At the turn of the millennium, queer folk everywhere tuned in weekly to watch Queer as Folk. In Season Two, the character Ted, maybe a little older, a little shyer, a little less gym-my than the rest, has a Pride to remember when an absolute god of a man picks him up from Babylon and takes him home for the fuck of his life. Ted of course is head over heels with excitement (after a night of being heels over head), because men like Troy, played by Lee Rumohr, do not take home men like Ted. Small wonder Ted is smitten and begins to plan a future for the two of them. Poor Ted, though. It turns out Ted is just Troy’s Pride Pity Fuck of 2002. Every year, the character explains, he finds a guy like Ted, a guy he would never normally look at, and gives them a gift: himself.
This wasn’t a new concept for me. One of the first rules I’d been taught by my gay elders at the time, back then in my days as a towel boy at the baths, was: every so often, when you’re young and hot, do a troll, because one day you’ll be a troll and want someone young and hot to do you. This was basically what Troy was doing. 2002 Me got this, especially given the character’s name was Troy; in 2002, they were always a Troy, or a Chad, or a Kyle, these shiny happy gay gods.
Back then, I wasn’t a Troy, that’s for sure. As Arnold says in Torchsong Trilogy, I’ve been young and I’ve been beautiful but never the twain have met. But I was, then, young, at least, and being an older gay man in a world of hard bodies and youthful stamina was a concept still unfathomable. Now, 2002 is a long time ago, and young is a word few would use to describe me, without a great big 90s NOT at the end. Troys become Teds, thats the inevitability of aging.
Now, on Queer As Folk, a few seasons later, Ted got his revenge on Troy, when the tables got turned, and Troy didn’t recognize him, and took him home, and it was Ted’s turn to break the heart. The irony there was that Troy had developed real feelings, a pure karmic comeuppance for a character written for us to hate, even as we yearned. (Yearning, I was recently told, is my gayest characteristic, and it’s defintiely true. I’ve been a yearner from the earliest days, when the focal point of that yearning was a girl with the golden curls named Cori; Cory, of course, is also one of those shiny happy names of 2002, which goes to prove Shakespeare’s what’s in a name?)
What prompted this early morning blog? Was it simply the Facebook memory reminder that on this day in 2022, an early morning Grindr message was brought to me by the miracle of Pride? I don’t remember who it was from, but clearly someone hot, someone, as we used to say, “out of my league.” Pride brings out the horniness, but it also brings out the loneliness. We are all looking for connection, even if its ephemeral and superficial; I’ve had intensely intimate connections that only lasted until sunrise.
In the meantime, whatever the shiny happy names of 2026 are, it’s Pride and I’m not too proud to not be available for your Pride Pity Fuck of the season.
My 49th year began with the unofficial kickoff of what would become a “two gay bar summer.” This was never something we had planned or even wanted; rather, it was a situation that circumstances forced us into, and we simply had to make the best of it. Looking back, for the most part, I think it was pretty great. Having two distinct spaces was a nice change for the city, even if it did prove to be a little financially ruinous for us.
The Evolution Game Changer
The introduction of the new Evolution was certainly a turning point this past year. Having a venue that was open seven days a week, one that offered a quieter atmosphere, opened earlier, and served food was a massive shift.
On a Personal Level: It allowed me to reconnect with a bunch of people from my 25 years in Edmonton—people I had lost touch with simply because they didn’t have a reason to frequent the old space.
On a Professional Level: It allowed us to collaborate with community organizations in ways that just weren’t possible before in the basement space, which was incredibly rewarding. Shout outs to RaricaNow for a packed house during Trans Day of Remembrance and to Curling with Pride for book-ending our two gay bar summer with being the first group to host an event at the new space and then having their bonspiel on what was closing weekend at the old.
Farewell to 103rd Street
The final summer and fall of the old space was obviously a massive professional chapter of my 49th year. A lot of history happened in that basement bar on 103rd Street over the 12 years we were there—most good, some bad. Because of that, the transition brought a lot of bittersweet moments, especially as summer began turning into fall.
Before the autumn chill hit, summer brought another successful Drag Me to the Midway—my fourth one. And now, as my 49th year ends and my 50th begins, plans are already well underway for Drag Me to the Midway 2026. (Announcements next weekend!)
The October Crunch and Jet-Setting
As that fall continued, Evolution hit its 12th anniversary, and we were thrilled to welcome ChiChi back up, which is always a pleasure. However, by mid-September, the financial toll and physical exhaustion of running two spaces, bouncing back and forth, and simultaneously tearing down one room to transition to the next was weighing very heavily on me.
