The Trip

BY: JASON RAYNER

Bon Voyage, Friends!

At the time of posting, I’ll be a few hours away from boarding a plane and heading to Europe for 32 days. The trip will take me to Paris for a few days, Barcelona for a few weeks, and then I’ll hit up Munich, Prague, and Berlin. Some of the trip will be work focused, some of it will be with other people, and a portion will be entirely alone. 

In theory, it sounds like the kind of antidote your friend from Deb from HR shares on their Facebook page - you know, the kind of graphic with cursive text over a bunch of clouds saying “Travel more, live more”. And to some degree, it is. I’m absolutely clamouring for the chance to sit in a Paris cafe and pretend to smoke a long cigarette while writing. Or sitting on a patio in Barcelona, sipping amazing wine while working diligently. Or finding love with a handsome German gentleman that I meet on the dancefloor of a Berlin club. 

Obviously I’m excited. 

But also, I’m terrified. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware that most of the things that scare me are nerves and rooted in irrationality. Yet, as I’ve been getting closer to the trip, I’ve had the same fears running through my head. 

First, I’m realizing how long a month really is. I initially chose a month because it sounded whimsical and romantic. Now, as I get closer - as in hours away, I worry how prepared I actually am. What if all the work I’ve been doing on DuoLingo has been in vain and I understand nothing? Do I actually have enough money? What is I get lost one day and can’t find my way back and don’t know how to ask for help because DuoLingo failed (because apparently in my nightmare state WiFi in Europe doesn’t exist)? What if I get lonely and need my support system (valid but again, I seem to have forgotten about the internet)?

Another portion of my fear comes from me spending a very small portion of the trip alone in Barcelona - a city I’ve actually been to before. In theory, the idea of spending a portion of time in the city and acting as if I actually live there has always been something I’ve wanted. So much so that I’ve even flirted with the idea of moving abroad on a work visa. Then, earlier this summer, I was on a work trip in Montreal where I spent a week alone. I was doing pretty well until my last day, where I suddenly felt trapped, desperately wanting to get home (never mind the fact that the day after I landed I started a brand new six week contract that I knew would take up all of my time).  

Then I worry because I’m an extravert and at some point, I’m going to go crazy craving human interaction (because somehow I’ve forgotten that ¾ of the trip will in fact, be with other humans). 

Mostly I’m worried this trip isn’t going to live up to the crazy standards I’ve placed on it. I’m worried that I’m going to leave for a month and nothing will change - because for some reason, I’ve told myself that this has to be transformative. If I don’t have an Eat, Pray, Love experience, then I’m going to let myself down (There is obviously no pray component in play, although I can confidently predict that I will also have a hard time fitting into my clothes after all of the food I will consume and devour). 

It’s a weird thing that we do as humans. Even when exciting opportunities arise, we find ways to stress ourselves out instead of just focusing on the exciting and positive. 

The truth is, I need this trip. I need to break my patterns, and that includes making a list of ways that a trip will disappoint me before I even go on it. 

What I need from this trip is the opportunity to focus on myself. The last year and a half I’ve felt like I’ve been at an amusement park, going from ride to ride, but not really paying attention to what I’m actually doing. I go from job to job, experience to experience, creating the same bad habits, and pushing my problems to the periphery where I can conveniently ignore them. Things like dealing with why I haven’t had a boyfriend in four years, or my tediously constant struggles with body image, or what it means to be an only child with only one living parent. 

This trip isn’t going to solve these things, especially the ones that are particularly heavy. I do however, hope that removing myself from the patterns I’ve created in Toronto, I can actually focus on spending time with myself, and maybe even gain a few tools to help me eventually conquer these issues.

And if not, then at least I can ensure that I sit in a Paris cafe and pretend to smoke a long cigarette while writing. Or sitting on a patio in Barcelona, sipping amazing wine while working diligently. Or finding love with a handsome German gentleman that I meet on the dancefloor of a Berlin club (that one is a stretch but hey, maybe I can try to maifest it!). 

