A STATE OF PHONELESSNESS

I’m surviving. No phone for twenty-four hours. Okay, twenty, but I’m rounding up. Allow me that.

 

It’s not like I lost it in the nether regions of my condo and couldn’t find it despite lifting sofa pillows repeatedly, as if the phone would suddenly appear on the tenth time, finally giving up on Hide and Seek after no one found it. (Forgive me. I’m still working through some childhood trauma.) I didn’t go to a bar and forget it along with my coat and all sensibilities, whereby I had to wait until the next evening for the bars to reopen. (I’m classy. I don’t frequent joints that open at seven in the morning.) 

 

I willingly surrendered my phone, not because I was texting while inexplicably walking the halls of a high school, nor because an usher accosted me while I was in the midst of live-streaming a touring production of “Hello, Dolly!” starring, neither Barbra nor Bette, but a lip-synching Paris Hilton. (Shudders.) I wasn’t misbehaving but my phone was.   

 

My screen cover cracked on the weekend. Again. Not from a pratfall this time on one of my jogs when I forget to call out “Left foot, right foot” in my head. I don’t even have a story to go with the damaged screen like when last time, an occasion which warrants its own side story.

 

Eldfell. So stunning!

I didn’t fix the phone for months after that incident because it reminded me, fondly, of Iceland and, not so fondly, of the ensuing credit card debt I was still paying off. The damage was done on the island of Heimaey, a short ferry ride from the southwest coast of the mainland. I’d already hiked around the crater of Eldfell, which had erupted in 1973, and, although there was no danger whatsoever, I was feeling emboldened—The Volcano Conqueror!—so I decided to climb Heimaklettur (Home Rock) to get an Instagram-worthy shot of the harbor and the town of Vestmannaeyjar. (As if randomly pointing my phone in any direction at any point in time in Iceland didn’t offer a breathtaking shot. Too much beauty can make a person greedy.) 

 

What's a little climb?

AllTrails listed it as a hike, just a tad over a mile, “out and back,” which should have been described as “up and down.” Somehow, I’d overlooked the classification of the hike climb as “hard” and the notation that it takes seventy-five minutes. I stopped several times as I ascended one rock face after another, sometimes with assists from chains, sometimes with seemingly well-secured ladders with most of the rungs still in place. The winds intensified with the elevation and I had to keep batting away the sudden onset of a previously undetectable fear of heights. 

Deceptive photo...makes it look doable!

 

It was humbling when I had to step aside on a tiny ridge to let a rugged man pass me by, the only other “hiker” I saw on this dubious jaunt. This guy was stern, seemingly irked he’d had to wait as I suppressed the urge to whimper as I made it up another ladder to get to the precarious ridge. I suppose I should have been grateful he’d shown restraint, suppressing his own urge to reach up and toss me off. (No investigation would have resulted after my body was eventually found. Tsk, tsk. Another hiker out of his element.)

 

Full disclosure: This man, who may have actually been part mountain goat, was seventy-something. Hardy stock in Iceland.

 

I tried to conjure up warmth in this man who came off as even harsher than the conditions. I imagined he had a pet—a golden retriever since they have the best temperament, something to offer balance. He’d tried to bring Fido along in the past, but the damn dog couldn’t navigate the ladders any better than me. No walk for you! 

 

Apologies. I may be stereotyping an Icelander with an East German stereotype. Plus, a smidgen of Soup Nazi. If I say some of my best friends are German, that makes it all okay, right?

 

Turns out you can Google the 
view from the top. It'll do.
(Dare I say that's me in the pic?)

Long story, barely shortened, my phone screen cracked on my descent, after the old man—hell, let’s say he was prematurely gray at twenty-two—shook my attempt to follow and I glanced downward—waaaaay downward—another time and was overwhelmed with all-out panic. Get. The. Fuck. Down. 

 

And don’t you dare glance down again until your feet are flat on the empty parking lot. 

 

(Yes, empty. That should’ve been a sign.)

 

With the wind whipping against my body, my jacket banged against a ladder and my phone inside a pocket didn’t take kindly to high altitude turbulence. I only learned this after I knelt to the ground—it may have been involuntary, shaky legs and all—and kissed that dang parking lot. I never got that Insta shot. The cracks were the Icelandic souvenir I didn’t actually want but better than a broken neck.