That energy shifted in October when the reality finally clicked for everyone: Oh, hey, this bar is actually closing. If we want to see it, this is our last chance. October and early November became a whirlwind of activity as the city came out to say goodbye to the basement bar on 103, right before we made the final transition to 115.
My attention during that massive transition was a little diluted, however, because I was gone for a good chunk of October. Long before we had a concrete timeline for the relocation, I had booked a massive trip to the other side of the world—and once those moving dates locked in, the trip was completely un-reschedulable.
October 2025 kicked off with a quick in-and-out trip to Montreal to see my boy Shawn Mendes on tour. And then I barely got back to Edmonton before I was off to Egypt. My 10 days along the Nile with my “pink camel club” from Detours Travel was truly life-changing. I sometimes fancy myself to be a writer, but this writer certainly didn’t have enough superlatives to describe the truly epic scale of the pyramids, the Sphinx, and the tombs—that ancient culture straddling the Nile for life as the desert assails it on all sides. Reflecting on that imagery now, it feels like a fitting metaphor for my life sometimes.
Following Egypt, I spent four days in Athens. Even though it was my first time in Greece—and I could have easily been as overwhelmed by the antiquities there as I was by those across the Mediterranean—it functioned more as a pause. It was a moment to reflect on what I had just experienced, and a vital breath to take before running headfirst into the storm awaiting me at home.
The Final Curtain and The Basement Pivot
As soon as my boots hit the ground in Edmonton, it was immediately into Halloween, which was followed by the final nights of EVO on 103rd Street. Closing out a venue where I had just spent 12 years of my life made for a truly amazing final weekend.
Then came the immediate pressure of the relaunch. The big question hanging over us was: Would the 103 basement crowd actually come to the shiny new space?
The answer was yes, they did—but with a twist. After years of the community collectively saying it was time for gay bars to finally move out of basements, a lot of them immediately lamented the loss and missed the subterranean vibe. True to form, even though it wasn’t in the original plans, we pivoted to give the people what they wanted and created a basement space at the new location.
It wasn’t perfect by the time it opened on New Year’s Eve, and honestly, it still isn’t. Timelines, budgets, and physical space limitations are always a factor. But we did what the bar has always done: our absolute best to give the community the space they want.
Identity, Inertia, and Looking Toward 50
Looking back at this entire entry, I find it incredibly telling that a post supposed to be a personal birthday reflection ends up being so overwhelmingly about EVO. The truth is, whatever balance I had spent years struggling to find between my personal life and professional commitments was completely undone over the last 12 months. It was a necessity; it had to happen that way to get us through, and I don’t regret it. But finding that equilibrium again is an absolute priority and a definitive goal as I step into year 50.
For the first time in a long time, the horizon ahead doesn’t hold a massive travel plan. There is no Europe, no Africa, not even a quick trip to New York on the books—largely because the state of the world feels heavier right now than it ever has. I’ve found myself talking to a lot of people lately about the contrast of the 1990s. Back then, it genuinely felt like humanity was moving in the right direction, like we were steadily closing the gap toward an era of global peace. Today, that optimism has never felt further from the truth.
But to bring it back to the immediate reality, the final months of my 49th year were ultimately more of the same: creating space for connection, working on my own connections while actively fighting not to let my own mental illness derail them, and living in a constant state of anxiety over whether what I’m doing, or how I’m doing it, is still right, valid, or worthwhile. Because as this entire reflection makes configurationally clear, there is virtually no separation between what I do and who I am. If what I am doing is no longer appreciated or needed, it is terrifyingly easy to feel like who I am is no longer appreciated or needed either.
That’s a heavy moment to end with, and we have enough heavy moments. And I’m not ending this post, nor this year, on that heavy a moment. I sit here instead in the Six, for a reset. We all need resets. Not massive do-overs, just… draining the tub and refilling it.
Final Thoughts
My whole life has been a quest for connection. This year, I was able to reconnect with so many truly lifelong friends. This year, I met so many new people, many of whom I will be honored to have part of my life for years to come. There was so much joy, so much found family—and yes, also loss and grief. But the depth of that grief is only because of the depth of the love. And that depth of love is something I end my forty-ninth year profoundly grateful for.
Inspiration is worth the price of a subscription. More, even.
Because that “green circle” Close Friends shot was just half-assed. Literally—full pictures. Him squatted down, legs spread, back arched. That image was only available for an additional donation to his PayPal or Venmo.
