Every January, queer folk across the land proclaim, whether in a whisper for their own ears or in declaration to anyone who will listen, that this is their year. The year that they finally stretch more. The year that they stop DM-ing exes who live two boroughs away and “aren’t emotionally available.” The year that they become politically involved, spiritually engaged, mentally focused members of society with a keen comprehension of themselves and those in their orbit. And yet, two months deep into 20-whichever this one is, we return to doomscrolling, disdain for work, and validating all forms of procrastination to anything that might actually matter to us.

New Year’s resolutions are a uniquely queer genre of fiction. We make them with genuine hope yet toss them in the bin overnight. But maybe we don’t need to chalk it up to failure. Perhaps we can reframe it as… practice. There might be an ounce of truth in that the resolutions we tend to abandon are the ones that we need to put our back energy into.

It’s been a minute since I’ve had the opportunity to compile such a list as the one I’m about to present you with, but my publisher proposed it, and I bit. What can I say, I’m a sucker for self-improvement. Anyhow, without further ado and in no particular order (up until the last two), here’s a list of a few resolutions that I’d like us all to reconsider. Whether you resonate with one or more or none at all, I can only hope that reading even half of this article will allow you some space for whatever introspection you need to discover what resolutions work for you.

ONE: Slow down

Almost every queer and non-queer alike state at some point that they’d like to be more present. Everyone also has screen time counts that would make the baby Jesus cry. We make a promise to ourselves to live more in the moment, then twenty-four hours later, we’re swiping through social media faster than an incel goes through tissues.

Take a breath. Take three. Go for a walk without your phone. Or (I hope you’re sitting for this) leave it at home for an afternoon or (gasp) a day. A little dopamine detox does wonders for the nervous system. Instead of funneling all your energy into memes and man-candy, turn inward occasionally. We spend hours at the gym to look good in a harness. Maybe, just maybe, exercise your mind too. Self-awareness increases emotional intelligence, and emotional intelligence is sexy. We break this resolution because distraction is easy. We often take it back up because clarity feels that much better.

TWO: Let’s get spiritual 

Before you metaphorically throw something at me, hear me out.  When I use the term “spirituality,” I don’t mean for you to start going to mass every Sunday and praying the rosary (which, for many of us, mirrors familiar practices put upon us in our youth that have led us to the less-than-savory coping mechanisms that we are desperate to break as adults).  Spirituality can simply mean five minutes of meditation once a day. Sitting, breathing, focusing on nothing in particular, and performing nothing productive, which can be groundbreaking in and of itself.

You’ll be terrible at it at first. Or, at least, that is how you’ll feel about it. But that’s the point! Research consistently shows that even brief daily meditation reduces stress, improves focus, and increases emotional regulation (which we all could benefit from, especially following 2025). Result? fewer spirals, clearer mindset, better sex. Most of us tend to call it quits on this resolution because stillness is uncomfortable. Find comfort in the uncomfortable.

THREE: Take inventory on the people in your life

Take inventory of those you share your time and energy with. Too many of us have those folks in our lives who hold us back, dim our light, or keep us stagnant. Take inventory. Who supports you? Who shows up when things are hard, not fun and simple? Identify and value your ride-or-dies, and cherish them. They’re priceless.

Cutting the dead weight doesn’t make you a dick; it makes you honest. Keep in mind, just because a relationship ends doesn’t mean it has no value. So many relationships are chapters, not the novel. Others are just footnotes, and even those hold worth. We carry the lessons forward and let the rest go. So many of us are afraid of being lonely, but having fewer people of high value in your life far outweighs dividing your energy amongst too many, where it goes wasted.

FOUR: Evict the judgmental bitch in your brain

You know it far too well. The voice that tells you you’re too much, not enough, failing. The voice that is constantly comparing yourself to everyone else around you. Spoiler alert: Everybody else is doing themselves the same injustice. That voice is not intuition; it’s a whole collective of internalized bullshit. Self-judgment is bedmates with anxiety and depression. Self-compassion is cozied up with resilience and motivation. Bluntly, being a dick to yourself in a world full of dicks doesn’t make you better; it exhausts you.

