A SHINING STAR (Review of "Starwalker")

I’m not a producer, nor a marketing guru, nor a theater critic whose words can make or break a new production. None of these roles have ever appealed to me. I don’t think they’ve ever even crossed my mind at any point in time when I wished to change careers. If only I had that kind of influence now.

 

I want to give a robust shout-out to Starwalker, a musical about a 2-spirit Indigi-queer drag queen. To be clear, I know no one associated with the production. I’d heard nothing about it until I scrolled through Facebook on Saturday morning and an ad for it popped up. My boyfriend, Evan, loves drag shows and drag brunches so I tilted my laptop his way and said, “What do you think?” It was a formality. “Let’s go!” he said within seconds and so we selected our seats, checked out and had suddenly we were set to go the theater, our first such outing since seeing Take Me Out on Broadway last May.   

 

I enjoy drag events for the costumes, for the camp, for the music, for the sass, for surveying smiles in the audience, for the joyous connection between performers and partakers and for those dang death drops. It’s the exclamatory positivity of drag events that has conservatives in such a kerfuffle. RuPaul, drag brunches and drag storytimes make people happy. It goes against their tired, desperate narrative of vilifying all-things queer. 

 

Still, I didn’t expect much from a drag musical. I figured any singing would be lip-synched. I wondered if calling the show a “musical” was a stretch. After all, isn’t repackaging a core element of drag? Wouldn’t it just be a revue, with a series of drag performances? How loose would the story be, if there was one at all, to attempt to connect “I Will Survive” with “About Damn Time”?  

 

Besides, I’ve never thought of Vancouver as having a robust arts community. It’s an outdoorsy city, influenced by the natural beauty of Stanley Park, the North Shore Mountains and gorgeous waterways. We cycle along endless bike routes, we time ourselves ascending a trail called the Grouse Grind and, in calmer moments, we take parents for a stroll along the seawall. I’ve tried to be cultured, periodically buying annual memberships for the Vancouver Art Gallery and season’s tickets to theater companies, but the fare has been more misses than hits. Hence, my renewal notices often go ignored. It’s embarrassing that I only knew of the venue, York Theatre, on account of a bike mural painted on an exterior wall. Billing Starwalker as a “world premiere” actually sounded sad.

 

Overall, my concerns were minor. I looked forward to an evening when Evan and I wouldn’t have to stare at one of our laptop screens, scrolling and trying to negotiate one another into submission for seeing another mediocre offering on Netflix, something in that vast why-bother zone between Evan’s zombie pick and my Danish drama series about acquiring oil resources in Greenland. (How many times must I toss out “Opposites attract!” when it looks like we’ve reached an impasse, also known as a Vanessa Hudgens rom-com?) This was Date Night for Evan and me. Dinner and a “musical,” made more magical by a little falling snow. 

Arriving early, we queued at the bar as a bartender prepared two rainbow cocktails with “Extravaganza” in the name for the people ahead of us. The drinks looked festive but the idea of consuming some incarnation of a liquid snow cone lost out to a safer cider. The York turned out to be an intimate theater with customary crimson seats on the main level, the balcony closed during this show’s three-week run. The atmosphere felt relaxed and friendly as a mixed crowd took their seats. By mixed, I mean in terms of age. It didn’t skew obviously queer, which was both a positive sign of acceptance and a tad disappointing. I’d wondered if our view might be obstructed by a beehived drag queen in front of us, but there was no such queen to be seen. 

 

As the curtains opened, the first number, “What They Don’t Know About You,” dazzled, an upbeat song featuring seven drag performers, dancing and singing—yes, actually singing!—about The House of Borealis, a haven for young drag queens with nowhere else to turn. I took a quick side-glance at Evan, wide-eyed, mouth open, a clear sign we were in agreement: this was already beyond some drag brunch. Leaving Vanessa Hudgens in the lurch had been the right decision. The audience clapped enthusiastically and I tried to scale back expectations, readying for some threadbare story and disjointed numbers to follow. 

