VOICE LESSONS

I don’t know anyone who likes the sound of their voice when they hear it on a voice message or some other recording. For me, it’s a particularly uncomfortable listen. Growing up, I spent a lot of time fretting over whether I sounded effeminate, whether a simple hello outed me as gay and, in turn, made me vulnerable to ridicule or something worse.

 

When I was contacted a month ago to be part of the show, Now or Never, on CBC Radio, my instinct was to reply with a politer version of “Hell, no!” Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t have a voice for radio. I can’t summon a fake, deep register like Ted Baxter. I can’t sound warm and folksy like Chris Wallace. In my head, I fear I sound like Snagglepuss. Canada is a progressive country and we’re as gay-welcoming as most any place, but still I wondered how many listeners would turn down the volume and then go ahead and change the station when they realized I might blather on for more than a minute. Indeed, my segment was supposed to be about ten minutes. Perhaps I’d lead to the demise of Now or Never after triggering an online social media campaign: #Never. 

 

Still, the show that I might be a part of interested me. CBC wanted the hourlong show to focus on The Joy of Exercise and I was being considered as the cautionary tale. A producer got my name from another CBC producer who’d published a short essay I wrote last year about being a guy with an eating disorder. I wasn’t diagnosed with anorexia until it had become a decades-long, entrenched habit that, despite treatment efforts, I can’t shake. I don’t want other men to struggle alone.

 

First step was a phone call the same afternoon as the email. Tight deadline apparently. I knew the purpose of the conversation: the producer had to screen me to see if I had something to say, to make sure I could think on the spot and, yes, to determine if my voice were radio-worthy. The call lasted half an hour. I made Andrew laugh, I gave him things to ponder and yet the whole time it felt like a déjà-vu coffee date—“I’ll let you know,” followed by a crushing email: “Great talking to you, but you’re just not the right fit.” That’s what hundreds of go-nowhere coffee dates will do. I’ve become an expert at prepping for the worst. If I can see a kick to the ribs coming, I can brace for it even if I don’t have the agility to skirt it.

 

But, no, this was an occasion to forgo doomsday preparations. The radio interview was on, one o’clock the next day. “You’ll like Trevor,” Andrew said of the host who would be interviewing me. “He’s easy on the eyes.” I did a Google Image search ahead of time. Andrew was right. Trevor Dineen had a face that was definitely not for radio. This is a guy who could post selfies on Twitter—“New haircut”; “Should I wear a shirt today?”—and get thousands of likes. (Just for comparison, I posted a new haircut photo from yesterday. Sixteen likes so far. Woo hoo!) I told myself that seeing how attractive Trevor was beforehand would keep me from getting tongue-tied during the first minutes of the interview.

 

Everything went well. We chatted for fifty minutes and I knew the piece would have to be pared down to ten at most. If I flubbed something or said “Um” too many times, I figured the magic of editing would make me sound more polished. It was only after disconnecting from our online connection that I wondered if I should have requested more editing magic: make my voice deeper…half an octave lower instead of one of those deep, slowed down audios they give to whistleblowers and people in the FBI Witness Protection Program.

 

Too late. What would be would be.

 

The interview didn’t air until six days later. Andrew had emailed me the link and told me my part would begin around the forty-minute mark of the program. I could have gone straight to that, but I needed to ease myself into hearing my voice and whatever it was that I’d rambled on about. I told myself I wanted to get the fuller experience. I wanted to hear all of the show and the various contributors. I wanted to hear my comments only after getting the right context as to how I fit or didn’t fit with the other speakers.

 

You can hear the whole program here or you can skip ahead to my part. I’m truly glad I listened to the entire show as I found the other segments to be interesting—especially the opening one about an 84-year-old woman who dressed up in pearls during COVID while exercising with her daughter. She sounded so lovely I wished the whole hour had been devoted to her. I smiled throughout the episode, proud to be Canadian as the speakers were so diverse in so many ways. I committed to listening more to CBC Radio.

 

And then it came time for my segment. Yes, I immediately picked up how distinctly gay my voice sounded. I waited for my sweat glands to go into overdrive, my shirt to get splotchy, first in the underarms and then in the midriff and back. But, no. I remained the prefect specimen for an antiperspirant commercial. Oh, how I’ve grown. I’m gay. So what? I mentioned being gay in the interview. Nothing to hide anymore. Let my voice be authentic. Let it just be.

