TOO MUCH TRAVEL?

I’ve long said that travel is the best antidote to the up-and-down swirls I feel due to mental health challenges. A quick trip to Whistler or Seattle can calm my nerves, lift my mood or just provide a preventive booster to keep me on track. 

 

I’m not sure how I’d feel about travel as part of work, the kind where you check in to one hotel after another and spend 9 to 5 in one office tower after another, then unwind in a bar seven floors down from your room. That seems like travel without the experiences that make being away from home so special. No matter how luxurious they may be, I don’t want to sign up for what are basically hotel room tours. A successful trip involves as little time in the room as possible (and time in an office cubicle doesn’t count at all). 

 

Still, I’ve often thought that, if I could land a kind of job where I’m paid to venture to cities and countries and hop on trains or roam in a rental car from city to beach from art museum to funky café, I’d have found my sweet spot. Bring on the next destination!

 

Lunenburg, Nova Scotia

But here I am, momentarily between trips, three days at home after being away most of the past month and heading out again for two more months. So far I’ve covered Taos, Denver, Halifax, Prince Edward Island and Cape Breton. Upcoming: Portland, Canyonlands National Park, Denver, New York City, Dallas, Aspen and another stint in New Mexico along with a few places that haven’t been slotted in yet. 

 

To be sure, I am lucky. Privileged, in fact. I’ve loved going to each place up till now and I have no doubt I will thoroughly enjoy the places to come but these three days at home aren’t so much about rest but instead are filled with preparation for the next two months: a bike tune-up, an oil change, a laptop repair, a volunteer shift, a mortgage renewal, medication refills, a library stop, an insurance appointment, a meeting with a writing colleague, unpacking and packing, hotel bookings and loads of laundry among other things. No doubt, there is an item or two I’m forgetting. It feels like a lot.

 

I’d be okay with it—I think—if one item weren’t left off the list: writing. I define myself as a writer. Writing essays, outlining a new story and revising a manuscript bring me joy. I don’t have the time or the focus for these tasks right now and they fell off my radar during the most recent week of travel. As I take to the road for another extended period, I don’t see a time in the near future when I can fit in a few decent writing sessions. 

 

That boost I feel from travel is taking a hit from the absence of writing as my passion. I just can’t balance the two at present. It’s put me in an unfamiliar sort of funk that is clouding the glory of travel adventure.

 

Writing just doesn’t fall off my agenda.

 

Even during my first stint in a psych ward, when they took away all my possessions, including my backpack with a writing notebook, I found the fortitude and the supplies—a single sheet of white paper and one of those teensy pencils they give you at miniature golf—to write. I wrote my ideas in the tiniest print possible, filling up every inch on both sides of the paper. In my deepest ever depression, writing was what gave me hope that I could continue to be something once discharged. 

 

It’s scary to not be writing. What if ideas and inspiration don’t come back when I’m ready to slot in more writing time? What if this unprecedented break just keeps going?  

 

I have four days by myself on the road beginning tomorrow. I have a pad of paper, pens and pencils always placed in the driver’s side door pocket. As I navigate some of the less scenic patches of highway, I hope to be that guy talking aloud to himself as speedier drivers pass. Let the ideas flow again. I don’t care whether they’re about a current project or something entirely new. Let me start thinking like a writer again. Let the ideas feel so urgent and compelling that I find myself pulling over at rest stops or even the road shoulder to scribble my thoughts on that pad of paper. I normally enjoy the quiet time but I’m hoping, as this trip begins, there will be a lot of noise inside my head. The good kind. The kind that affirms that, yes, I am still a writer.

 

     

 

  

TRAVEL WITH AN EATING DISORDER

I pack my laptop, my hiking boots and, yes, my eating disorder when I travel. Really, it would be nice if I forgot that last thing but it insists on tagging along everywhere I go. This time, I’m in Canada’s Maritime provinces: Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island. 

 

Usually when I’m visiting other places, food is not a highlight. Being a vegetarian, I won’t be sampling the local seafood on this trip. I probably won’t be hitting restaurants at all. The first half of my adventure, I’ll be on my own and, although I prefer solo travel, I’m not a fan of solo dining. I tell myself I don’t mind the spectacle of appearing like some lonely soul. That’s an extrovert’s POV. As an introvert, it’s nice not having to respond to small talk about how big my meal is. A seemingly innocuous comment about portion sizing is dangerous territory for people with eating disorders. An offhand remark about my meal (e.g., “Are you gonna eat all that?”) means I’ll feel obliged to eat even less than I intended. Any joy in eating will be lost. 