 

The story behind the damaged screen this time around is much shorter. I walked two blocks to grab a morning coffee, phone in my jean pocket. When I pulled it out as I waited for my oat milk latte, it was cracked, cause unknown. Static cling? Melee with lint? Being as it’s an iPhone 6, I suspect some IT staffer programmed it to self-destruct. Mission aborted? I shall not cave and buy a new phone. What are we at now anyway…iPhone 137? 

 

I dropped off my phone at a rogue repair shop that operates out of a closet with street access. It was refreshing to step in and not be swarmed by Apple employees trying to meet their sales quotas. (“May I recommend the iPhone 137+!?” For clarity, I should note that the exclamation mark is part of the name.) The guy didn’t even look up from behind the Plexiglass—not a COVID vestige, but a bulletproofing measure to deter Apple IT mobsters. I passed my phone through the slot. “Come back tomorrow,” the man said. At least, I think it was a man, going solely on the low register of the voice. The closet was dimly lit for obvious reasons.

 

I exited, phoneless. Without my device in either palm, my hands shook. Get it together, I told myself. First world problem. But is it? The homeless people I pass on Hastings Street have phones. I’ll bet Apple air-dropped phones on North Sentinel Island, described as the place where the “most isolated tribe in the world” lives. It’s part of Apple’s recycle/reuse program, a place to dump some of those iPhone 6’s that everyone but me has deemed passé.

  

I needed distraction. I went on a bike ride. Ninety minutes is standard but I couldn’t keep track of time to report because, you know, no phone. (Where did I put my grandfather’s pocket watch?) I’m going to say it was my fastest ride ever. Longest, too. Take my word for it. Thank you for the enthusiastic congratulations.

 

Deep Cove, my destination, was stunning, as always. I wanted to take a photo which I would delete three weeks later when I’d realize it looked exactly like the four dozen Deep Cove photos I’ve taken before but, sans phone, I just had to take in the beauty for myself. Nothing for Facebook. Boring, eh? At least I won’t have to waste ten seconds deleting pics when my phone runs out of storage. Again. I’ll throw in that I saw a pod of orcas and a stunning sunset as I pedalled over the Second Narrows Bridge while heading home. You’ll just have to trust me. I gloried in my newfound state of being in the moment.

 

As the repair shop’s opening neared, I found myself more than surviving. Thoughts of my phone still shaped my behavior. I’d pat my pockets, then glance on the kitchen counter. Yep, no phone. While walking to the shop, I stopped in front of an abstract alley mural, ready for a selfie moment only to laugh at my silliness. The mural clashed with my coat. I reached for my phone to get fifty cents off my latte with my coffee app. Shrug. The savings wouldn’t have made a dent in my Icelandic debt. I thought of texting a couple of friends to grab a coffee since the repair shop is in the area. Whatever. I’m really not that social. I couldn’t check the hourly weather. It’s currently sunny in Vancouver so, obviously, that wouldn’t last since it’s still March. I could always check the sky instead of my phone. A little neck strain, doing things old-fashioned, but nothing to send me to Emergency. I could wait until my next concussion from smashing my head on an open cupboard. That’s pretty common, isn’t it?

 

Thinking of this pigeon lady I saw

in a Manhattan park years ago.

These birds are handmade. 

Could become my new hobby if I

remained phoneless, but mine 

would be balls of gray felt. 

I'm not that crafty. 

Being sunny, I sat on a bench in a park and watched the pigeons. “Rats with wings,” a friend of mine used to say. They’re all right though. Were they mooching like a hopeful basset hound? A couple of the birds concerned me, their feet seemingly deformed as they favored one over the other. I’d post a pic on Twitter to get people to weigh in—a new plague, someone would likely say. That might evolve into all kinds of doom. Perhaps being phoneless, I’ve spared countless people from a sudden anxiety spike. To my three followers in Egypt which is apparently the world titleholder for Most Pigeons, you’re welcome. Live in peace.  

 

Think I’ll hit another café, fit in another writing session. I’m feeling uncharacteristically focused, phone-free, boosted by a natural surge of Vitamin D, better connected to nature and all. The shop is open till five. Turns out the phone can wait. 