 

What threw me more about my voice was how Canadian I sounded. My American friends are constantly telling me how I have a distinct accent, not just in how I stretch the words “out” and “about,” but in how I say everything. By gosh, they’re right. Even after an extended stint (now long ago) living in the U.S., I’m Canadian through and through. I’m a gay Canadian. I’m a gay Canadian with an eating disorder. And, brushing all those labels aside, I had something to say. Rather than being mortified, I was proud. 

 

The whole thing was a fun experience. Maybe there’s someone out there struggling with body issues, with exercise, with gayness and/or with an eating disorder or disordered eating who heard me. Maybe something I said struck a chord. Maybe I made a positive difference. Stripping away all my self-consciousness, that’s what my agreeing to the radio interview was all about. Let that be what matters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

MURPHY'S FLAW

I watched the pilot of “Glee” when it first aired. It blew me away. So fresh, so much feeling. I could root for the characters and I loved how the episode ended with a killer version of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin.’” I was thrilled to learn it was directed, co-created and co-written by Ryan Murphy, a gay rising star in Hollywood. I watched the show for at least four of its six seasons, finally drifting away after too many casting changes and the inevitability of something fading out after too much hype.

 

Still, I couldn’t wait to see Ryan Murphy’s next acts of greatness. I’m still waiting. 

 

That’s an unpopular opinion, perhaps especially among gay people. I’m well aware how people have raved over various seasons of “American Crime Story” and series such as “Hollywood,” “Halston” and “Ratched.” For me, his post-Glee fare has been heavy on glitz and headline fodder while lite on heart. Sometimes, I’ve watched a pilot only to be turned off by something outlandish (“American Horror Story’s” Rubber Man or “Ratched’s” gory priest killings) that strikes me as too desperate and, frankly, distasteful. Not my thing.

 

Other times, I’ve watched an episode or two and simply been bored. Everything is pretty on screen, particularly the actors, but the performance feel intentionally detached, even wooden. The lead character of “Hollywood” had zero personality. I liked no one in “The Politician.” “Halston” was pure plastic. While I love actors like Ewan MacGregor and Jessica Lange, it’s maddening to see them cast in work for which I can’t summon an ounce of interest.

 

Ryan Murphy doesn’t need me. He continues to be praised. His work continues to be screened. Any mention of a new Murphy project does nothing more than generate a shrug from me. I get the sense he wanted to dissociate himself from being The Glee Guy and decided on darker fare like “The Assassination of Gianni Versace” (with “Glee’s” Darren Criss). It may have been compelling and well-acted. I just have zero interest in glorifying a murderer. No chance I’ll be watching Murphy’s upcoming miniseries about Jeffrey Dahmer either. Give me Blaine and Kurt, not gay serial killers.  

 

I still want to see “Pose” and I’m hopeful it will redeem Murphy. Please don’t let it be another misfire like “The New Normal.” Or schmaltzy like “The Prom.” Or grating like “The Boys in the Band.”

 

Mostly, I ignore Ryan Murphy. If a group of people starts to talk about one of his shows, I usually take that time to hit the restroom or check tennis scores on my phone. I can scroll through Twitter if the rhapsodizing runs long. If I’m lucky, Ryan Reynolds has done something funny and/or philanthropic or another bear has been filmed on someone’s backyard trampoline.

 

Over the past two weeks, I’ve had to watch a couple of episodes of “The Andy Warhol Diaries,” a Netflix docuseries for which Ryan Murphy has an executive producer credit. Okay, I wasn’t tied to a chair and force-fed bowls of Campbell’s tomato soup while the show streamed, but my new boyfriend was much enamored with the first few episodes and so I politely said, “Sure” when he suggested we watch an episode together. We are still working through all the firsts that occur in a budding relationship and this was our time watching TV together. I fell asleep.