 

My hangup over eating alone in a restaurant is that I intone judgment from the server. I’m taking up a two-top so the check will only come to half of what a couple orders—less since I don’t order alcohol, an appetizer or dessert. I’ve eaten enough times on my own in restaurants and the server consistently offers minimal service. Maybe they sense I want to be left alone. The weird thing is that, rather than try to rush me out so a couple will be seated in their section, it’s almost always a chore to flag down the server so I can pay and leave.

 

When I book my hotel, I always ensure there’s a mini fridge. I’m good with picking up yogurt and cold brew coffee at the grocery store. I like eating in the room while surfing on my laptop to get directions to activities I want to do during my stay. I like that eating takes five minutes and then I can move on to more exciting things.

 

My eating disorder is a bigger focus on this particular trip. I’m attending a conference put on by the Eating Disorders Association of Canada (EDAC). For two days, I am sitting in on keynote speeches and breakout sessions from academics talking about what they are learning from professional studies about People Like Me. 

 

My fear is that the presentations and discussions will mostly be about People Like Me Who Are Happen to Be Women. (Yes, so far, that is the case.) Although I’ve read that men make up 25-40% of those with eating disorders, that has not been my experience in hospital or in outpatient treatment. Often, I am the only guy in the room. Where is everyone else?

 

When going to a conference, I seek to be validated and to connect. Regrettably, that doesn’t seem to be happening. Whether I am in the ballroom for keynote speeches or in smaller rooms for breakout sessions, men are an underrepresented minority. To emphasize, the conference is targeted to researchers and service providers, not people with lived experiences in having an eating disorder. Most of the therapists, dietitians, nurses, occupational therapist and other professionals who have worked with me in the past nine years since my official diagnosis for anorexia nervosa have been women and the vast majority of the people in group sessions have been women. I wonder how many men have backed away from support after continually walking into rooms and not seeing themselves represented.

 

I feel it is important for me to be a participant…a face. I want to remind academics and service providers that, yes, there are men with eating disorders and, yes, there is a greater likelihood they are not seeking treatment. This trip has me feeling more agitated about being a guy with an eating disorder. It’s unexpectedly triggered more food restriction and a sense of disillusionment. What’s wrong with me? Indeed, sometimes I wonder if that 25-40% figure about the proportion of people having eating disorders being men is inflated. Sometimes it’s another reason for me to wonder, Why can’t I be more like other guys? If I could, I might deal with feelings of anxiety and alienation by hitting up a convenience store and washing down a family sized bag of Doritos with an extra-large cup of Coke but, no, that’s just not me. Most of the time travelling solo just means I’m on my own but, on this occasion, it does feel lonely. 

SO FAR AWAY

I often say a long-distance relationship suits me. I like my time with my partner, but I also value time on my own. As an introvert, I can never seem to get enough quiet time to myself. 

 

But having returned from Evan’s home in Denver three days ago, I haven’t settled in the way I usually do. I know a big part of it has to do with the fact I’m flying again at the end of the week to Canada’s East Coast for a conference that I’ll stretch into a week of travel. So, yes, the suitcase only gets a brief period in my closet before another round of packing. Vancouver doesn’t feel like home at the moment; instead, it’s a pit stop. 

 

But backing things up a bit, I didn’t want to fly home from Denver in the first place. I’d been there three weeks which is about as long as any of our visits, but there was nothing beckoning back in Vancouver. Even my introverted ways were subdued rather than begging for respite. 

 

I suppose that means our relationship is continuing to grow after four years together, always living in different cities with Evan first in Seattle, then Denver. Each time I visit, Evan says, “I wish you weren’t going. Can’t you change your flight?” This time, instead of saying no, I offered an alternative version of yes. I might drive back in a couple weeks’ time with the intent of staying for two months. 

 

Big step.

 

Of course, there’s the obvious—it would be our longest time together. But a two-month stay also changes the dynamics in terms of what is legally permissible. I am only allowed to visit the U.S. for a day less than half the year and a two-month chunk all at once eats up a lot of visitation time, frontloading the year. I’ve already been in the U.S. for five or six weeks so more than half of my year’s allotment will be eaten up after this extended trip. It means we’ll have to plan more carefully for the second half of the year. It’s like eating too much pie all at once and then having to spread out and savour the last bites, although not to such an extreme.