“IDOL”-ING AWAY

It’s rare for “American Idol” to make news anymore. I used to watch it regularly, even after it stopped being a watercooler talking point and we no longer had office pools with everyone selecting a different contestant to back. (Did anyone ever bet on Sanjaya?) I’d probably tune in a little this season, background fodder as I clean the kitchen or work my way through the Sunday New York Times crossword, but my 55” flatscreen leapt off my living room hutch back in July and could not be resuscitated. Maybe it fretted I’d start watching some incarnation of “Real Housewives” or discover “Wings” in syndication. (I haven’t ogled Tim Daly in ages.) I can’t seem to watch American networks on my laptop and I feel no sense of urgency to get another TV. (I took my flatlined flatscreen to an electronics recycling depot, but I still shake my head over all the plastic and whatnot that goes into those monstrosities.) Has the television gone the way of the VCR and the answering machine?

 

“American Idol” gained some attention over a week ago when Katy Perry broke down and ranted about the insanity of school shootings in the U.S. after one country singer trying out mentioned living through a shooting in Santa Fe, Texas—May 18, 2018; ten dead. How many of us had forgotten. They blur together. Insanity, indeed. I’m sure her diatribe wasn’t welcome in the living rooms of country music fans who seem to have stuck with the show in disproportionate numbers, but all the better. As incalcitrant as so many Americans are about their beloved right to bear arms, there need to be new forums for trying to shake them up.

 

But I stumbled on another moment from that week’s show, thanks to a filler article on Yahoo. It related to another male country singer hoping for a gold ticket to Hollywood. His name: Jon Wayne Hatfield, to which “Idol” judge Luke Bryan responded, “There’s no doubt, you’re from the country.” He’d traveled from Goshen, Ohio (population 652), arriving with his guitar and his own sad story, both essential items to get TV time during tryouts. The singer stated he’d been raised by his grandparents and, after his grandmother died, his grandfather, who’d “lost his best friend of fifty years,” shut out the world, including his grandson for a year and a half. Being a man of an older generation, it seems he internalized his grief. 

 

I was unfazed. “American Idol” has done deceased grannies to death. But there was more. Presumably primed by producers, Katy Perry told Jon Wayne to bring his grandfather in for the audition and in walked a thin man with a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, a tattoo showing on one hand, dressed smartly in jeans, a jean jacket and a simple gray fitted t-shirt.

 

The grandparents met when Ray was sixteen. He explains, cryptically enough to add television drama, “I told her about myself and she said, ‘I love you’ and that ‘It’s okay.’” Cue role reversal, with separate clips of grandfather and grandson: Ray comes out as gay; Jon says it doesn’t change a damn thing. Back to Ray: “It’s a big relief to stand here and be proud and and say I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with it.”

 

As a cynic, which I often am, I might shrug and note how I’ve heard hundreds of coming out stories in my life. “Idol” aimed to draw viewers in, to get them to choke up. Mighty me, prone to crying over elephant documentaries and a certain version of a particular Joni Mitchell song—yes, cynics have an Achilles’ heel—did not tear up. Nontheless, I realized the moment was still important, for general viewers, especially those in red states where gays might be less inclined to make their presence known, for obvious reasons. Here, invading their living rooms, was a smiley, sweet soul, a man’s man who, like the odd cowboy, could get weepy…about his journey and about his love for his grandson. In spaces where the word gay is never spoken unless as with disparaging, mocking twist, a bit of sympathetic queer content got through the barricades, the word broadcast not once but twice in the segment. (Here's the full "Idol" clip.)

 

I suppose a Republican-run state legislature that’s already checked off banning drag queen story times and gender-ambiguous restrooms will take the lead in drafting something to strengthen television content warnings. “The following program makes gays seem all right or contains woke crap. Viewer discretion is advised.” Perhaps a dude stormed out of the family den or grabbed the remote—presumably he’s the commander-in-chief of that contraption—and switched stations to basketball highlights which is, sadly, all there is in the low season when there isn’t any baseball or football. Figure skating and “sports” with ski jackets don’t count. “American Idol” may have lost a viewing family, for the week or forever, but the kids still saw and heard a gay grandfather and heard a straight grandson say it’s all okay. Well done, ABC!