Put that voice in check. Talk back at it and challenge it. Then give it a long-overdue eviction notice. F*ck squatters’ rights. The race can feel so long, and in the end, it is only with yourself. Give yourself the permission to stop and take in the scenery.

FIVE: Identify and fortify your values

Many people love to throw around the term “values-driven,” when the more accurate translation would be vibes-driven, infused with quasi-political and self-affirming language. And listen, vibes are cute and cozy and should be acknowledged, but let’s not confuse the two. Values are what stay when the vibe tides turn, when the room gets all awkward and uncomfortable, and – most importantly – when standing up for something costs you comfort and familiarity.

Take a beat and ask yourself: what would I like to fuel in the short time I have on this rock? Not what sounds good in a cover letter or gets the most follows, but what principles assist you in navigating your everyday decisions. How do those values show up in how you spend your money, your time, and your energy? Who do you tolerate? Who do you choose to protect? When do you speak up and – a lot of us need to hear this one – when do you close your lips and listen?

Values are like muscles. When one doesn’t use them, they atrophy. And when one doesn’t examine them, convenience and comfort happily come in and serve as a placeholder. It’s easier to float than to anchor. Align yourself with integrity. It can be relieving.

SEVEN: Dare yourself to get more politically active (I couldn’t help myself but to follow up with this one after mentioning values…)

Get more politically involved. Sh*t is crazy, and it’s not letting up any time soon. I have heard far too many people, both queer and not-so-queer, say that they’d rather tune out the news, sparing their mental health. You know what is a far more powerful mental health aid? Getting and being proactive. I’m talking about getting up and out into your community and getting involved. Don’t like what you’re seeing in the news? Do something about it. Brunch doesn’t need to be a weekly activity, and season two of Heated Rivalry isn’t out for a hot minute.

Volunteer. Show up to the community-run mutual aid meeting even if you don’t know anyone and feel some type of awkwardness.  Email your congressperson. Sign a petition. STAY INFORMED. Staying informed and active builds agency, and agency is grounding as f*ck. Many folks find comfort in turning a blind eye to things. But let’s be real, the “ignorance is bliss” trope is tired, and complacency is inexcusable. Let’s leave all that in 2025, shall we?

Many of us will make these and similar resolutions again this year and inevitably break them once again. But maybe the point isn’t perfection but persistence. The act of recommitting, whether it’s to ourselves, to each other, or to humanity, is itself an effed-up form of queer tradition. I’ll toast to that.

As our beloved Cornbread said in Sinners, “Let’s get back to doing what we ought to be doing… being kind to one another.” Rest in power, king. Love you, Coogler. Happy 2026, everybody.

By Councilmember John Erickson

In 2025, the headlines throughout California told a similar and unsettling story: rising rents and housing element battles, visible encampments, fentanyl overdoses, retail theft, traffic deaths, and climate change. These are not isolated crises. They are interconnected challenges that demand regional collaboration and local leadership acting with urgency, courage, and pragmatism. In West Hollywood, we are confronting these crises head-on. 

Housing remains the central fault line. Throughout 2025, cities across California, including West Hollywood, continued to grapple with housing element solutions, fueled by misinformation and resistance, even as rents continued to climb, forcing more people into welfare and homelessness. The reality is simple: without more housing at all income levels, every other socio-economic problem worsens. West Hollywood has responded by streamlining approvals, advancing infill and mixed-use projects, and prioritizing affordable and supportive housing near transit and jobs. This is about keeping working people, seniors, and young families from being pushed out and about meeting our responsibility to help solve a statewide shortage.