 

Dillan Meighan Chiblow

There was a quick scene change to a park bench, stage left, and a large, what appeared to be a fabric-braided tree, stage right. Dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans while lugging a backpack, Eddie, known as Star or Starwalker to their family (based on a Buffy Sainte-Marie song), sat on the bench, singing “The Rebellion Song.” Actor Dillan Meighan Chiblow immediately shone, the First Nations chant highlighting an outstanding vocal talent, as comfortable in the lower register as singing falsetto. Song lyrics referred to a past in which abuse was sold as love and the character’s yearning for a sense of belonging. 

 

It is in this forest setting, presumably Lees Trail in Stanley Park, where Star meets Levi from the House of Borealis who’s in search of a hookup. The two form an immediate bond, with Levi inviting Star back to the House, a change of pace from living on the streets (and in the park) and turning tricks. Levi mentions drag, but Star comes off as respectfully disinterested. Not their thing.

 

During the first act, Star finds acceptance in the House of Borealis, love with Levi and a budding interest in becoming a drag performer. As Star struggles to truly feel their drag persona, Mother Borealis encourages them to make it their own. Star does so by infusing their First Nations heritage, leading to a strong ensemble reprise of “The Rebellion Song,” powerfully integrating First Nations chanting, drumming and circle dancing with upbeat singing and drag pageantry. The audience, clearly into the production, clapped, cheered and called out during this exuberant number, an exhilarating spot to place an intermission, everyone in the theater deserving time to catch their breath.

 

Evan and I looked at one another, our facial expressions rendering our “Wows” superfluous. “Broadway-caliber,” Evan said. I’d been thinking the same thing. This is a show that deserves to be toured and, yes, tweaked in a few spots regarding story and song. Chiblow is indeed the standout, but Jeffrey Michael Follis as Levi and Stewart Adam McKensy as Mother Borealis are very good as well, in terms of acting, singing and elevating drag. Some of the supporting cast didn’t quite match these high standards but presumably a few of these roles could be recast on tour. 

 

Lingering in the lobby, I eavesdropped on others raving. We could see snow falling outside and sticking to the ground. Since it doesn’t snow often in Vancouver, any accumulation puts people in a panic. The drive home would be a bit of a challenge. I said to Evan, “Maybe we should go. I like it so much, I don’t want to see it [pardon the pun] drag in the second half.” But we stayed and so, it seemed, did everyone else.     

 

The second half was almost as strong, still rave-worthy even as expectations were higher. This was no longer some Vancouver project. This was Broadway bound, after all. How special to witness a show’s world premiere stint! That’s right, Tony lovers, I saw it way back then, when Chiblow had less than 3,000 followers on Instagram (@dillychibz). Supporting cast members had more acting and singing lines and came off as stronger. The costuming and lighting combined splendidly for the Winter Solstice Ball scene. A key plot turn raised the stakes but needed more work in terms of establishing stronger ties to the first half and being credible.

 

Corey Payette

Regardless, Starwalker is divine entertainment. I got the impression it was a labor of love for director Corey Payette who also wrote the book, music and lyrics. (That warrants its own wow.) Payette notes in the playbill, “I started writing this musical as a way of expressing my Two-Spirit identity and the love I feel for my queer community…It weaves together Indigenous culture and drag performance into a celebration of who we are, our families and chosen families, the beauty we all share inside ourselves, and the Two-Spirit power that has always existed on this land.” 

 

Mission accomplished.

 

Starwalker’s Vancouver run continues until March 5. If you or anyone you know has the chance to see it, I offer my enthusiastic recommendation. Ticket information is here.

NO TIME FOR ROMANCE

We all know someone who persistently proclaims, “I’m not looking for anyone. I’m happy being single.” And yet, after a glass of wine, that same person is bemoaning the fact there aren’t any decent guys out there to date.

That’s me on a good day. Usually I skip the opening declaration of denial and launch right into a whine before the wine. Nobody on the dating sites. Lame messages if anything (“how r u”). Zero returned eye contact in any venue. If you’ve read my blog at all, you’ve seen the posts, so often a slight spin on the same old pity party.

Sorry about all that.

My formative (non) dating years were spent watching and rhapsodizing over Meg Ryan movies. (I really miss her.) And just when I’d finally gotten past repeated plays of Eric Carmen’s “All by Myself”, Celine Dion went and remade the friggin’ song. When audiences turned their backs on romantic comedies, Mindy Kaling masterfully paid homage to them with “The Mindy Project”.