 

Let me pause to repeat Ray’s words again: “I’m gay and there’s nothing wrong with it.” High fives, fingers snaps, back slaps and all that. By gosh, I’d almost forgotten that Katy Perry’s breakthrough song was “I Kissed a Girl.”

 

I can’t help but brush my cynicism aside and feel for Ray. The man is still adjusting. His speech is as much for himself as for anyone else. He’s building himself up after a lifetime of hearing people disparage gays. 

 

For the record, I'm partial to
Steven #1 (left).

Just like every person who has had to come out as something on the LGBTQIA+ spectrum, I clearly recall the pain, self-hate and angst within me while I kept a major part of my identity secret, fearing rejection and revulsion from people who mattered to me. For the most part, that dark chapter ended in my twenties as dramatic reveals became, if not old hat, safer as I’d by then connected with gay and lesbian friends and found varying levels of support from straight people who, if they didn’t suddenly share Bronski Beat mix tapes and ask me which actor I thought was the better Steven Carrington on “Dynasty,” still seemed content to join me for dinner at Chili’s or to play tennis. Gay was okay, even if it didn’t come up much in conversation. 

 

Breathe now, Ray. The man delayed this coming out process for half a century. I’m not going to speculate about his marriage or gay dalliances—isn’t that a lovely word?—but there’s no doubt being some degree of closeted weighed on him. There’s a degree of guardedness that comes when you’re not out. Letting people in risks having them intuit what you’re working so hard to deny, cover or ignore. Going on national television, his story used by producers in an attempt to get people to talk about a show regarded as passé, is quite a way to finally come out, once and for all. 

 

It’s done now, Ray. No more secrets. 

 

May this man now lead a fuller life. He can’t make up for lost time—those decades are gone—but let him live out his years feeling free, no longer worried about what a relative or neighbor might think.  

 

If it matters, which to me it really doesn’t, Jon Wayne Hatfield, done grandpa proud. He sang and strummed proficiently to a tune he penned himself, “Tell Me, Ray.” Good enough for a ticket to Hollywood. 

 

Tell it all, Ray. Only maybe just to your grandson and people who care about you. Your moment as a public service announcement is behind you. 

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.

A YODEL YANKED

One of the humbling parts of growing older is realizing I’m still growing up. We’re all a work in progress until the day we die. I just wish there weren’t quite so much work and quite so little progress in my case.

 

A week ago, I wrote about expressing my joy without inhibition, dancing to a Barry White song in my boyfriend’s bedroom. Harkening back to 1990s lingo and pre-prison Martha, it was a good thing, a fun way to wake up on a Sunday morning. 

 

This past Sunday, Evan and I set out for a day exploring Seattle’s less-gay-than-it-used-to-be Capitol Hill, first getting immediate seating at a hip brunch spot where the people ahead of us putting their names on the wait list were told it would be an hour and forty-five minutes. (At what point does brunch turn to dinner?) I figured the hostess had mistaken us for another table for two under the name “Evan,” but both she and Evan hushed me. There had been no mistake. Apparently, Evan’s friendliness and his always stand-out fashion choices paid off. As we sat down, I continued to attempt to process the privilege. Had that happened while lined up outside Arena when it first opened in West Hollywood in the early ’90s, I’d have soaked it up and considered it something akin to a Powerball win. Now, I only felt unworthy…and still very lucky to be in the company of my stylin’ stud.

 

From there, we checked out the don’t-help-me-if-I-get-lost Elliott Bay Book Company before drifting to the art exhibits at the Frye. Walking on, we crashed a Catholic mass to marvel at the grand church’s interior and to breathe in more incense than I would have liked (to be clear, I would have liked none) and then grabbed a cocktail at the Sorrento. 

 

All perfect. (Okay, the church stop still mystifies, but I’m a commendably compliant follower.) As we wandered our way back to the car, I mentioned writer Ross Gay whose Book of Delights I’ve been reading, one flash essay per day, for the past few months. The author had made a passing reference to “The Sound of Music,” a movie he hadn’t seen and indicated he would likely never see, no reason given. When I’d read it, I was aghast. Like it, feel lukewarm about it or outright hate it, who skips at least one viewing of the von Trapp tale? Then, I checked myself. Ross Gay is Black. “The Sound of Music” couldn’t be whiter with Julie Andrews, The Baroness, that “Do(e), a deer” song and the flowering alpine landscapes of Austria and Switzerland. Why would it be a must-see for him? 