Or, I don’t know, maybe take a few deep breaths and just have a really good fucking time.

Dear Cis Straight (White) Women,

BY: JASON RAYNER

Dear Cis Straight (White) Women,

There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a while now. Something that initially seemed harmless but has grown to be a bit of - well…a problem. I’d like to to discuss your recent behaviour in gay bars.

I’m sure there is already a fair share of you reading this that are formulating an opinion on what I have to say. Please, stay with me and read through this. Because in most cases, I appreciate your presence in gay bars. I just think we need to talk about what being an ally in a queer space actually entails.

Of course, this is also a generalization. I know this isn’t all of you. And yes, I’m kind of singling out cis straight white women (let’s call them CS(W)W) because honestly, they are who make up the largest group I would like to address. They also tend to be blonde women that go by names like Lindsay or Kaylee, but I think that might just be a really strange coincidence.

This is to the CS(W)W who show up to the gay bar without any of their queer friends. This is to the CS(W)W at the gay bar who push past me (often quite aggressively; which I don’t understand - it’s not like they’re giving away free drinks or commemorative key chains) so that they can get to the front of the drag show. This is to the CS(W)W that are on the packed dance floor, elbows out and pushing other people, screaming that they don’t have enough room to dance, even though the space is jam packed and everyone is kind of just jostling from side to side awkwardly. This is to the CS(W)W who go dancing in a large group without any queer friends, usually on a stage or riser or really anywhere else that makes you the center of attention, and grab random gay men and begin to grind on them, touching various parts of their bodies because there is no sexual attraction, therefore you believe it is safe. This is especially to the CS(W)W who show up with their bachelorette parties, and while I know it’s unintentional, you treat the whole event like a fun novelty where the queens on stage and patrons of the bar are simply accessories and good Instagram stories.

These are just some of the now common occurrences I’ve been seeing when I’ve been out at gay bars lately.

Everyone is welcome at a gay bar, that goes without saying. Some of my fondest memories involve me being a young queer at a gay bar surrounded by my closest straight girlfriends. I’m lucky enough to be able to even share that space with straight male friends, which is pretty incredible. It’s just, well...I hate to break this to you but...as a cis straight person - you are a guest at our party.

I am very aware that the bar scene around the city is gross if you’re a female. I’m also aware that I have (white) male privilege and I cannot accurately understand how frustrating and scary it must be to deal with straight men approaching you like they are entitled to your attention. Toxic masculinity is a shit show and comes out in spades in bar culture, and sometimes you want to be able to get drunk and dance with your friends. A gay bar can seem like a safer refuge, and that is fair. Going to a gay bar and taking ownership over the space however, is not the answer. It is invoking your heterosexual privilege, demanding that you get priority over the community that the space was created for. More importantly, going to a gay bar without any queer friends is never the answer. The space we have carved out at gay bars is more than just a night out for us.

The mere existence of a gay bar is political. They are a safe space. They are a place where we can see ourselves, where we can meet other queer folk, where we can dance freely without worrying about being judged. We can consensually kiss who we want, we can be affectionate with our partners (or if you’re me, more likely a stranger), we can fall in love, and depending on the bar, we can get sexual. All in public. We have created a space to do this safely. These are freedoms that even in the best of times, even in a city like Toronto, feel limited outside the walls of a gay bar.

The reason there is no such thing as a “straight bar” is because every other bar and space is automatically given the inherent privilege of cisgender heteronormativity. It’s that heteronormativity that makes a queer like me afraid to go dance somewhere outside the village because, even if there is a special gay night at a west end bar, I still have to worry that some bro named Doug is going to call me or my friends a fag on our way home. It’s why even walking down a street with a partner outside of the village, I have to think twice about holding hands with him. I never know how safe I am. Even as a cis white gay male, which I would be very ignorant to not acknowledge comes with a certain amount of privilege within the gay community, I still feel like I have to navigate my queerness around the city. It’s a constant negotiation, and one that I’m sure most if not all queer people also have to reconcile on a regular basis.

