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.

  

THE SPORTS CLOSET

In my mind, I see a large closet—let’s make it a walk-in—filled with tennis rackets, footballs, basketballs, soccer balls and hockey sticks. It’s also crammed with male pro athletes who use this equipment. Where are all the gay role models in professional sports?

 

In the wake of the immensely popular Crave/HBO series Heated Rivalry in which actors played three hockey players dealing with gayness and/or bisexuality, no active pro athletes have stepped out of the closet. There is no evidence of gay tennis[1], football, basketball, soccer or hockey players. In the past, all we’ve had is NFL draftee Michael Sam, NFL player Carl Nassib and NBA player Jason Collins who were out. These players did not lead to the closet door becoming unhinged. The door remains firmly shut. 

 

Checking the forty-nine openly queer athletes at the 2026 Winter Olympics, only ten are male and the majority of them are figure skaters, a sport seemingly without a closet. (The other queer male Olympians are a curler, a speed skater and a couple of skiers.) 

 

When will it feel safe for pros currently playing in major sports to come out? It is true that gay progress has taken a hit under the current Trump administration. (See last week’s removal of Pride flags from the Stonewall Inn, declared a national monument during Obama’s presidency and state actions to remove rainbow crosswalks as well as seemingly everything regarding trans rights.) Still, marriage equality has been on the books for more than a decade. It’s unlikely there will be a perfect time in the foreseeable future for an active athlete to come out. If not now, when? I know the inner turmoil I felt while I remained a plain old, closeted college student and teacher. I can’t imagine staying in the closet throughout my twenties and beyond. 

 

Earlier this month, in the article, “What HBO’s Surprise Hit Gets Right About Men’s Locker Room Culture,” The New York Times cited a 2023 survey of 1,000 LGBTQ high school and college athletes in which 95% of the respondents described teammates’ reactions to their being out as ranging from “neutral” to “perfect.” This should be encouraging although I’d like to know the gender breakdown of respondents. Women are more inclined to be out. As that same article explained, sports are more aligned to a “masculine identity” and, therefore, “just by playing a sport…some women find it less risky to be more open because they are already going against stereotypical femininity.”  By contrast, the stereotype for male athletes is being “hypermasculine,” “dominant” and “emotionally controlled” while gayness still comes with a “more feminine” perception.

 

Unfortunately, neither Michael Sam nor Jason Collins nor Heated Rivalry has inspired and guided other male athletes in stepping out of the closet. The NYT article quotes Bill Kenney, an out NBA referee, saying, “[T]he needle hasn’t moved. The needle hasn’t moved because nobody else has done it” in terms of coming out. 

 

It’s possible some players have come out to their teammates without making an announcement to the wider public. I get that. Telling teammates has the potential for building camaraderie and being authentic to one’s day-to-day contacts. Perhaps their reaction is as much scrutiny as a player wants instead of waving the Pride flag at a press conference or making a statement on Instagram. If this is happening, it’s progress for the individual and his team. Not everyone wants to be a torchbearer. But with no one carrying the torch, other athletes, both professional and amateur, both younger and older, remain left without current role models. Fans too remain tied to the hypermasculine narrative for elite athletes.  

 

Will it take another generation or just a different administration before more professional athletes remove the closet door and step out? At this point, there are no balls or pucks in play. It’s all speculation.

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[1] Okay. There’s one gay tennis player, Joâo Lucas Reis de Silva, though he is hardly a household name. He is currently ranked 207 in the world. This means he cannot play the Grand Slams (the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon or the U.S. Open) without successfully going through three rounds of qualification. He lost in the first round of qualification in January’s Australian Open qualification draw. To my knowledge, he has never played in the main draw of a Grand Slam.  

SKIPPING THE SUPER BOWL

I didn’t watch the Super Bowl. It’s the day after and I have no regrets. Didn’t see the commercials. Missed Bad Bunny. Definitely didn’t check out Kid Rock.

 

I skipped it all and I feel amazing. Or, I feel my normal self, at least. 

 

I haven’t watched the Super Bowl since at least 1986. That’s right. Four decades. It’s not much of a statement to skip the Super Bowl when I live in Vancouver, Canada. Stating the obvious, the Super Bowl is very American. As described in yesterday’s New York Times, it’s “that most red-white-and-blue of cultural moments.” Canadians aren’t so big on American moments right now. Canadians have their own football league, not that I care much about that either.