There’s always been something to stoke my everlasting aching for a love of a lifetime. Even now, the only series I’m regularly watching on Netflix is an Australian import called “Offspring” that I’ve heard absolutely no one talk about. It seems that main character Nina Proudman’s anxieties and fumbling and bumbling over dating are solely for my benefit. (The show has seven seasons and, as I am apparently the only human on the planet who lacks the binge watching gene, I’m now tortoise-ing my way through season two. Plenty more bonding fodder to come.)

But last night, as I drove into the suburbs on my way to my first Swedish language class in hopes that I’ll one day have a larger vocabulary than this guy, I realized that I was feeling less burdened, less edgy even. No, it had nothing to do with a little something that happened last week. (Pshaw! I don’t think I’ll ever know what people are talking about when it comes to endorphins.) It’s just that I can truthfully say for only the second time in my adult life that, yes indeed, I have no interest in a relationship for the moment and, by golly, that “moment” is going to last at least three to six months.

The first time I felt this way was back in 2004, after I’d ended a seven-year relationship and had to wait many months for housing renovations to be complete before we could finally sell the house. Once a SOLD sign appeared on the front lawn, I fled to rural British Columbia to be free at last.

Single and free.

I wanted desperately to find myself again. I wanted to go back to doing things that interested me and me alone. I’d like to think I had at least a year before the pining started anew and an oldies ditty by The Osmonds started dancing about in my head. (Yep. The “Geek for Life” sticker belongs smack on the back of my black pleather jacket.) In reality, my sabbatical might have only been a few months. What I’m clearer on is how refreshing it was to completely step away from all thing pertaining to romance. There was a strong sense of self-satisfaction and a near giddiness, the kind I only thought came with, er...love.

I didn’t give up on relationships immediately after visiting Toronto in August and deciding that I would make the move come the spring of 2020. In truth, I wasn’t terribly excited about it. I was simply being pragmatic. Things weren’t working in Vancouver; twenty-five years is long enough to give a city a shot. Being bound to Canada and knowing that I need to live in a large city, Toronto was basically the default option. (Je suis désolé, Montréal. If only my French were better.) With the move still months away, I told myself to remain open to something coming my way in Vancouver.

Indeed, I looked at my dating profiles again. I updated photos. I did online searches each month. I took prolonged pauses, carefully reading profiles before ultimately deleting rare messages so succinct they were tantamount to a beer belch. “Hey.” “Nice profile.” Wassup?” (I’ve gone ahead and inserted capitals and punctuation just to keep my brain in check.)

There was a moment in November when I thought those romantic comedy writers in the sky—Is that you, Nora Ephron?!—were actually throwing me a bone. I’d exchanged a couple of messages with Peter, a relative newcomer to Vancouver (from Toronto), and we agreed to meet on the seawall, by what I referred as The Happy Statues. I could use a good omen, after all. The installation is actually called “A-maze-ing Laughter” by Yue Minjun and, as I arrived early, I read the accompanying message etched in stone: “May this sculpture inspire laughter, playfulness and joy in all who experience it.” Yes, please. Let that vibe rub off on me. I was relaxed and smiling before the date even began. As I turned away from the sculptures, there was Peter with a broad smile and gorgeous blue eyes, his arms outstretched for a warm opening hug.

“Shit,” I thought. “This could change everything.”

For the next four hours, we walked and talked and then sat and talked back at his place. To be sure, he talked far more than I did. He seemed to be a blurter, sharing all sorts of things that are no-nos in the First Date handbook. At first, I attributed it to nervousness, then I figured that was just his way. As I finally walked home after declining his offer to whip up a vegan dinner, I realized his oversharing had exposed a lot of red flags but, more than anything, I was amused. I sat up late that night, sitting in my darkened living room, staring out at the Vancouver skyline, the lights having an extra twinkle as if to say, “Not so fast.” Maybe my life would actually play out like all those romantic comedies, Mr. Right appearing in the eleventh hour. Yes, I decided. I’d be open to it.