 

As I shared my thoughts, Evan broke into singing “The Lonely Goatherd” in a pitch-perfect bass. It brought back foggy memories of a birthday party my parents hosted for me when I was young. With a hand-drawn set on construction board and a theatrical curtain apparatus, they performed scenes from “The Frog Prince,” maneuvering some borrowed marionettes (From where? It never entered my six-year-old mind. Magic just happens, right?)

 

Evan’s spontaneous serenading was just as magical. I never sing in front of him (or anyone), for good reason, and he has rarely sung anything around me. He sang because he was happy. We’d had a great day.

 

And then I ruined it.

 

As Evan yodel-ay-dee, yodel-ay-dee hoo’d with abandon, a man approached. I don’t recall how I did it, but I shushed Evan. Suddenly aware of our place in public, I imposed my long-ingrained reserved nature on him. I didn’t go well. Nor should it have. I’d taken a firehose and extinguished his joy. 

 

Since then, I’ve tried to figure out why I reacted as I did. Part of it is about how I grew up being gay and part of it is more generally about my upbringing. Despite the fact this is 2023 and I first came out thirty-eight years ago—though that process went on for years with a series of one-on-one announcements that were only dramatic reveals in my mind—I still have moments of wariness about being seen as unmistakably gay in public. Here Evan and I were, walking closely, perhaps even holding hands, with Evan singing the goat song from “The Sound of Music.” To the approaching man, there could have been no doubt we were a gay couple. 

 

Too often, I still feel the compulsion to tone down my identify. I don’t seek to fully mask it as I did in my teens, but the shame and the sense my gayness makes others feel disgust or general discomfort causes me to pivot. Make it harmless, unthreatening. Do nothing to incite homophobic hate. Having the approaching stranger mutter, “Faggots” as he passed would have ruined the moment. To my knowledge, the man did nothing to hint that he’d yell at us, spit in our faces or punch us. Indeed, I didn’t dare make eye contact. I seem to have adopted meekness as a survival mechanism. Despite a grand month of staged Pride each year, I still struggle to be proud. It’s there, but it’s fleeting. 

 

On the more general, non-gay front, I grew up in a Canadian family where standing out was some sort of infraction. My English grandmother believed everything had to be proper, even with respect to how she had teatime with the family dog. My father never asked for help with anything. Such would be a jarring imposition. Restraint was the encouraged mode of being. Rules about when we could have a mint from the candy dish (by invitation only) and how many cookies constituted dessert (never more than two) could never be broken. It’s not that there were dire consequences. My siblings and I just did what we were told. (Sometimes being a compliant follower can be troubling.) 

 

I only have to observe my brother and sister as adults to confirm how I was raised. Neither speaks unless spoken to. My sister mumbles at best, eye contact fleeting. I can’t even describe my brother’s way of conversing. From what I recall, he only talks when my sister-in-law cues him. His words seem to disappear as they mix with the air. Both my siblings married outgoing, chatty spouses who serve as the wedded spokespersons. 

 

I could elaborate, but that little share seems depressing and messed up enough. The takeaway is that I need to focus more on breaking from my past. Maybe my next bedroom dance session will be to a certain Taylor Swift song. If only giving myself a shake did the trick. I may become more aware of my excess of reserve, but I’m not sure how to cut it off or redirect it when it’s instilled in me, its presence showing up as an automatic reflex. 

 

I hope another time will come when Evan will feel inspired to serenade me with a silly song. Let my nature not get in the way of a spontaneous yodel-ay-dee ho. Let his joy become my joy.

 

 

 

  

JUST DANCE

Being in a relationship, I learn plenty about myself. I don’t give my routines and preferences much thought when I’m on my own, but then a Plus One comes along and labels my habits “quirky.” I wish more of those moments were noted with a tone that regarded me as some precious gem, a true original to marvel at. Typically, however, my atypical tendencies elicit a frowny squint and a thought bubble hovering over his head: “Why?” 