 

Evan can, of course, visit me in Canada as well, but he’s just started a new job and can’t get away as often or as long. Again, his trips, when even possible, will need to be thoughtfully scheduled over the rest of the year. 

 

It’s not a bad problem to have. Four years in, we want to see more of each other. We want to see how we handle being together for a longer chunk of time. In the meantime, it feels like I’m stationed in Vancouver, feeling like it is but a stopover, trying to make the most of my normally coveted downtime. 

 

My, how a relationship changes everything! 

HANDYMAN

I’m regularly reminded how different my partner Evan and I are. And each time I feel blessed that we are able to overcome, appreciate and even lean into those differences. 

 

We’re currently in Taos, New Mexico, spending an extended long weekend at his Airstream trailer. Taos? Trailer? Four years ago, I’d have said that’s not me at all. And yet I love it. The trailer is just another place where our relationship feels at home—the sagebrush, the sunsets, even the ponchos. Evan bought his after a day trip we made to Santa Fe a few years ago. This weekend I found myself nodding to a woolen raspberry poncho of my own. (The chill in the air may have played a factor.)

 

I’ve been a vegetarian for 41 years and, well, Evan is inclined to order the meat lover’s pizza. Still, the meals we’ve made here together have been entirely meatless: veggie chili, veggie tacos, and veggie tikka masala Indian bowl. He still feigns energy and protein deprivation each time but he’s joking…I think.

 

Evan’s Airstream is a vintage trailer from the 1950s. Since he’s a gifted interior designer, the space makes a statement worthy of the cover of Architectural Digest if the magazine ever published a special issue on glamping. But a 70-year-old trailer requires ongoing maintenance. Parts break down. Newer “fixes” can sometimes be temporary. While Evan works on minor repairs, I typically stand clear. I know I have nothing to contribute. I will be in the way. My questions will only shine a light on my ignorance.

 

And, no, I am not putting myself down. I am simply being a realist. I’ve long since come to terms with many things I’m incapable of and being a handy man is at the top of the list, even above throwing a football, drawing a stick figure and firing a gun. 

 

Growing up, my father held out hope. Just as he thought I could learn to throw and catch a ball—any freakin’ ball—he figured I could learn how to do an oil change, how to start the pilot light for a gas fireplace and how to replace a light fixture. Actually, he may have equalled my own low expectations. It was my mother who nudged us both—to my Dad, “Show him”; to me, “Go see.” These were always futile moments, me staring at my shoelaces until my father would sigh and say, “Just go watch your MTV.”

 

My father hopefully never took it personally. Typically an A student, I made Ds in Woodworking every term in junior high school. Mr. Bentley had less patience than my father as he frequently called me an “incompetent ninny” in his British accent. I avoided the power saw, the lathe and, well, even things that required a hammer and nails. (I believed it was important to hang on to both my thumbs…and all other digits.) 

 

As Evan worked to stop some water leaks—something about changing copper and plastic gaskets or other thingies—I stood outside the trailer, gazing at the sweeping mountain and valley views while pretending I knew how to set up the firepit for a nighttime bonfire. Since the water leak issue required several tweaks over the course of a couple of days, I was finally put to use, turning on and shutting off the water from outside. It was a minor task a Labradoodle could be trained to do, but then we don’t have a Labradoodle…or any pet. I filled in.

 

Yesterday, a crank for opening and closing one of the trailer windows had to be replaced. This was more challenging than one might think because they no longer make the size or brand of window handle cranks that corresponded with the original Airstream. Evan ordered two different ones and had to figure out whether he could use some combination of the parts to be able to open and close the window. I resumed my role of avoiding the scene/staying out of the way by editing sunset photos on my phone. (Really, Taos sunsets are so stunning no edits are required; I just had to appear busy.) 

 

But then Evan said five dreaded words, “Hey, can you help me?”

 

Gosh darn it. I should have driven into town to write at a café. 

 

“Help” meant doing something with a washer and nut from inside the trailer while Evan poked a screw through from outside the trailer. Yes, by its very nature, it was a two-person task. (I’m working on us getting a Labradoodle, dammit.) 

 

It only took fifteen seconds for me to feel I wasn’t doing it right. Evan would tell me to line up the holes—“Higher”—but the holes could not be aligned. I had no Plan B. 