Most importantly, please be aware of how you interact with other gay men. Just like you, sometimes I just want to dance with my friends, and if I’m going to get pulled into a grinding situation, I want it to be a consensual experience with a sexy man who is cross between Antoni from Queer Eye and Adam Rippon. If I do end up kissing a cutie, please do not tell me how hot we look. It’s creepy and inappropriate. Oh, and most importantly, if you are there to watch something harmless and fun like a Best Ass contest, do not run to the front and start smacking the asses of the participants (again, these aren’t wild scenarios, these are actual things I’ve experienced and seen firsthand).

So yes, of course you are welcome at a gay bar. Just please, when you show up, remember that you get to leave the gay bar and return to society, where your identity as a heterosexual is common and accepted, and your basic human rights are never up for debate come election time. Be an ally, and show up with your queer friends. Of course drag queens are amazing, and Drag Race really is one of the best shows on TV, but it’s our culture. We let you think that you discovered Robyn but we can’t let push us aside in our spaces.

Thanks for reading this and being so understanding. I absolutely love the fact that there is a love for our culture, and I’m happy that you want to be a part of it. It’s exciting that you are an ally, no matter how far we’ve come, we still need them. I look forward to enjoying a drag show with you and your queer friends (who are not accessories - but you know that already). And Robyn is rad and we should all love her together.

Best Wishes,

Jason

P.S. Since I have you on the line, can I just mention two other things? I’ll be quick I promise!

• What is up with the gender reveal parties? Gender is a construct, and while I love an excuse for cake, creating an event where your child is forced to conform to these gender constructs before they are even born is gross. So stop it. Please. You’re better than this nonsense.

• What is with the obsession over gender roles within your relationship? You are both capable of paying, you are both capable of cooking and cleaning, and you are both capable of proposing to each other.

Skinny

BY: JASON RAYNER

Me this past summer, in a photo where I actually think I look…cute!

I am not in love with my body. That simple statement holds so much weight (pun intended). It feels like a deep dark confession. Because it kind of is. At least, it’s not something you’re supposed to acknowledge so publicly. I can promise you, I’m not writing this for pity or compliments. It isn’t a cry for help. It definitely is not meant a form of self deprecation where I search for assurance that I look good. It is just an honest statement. One that I think is relatable to many. Or at least I hope so.

Since I’m being honest, I don’t think I’ve ever been completely satisfied with my body. I’ve had moments where I’ve felt fleeting excitement about seeing the results from fitness or diet, usually measured by things like a shirt fitting looser than usual. However, even those moments of are overshadowed by the fact that there is always more work to do. It doesn’t matter how many essays I read on body positivity, how closely I monitor the calories (read carbs) that I ingest, how many Instagram photos I take from the best possible angles (one chin only and absolutely no belly showing through a shirt, thank you very much), I have always assumed that I would be able to truly love my body if I weighed less. If I was skinny.

I should start with a little history. When I was young, I was very overweight. My body just could not metabolize food like my parents’ did. Even if I ate moderately healthy, I put weight on. At 11, I got frustrated and told my parents I wanted to ask my doctor for help. I was tired of not looking like the other kids at school, and even more importantly, I was tired of being made fun of because of it. My doctor introduced me to a radical new diet, called the Atkins diet (and it was definitely in its craziest incarnation back then). The result? Well, I lost a lot of weight. And I was happy. Until I was miserable because I would eat the same thing every day and even at 11 I was able to recognize that I’m an Italian who loves bread. So then I ate everything. Of course I would buy fries with my friends after school - they were thin and couldn’t gain weight. I was thin-ish so I couldn’t possibly gain weight either. And then I did. I gained more weight than ever. Throughout my entire teenage years, I was fat. There is no other way to describe it.

Then, at 20, I had enough. I felt horrible about my body. I felt ugly. I was invisible. So I decided to start exercising and was militant about everything that I ate. And because my metabolism at 20 is not what it is at 30 (everything they say is true, and that sucks, let me tell you - that asshole slows the fuck down!), I was able to lose a lot of weight again.