 

It wasn’t entirely the show’s fault. My TV is in the bedroom since I refuse to have one as a centerpiece in the living room of my tiny home. I’ve had too many experiences visiting friends’ apartments and having the television automatically come on, becoming the fodder and filter for all conversation. I often get sleepy watching TV while propped up in bed. Usually, I turn it off after twenty minutes—which is probably my average Netflix viewing time—and decide to finish (or not finish) watching at some point over the next few months. I don’t binge and I have no urge to see something just because it’s trending.

 

With Evan by my side though as a fully engrossed viewer, the episode played on. I went through that eyes-open, eyes-closed battle, the closed position clearly having the edge. It’s possible I at least heard most of the episode, but I wouldn’t bet I could pass a pop quiz on what it was about.

 

To be clear, I love Pop Art. I have seen plenty of Warhol-specific and broader Pop Art exhibits at MOCA in Los Angeles, at the Vancouver Art Gallery, at The Walker in Minneapolis and elsewhere. When I taught seventh grade, I created a Pop Art unit that focused on Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein. My students loved it. I have Warhol books and I will always pause longer when I come across a Warhol work that’s part of a museum’s permanent collection. Sometimes I shrug but more often I walk away with a smile on my face. 

 

While I enjoy Warhol’s art, his life has always felt too manufactured, too shallow. It may mirror his work, but I prefer people to be more evolved than paintings. The hype for the docuseries suggested a fuller picture of the man. From the two episodes I watched—the second without even a moment of power napping—I was underwhelmed. Everything was remarkably flat, partly by intention. The AI-generated voice of Warhol sounded as interesting as when I used to call the library to get an auto-generated recording of when my books were due. A couple of reviews I read posited that Andy would have loved the voice since he was fascinated with machines and reproductions. Possibly. Still, not entertaining. It didn’t help that the episodes ran long.

 

What frustrated me most was that there wasn’t a clear thread to storylines that writer/director Andrew Rossi chose to highlight. There would be mention of Andy’s relationship with Jon Gould and then that would give way to a few minutes about Andy promoting a computer brand or attending a party, then drift to a longer linger on his relationship with Jean-Michel Basquiat. Much later—oh, yeah—there would be another mention of Gould. This may be accurate in terms of chronology, but it dilutes the focus on the connections with key people, the very storylines that are supposed to make Warhol more compelling as an actual person and not just a calculated icon. I felt zero emotional impact when the series finally discussed Gould’s death. That seemed like an almost impossible feat, given that Gould died at thirty-three in the earlier years of the AIDS crisis. I’m someone who religiously reads tributes every day on Instagram about people who’ve died of AIDS. Even some of those one-paragraph posts from, say, a coworker who didn’t really know the guy who worked in the neighboring cubicle have more emotional depth.

 

Ryan Murphy is one of the executive producers attached to “The Andy Warhol Diaries” and I have no doubt that his name helped get the series broadcast and further helped generate buzz and viewership. Indeed, Evan, who happens to love Ryan Murphy projects, seemed to think the docuseries was entirely his creation. Murphy was likely involved in meetings and in viewing some of the footage, offering input about tweaks, but this is primarily the work of Andrew Rossi who wrote and directed all of it. Maybe Rossi and Murphy connected because of the subject matter. Maybe it was because they have a similar view of visual media in terms of aesthetics and storytelling. Maybe it’s both.

 

I wonder if Murphy’s name on the project made me more prone to be critical. What I do know is the series feels like a missed opportunity to tell a compelling, human story about Warhol and the people in his social circle. I’ve already read and seen shallower portrayals. I’d hoped to learn more about the person instead of the character that was Andy Warhol. I didn’t get that. In fact, I’m less interested. I’m left thinking there really wasn’t any substance behind Warhol. Maybe that’s why Murphy aligned so well with the series as another glitzy, superficial and, ultimately, bland project. 

 

Watching a couple of episodes with Evan posed risks. He was clearly fascinated, enjoying cultural flashbacks to the ’80s and frequently exclaiming, “I never knew that!” After the second episode, I expressed at length my frustration with the documentary and my complete lack of emotional connection. As the first thing we’ve watched together, it might have been one of those shaky moments in the early going of a relationship. 

 

Good god, maybe we don’t have enough in common! How can he not LOVE this?   