 

We switched positions with me now standing outside the trailer holding a screw and a washer, my head wedged between the trailer wall and the tiny window opened at a small angle. Despite it being decades, I suddenly wanted my MTV…that cool video by A-ha, Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” or even Phil Collins’ grating “Sussudio.”

 

It took a few attempts but apparently we did it. Next thing I knew, I was holding a screwdriver and using it properly. Again a Labradoodle or a captive crow could accomplish as much but I was the only being available in the moment. Window crank replaced. Ta-da!

 

We did it. Evan’s patience, persistence and making do with what he’d been dealt paid off. There are so many things about Evan that make me grateful, but him being a handy man is up near the top. 

 

I have a few little “projects” awaiting him next time he visits me in Vancouver… I’m hoping one of my neighbour’s cats can provide an assist.

 

  

THE YOGA STRETCH

I knew Evan was a yoga regular when we first started dating four years ago. He wasn’t a runner, a swimmer or a gym goer like me, but that was fine. I wouldn’t drag him to the gym and he wouldn’t con me into going to the yoga studio. We both talked of liking hiking. Let that be enough. It’s good to have separate interests and activities, I told myself. We were a couple of fifty-something guys, not high schoolers who had to like the same movies, have the same favourite Depeche Mode song and eat off each other’s plates at Denny’s.

 

For almost three years, I managed to avoid yoga. Evan would go five or six times a week at some insanely early hour while I would try (unsuccessfully) to fall back asleep, knowing my workout would wait until midafternoon. Time apart was good, plus we’d each have separate stories, him telling me about a guy who was too gassy doing his downward-facing dogs and me sharing about the woman with headphones on the elliptical machine who always sang bits hysterically off-key without knowing her attempt at lip synching could be heard by everyone in the gym. (The hysterics are gone; it’s now plain annoying.) 

 

And then it happened. For the umpteenth time, he tried to get me to go with him to yoga. “Come on. Just try it. Once.” For some still inexplicable reason, I said, “Okay.”

 

Let’s just get this over with, once and for all. All along, I had told Evan I didn’t have a body for yoga. I lack balance. My body is unstretchable. I would be a distraction to others. I would cause the instructor to lose the beat, to mistakenly do a star pose when he called for a mountain pose. Surely, that would be enough. One class. Half a class, actually. The instructor would boot me. Namaste.

 

My kind of place...

I should mention that Evan always goes to hot yoga. This is even worse. I do not like heat. This is why my last vacation was to above the Arctic Circle in Norway. In January. Sweaty me is definitively unsexy. I’m an uber-pale white dude whose face gets blotchy red after a few minutes of heat. The blotchiness remains even after a cold shower when I’ve been removed from the heat zone. 

 

I don’t do saunas. I don’t do Death Valley any time of year. I don’t even like standing in front of an open oven. 

 

Happy baby pose...
not gonna happen.

So, yeah, getting kicked out halfway through my first and last hot yoga class would be more of a relief than an embarrassment. I could say to Evan, “I tried,” and he’d never mention me going to yoga again. No more happy baby poses, otherwise known to me as, “Simon says, ‘Touch your knees.’” Very, very sad baby.

 

Gilbert was the pour soul who served as the yoga instructor. As Evan introduced me at the check-in counter and Gilbert handed me a two-dollar rental towel and a four-dollar rental mat, I apologized for what we were all about to experience. “I will put my mat in a corner,” I said. “Don’t look my way. It will throw you completely off.” 

 

As expected, I sucked. My chair pose was more of a standing lean, my Warrior II unfit for battle…even my cow pose (basically a head-up crawl position) stank like manure. Yes, I humiliated myself. No, I did not get kicked out.

 

Dammit, Gilbert was too much of a professional. I was giving him the all-out worst and he had the nerve to say after class while standing behind the counter, “You were really getting it.” Had I known then. there was a fire hydrant pose, I’d have attempted it because this liar, liar’s yoga pants were definitely on fire. 

 

The next f#%king week, Evan wanted me to go to hot yoga again.

 

Oh, no. This was not the deal.

 

I only got my wisdom teeth pulled once. One time for having to take a girl to prom. I don’t even have to have another colonoscopy in the next ten years.

 

Yes, I just compared yoga to a colonoscopy. 

 

Thank god for cow pose!