Which leads me to how I have spent the last 12 years of my life, petrified that I will gain that weight back. I’ve definitely fluctuated but I have also been very aware of everything that I ingest. And every day, no matter how much I weigh, I always feel like a work in progress. I always see a roll or loose skin, eternally convinced there is “10 pounds to go”.

Because I know myself and my obsession with accomplishing goals, I vowed to never weigh myself, which actually is one of the smartest things I’ve ever done. I actually have no idea what I weigh, and any instance where I need to provide my weight (hi, acting resume!), I would just make up a number. Because I put my body under such scrutiny, I notice every little change. In my 20s I was never satisfied. Now I see photos of myself in my early 20s and I think “what the fuck, I was a so thin! I was a skinny bitch!”

Because that’s what it all really means; being skinny. It’s what it still means. It’s why, when I went from being an XL to someone who can fit into a small, I felt like I accomplished something. Never mind the fact that I have short legs and a long torso and most small sized shirts rise right up my torso. I feel validation because at least it fit my body. It’s why I struggle with oversize clothing. I may decide that Armie Hammer’s billowy dress shirts and short shorts in Call Me By Your Name is my fashion inspiration (of course I have a reference to that movie), but every time I put on a baggy shirt, I worry I’ll get too comfortable in loose clothing and fill it out. Because even though I have an athletic build, with a big chest, and muscular legs, I’m still trying to accomplish the goal of being skinny. Who cares if my body isn’t built like that?

The goal of being skinny is so deeply ingrained into our culture that we don’t really know how to judge beauty by any other standards. The lower the number on the scale, the greater the value in physical appearance. The only exception to this rule is if you’re muscular. Then you are allowed to weigh more but you should probably have close to 0% body fat to make up for it.

As a gay man, it feels like those are the only options, as if beauty is a binary. Despite the fact that I am generally not attracted to men that fit into either of those categories, I feel unattractive or inferior for not fitting into either category. As a man, I’m not really allowed to even talk about this.

It feels sad to say that so much of this desire is rooted in vanity. Except it isn’t. Because the obsession with being skinny also affects the way we treat other people. When I was fat, I was invisible. I want to say literally because it felt like that. I would walk into stores and people would not greet me. Cashiers wouldn’t make eye contact or indulge in small talk. Suddenly I lost weight and I would be chased down by every 40 something year old woman I could only assume went by a name like Lorraine or Suse at H&M, yelling at me for my poor customer service because they thought I worked at the store. Losing weight meant I could wear the clothes. I could look the part.

I’m pretty sure that part of the reason why I never notice someone checking me out or recognize when someone is flirting with me was because in my teen years, no one was. I was stripped of sexuality.

This obsession with being skinny has all come to a head recently when I started going to the gym because well, at 31, I was understanding the general importance of health. Naively, because my attitude had slightly changed, I thought it would be different. I would be in control. So I said yes to the physical assessment. When they insisted that I had to get on a scale and insisted on telling me my exact weight, I felt defeated. The conversation was again about results, and those results were related to size. I felt awful but since I had already put down a portion of my limited income, I decided to commit, even fantasizing about finally losing those 10 pounds that have been haunting me. So I started working out hard. And with actual machines as opposed to just running on a treadmill for 45 minutes. And then something happened. My waist size didn’t change, but my legs looked good, and I had a hard time getting on certain pants. Some clothes fit better but got tight in specific areas, like my arms. I had been gaining muscle. I was growing into my body properly. I wasn’t getting skinnier at all. I was getting kind of...well, thick.

This normally would be the part of the article where I then talk about the beauty of being healthy and loving my body. But I’m not there yet.

Currently, I spend a fair amount of time telling anyone who would listen that I was done being skinny, that it’s time to get thick. The more I repeat it, the more I can feel confident about my changing body. I’m trying really hard to believe that being skinny isn’t important. Except I still catch myself sucking in my stomach whenever I walk by a mirror.