 

I don’t need to offer examples. I don’t want to feel your virtual frowns or have to block your virtual messages to my boyfriend: “Run, Evan, run!”

 

I’m an acquired taste. Not everyone loves liver either.

 

So it was nice yesterday morning when me just being me garnered a smile. He was in the bathroom, doing some bathroom thing, I don’t know, probably primping his already perfect hair, testing its bounce or making it rise two percent higher, and I’d figured it would be a while. (We are both hair-obsessed so that’s a whole realm left off the Quirk List, thank god.) I’d switched from scrolling Twitter, searching fruitlessly for a vegan breakfast pic or an “I’m on an African safari and you’re not” photo to like and instead moseyed over to YouTube. I’d typed in Barry White and selected “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Babe,” a snippet of which I’d heard the night before as we watched “You People” on Netflix, Evan reduced to snoring through the last twenty minutes. (One body turn, a blanket tug, wait three seconds and, Hello, Dreamland. It’s a habit that draws pure envy from me instead of annoyance.) 

 

A snippet was not enough. (Is it disco by default just because it’s catchy, danceable and from the ’70s?) I needed the full song to acknowledge the lingering earworm, to let the tune fully embody my being. I turned up the volume on my laptop, ruing the fact that bonkers high stereos are a relic that peaked shortly after Barry White’s chart prime. The laptop sound system would suffice. My arms lifted, my feet clomped in search of the beat and my hips swayed. I smiled and lip synced along, not wanting my off-key gargling to detract from Mr. White’s distinct bass which I hadn’t fully appreciated as a kid. Barry’s deep voice, like that of Marvin the Martian, freaked Tween Me out. Maybe it was on account of being raised in an environment of women’s voices—my mother, every primary school teacher and Karen Carpenter. Apologies, Barry. You’re a true marvel now. (Marvin the Martian? Still makes me shudder.) 

 

I danced. Bedroom dancing has always brought bliss. It’s one of my most uninhibited forms of expression, away from judging eyes in a gay bar, no chance of knocking over someone’s gran at a wedding reception, no indignity from being denied service at a café after swaying “aggressively” when The Andrews Sisters pop up on their kitschy soundtrack. In the bedroom, it’s just me and the music.

 

Enter Evan.

 

He didn’t join in but neither did I stop. Barry still had a couple more cracks at the chorus and I needed to absorb all of it, the buildups, the rising beats and the sense that this was musical euphoria. Evan smiled and watched a little while going about his business, responding to a text, getting ready for brunch. And yet the song and the feeling added exclamations to the orchestrations as the moment went from Barry and me to Barry, Evan and me. I’d tossed any tendency to self-edit; I knew I was in a frown-free zone. The song’s joy became my joy and, I’d like to think, Evan’s joy, too. 

 

Dancing together is lovely. Dancing on my own (without the slightest Robyn-esque edge) in front of my guy can be just as grand. 

 

Some quirks are good.  

PALM SPRINGS CALLING

I’ve blogged before my concerns—fears, actually—regarding growing older. I currently have a partner and I feel like we’ll last, but sometimes it’s hard to shake the track record of relationships not lasting. Every so often, thoughts continue to pester my brain about the possibility of growing old alone. As an alternative, a queer nursing home may have some appeal for others and maybe even for me, provided it’s a no-Grindr zone. If we must stare at screens, let us boogie in our wheelchairs to Ricky Martin videos and trade the latest moose-in-someone’s-backyard clips.

 

I hope to never require nursing home care. Does anyone aspire to such an accommodation? If I’m alone and old, I might not realize I need it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. 

 

A looser kind of queer retirement community might have some merit. Separate homes, yards and fences to keep people at bay. Waves over hedges are underrated. Perhaps that’ll be all I’ll need. Someone waved at me today. I still exist. Go figure. 

 

It doesn’t have to be a gated neighborhood. Maybe it can be a whole town, full of gay folks but sprinkled with a few kids. By kids, I mean thirty-somethings. None of that crying in the candy aisle. They’ll still stock those jumbo bags of Smarties and Coffee Crisps, but we’ll buy them without any pretense of saving them for greedy goblins at our door on Halloween. 