But the following week I was back at the yoga studio with Evan, this time apologizing pre-class to Jenny whom I could tell was a formidable force just from the way she said, “You’ll do fine.” It was more of an order than an expression of encouragement. Jenny’s class felt like hot yoga boot camp, the pace and the moves exponentially upping both the sweat factor and level of personal cluelessness. I’d sort of figured out cow pose and its corresponding cat pose, but what the hell was a chaturanga? Could we please stick to animals? Flamingo pose, elephant trunk sway, wet dog shake. I could visualize these things but not a chaturanga which sounded, if anything like a drink at a bar you down in one swallow. Maybe a shot was exactly what I needed before class even if it was 6:15 in the morning. Something with Kahlua, please.

 

Jenny should have been the end of it. She scared me. She overwhelmed me. Still, as I tried to sneak out to the parking lot after class, she stopped me and said, “You were great.” Another liar. Must be part of yoga training. She at least had the sense not to add an exclamation mark. 

 

I’ve probably done hot yoga fifteen times now, including a week of free classes over New Year’s. Every time has been with Evan. (Why else would I go?) I know what more of the poses are supposed to look like. I just can’t do them. I’ve reached a level of proficiency in ugly-sweating and that hasn’t scared Evan away yet but apparently even a pose as elementary as downward-facing dog remains aspirational. 

 

It doesn’t help that I have a hard time hearing what the instructor is saying because the music is too loud for me. It probably also doesn’t help that Gilbert is the only instructor that has had to endure me a second time. Fourteen instructors’ different styles and routines for fifteen classes. I’ve stopped apologizing, maybe even stopped feeling humiliated. Still, my body’s lack of flexibility is as glaring as ever. I’m telling myself this morning’s class was the last. But, well I’ve said that fifteen times now. 

 

Evan has a way of making me think I’m almost capable or at least looking past my flaws—in the studio and beyond. If he can accept me looking my absolute worst, I suppose I can keep showing up. Something tells me there will be a sixteen occasion. Fortunately though, hiking season is right around the corner.

                                   

A PAIR OF SHORTS (Gay short films)

I don’t usually watch short films. They would, however, be a better fit for my increasingly limited attention span when viewing anything onscreen. I just don’t ever think of them. It’s been many years since I’ve seen anything at a film festival and I don’t see any marketing for short films. But I paid attention to the Oscar speech for Best Live Action Short Film. Apparently Two People Exchanging Saliva was queer so I watched it for free on YouTube. I won’t say much about this black-and-white French film but it’s about a society where kissing anyone is taboo. And a lot of facial slapping is totally condoned. 

 

Okay…not wowed. 

 

When I finished watching, YouTube conveniently had several viewing suggestions, as always, in the right column of the screen. Sure, there were some songs I’d recently listened to by Janis Ian, Bruno Mars and, yes, Paul Anka. Let’s just say I have eclectic tastes. In addition, there were a few LGBTQ shorts. I clicked on the first one, a bit of a cliché about an out high school gay guy crushing on a jock. The voice-over was overwritten and the acting uneven. Again, not wowed.

 

I’ve been watching other gay shorts throughout the week—still no wows but a couple are worth mentioning here, one for better, one for worse.

 

Louder Than Words (2017) is a sixteen-minute movie about a male ballet student who is deaf crushing on an aspiring male musician who is hearing. While Niall is able to lip-read, Ansel understands very little when Niall communicates in sign language. It surprised me to learn two things about Marty Lauter who plays Niall. First he was a contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race (Marcia Marcia Marcia) and, second, he’s not deaf. Although he plays his part perfectly against an equally matched Luke Farley, I wondered if the film caused a stir for casting a hearing actor in hearing-impaired role. No negative reaction came up when I did a quick Google; to the contrary, many praised Lauter for a convincing performance. Perhaps it's partly a case of short films not drawing much attention in the first place. Hearing and non-hearing issues aside, Louder Than Words is worth watching. It’s a sweet little film that is well acted.

 

In some ways, the fourteen-minute Read Between the Lines (2022) has a similar plot. It takes place at a Barnes & Noble near closing time. Another young gay guy has a crush. In both films, the protagonist doesn’t even know if his crush is gay. How do you then muster the courage to express an interest? Both films have a straight best friend—isn’t that a nice reversal of roles?—who nudges the protagonist to approach his crush.

 

Both films end on a positive note, though one not in the way that might be expected. 

 

If you’ve got a free half hour, it might be worth your while to check them both out. 

