Come on.

Love your friend,

James

Under the Knife…

Hello Friends.

Starting off on a bad foot because this is already late, but I also have to warn you not to expect a blog next Thursday either because next Thursday I am getting some work done.

The Cobra Superstar Oral and Facial Surgical Centre (not its real name) is just a few blocks from my house and offers everything from nose jobs to Botox injections. After an initial consultation and getting the right forms signed by a doctor, Jonny is driving me to and from Cobra Superstar for a brief procedure on October 3rd.

I could continue with this misdirection awhile because it’s fun, but truthfully I’m just getting some dumb operation done on my jaw because apparently (this is gross) there’s a tooth imbedded in there. I was hoping the tooth would be attached to one of those fetus twins but no joy. My dentist tells me that, while this imbedded tooth gives me no discomfort now, it will eventually hit nerves and the pain will be horrendous. The op is totally covered by my insurance combined with the Doc’s, so there’s really no reason why I shouldn’t get this troublemaker yanked outta me. If there are no complications and recover quickly, this procedure could open up a whole new world to me, and it might be fun.

Dream: Get extensive cosmetic surgery.

Goal: Achievable. Recently, I asked a friend, “If plastic surgery wasn’t at all stigmatized, would you do it?” She said, “Yes, totally. Wait, what did you say?” and I said, “If plastic surgery…” and she goes, “Ohh! I thought you said prostitution. But yeah. Yes to both” (she’s one of my best pals). And she’s right (about plastic surgery, anyway). If there was absolutely no stigmatization (and procedures were affordable and safe), wouldn’t many of us fix up our faces and bodies the way we get our hair cut or go to the gym? I know I would.

Plan: Make a list of potential procedures to undergo, assuming my rogue tooth is extracted from my jaw without causing me undue duress. Here’s what I’d fix if I could.

Ab implants. Would that be cool? I’m so tired of obscuring my pizza gut with big sweaters, Chinese dressing screens, and obvious props like a pregnant tv actress. I want to know what it would feel like to rub my hand on my belly and feel taut ridges rather than a hairy sack of gluten.

Face shortener. I have a longer face than a cartoon basset hound. I’m scared of ever getting a caricature done of me because I know it will just be a long bean riding a skateboard or something. What else?

Eyebag de-puffing

Ballbag de-wrinkling

Wit sharpening

Nipple sharpening. Just open cans of tomato juice instantly.

Nasal cavity widening. This will be a tricky one. I don’t want bigger nostrils, but apparently I have an irritating nose whistle. I saw apparently because I can’t hear it, but everyone around me can. In fact, I’m probably sending out a merry tune as I write, but I’m none the wiser.

Preemptive jowl filler. I know I should smile more to eliminate the future perma-creases on either side of my mouth rendering me a living Ben Wicks illustration. Actually, this has nothing to do with anything, but I read an article positing that facial fillers are a boon to AIDS patients. A small amount applied to either side of the face eliminates the gaunt, hollow-cheeked look common among sufferers. That’s a major downer, but the kind of thing one is tempted to trot out in defense of plastic surgery. Sorry for the AIDS digression.

Permanent hair. My hair has done me a solid over the years, can I get surgery to keep it on my head for the rest of my life? If that doesn’t exist, it should.

Finally, to steal a joke from Maria Bamford, what I’d really like to surgically alter is that part of my brain that cares what other people think. I’m not really considering any plastic surgery for myself right now, but I’m not one those people who casts aspersions on people who nip and tuck. A beautiful friend of mine confided that she had had a nose job in her teenage years and I stupidly thought, “But that’s impossible, your nose is so pretty!” But of course I’ve only known her with her current, pert and beautiful nose on her pert and beautiful face. Being (forgive me) nosy in turn, I asked if she had any other procedures done and she laughed and said, “No, I just had a big nose growing up. Now I don’t.” Simple as that.

Of course anything can be overdone and ghastly, and the effects of plastic surgery are permanent, but so are tattoos and we’ve become perhaps too permissible where those are concerned. All I would hope is that if I do ever seriously contemplate getting something done, it’s for my own peace of mind and nothing else. I hope I don’t age into Botox where a 60 year old James looks like a permanently surprised 70 year old James, or buy myself a new schlong for Christmas, but it’s my own damn business if I do. If there’s something different about me one day that you can’t quite put your finger on, don’t ask me to explain myself because I’ll probably just do what is advised for my recovery after next Thursday: keep my mouth shut.