There have been other asses. Real asses—tasted and tongued asses. Massive, meaty asses like this one where no leg day was skipped, or smaller ones like tight globes that fit into a poem. This one is special, though. An ass meant for worship.
I get down on the cold, grimy floor and Cobra-pose myself to it—to savor, to suckle like Maureen under that swollen udder. Hands reaching under thighs like tree trunks, and back around to part the cheeks. Moses and the parting of the Red Cheeks, revealing a promised land of milk and honey. The silky, sweet hole of this beautiful Broadway dancer.
There are other asses as perfectly proportioned, sculpted by the gym as if by the gods themselves—asses of which Michelangelo himself never dared dream. But when you see him dance, the grace and passion of his sweaty movement flowing to the music makes the body so much sexier. I’d lower him off the pedestal I’ve placed him on, only to lower him onto my face.
I’d offer him my hunger like he’s the wolf with the red roses. I place my hunger on the altar, burning it like incense and sacrifice. Let that hunger consume me. The last meal of the condemned. A Last Supper. This is his body I eat.
Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus…
And I the petty man who walks under his huge legs, wait for his moment of rest. When he drops down, he traps my head beneath thighs that ripple—every muscle quivering, pushing the air from my body until I have to laugh at his whole self. It’s like I’m licking my way to oxygen, fervently, feverishly, frantically feasting upon him.
He’s younger than me (who isn’t?), but I’d attack his wholeness with the fervor of a younger man. His fountain would restore my youth. Who knew that his Instagram green circle was the treasure map by which I’d discover such booty to plunder? Or that even the dreams of that booty would jumpstart inspiration?
Doesn’t it always, though? How many hundreds of pages do I scribble in bathhouses? When I die, leave me as I lived: buried in his ass.
Future Rob: This entry was brought to you by N**********
You showed up on my Grindr again. Seeing your beautiful face is never a bad thing, but in this case, you’ve been gone nearly two months now. I was deep-diving into my starred profiles, and I hadn’t toggled Online, and there you were: a reminder that we now live in a world without you. How far do I have to swipe to reach the past? How fast do I have to swipe to turn back time and say the things unsaid?
Do I leave you starred in Favorites? It would mean seeing you, there, anytime until Grindr removes the profile. But unstarring you feels weird too. Final. Sure, starring you in the first place was maybe weird, because we were friends and its Grindr, but we weren’t “can’t risk ruining the friendship” level friends. Leaving you starred though feels like a recipe for marinating in the possibility. And the possibilities are done.
You won’t be the last and sadly won’t be the first. I can pop over to Scruff and see Ryan’s dimples and abdominals anytime I want. And it’s not just hook-up apps. The numbers remain in my phone – untextable – and then suddenly Snapchat lets me know that my contact Deborah has created a new account; her phone number’s already been given out. The profiles remain on my social media, saving of course those truly unfortunate moments where someone passes during a social media cleanse; those temporarily-deactivated profiles, like the people they represent, are gone forever. But maybe it’s not a legal name on their profile anyway, and it can’t be memorialized, and eventually it will start popping up ads for Raybans or Crypto — but I still won’t want to delete it. To delete you. Because under the hack, there’s the pictures, the memories, the messages we shared, and I’d never want to lose them the way I lost you.
Grief in this age of technology is bizarre. There’s extra layers of complication. There’s new nuance to navigate. Maybe it’s not any harder. What can be harder than the hardest thing ever anyway? Maybe it’s easier in a way, giving some online immortality to people who simply logged off before us. But I saw you on Grindr last night, and god, I just wanted to be able to tap hello.
It was Annie, if there were five Annies (six in the premiere). It was Glee, in the 60s. It was Rags to Riches, and it ran on NBC for two glorious seasons in the late 80s. Every Sunday night, you’d find me and my brother and sister glued to the TV watching – and recording it on VHS to watch the episodes over and over again. A Beverly Hills millionaire named Nick Foley adopts a handful of orphan girls to rehabilitate his image, and they sing… about everything… all the time.
But Rob, you might be asking, its all girls. How did this make you gay? Was it simply because of the presence of the iconic Tisha Campbell of Little Shop of Horrors fame? You’d think so, but no. For me, it was the beautiful blonde Diane, played perfectly by Bridget Michele. Every gay boy finds a diva to fall in love with and for me, it was her. She was, simply, stunning, and absolutely heart-wrenching for ten-year-old me as I watched her quest for love and get her heart broken.