OSCAR CEREMONY FOLLOW-UP: ROB & MICHELE REINER'S ROLE IN SEEKING MARRIAGE EQUALITY

I tried watching the Oscars. As I don’t have a television, I streamed it on Crave, Canada’s version of HBO and the streaming service responsible for Heated Rivalry. Turns out Crave didn’t have the capacity for carrying the ceremony. I assume too many people tried to stream it, resulting in the broadcast crashing countless times. All I saw were a few little bits.

 

One of those bits was part of—but not all of—Billy Crystal’s speech honouring Rob Reiner. If the only thing Reiner ever did was direct When Harry Met Sally, he’d be an icon to me. It’s my favourite movie. I’ve watched it so many times and even read the screenplay (Thank you, Nora Ephron!). I didn’t realize how broad Reiner’s directing resume is (e.g., This Is Spinal Tap, The Sure Thing, A Few Good Men, Ghosts of Mississippi). I knew Reiner was an outspoken liberal on Twitter, but I didn’t know how deeply connected he was to gay rights. When Crystal said, “Rob and Michele Reiner became the driving force in the landmark decision for marriage equality in the United States,” I did some Googling. It’s not like I could watch any more of the ceremony. I gave up.

 

Turns out Rob Reiner served on the Board of Directors for the American Foundation for Equal Rights (AFER), established in 2009 to support the legal challenge to Proposition 8 which stated, "Only marriage between a man and a woman is valid or recognized in California." His wife, Michele Singer Reiner, served as the board’s treasurer. In an interview from February 2023, before the Supreme Court ruled in Hollingsworth v. Perry that, in effect, reinstated same-sex marriage in California (based on a technicality), Reiner talked about befriending Chad Griffin who was then a nineteen-year-old working in the White House Press Office during the Clinton years. Griffin had been assigned to be the liaison for the Michael Douglas-Annette Bening film The American President (1995), directed and produced by Reiner. Thereafter, Reiner said, “I asked [Griffin] to run my organization [for early childhood education] and after a while he came to me and said, ‘Rob, I have to tell you something: I’m gay.’ And I said, ‘What else is new?’ We knew.” Of Griffin, Reiner said, “I feel like a father to him and I’m very close to this guy.” Griffin co-founded AFER (with Kristina Schake). 

 

In speaking of the effort to strike down Proposition 8, Reiner added:

[T]here will be a time years from now when we’ll 

say, gay marriage? What was that fuss all about? 

It’s going to take time, and we’re moving in the right 

direction, but it is about a fundamental right. We 

cannot look at our fellow citizens – I could not look 

at Chad Griffin, who is someone that I love – and say, 

“You are lesser than me”; “you deserve less than me”; 

“you are a second-class citizen.” You can’t do that.

 

Hurrah, Rob and Michele.

 

Rob Reiner knew LGBTQ+ rights were part of the trajectory of civil rights in the U.S., citing the paths to women’s rights, interracial marriages and racial equality. He also knew that the 2015 case of Obergefell v. Hodges, recognizing marriage equality was an incredible step forward but not the end of the fight. Four days after the decision, he wrote an op-ed piece in Variety which the publication titled, “Rob Reiner on the ‘Long, Long Process’ to Widespread LGBT Acceptance.” He hinted at the next steps when he wrote, “It’s so heartening to think young people don’t think twice about gay marriage. And I think it’s going to be the same with the transgender community. It’s going to get closer and closer to the ideal that we are all one.”

 

Yes, Rob and Michele Reiner were committed, invaluable gay allies. They are missed.

 

 

SHOULD I HAVE STUCK TO THE FOOD AISLES?

Six rolls, double-ply. As I walked the two kilometres from the Denver grocery store with the package tucked under my arm, I wondered how Evan would react. I’ve bought him dinners, flowers, even a hotel stay at Waterton Lakes National Park, but this purchase seemed bigger. 

 

You don’t buy toilet paper for just anyone. 

 

There were moments when I felt I was overstepping. Would he feel insulted that I was buying such a personal household staple? Would he take it as a reactionary statement to the fact he’d accidentally bought single-ply toilet paper months ago and I really, really wasn’t fond of it. (Seriously, why do they even make single-play anymore? And why do so many hotels charge hundreds of dollars for a night’s stay and then go cheap on one of the basics?) 