Alas, over two more long dates, Peter verbalized more and more red flags. It began to feel not like a romantic comedy but one of those “Candid Camera” gag shows. Watch the unsuspecting listener squirm with each outrageous statement. After the third date, I was again up late in my living room. I couldn’t put aside our fundamental differences, not just in terms of politics but regarding morals and ethics. How quickly I’d gone from smitten and amused to disappointed—repulsed even. I didn’t want to date this guy. I didn’t even want to offer the “Let’s be friends” tag while ending things. If this was My Life as a Romantic Comedy, I was seeing what happens after the final credits roll. Boom!

If that was the eleventh hour, this now feels like the twenty-third hour. I’m in no mood for anything to mess with my plan to move on. I fly to Toronto next week to explore various neighborhoods to see where I may want to focus on finding an apartment after my condo sells. I have a growing To Do list for winding down and wrapping up my Vancouver days. Even if I should face plant while running on the seawall and Ryan Reynolds’ doppelgänger comes to my rescue, I’ll simple accept his hand as an assist to get up, thank him and then brush myself off, turning away from that glorious smile and limping in the other direction. Wrong time, wrong place.

I parted with the final wisps of hope for some sort of Vancouver-based relationship during my three-week solo road trip across the western United States in December. In many ways it turned out to be a tortuous farewell to three decades of living on the West Coast (adding in my five years in Los Angeles). Lots of hopes, dreams and relationships that failed or fizzled. Too much time with nothing but the car radio and the local station of the moment playing Maroon 5’s taunting “Memories” yet again. Right up until

the penultimate day, I was filled with woe. At long last, I thrust my free hand forward toward the windshield and shouted, “Move on!” The past had been agonizingly processed, a virtual memory box of sorts, plenty dinged up and dented.

Life is on hold for now. Perhaps this is a welcome breather. The future starts in six months. When July comes around and I say that I’ve had no dates this year, there won’t be a trace of sadness. I’ll be able to say, in my lame Pee-Wee Herman voice, “I meant to do that.” Maybe Pee-Wee comedies should have been my cinematic fare all along.

THE LONG GOODBYE

I hate goodbyes. They’re awkward. As an introvert, I fret over them as I sense them approaching. Will there be a hug? Is this a handshake moment instead or is that just weird? What do I say? Every word matters...to me, at least. At larger gatherings, I try to slip out unnoticed. Don’t want to interrupt the flow. Don’t want to call attention to myself. And then it all spirals back to that hug versus handshake thing.

So maybe the timing of this one is a big mistake. It stretches back four months and there’s another four to go. Goodbye, Vancouver. Goodbye British Columbia.

I suppose the first serious thoughts of leaving popped up in June or July, back when I plummeted into my most recent round of deep depression. Mired in wicked, unrelenting despair, I knew it wasn’t the time for making big decisions. I was struggling to make it through life in ten-minute intervals, fighting what felt like another looming psych ward admission. Despite all the fog, what was clear was that I wasn’t thriving here. No longer working, I was becoming more isolated when the whole reason I’d moved back to the city after a decade in a rural environment was to become more connected. Epic failure. That “fool me twice” expression came to mind. I’d left Vancouver because things weren’t working. Why had I thought things would be different the second time around?

I always love my time in Ottawa.

In August, having weathered my internal storm, I flew to Ontario on an exploratory mission. I’d narrowed down my “next stop” Canadian options to Ottawa and Toronto. Ottawa is prettier, closer to family, an hour from the family cottage and much more familiar to me. Aside from a few blips, I’ve visited the city every year of my life. I’d come close to moving there a couple of times in the past. I really didn’t know Toronto at all despite living my first thirteen years in nearby Hamilton. Ottawa seemed the favorite, Toronto the dark horse. And yet, after an afternoon back in Ottawa, I knew it was too small. I knew I’d often feel disappointed, leaning on my aunt and cousins. Their social lives are well established. It’s one thing for them to make time for once-a-year visits; it’s quite different being around all the time. As I still hold out a shred of hope for falling in love again, I also knew that the gay “community” always seemed teeny tiny. Yes, it only takes one guy, but I need to at least start with a fair-sized pool. Ottawa was off the list.

It's Toronto or bust.