 

Thankfully, that didn’t prove to be the case. Evan listened. He didn’t disagree. He didn’t sigh or question my taste or lack thereof. I could dislike the series and he could like it. Navigating a new relationship in our fifties is so much more enlightened than the early stages of twenty-something romances. We’re two fully evolved individuals. We can have distinct differences. They aren't a test to what we’ve got. That’s the one exciting thing I’ll take away from watching “The Andy Warhol Diaries.” Thanks, Ryan.

 

Evan will be watching the rest of the series on his own. I have some reading to do. Our relationship looks to endure longer than a docuseries’ fifteen minutes of fame.

THE HOSTING HANDICAP

Beijing had seven years to prepare to host the Winter Olympics. I’ve got ten days. I may only have one venue to ready and I don’t have to mess with patents for fake snow, but my mission is still daunting. 

 

Living alone, it’s easy for me to ignore my interior surroundings. I know my place could use some tidying up. Maybe more than “some.” A four-person crew could tackle it in an hour. Maybe two. Is it messed up that I put my messiness in context by assuredly telling myself they’d turn me down for an episode of “Hoarders”? That’s the standard. 

 

Over the past week, I’ve started eyeing clutter. 

 

Why do I have so many magazines scattered across my coffee table? Why is “The Summer Issue” of VegNews in prominent view? (It’s from 2020.) There was probably a recipe or two I romanticized about making one day. Some perfectly plated seaweed salad perhaps, with ingredients I’d have to have flown in from the tropics. It would surely make a memorable Instagrammable shot, garnering likes from at least a third of my forty-four followers. 

 

What should I do with the potted succulent on the windowsill? It’s been dying a slow death ever since I brought it home from IGA three months ago. It will not rebound. Three-fifths of it has fallen off, brown and crispy. This will be the third case of plant slaughter in the same site. Clearly, it’s the pot’s fault. 

 

I should regain control of my closet. Somewhere in the nether regions is a stylish raincoat I adore. It would be so nice to head out wearing it during Vancouver’s prolonged rainy season instead of toting my broken umbrella that doesn’t fully open. (It makes my succulent look healthy.) 

 

I’m starting to see places that need a good cleaning, too. Please note that I’m not totally gross. I think my neighbors may want to wring my neck over my obsessive use of my Dirt Devil mini vacuum. Kitchen surfaces are regularly wiped down, partly because I’m highly prone to epic spillage every time I prep a meal. (I have a tricky can opener.) Still, I realized yesterday that I’ve neglected the bathroom mirror. In my defense, I avoid looking at it. I’m a speed groomer. I know the bags under my eyes are still there. All day, every day. Why would I punish myself with a futile stare-down? I could put styling gel in my hair while blindfolded. What I noticed last night was that the mirror is pockmarked with splatterings. Water perhaps but likely numerous flossing projectiles, too. Damn, those bits have an impressive flying range! My dentist doubts me every time I say I floss. Before I wipe down the surface, I’m taking pics. Proof, Dr. Nagsalot! Just give me my sucker, my new toothbrush and let me go.

 

There are more neglected areas, but I sense I’ve already passed the point of Too Much Information. Are you still there, Dear Reader?

 

This sudden scrutiny regarding my surroundings arises from the possibility I may have a guest. COVID has been a handy excuse for keeping people at bay. My friend Katrina pointed out this week that she’s never seen my place which I moved into a week after the first lockdown. It’s been public patios and walks along the seawall for the past two years. I reminded her how committed I am to being a responsible citizen living in the pandemic era. (We can call it an era now, can’t we?) 

 

It's on account of Evan that I’m suddenly faced with the reality check that my abode is abominable. After an epic first date, things continue to progress. I’m doing what most of us do in the early stages, constantly reminding myself that this could be something…or nothing at all. As ready as I am for more, I’m also prepared to be ghosted. Should something like the latter occur in the coming weeks, watch for a blog post in which I chronicle with conviction all the reasons Evan was so clearly and comprehensively wrong for me. A flake! A scoundrel! Scum!

 

Please, let him not be scum.

 

It’s hope that prompts me to think I have a smackdown spring cleaning looming. Dust bunnies, beware! 