 

When I got back to his place, he looked up from his desk and said what I knew he’d say. “You bought toilet paper?” It’s hard to be inconspicuous carrying six rolls. 

 

I had my answer ready. “I’m always blowing my nose.” (Evan is not one for accessorizing his digs with boxes of Kleenex.) “I figured I owed you.”

 

Fair enough. A logical explanation. But, still…toilet paper. No one has ever bought me Charmin and I’ve never bought it for anyone else. An acceptable, squeezably soft gift might be a teddy bear, not bathroom tissue. A pillow, even better. Evan loves pillows. Teddy bears, not so much.

 

Next big step:
Coming to an agreement 

Buying toilet paper felt so intimate, so meaningful. We’re a couple. We’re beyond movies and dinners out. Bathroom matters matter, too. I’d seen a need—down to the last damn single-ply roll (hurrah)—and I filled it. No big deal. 

 

But isn’t it?

 

 

 

  

WHERE THE BOYS WERE

Sad to hear that Neil Sedaka died last week. Eighty-six may be a ripe, old age but it happens to be my mother’s age so it once again gives me pause to wonder how long her good health will hold out. Fingers crossed.

 

I’ve been known to go down a Neil Sedaka rabbit hole a couple times a year. YouTube does me the courtesy of selecting “Laughter in the Rain” whenever it finds itself on a ’70s loop which seems custom-made for me.

 

When Sedaka’s death was announced, I did some Googling about his life and his music. Didn’t know he gets a shout-out—“Sedaka is back”—at the end of Captain & Tennille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together,” a song he co-wrote with his frequent writing partner, Howard Greenfield. That, of course, sent me down another rabbit hole: Who was Howard Greenfield?

 

The first thing that struck me was Greenfield lived a much shorter life, dying just shy of his fiftieth birthday in 1986. What had happened to him?

 

First, however, being the pop music geek I am, I read about the hits he wrote with Sedaka, including ones Sedaka recorded such as “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do,” “Calendar Girl” and “Oh! Carol” (in honour of Carole King) and those the pair wrote for others, including “Where the Boys Are” by Connie Francis and Captain & Tennille’s “You Never Done It Like That.” With other collaborators, Greenfield wrote “Crying in the Rain” by the Everly Brothers, “Venus in Blue Jeans” by Jimmy Clanton, “Foolish Little Girl” by the Shirelles and “Two Less Lonely People in the World” by Air Supply. He also co-wrote the theme music for TV’s Bewitched. (Try to get that out of your head now.) Greenfield was posthumously inducted into the Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1991.

 

So what happened to Greenfield? Why did he die so young? According to Wikipedia, Greenfield was openly gay and partnered with cabaret singer Tory Damon who also died in 1986. 

 

Still, I did not put the pieces together.

 

Greenfield died of AIDS complications on March 4, 1986 and Damon died from AIDS three weeks later.

 

I bonked my forehead like they do in those “I could’ve had a V8” TV commercials. 1986. AIDS. Of course. 

 

Just last week, a friend and I were talking about how it almost seemed COVID and the worldwide lockdown from six years ago never happened. How quickly we get back to “regular” lives. How quickly we forget.

 

I swore I’d never forget the AIDS crisis which I lived through during my years coming out. This, however, feels like a lapse in memory. Only a decade ago, I would have first assumed a male dying young in the mid-’80s died from AIDS complications. Has AIDS fallen off the radar…my radar? This serves as a reminder that it is important to keep real and creative stories about AIDS alive.

 

Too depressing, I’ve heard too many people say. “I want happy gay stories,”a friend of mine has said many times. I’ve seen agents requesting works of queer joy. All good. Still, AIDS happened. We must not forget. Movies like Longtime Companion and Philadelphia were important at the time, humanizing AIDS when fear and hate were often associated with the virus. They now feel like historical blips.

 

It feels we’ve failed to keep narratives about AIDS alive. Contrast this to the Holocaust which always remains ripe for a book or film. If not stories of persons dying of AIDS, where are the works about people who survived this brutal period where, in North America and Europe, at least, it was treated as a gay disease, another reason to shun and actively discriminate against gays. 

 

Yes, there has been great progress this century regarding gay rights but there is much to learn and remember from the AIDS era. Both the hate and the responsive activism can provide insights for the trans community and other queer people. I feel there is a complacency among non-trans queers. Having crosswalks painted over and Netflix not renewing Boots for a second season are not enough to create a rallying cry.