I’m writing this because I am actively trying to reject the idea that there are rules as to what types of bodies are seen as beautiful. I’m writing this because while I can appreciate and love everyone else’s different body types, I need to learn to love and appreciate mine. I’m writing this in hopes that I can eventually embrace the type of body that I have. I’m writing this because having it in writing makes it easier to make me actually believe the message I’m trying to tell myself.

I don’t love my body right now, but hopefully one day I will. I also like junk food. And good wine. And again, bread. I go the gym because I genuinely want to treat my body well - yes, I do care about the health factor that goes along with the gym, and yes I like the way eating well and post-exercise feels (the actual act of exercising is still one of my least favourite activities, what can I say?). I’m beginning to let go of the fact that being skinny isn’t going to make me happy or complete, or more importantly, something that should be a goal. It isn’t easy. I am probably going to still make disparaging jokes about being wanting to lose weight. But I’m going to try to change the way I think. And coming clean in an essay is a good place to start. So I’ll start with that.

32

A photo of me on my 32nd birthday. Look at that optimism!

BY: JASON RAYNER

It’s October and I’ve been 32 for ten months. I’ve wanted to write a piece about what this means for a while. Probably closer to when I had been 32 for six months. There have been multiple drafts, of course. Drafts that worked structurally and probably would get the point across to readers but felt insincere and contrived. There were other drafts that resembled the old LiveJournal I kept when I was 18 (I just did a search and my old screen name “emo_kidd1001” appears to have sadly, been deleted), and those felt equally insincere, and ridiculously enough, too cool. The actual point of this post isn’t to make something that is easy and cool, it’s to be honest. Go figure, being honest is exactly what scares me.

On December 21 I turned 32 and I told anyone who would listen that this would be my year. And I believed it. I believed it like I believed it basically every year since I was 26. And just like the other years, I began to make plans about how to finally achieve my goals. It essentially takes some positive affirmations and a notebook, and magically, my motivation should transpire. Nevermind the fact that I wake up every morning with a pang of dread because I realize that I either have to be somewhere I don’t want to be, or that I’ve given myself a list of roughly 10, 068 things that I need to get done in order to feel accomplished and successful.

In reality I want one more hypothetical day. On this day I’ll sleep late and I won’t feel bad about it. I’ll move to my couch and I’ll watch all of the shows everyone on the internet seems to have time to watch and tells me are essential TV. Then I’ll re-watch all of my favourite movies so I can spend my days on Twitter finding perfect gifs, while also watching every movie that might be nominated for an Oscar. I’ll go to the movies and not worry about trying to go on a Tuesday when it’s cheaper and I’ll drink LaCroix all day because those are two things that are innocently excessive. Little indulgences that make me feel like I’m at least somewhat successful. Then I’ll get to my huge to-do list. I’ll still accomplish a good chunk of things before I’m 33.

Then suddenly, last summer, my dad passed away and my whole life imploded. There’s never a good time, there’s never a way to truly prepare, but in a few short hours, I had almost everything taken away. I’m an only child, I’m single, and now it’s only me and my mom. There’s a lot of loneliness in that. I’m still waiting to process the shock of everything, and my overall motivation has essentially disappeared. All I want to do is not be sad and devastated. I have a hard time caring about anything.

The thing is, I want to be a person who cares. I don’t want to have to really deal with the person I am, the one who is wandering through life sad and dazed. I don’t want to be the guy who brings others down. I don’t even want to talk about it, even though I know I should. But that’s because I don’t know how to talk about it. I often refer to it as “what happened to my dad” when speaking to friends; a shorthand that allows me to avoid words like “dead”, “died”, “death”. I use the word “memorial” instead of “funeral” because I think it will take away some of the sting. I craft two identities. One identity is more private. He’s untethered, he’s broken, he’s lost. I keep that identity private for the most part, and even though I know there are a lot of people who are willing to spend time with him, I’m the one who feels the most uncomfortable with this identity. So I craft another identity. He’s the one that I bring to work, who lives a life that hasn’t gone through this. And sometimes, more often than not, both identities bleed together, and I smile a lot, trying to cover up the sadness I feel. Sometimes, because I just don’t want my sadness to take over whatever joy I can grab on to, but also because I don’t want to bring down the mood. People are uncomfortable with sadness. I’m uncomfortable with sadness. When I spend more time in the second identity - and I try my best to stay there often - I feel an overwhelming guilt that I’m not feeling enough, when really I just don’t think I’m strong enough to actually let myself properly process my grief.