 

Palm Springs comes to mind. Not fully queer, not entirely elderly, but enough old gays to make me feel like I’m not entirely alone. Maybe it has a café that plays Barry Manilow and Donna Summer before 7 a.m., before the young ‘uns stop in to grab a latte before a busy day of social media influencing. I can sit around with the other old gays wondering how that’s even a thing. I never managed to influence a boyfriend, much less a bunch of strangers scrolling through their phones.

 

In my five years living in Los Angeles, I never made my way to Palm Springs. It was long, long ago during my first years living as a less closeted young, gay man. I had zero desire to make the two-hour drive for a weekend getaway. It wasn’t on account of being ageist. Back then, I didn’t know of it as a haven for older gays. I might have enjoyed the kitsch of bumping into celebrities like Bob Hope and Phyllis Diller, even Sonny sans Cher. 

 

Two things served as a potent repellent. First, the heat. Temps often climb above 100 degrees. It’s in the desert, after all. I hate heat. The standard line pro-Palm Springers would offer was, “But there’s misters,” not meaning men who demand salutations but hose apparatuses spraying passersby on sidewalks with faint water clouds. Refreshing! No thank you. It sounded as lovely as being squirted by some clown’s pocket flower. Besides, all that heat and mist would create havoc with my very big head of hair. (Again, it was long, long ago.) Then there was the annual White Party which, as I recall, seemed to happen around Easter. As I understood it, the event was one long party over an extended weekend, lots of drugs, everyone clad in white, at least to the extent a thong clads a person at all. In the weeks leading up to the event, the gays packed my gym, bulking up between tanning sessions. White thongs are meant to show off ripped, tanned bodies. My perpetually ashen skin had no chance of ripping or tanning. Why would I want to spend a weekend feeling wholly less-than? A little time in West Hollywood did that plenty well. Palm Springs sounded like pure Hell, temperature and all.

 

Eventually I left sunny Southern California and retreated to Canada where pale skin doesn’t cause glare against gray skies and seasonably sensible parkas cover any lack of body toning. Pre-COVID, I traveled back to Los Angeles at least twice a year, but not once did I think of heading down the 10 to check out Palm Springs on a whim. Brutal L.A. traffic has a way of killing whims. 

 

Living in Vancouver, I dated two men who’ve since moved to Palm Springs. I’d like to think they had other reasons for leaving Canada. Still, it was a fortuitous move on their part. No chance I’d ever see them again. We could politely like occasional Facebook posts without them ever having to fret over some out-of-the-blue message from me: “Hey! I’m coming to Palm Springs for a week! Can I sack out on your sofa?” 

 

Still, both of them had mentioned the mid-century modern architecture in Palm Springs. Who knew? That had never come up in conversation with my then twenty-something friends who returned from the White Party with endless tales to tell of sex and gods as I focused on my fat-free frozen yogurt, topped with fresh berries, never something as indulgent as brownie bits or rainbow sprinkles. Modernism Week in February and a “mini” encore in the fall? That sounded appealing.

 

But still the heat and those silly misters. Palm Springs was never gonna happen.

 

Until it did. My visit didn’t even coincide with Modern Week. After Christmas, I embarked on a crazy road trip for a reason too crazy to explain, but it was enough to make me drive far enough to listen to a certain song by The Proclaimers—their only song?—422 times. (I didn’t though. Back pain and constant rain provided enough annoyance.) Driving from Vancouver, Phoenix was the destination. I made it. Purpose met. 

 

But then I had to do it all over again to get home. 

 

There was a moment when I thought of Googling how to ship the car back and then hopping on a plane from Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. Alas, I’m crazy but not crazy rich. At the very least, I needed an alternate driving route. 

 

First stop, Palm Springs. 

 

No heat. No misters. Turns out Palm Springs is perfectly pleasant in January. Okay, not perfectly but mostly. I got caught in a whoosh of rain and wind ten minutes into my late afternoon jog after checking into my budget motel. (I didn’t message either ex-boyfriend. Their sofas could remain safe zones.) I’d researched jogging routes and found one that served as a self-guided tour of many of the town’s posh mid-century modern homes. Gazing and gawking was compromised by having to dodge massive puddles and falling/flying palm fronds but still there was a retro-cool factor. Maybe I could live here, in winter if not the rest of the year.