That resonated. At the time, my heart was being broken nearly daily. I was only ten, eleven, twelve, but I had already mastered the dramatics of the adolescent gay. Ironically, or perhaps just not-so-coincidentally, the girl in charge of breaking my heart consistently at the time was also a sparkling blonde (shout out to Cori!).
Diane Foley collected many a man in the short run of the show, including the handsome lifeguard Sean played by Ken Olandt, and the Duke, played by Sasha Mitchell shown below, long before his time on Step by Step or the spousal abuse that followed.
I’m a sucker for a handsome face, as much now as I apparently was in the fall of 1987, but even still, I’m not sure it was Diane’s teenager in love that pushed me towards the closet door. Sure, my fascination with her bevy of beautiful beaus definitely should have been an inkling that I was not like other boys. But I think the part of Rags to Riches that really made me a big old gay was the musical numbers. These weren’t Broadway ballads like tomorrow. These were huge pop hits of the 50s and 60s, often with lyrics changed to suit the plot. They were catchy and costumed and choreographed.
Angst? Check. Drama? Check. Hot men? Double check. Add on show-stopping performances, and this show was a recipe for delight for a small prairies gay boy like me.
Do you remember this show? What media made you gay? Do you understand why Diane’s fashion was giving 80s realness in a show set in 1963? Chime in, in the comments.
No one is groomed into being gay… but there’s definitely some media moments that can nudge a gay kid out of the closet. This new series deep dives into a few of those for me.
The Mighty Hercules was an animated kids show from the early 60s that ran for 128 episodes. Each episode was only a few minutes, and I think they got tacked on to the end of other kids’ shows in the 80s as an extra mini-adventure. I can almost see myself sitting there cross-legged, dangerously close to a TV with rabbit ears, bowl of Fruit Loops in my lap, entranced by the mythological adaptation before me.
Well, by that and by Herc’s physique. This has to have been my earliest encounter with “the gay gaze”. Years later, in Florence, I stood there looking at Michaelangelo’s David the same way younger me sat there gazing up at this man, descending from Olympus, the wind blowing up his tunic to reveal not only those massive thighs, but just a hint more side butt than was probably appropriate.
It could have been the stories that kept me watching, because I loved Greek myths even before I borrowed D’aulaires Greek Myths from my school library and kept it for weeks, until the librarian actively hunted me down to get me to return it. No, I suspect there was another reason that had me gazing up at my screen like Newton gazing up at his demigod friend.
Hercules? More like Hunkules.
There was a strength and a masculinity there that resonated inside me. It was something missing from the 90s Disney version. It was the first time I probably began to grapple with the issue common to so many gay boys: is this something I yearn to be, or just someone I yearn to be with? And even now, many many moons later, that’s a question I sometimes grapple with. I know who I am now, and am mostly comfortable in my own skin, but a muscular thigh and a well-formed pectoral? I’m glad (I’m glad) to have (to have) a friend like that
Did you watch this show? Did your heart flutter like Hercules’ tunic? Chime in, in the comments.
I don’t know what happens when we die. Likely, nothing. That’s cold though, and no consolation as the body count builds. More and more these days, I find too many conversations centered around the inevitability of death, around the privilege of growing older (a privilege denied to too many), and around the grief that collects like water behind a dam.
And I find myself needing to hold onto something else.
There was a 1990 movie called Longtime Companion, about a group of friends in the 80s and the onset of the AIDS epidemic. The beautiful ensemble cast gets whittled down as the virus ravages their friend group. The beaches of Fire Island feel very different as people keep disappearing. The film ends with them wondering what it will be like when they finally find a cure, and to the sound of “Post-Mortem Bar”, suddenly the beach fills up again, with all those they’ve lost, alive again, healthy again, young and beautiful and filled with joy again.
It’s an ending we have seen in other places. Think Rose dropping the heart of the ocean into the water before dying, and she’s back on board the Titanic, and they’re all there waiting for her, Jack at the clock, hand outstretched. Or Sam and Dean reuniting on the bridge at the end of Supernatural. These moments in media are powerful because they represent what we all need – reconnection.
It’s not enough for our lives to flash before our eyes before we go, whether that’s a slow-motion fall through memories or a rapid-fire sensory overload of every thing we’ve ever done. No, what we need is the sense that when it’s time to leave, we will find ourselves again with all of those we’ve lost.