As much as I don’t want to admit it, it fundamentally changes the way I view everything. I used to wake up every morning to go to the gym. It’s something I have to re-learn. I used to use guilt as a motivator for going. If I wasn’t an atheist I would be an amazing Catholic because guilt has proven to be a key motivator in my life. I used to only go to the gym because I wanted to be skinny, despite the fact that I don’t have the kind of body that could ever be skinny. Now I want to go to the gym because I don’t want to die young and I’m scared that I’ll run out of time to prevent whatever destructions I’ve already inflicted on my body.

I still have that to-do list, and as I float through the year, it only gets bigger. I’ve spent my entire adult life saying I wanted to make movies. And I do. I want to direct. And write. And act. Without even knowing it, I quit acting. It was unintentional. It was just something that slipped through my fingers. That happens a lot when making films. Dates get pushed back, people over commit, and projects get abandoned. Every time something gets pushed back, I feel a little twinge of relief. Because that means I don’t have to do it. I don’t have to risk anything. I can hide behind my disappointment. Then I get scared that people will think I’m a fraud. That I’m delusional. That I’m all talk and can’t deliver. I am so used to this cycle, that it almost feels comforting.

But I know I have some drive in me somewhere. Because I always have and always will be in love with art to an obsessive degree. Sometimes I get so passionate about a piece of work that I feel like my insides will burst. It makes me worry that I feel too much, as if feelings are a finite thing and suddenly I’ll hit my quota and no longer be able to feel again. But it’s something that has never gone away. If anything it has only intensified with age. Just before I turned 32, I saw Call Me By Your Name for the first time, and I felt things I’ve never felt before not just about film but about my own life. A month later, I read A Little Life and couldn’t believe that these two very special things could exist in the world at the same time. I listen to either Years & Years record on repeat and even when I feel as numb, somehow they break through, and I don’t remember loving any music as much as I love theirs, and even writing this paragraph makes me emotional.

I’m 32, and every day I fear that I’ve built a life I don’t want. It’s the type of fear that leaves me paralyzed when I wake up and makes me want to go back to bed. It’s the kind of fear that makes me retreat, that when I deal with head on, my natural instinct is to turn run to Twitter to read about other people who are doing the work I wish I was doing, or to obsessively google how old celebrities are, hoping that there is a way I can catch up to them (and yes, I realize I can’t freeze time, so you win this one, Timothée Chalamet).

I vaguely know what I want, but I also know what I don’t want. I know that I don’t want to be stuck in a job where I’m constantly demeaned for some extra income, and this year I was able to walk away from a situation like that and move on to something much healthier. I know that I don’t want to take for granted the relationships I have in my life because one of the only things that has constantly provided me with fuel this year are the friends that have been there for me with an unwavering, unconditional support. I know that I don’t want to be defeated. I know that I don’t want to feel like I haven’t made some kind of mark, that I haven’t at least offered what I could. I know I don’t want to be tired anymore. I know I don’t want to be obsessed with obsessing over the pressure I constantly feel to be successful.

I feel messy and I feel broken and I feel spectacular. I’m sensitive and I cry at everything, good, and bad. I’m going to continue having false starts and barely keep it together. My different identities will probably end up merging. My priorities will shift. I am definitely going to fuck up more than I’d like. This has not been my year, in fact, it has probably been the worst year I’ve ever had, while simultaneously giving me some of the best experiences of my life. I don’t have a cute, positive affirmation to end this with, and that’s the point.

DVD Collections Made Dating Easier

BY: JASON RAYNER

Yep. That's my actual movie collection. And a few books, too. Displayed PROUDLY.