 

Being belatedly introduced to the career of Howard Greenfield, I am reminded of all the creative men—and the ordinary men—we lost to AIDS. A generation of gay men, my age and older, was culled thirty to forty-five years ago. As far as I know, Neil Sedaka lived a full life; Howard Greenfield, by contrast, had so much more living to do. Greenfield at least leaves a legacy of catchy, upbeat pop songs worthy of remembrance.

 

  

PILLION (Movie Review)

I went to the movie theatre not knowing much. Something about gays in leather. Something starring easy-on-the-eyes Alexander Skarskgård. I didn’t even know what “pillion” meant. Turns out it’s the place where a passenger sits on a motorcycle, but it seems the movie draws much more from that back-seat position. Pillion portrays two gay men, one dominant, one submissive who meet for sex in an alley and then carry on a rigidly defined relationship that comes off as one prolonged role-play.

 

I will admit that I didn’t know what to think of the movie after seeing it. Just like the TV series Heated Rivalry, the film includes a lot of nudity and simulated sex…though even more graphic. (Apparently, it’s a prosthetic penis that is used in a couple of scenes.) I’d like to say I’m not a prude. In my head, I tried to view the movie’s nudity as giving equal time to the male body after seeing extensive female nudity in such films as Best Picture Oscar winner Anora. But, really, who am I kidding. I am a prude. If people want to see aroused penises, whether fake or real, there’s plenty of porn out there. I don’t need or want it when I go to the movie theatre. (I would say the same about female nudity.) 

 

I try to give myself a reality check, knowing there is technically a difference between gratuitous sex and that which may be more integral to the plot. With this point of view, the nudity in Pillion can be justified. The sexual roles are a major part of how Ray the dom (Skarsgård) and Colin the sub (Harry Melling) interact. I’ve heard about these relationships and I’ve seen some elements of dom-sub role playing in gay clubs and at gay events. 

 

In truth, Pillion may have shocked me more with its nonsexual scenes. Ray and Colin take their roles as defining their entire relationship. Things go far beyond Colin taking a back seat on Ray’s motorcycle. Colin, an admittedly bad cook, must prepare Ray’s meals. He initially must relinquish any right to sit beside Ray on the sofa since that is Ray’s dog’s spot. The sleeping arrangements are especially odd and, for me at least, disturbing. There seems to be a fine line between dom-sub interplay and humiliation. 

 

At many points, people in the audience laughed, which I took as them partly seeing humor in the characters’ interactions and partly out of their own discomfort. To someone who does not ascribe to dominant-submissive roles, the exchanges can come off as absurd. Who would want to be THAT submissive? 

 

It’s Colin’s mother, well played by Lesley Sharp, who is most concerned about Ray’s behaviour and her son’s association with him. Is she unsupportive, rational or both? While I don’t know anyone who is open about being in a dominant-submissive relationship, Colin seems like a perfect candidate to be submissive. He’s a thirty-something guy who lives at home, sings in a quartet with his dad and spends his days slapping parking tickets on people’s windshields. Perhaps I’m judgy, but he seems underdeveloped as a person. His meekness comes off when Ray picks him up at his parents’ house as he allows his parents to engage in the kind of awkward, prolonged meet-and-greet one might expect of a sixteen-year-old’s parents seeing their child off on a first date. Colin just lets them have their way, never seeming embarrassed or horrified by their intrusiveness. While some dom-sub relationships may be relatively normal, Colin looks like he could use some therapy. 

 

As the movie progresses, Colin does find more of a voice, still enjoying his submissive role but wanting a day off each week. Ray’s response, rather than Colin’s request, takes the movie toward its conclusion. 

 

Writing about Pillion hasn’t helped me process the movie much more. I’m still on the fence regarding what to take from the film. I still feel ill-at-ease, as though I’ve peeped on something I shouldn’t have and as if I’m judging a relationship more than a movie. With the dynamics so foreign to me, it’s hard to separate the two. When my partner, Evan, asked how I’d rate the film, I gave it a B…something relatively well done; just not so well-received, if that makes sense. 

 

On a second viewing, I’m sure I would more genuinely laugh. I might see the romance that is portrayed. As I Googled reactions to the film, I saw it described as a rom-com and perhaps a more accurate characterization as a “dom-com.” Still, I don’t think I’ll get to a second viewing. Maybe I’d become more enlightened. I’m just not sure I have a need for that.