I can see it now. It’s a crowded dance floor at Insert Gay Bar here. The song that is playing is That One, the one we all know, the one we can all sing every word to, the one that cannot play without a smile lighting up every face in the room. And every face is there. Every face we’ve ever known. Every face we’ve ever kissed. Every face we’ve ever loved.
There is no pain. No jealousy. No drama. The people that betrayed us? Those betrayals are healed. The people we betrayed? We are forgiven. The people we failed, the ones who failed us? Here, on this final dance floor, there is no past anchoring us in place. Here, we fly. Here, we are free. Here is only the love that lifted us out of the darkest times, the love we shouted from the rooftops, the love we whispered in the shadows, the love we never dared to speak. Here, it is all loud. Here, it is all felt.
We are washed away of all the grief. We are washed clean of all the anger. We are washed free of all the hurt. We are all golden. We are glowing. And we are all together again. There, in a frozen dance floor moment when the disco ball is spinning, the colors are vibrant, the song is on repeat and we will never tire of it. The lights are bright and its bloody brilliant and beautiful and it’s ours. Together. Forever. Again.
Close your eyes. See it with me now. This future moment, that’s maybe not so futuristic after all. It could be tomorrow. We are all here on borrowed time. Things change in a flash. But see that flash! Hear the bass. You can’t not sway. And your hands are in the air, and you’re surrounded by the purest. Close your eyes.
I talk a lot about my GAY history, but one thing I don’t often write about is my GUY history.
Today, I found out someone I used to see every week passed away last month. Motivated to find a certain picture of him from “back in the day”, I deep dove into a folder that I think many of us have, even though most probably wouldn’t own up to it. Even as I type that, I’m not sure I’ll ever hit PUBLISH on this one.
Because you see, there’s a folder that I’ve copied from one computer to another for years before sticking it in an online photo storage service and letting it collect cyber dust. In that photo, there’s a collection of boys I thought were beautiful, right-clicked and saved off gay.com or Nexopia or dudesnude, back in the days before there were thousands of pictures of everyone all over everywhere. In these pics, they’re still beautiful, because that’s what a picture does: freeze frame captures of a simpler time.
Maybe it’s creepy, this folder, but they’re postcards from my past. Keepsakes of the boys I crushed on, the boys that crushed me. The Ice Princess, the Lifeguard, the shiny happy twins. A gay.dom date that was great. A gay.com that wasn’t. The flight attendant from Toronto. The straight bartender from Play. The other straight bartender from Play. The ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend, pictured with his now ex-boyfriend. The models from my magazine. The Buddys VIP card pics of a few boys I thought were just the MOST beautiful. It’s mostly faces. Well. And butts. A lot of butts. But mostly, a collection of faces lost in time, before the ravages of age and alcoholism and meth and failing health.
But there, in that folder, they’re still young and beautiful. Always young and always beautiful. They’re low-res and grainy and too many have the Nexopia logo in the bottom corner. I can look at the folder, and I’m teleported back to a time before life lifed them the way life always does. I probably did tell them all that I thought they were beautiful, but never enough. Especially for the ones I can never say it to again.
Take a thousand pictures. Tell people you think they’re beautiful.
And if you have a folder that you stored a younger me in, thank you for seeing something I never saw.
When I came up to Calgary from Lethbridge in June ’97 for my first parade, well, let’s just say I wish I remembered more. The vodka was freely flowing the night before at Boystown, and a boy with icy blue eyes kept me up late, and the parade is a blur. I do know that my intended spectator-only status was derailed when said boy with blue eyes beckoned me from the group he was marching with and suddenly I found myself in a parade.
That wouldn’t be the last time.
In fact, by 2003, I was part of the group planning the parade, in a year that got derailed by the vilest transphobia, in a year that half the board up and quit within three months of the parade, in a year that sent myself scrambling to keep everything on track while emergency recruits like Mickey and Arron and Murray kept the society sound – and got us a much-overdue proclamation from then Mayor Smith.
My last time in a parade was 2014, when EVO was celebrating its first Edmonton pride. Then, the parade was downtown, right on 102 Avenue at the bar, and our circus float cheered so loudly as we rolled by the bar we were still just newly calling home. Torrential rain followed.
The parade then moved across the river and for a few reasons, we opted out of participating, although I was super honored to be asked to help judge the entries one year. Edmonton’s parade in 2019 was cancelled and while I do suspect it would have come back the next year, 2020 had different plans for Edmonton and the world.