 

But my place requires more than a deep clean. My space needs oomph. There are no oohs or aahs. My décor would best be described as Make Do. So much of what I have I’ve been meaning to replace. I figured I’d do that once I moved to Toronto in 2020 which never happened because of that “era” we were stepping into. Buying more things here in Vancouver would have meant more packing and higher moving costs. I wanted to settle into a place, feel a new vibe and then shop for vibe-appropriate wine glasses. Same for vibe-y pillows, a vibe-y armchair and a vibe-y weeping fig…presumably more durable than sad little succulents. (“Weeping” is in the name so, if things don’t go well, I can say, “Duh…” and leave it at that.) 

 

Should Evan visit, I know I could dash to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy a new shower curtain and a decent duvet cover. I could get some overpriced candles at Granville Island. I could finish off with a daffodil decoy. Never mind three unopened moving boxes that serve as end tables; look at the vase! Not the vase itself which couldn’t be plainer. Just fix your eyes on the daffodils. So yellow! Wowzie yellow, right? A few blooms and a shower curtain don’t constitute more than a slight up-do to Make Do. Katrina would politely nod and say, “Nice place,” both of us knowing she’s lying but letting it go. That’s what friends do.

 

Not so with Evan. He’s both an architect and an interior designer. The whole reason I initially reached out to him online was because his profile oozed style. So above and beyond everyone else. His fashion sense is impeccable. His place is fabulous, a well-curated collection worthy of a magazine spread…and the cover. 

 

During our first FaceTime chat, he immediately cut me off in the middle of some undoubtedly scintillating remark by saying, “What’s going on with that painting?” It’s a lovely original work of art, reminiscent of Canada’s Group of Seven, painted by a local artist. Evan wasn’t knocking it; in fact, he liked it. However, it was hung wrong. 

 

I know this. It’s mounted ridiculously high above the sofa. Normally, I would never hang it like that but there was one nail in the wall when I moved in and that’s what I went with. I was only supposed to be here five months, six tops. None of us thought we were heading into an era. My other prized painting rests on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall. I know that, if I decided to properly mount these items, there would be a lot of trial and error. (If I can’t figure out a can opener, imagine what I do with a hammer and nails.) Part of me never wanted to feel like I was settling in here while another part of me wanted to ensure I got the whole damage deposit back when I moved out. Big holes in walls are glaring once the paintings covering them are removed.

 

The painting over the sofa was enough for Evan to say, “I’ll be staying at a hotel,” should he ever visit me in Vancouver. Was he kidding? Early stages…so much to be unsure of. Worst case scenario, he wasn’t kidding but, presumably, he’d let me stop by. A night or two at a Vancouver hotel would be a treat. Staycations are still a thing in the present era.

 

It’s more than the paintings, of course. My duvet has a hole in it…somewhere. Perhaps several holes. I’m a restless sleeper so my bedroom floor looks like the bottom of a chicken coup every morning, feathers all over the place. (Dirt Devil to the rescue!) Every item in the kitchen is dated (except that dang can opener). Heck, everything everywhere. If my place makes a statement, it’s with the wrong kind of exclamation tacked on. 

 

I know, I know…if Evan’s into me, permanently spotted wine glasses won’t matter. He’s dating me, not my dollar store vase. I’ll still be mortified. Thus far, I seem to have made a great impression almost in spite of myself. I’ve shared all my emotional baggage. Sharing my space seems more daunting.

 

The reality is that Evan’s possible visit only brings to light my own disappointment with my living space. Way back when, in my twenties, I was developing a strong sense of style, bathroom rubber duckie collection notwithstanding. (They’re all gone, along with the thoughtfully placed children’s picture book, Everyone Poops.) In my forties moving into a house of my own, I had beautiful furniture custom-made. I gave it all away when I moved back to Vancouver, none of it matching the scale of a teensy condo. I’ve regressed since then. Make Do is code for dorm-shabby. My place would pass muster if I were eighteen. No one would care about the broken, faded office chair relegated to the balcony. My vodka and gin collection would be enough to dazzle. 

 

Alas, I’m fifty-seven, not eighteen. I have so much growing up to do in the next ten days. I just bought a brand new soap dispenser for the bathroom. I can already feel the wow factor rising.