 

We all dream a little when we travel.

 

To make things more enticing, I’d stumbled on a couple of swanky radio stations as I neared the town and while taking many wrong turns before finding the motel. (GPS was invented for people like me, but still I resist.) First came a grooved-up remix of Lionel Richie’s “Dancing on the Ceiling” on a station the deejay boldly announced as K-GAY. Yes, of course. The call letters were meant for Palm Springs. I switched stations when the fourth song turned out to be another grooved-up remix of a Lionel Richie song. Really? Lionel Richie? It wasn’t “Ballerina Girl,” but still I was Lioneled out so I landed on MOD-FM which lured me with a soft, jazzy song by Diane Schuur, “Alright, OK, You Win.” Palm Springs could muster up a slice of heaven, too.

 

The next morning, I got up before sunrise to do a nearby hike, an activity I love but I rarely do in winter back in British Columbia and the Pacific Northwest due to snow in the mountains and my reasonable wish not to make local news as someone who spends a frosty night in a crevasse, waiting to be saved by a search and rescue team. Besides, I like having all my toes and fingers. Hiking in Palm Springs would be a treat. I popped into a café on my way, Barry Manilow’s “Can’t Smile Without You” playing—I kid you not—as I waited for my iced oat milk latte. P.S., now you’re really messing with me! 

 

The little parking lot was empty when I pulled up by the trailhead. I could explore without human distraction. It felt good to slip on my hiking boots and set out on ruddy soil, walking between oversized versions of the kind of plant life only seen in terrariums back home. The rising sun made gave the landscape a golden glow. I snapped pics on my phone, giddy over the perfect lighting, no editing required. 

 

Unfortunately, the heavy rains from the previous evening had washed away all tracks, making the path uncertain. Whenever I glanced ahead at the land, dotted with cacti and knee-high desert bushes, I couldn’t tell what spaces between plants constituted a path and what ones were just, well, spaces. After a few trials and errors, including one “trail” that took me straight up a mountain only to disappear mid-ascent, requiring an undignified scramble back down, I climbed a different “trail” and spotted a picnic table at the top…a very good sign for a citified nature lover. I ambled on for an hour along a distinct path and then unknowingly wandered off-trail again in pursuit of a waterfall I’d read about the night before. Alas, my trek only took me to a gulch encased by pink boulders, a trickle of water probably nothing more than runoff from the storm. Midmorning now, the sun felt more intense, not enough to send sun-worshipping Palm Springs residents onto their pool decks with bottles of Coppertone coconut oil, but enough to worry a wayward, pale Canadian with a history of melanoma. 

 

As a person with a terrible sense of direction, I’ve been lost several times on hikes.  Once, while going solo in the Santa Monica Mountains, I got totally turned around and wound up on a rock ledge that I couldn’t figure out how to get down from with only animal bones to stare at as I waved up at a passing helicopter I could hear but not see. They were animal bones, weren’t they? Eventually, at dusk, I managed to slide down a slope on my butt and find my way back to my Malibu apartment on a mercifully deserted Pepperdine campus since it was winter break. I’ve gotten myself out of other panicked experiences, lost deep in B.C. forests. The nice thing about my Palm Springs hike was that the low vegetation meant that the town was always in view. I figured I’d make myself back on my own personalized pathway and Uber it back to the car. At the very worst, my pale skin would impersonate a red lobster for a few days before blistering and peeling away, the experience unsightly, maybe even gross, but nothing as bad as losing a few digits.   

 

The hiking debacle turned out not to be as dramatic as it momentarily seemed to be. I didn’t search the sky for helicopters, I never called nonsensically out for my mother and my butt only had one small patch of red dirt that couldn’t be swatted away. I didn’t have to Uber it. I didn’t even burn after tightening my hoodie to the point where there was only a narrow opening to peer out. 

 

Still, whatever allure had been building for living out my last years in Palm Springs had been lost, quite literally, I suppose. As I left town, the car radio segued from a Frank Sinatra song to a Metamucil commercial, followed by an ad about a local doctor specializing in elder medicine.  Mecca for older gays, sure. But I’ve always been one to opt for the road not taken.