Remember having a movie collection? Whether it be VHS (90s represent!), DVDs, or Blu Ray, there was a time when most people had a sizeable movie collection of films they not only owned but also displayed prominently in their living rooms. However, with the rise of Netflix and every other streaming service out there, collections stopped being added to, and much like CDs, DVDs and Blu-Rays are now seen as a marker of the past.

I, however am one of the few people who still proudly displays my personal library in my living room (see that photo - that's my collection!). And I have to be honest, I’m mourning (not a hyperbole, seriously) the days everyone had their collections proudly on display. Because looking at someone’s movie collection was not only an easy point of conversation on what kind of taste someone has. This is great for most social interactions, but was perhaps the most helpful of all for the toughest of social interactions, dating.

One of my favourite quotes ever comes from John Waters. He says, “If you go home with somebody, and they don’t have books, don’t fuck ‘em!”. Now, as someone who reads voraciously, but has a bank account that could be described at its kindest as slim, I don’t quite have the money for books and films. And since certain universities refer to film as the “literature of our time” (seriously), I’ve decided to extend this sentiment to film collections.

The standard film collection used to feature some key staples of the 90s - Titanic, Jurassic Park, and for most of the men that I dated (I can only speak of dating queer dudes), Mean Girls and The Devil Wears Prada (all of which have been in my collection at some time. I also want to take a moment to sidebar and reminisce about how my copy of Titanic was on a 2-tape VHS. Remember that? The movie was too long for one tape!). Scrolling through a collection would let me know if my future potential love of my life had depth - hopefully in between the staples there would be the odd indie like Before Sunset, or Lost in Translation, or an indie starring Nicole Kidman. This told me that while they liked things that were popular, they were also open to something a little different and artistic. Alternatively, if my date only had movies from the Criterion Collection I would worry about pretension. The outlier of Clueless or Sister Act in their collection was soothing because it meant that I was about to date someone who could also have some fun, even while being very serious about film as an artistic medium. If they owned a copy of Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion, I knew I had hit the jackpot because I was understood on a fundamental level.

Film collections, just like a music or book collection, say something about how we like to spend our time. They also give an insight on interests - someone with a wide range of Holocaust documentaries is fairly likely to be a history buff, someone with tons of horror films probably loves an equal mix of camp and is a bit of a thrill seeker, and someone who owns a 30 Rock box set understands my sense of humour. Film collections are also almost always displayed proudly either by a TV or in the living room.

It’s also a great conversation starter without having to ask a series of questions. This is essential when starting to date someone because there is only ask so many “and where did you live before you came to Toronto?” style-conversation starters before it feels like an interrogation. Loving the same movie can tell you a lot about what makes someone laugh and their sense of humour, what shakes them to their emotional core, and yes, if they are smart and can handle films with challenging or subtle plots (I’ve definitely had my fair share of guys talk about the glamour of Breakfast at Tiffany’s only to realize that they probably haven’t seen it and only bought the DVD because of the iconic imagery from the film). I also loved the idea of discovery that can com through browsing a film collection. I love hearing someone enthusiastically boast about a film I may not have seen.  If a potential lover tells me I absolutely must see The Tourist because it’s a beautiful love story, I’ll know that my idea of romance might not be in line with theirs (yes, this happened). If someone tells me that Best in Show is the funniest movie they’ve ever seen, I can fantasize our future together doing a Jennifer Coolidge/Jane Lynch couples costume for Halloween.

There were, of course, people who didn’t ever have movie collections. But I’m a film actor, film director, screenwriter, and film producer. Film is obviously a big deal to me. If you haven’t heard of Greta Gerwig we probably won’t have that much in common anyway.

Obviously you can’t (entirely) judge someone just by their film tastes. And just like music, we still are sharing art with others. In fact, we probably share more with people because everything is so much more accessible. But there was something about running through your hands of a DVD collection feeling like you were getting the sneakiest sneak peak at a part of someone’s personality without having to do too much prying. It also confirmed the general rule to avoid people who own copies of Boondock Saints.