Here we are five years past that now, and the new group running Pride Fest has taken the important first steps to bring back the parade. I sat down with Michael Phair and CTV a few weeks back to talk about the history of our parade and what the return means. Making this post mostly just as a way to share that link, because, you know, Meta gonna Meta
Read it here and read more about the history of Edmonton Pride here
Twice last week I was asked, “why do you do it, EVO, gay bars, why?” This was after conversations about the changing nature of gay nightlife, the ongoing and eternal combination of construction and crime, the $20,000 in vandalism the new space has been hit with in just four months, and all the other headaches of owning a business that aren’t unique to gay bars and that any other business owner can understand.
Jokingly I replied, well, it’s not for the money, that’s for sure. The days are gone when a gay club was a license to print money. Those days left when the rest of the world began to accept gay people safely into their spaces, and the need for gay bars began to get watered down. Half-jokingly, I also replied, what else would I do, fifty is too late to start over.
My standard, more serious answer though is that yes, there’s lots of problems and stress and it can very much feel like pushing a boulder up a hill without ever reaching the top, but when it works, it works. There are nights when the vibes are right, when the crowd is right, when the music is right, and when the problems that usually happen just for whatever reason don’t, and you’re standing in the DJ booth and looking out at a sea of people, and they’re glowing. The space is glowing. It is a golden moment that any nightlife entrepreneur knows.
Gay bars just aren’t any nightlife though, I will add, whenever I am asked that question. Pop up events may be dominating the scene in many cities, but for a visiting queer, they don’t know what straight bar on what night is safe for them to cruise and connect. They need the gay space. For someone just coming out, who’s always felt different, who’s never been in a space where they’re the majority, they need the gay space.
That’s all true, and that’s why it’s still #yourgaybar even though it might make more sense to just be a community pub, with less potential gay stigma. That’s why the pride flag is still in a window, even though that window keeps getting smashed. Because the cost of replacing that window is still less than the cost of changing what and who we are.
But, those answers, while true, aren’t necessarily the truth of why *I* do it. My journey into gay nightlife began 26+ years ago when I moved back to Edmonton from Lethbridge and sought a gay job, any gay job, as a means to re-create the connection and community I had found in Lethbridge. But even that isn’t “truth.” No, the truth goes back a lot further.
Picture it. Fort Saskatchewan (population 12, 500, circa mid 80s). Whatever popular was, I was the opposite. I was an overachieving teacher’s pet, with really only one good friend, and I spent most Monday mornings listening to everyone talk about their wild and wonderful weekends, parties I wasn’t part of. I was awkward as fuck, and probably only partly because I was deeply in a closet that I didn’t even have language to define. I was desperate to fit in, to be the life of the party.
Zoom ahead 20 years, skipping past some Roost dancefloor moments that reinforced the awkwardness of that kid (Jazzy, play Cyndi Lauper ‘You Don’t Know Where You Belong’). The year is 2005. I have carved out a niche for myself in Edmonton nightlife, even though my recent attempt at a monthly magazine has failed, as has my marriage. I am managing Buddys at its absolute height, as the Roost starts its descent from its decade and more dominating Edmonton gay nightlife. All the friends of my first few years have essentially deserted me, because they’re loyal to their bars, and Buddys is not theirs. No, in 2005, Buddys is, very much, mine. From sailor parties to Stardust Lounges, through an endless parade of twinks competing in an endless variety of amateur nakedness. I’ve got a hot boyfriend, and I’ve got a hot job, and I realize this is what that long forgotten kid wanted. I’m the host of the party everyone wants to be at. When all these people start their Monday mornings, they’re telling tales of their weekend shenanigans at the parties I was throwing.
It didn’t last, of course. In the end, very little lasts. But the moments of gold stay gold, even two decades later. You might think you know the answer now, to the question that started this Wednesday ramble. For 2005, read 2025, and for Buddys, read EVO, and of course it seems obvious: hosting the party everyone wants to be at. And that’s not… untrue… but the deeper truth is: I hold on, in 2025, to that moment in 2005, because it’s still 1985 and I just want everyone to be at my party.
So maybe EVO needs me because I’m the face of it all, but I need it, too. Maybe I do do a balance sheet every party where I add up the people there and subtract the people who chose not to be as if the sum I eventually reach has something to do with my inherent worth as a person, but I also know that there’s hundreds of people who will still spend a Monday morning reviewing their weekend, or their life of weekends, and I’ll be there, maybe in the background, maybe in the shadow, but part of their life. And even if I’m not front and center in their moments of gold, maybe I helped make those moments happen for them.