The list was no longer a list. One city. No pressure, Toronto. My first impression was positive. My hotel seemed to be on the edge of a sketchy area but, only a block away, things improved significantly. I walked for hours that first evening, strolling down busy Queen Street, observing how it took on a different vibe every few blocks, eventually finding my way to Lake Ontario. It was clear that the city lacked the shine of Vancouver or even Ottawa but what I liked about Toronto from the outset was the international feel. I like the bustle of big cities and this place felt alive. I spent the next couple of days trying to be cautious, for once looking before leaping. Could I really see myself living there? In a word: yes. It was worth a try. This would be where I’d try to restart my life, a scary yet exciting prospect for a fifty-five-year-old single gay guy who knows absolutely no one in the city.

Still, for a couple of reasons, I didn’t just want to ghost Vancouver. To avoid mortgage penalties, it would be best to target the sale of my condo for April 1, 2020 but, more than that, I wanted Vancouver and me to part on good terms. We’d had a rocky relationship. A friend of mine who loves the city and says he’ll never leave cringed when I described Vancouver as hollow—pretty exterior, nothing inside. Yeah, harsh. I wanted to spend my final months enjoying the city’s best.

In some ways, I feel like that guy who hangs around at a party after everyone has left and fails to take a hint when the host slips into a unicorn onesie and a pair of bunny slippers. You still here?!

I continue to run my favorite routes around Stanley Park and along other water-adjacent paths. I bike to Deep Cove, to a beach area near the airport and uphill to the University of British Columbia. I even did a 140-kilometer round-trip bike ride past my favorite views on the Sea to Sky Highway to Squamish. All this is what lured me here twenty-five years ago. There are worse places to fail.

I also wanted to use the city as a base to fit in a few final weekend road trips—Victoria, Tofino, Whistler, Seattle, Portland, the Oregon Coast. I’m also trying to get to some of my favorite restaurants one more time. That’s a little trickier because many of them are vegan and it always feels like I’m putting my friends through a traumatic ordeal when we go to one (if I can convince them to go at all).

The time remaining seems too long, yet I know it will wind down quickly, especially with me being away at least a month for more travel. There will come a point when I’m not so much living in the city as leaving it. Maybe it’s hit already. Yesterday I did my last workout at my gym. (My membership was up for renewal and they offered me a monthly rate three times what I pay on an annual basis to stay on four more months. Five years of business and the sales rep kept throwing in extra fees. “You might as well just pay for the full year,” he said. Nonsense!) The day before I had drinks with a guy I’d dated for a while. As we left, he said, “See you soon.” In my head, it was goodbye. We’re casual friends now, the kind for whom you need six-month gaps just to have enough to talk about. (For the record, I went with a hug, not a handshake.)

My condo doesn’t feel so much like a livable space anymore; not for me, at least. It’s transitioning into a sterile environment. Last week I had a couple of real estate agents in and I picked one to go with for listing the property after the holiday season. I’ve parted with forty shirts so far, stuffing them in the clothing donation bin. I awakened in the middle of the night, wondering if I should fish out a Ted Baker piece, one that I’d bought three years ago and only worn once. Then I envisioned myself on the six o’clock news: Guy Gets Stuck in Clothing Bin. Okay then. Goodbye, Ted.

Just how many veggie hot dogs can I

eat in the next four months?!

There’s still more paring down to do. I have a vanity full of half-used gels and shampoos, all a testament to my eternal quest for a product that will actually lead to shiny, bouncy, fuller hair. (Why did I think it would be a good thing for my head to smell like a grapefruit?) The back of my fridge is getting sparse as I’ve been reaching in and pulling out long-expired jars of chutney and salsa. I’m trying to plan meals to use up whatever I can. I do love cumin, but why did I buy the lifetime supply size of it? How did I get all these mustard containers? Honey mustard, Dijon, sweet onion and something now branded as “Classic Yellow”. Give the whole French’s marketing team hefty Christmas bonuses, I say! And then there’s my apparent fear of running out of a certain breakfast food. If I throw an oatmeal party, will anybody come?

Still four months to go. I’ve lived in twenty-three different places as an adult. By god, this may be the first move for which I’m not frantically stuffing odds and ends into garbage bags at 3 a.m. on moving day. I tell myself I’ll be ready this time. In may ways, I’m ready now.