 

So, yeah, watching football is only slightly more interesting to me than golf. Okay, no, it’s considerably better than watching golf. But isn’t everything?

 

Back in the ’80s, I lived in Texas. At the time, it was treasonous not to cheer for the Dallas Cowboys. (I taught only minutes away from the stadium.) Mostly, I skipped watching their games, too. In fact, I timed Sunday grocery shopping for when the Cowboys were on TV. It meant the aisles were clear and there was no line at the checkout. Well played, I’d tell myself. Well played.

 

I realize I sound like a gay cliché, not watching football. But my relationship with the sport is more complicated than that. I will watch bits of college football games. I like the fast play, the marching bands, the cheering traditions, the students in the stands wearing their school colours. During my first three years attending TCU—“Go Frogs!”—in Fort Worth, Texas, I attended thirty-two out of thirty-three games, home and away. I travelled to Kansas, Arkansas, Alabama and Tennessee as well as all over Texas. I’ve gone to several bowl games featuring my team. I even paid $1,000 for a ticket to the Rose Bowl on January 1, 2011. Including the parade, it was worth it as a lifetime memory. (We won!) And, yes, I do expect to go to another TCU game someday…just not for a thousand bucks.

 

So watching some kind of football is considerably better than watching golf.

 

If I were going to watch a Super Bowl, yesterday’s might have been the one. Go, Seahawks. I like the city of Seattle a lot. I know I could live there if an opportunity or need arose. I’m happy for the city that its team finally won its first Super Bowl. I’m happy they get to have a parade. (That’s what happens, isn’t it? Isn’t that what they’re vying for…which city gets to calendar an extra parade? I did say I like marching bands. (Parades without roses, not so much.))

 

Pre-1987, I went to several Super Bowl parties. There were always two groups in attendance: (1) the sit-on-the-edge-of-the-sofa dudes who screamed at the television screen and high-fived each other as if they’d actually been on the field and helped make that touchdown happen, and (2) the rest of us who sat around, the screen barely in view, chatting about work, (non) dating, the latest movies and wondering if Brad would go berserk if any of us said his facepainting was “nice makeup.” Occasionally, the two groups would connect at the food table, stocking up on Doritos with bean dip and a surprisingly awesome cheese dip made from Velveeta and a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes. For the most part though, it was two separate parties in one household. 

 

I decided to stop watching NFL football in the fall of 1987. That’s when the players went on strike. Yes, they wanted more pay. Greed, I told myself. While $3.2 million is currently the average salary, in 1987, players earned an average of somewhere between $212,000 and $230,000…still A LOT of money back in the good old days before we knew anything about CTE. 

 

I was offended that obscenely paid football players wanted more. (Yes, I’m sure the team owners were making even more obscene amounts but the divide between the 1% and everyone else has always been outrageous.) All I knew was that I was working my butt off in a noble profession as a special education teacher and, with my own pay raise, I was making $14,000 per year….not a lot of money back then. These striking football players were making FIFTEEN TIMES more money than me. Something told me that this was f#@ked up. I turned my back on the NFL and have never regretted it. 

 

I don’t even watch the halftime shows. Sorry, Madonna. (See, I’m not a total gay cliché.)

 

I’ve never had a fear of missing out. If there’s a wardrobe malfunction, I’ll read about it the next day. If there’s an epic commercial—come on folks, watching commercials shouldn’t be a highlight—I can try to catch it on YouTube although it may not play in my region since I don’t live in the United States.

 

And speaking of the U.S., I’m more than tired about how everything gets politicized there, so much so that there were competing halftime shows. Good god, let Bad Bunny say or do something about immigration and, if you don’t like it, go double dip your Dorito in that Velveeta dip. Choosing to not watch something is easy, folks. I’ve been not watching for four decades.

 

I like having my Sunday afternoons free. (It gives me more time to read Sunday’s New York Times.) I like having Monday nights clear as well as whenever the NFL schedules other televised games…Thursdays? Saturdays? Really, I don’t care enough to look it up. 

 

So another Super Bowl come and gone. Hoopla over. Except for that parade. Time to move on to more important things like whether I should watch Hamnet before the Oscars. I’m not feeling it, but I’m sure it too is better than golf…and that Melania flick.