Public safety concerns intensified last year, particularly around retail theft, drug activity, and quality-of-life issues in commercial corridors. In West Hollywood, we have adopted a balanced approach that residents consistently request: a visible law enforcement presence combined with prevention, accountability, and mental health response. We strengthened coordination with the Sheriff’s Department while expanding community-based strategies that address the root causes of crime. Public safety is not about choosing between compassion and enforcement; it is about doing both well.

Homelessness and the fentanyl crisis have been impossible to ignore. In 2025, overdoses and encampments underscored what local leaders already know: doing nothing is not compassionate, and cycling people through the system does not work. West Hollywood is focused on providing care, not criminalization. By working closely with social service providers, public health agencies, and public safety partners, we are conducting coordinated outreach, connecting people to treatment, and moving individuals from the street into permanent supportive housing. Housing with services saves lives and improves safety for everyone.

Tenant protections are another line of defense against displacement. As inflation and rent pressures squeezed renters last year, West Hollywood reaffirmed its leadership in rent stabilization and tenant rights. Protecting tenants is not anti-growth; it is how we preserve the diversity and stability that make cities livable in the first place.

Climate threats and traffic safety also dominated 2025. Extreme heat days, wildfire smoke, and dangerous streets are no longer abstract concerns; they are daily realities. West Hollywood is investing in resilient infrastructure and safer roads to reduce traffic deaths, protect pedestrians and cyclists, and cut emissions. Safer streets are climate policy, public safety policy, and quality-of-life policy all at once.

The challenges facing California’s cities in 2026 demand more than patchwork solutions. They demand leadership that understands cities are on the front lines. West Hollywood is proving that local governments can act with urgency, compassion, and results. Now Sacramento must meet cities at that same level by funding housing and homelessness solutions, modernizing infrastructure, and trusting local innovation.

When cities lead, and the state follows as a trusted, collaborative partner, California works better for everyone.

John Erickson is a Councilmember and Former Mayor of the City of West Hollywood and a candidate for California State Senate District 24. 

From a young age, I didn’t think I was cut out for West Hollywood. And that was before I even visited the place.

As a brown gay boy from the very edges of Los Angeles County, I mainly learned about West Hollywood from the media. I heard about a place filled with all the queerness I could possibly imagine, with my younger self not having the words for why hearing about a city where men got to love each other openly made me want to sob. This concept filled me with hope, but the image of West Hollywood — and being a gay man in general — seemed unattainable to me.

When I looked up gay people online and caught glimpses of them on TV, I saw men diametrically opposed to anything I could ever be. I saw people with 2% body fat, rife with finances I could only pray for and backgrounds the complete opposite of mine (namely, Caucasian). This, combined with the nuanced grief of being a young, feminine boy from a Mexican family, left me feeling that this city, only 24 miles away, would always be out of my reach. 

These feelings of loss grew into bitterness, as age and a continued inability to actually visit West Hollywood (I waited way too long to learn to drive) turned my queer envy into internalized homophobia. I eased my self-inflicted hurt by telling myself that I never even wanted to be around such openly gay guys. Luckily, this mentality was erased as years of college showed me the beauty of finding a queer community, with each semester seeing a growing yearning to visit the place I’d always dreamed of in my youth. Unfortunately, Covid-19 postponed this trek even longer, but after graduation and a summer away, I finally returned home ready to visit the gay mecca that is West Hollywood. 

Only to find all my fears come to life. 

Well, okay, not all of my fears; I was lucky that the right V-neck shirt and skinny jeans combo earned me some of the attention my awkward college self always yearned for. And while I never faced outright vitriol, aside from the occasional too-drunk demon twink (I can say this as a reformed demon twink), I still never felt the ease I’d always dreamt of. 

I navigated these clubs and packed sidewalks on edge. Traversing the street between Rocco’s and Micky’s had me constantly wondering what was wrong with me, why I didn’t look as effortlessly stylish as the other clubbers, or didn’t have the jaw-dropping muscle mass of the go-go boys onstage. I’d been taught that West Hollywood, and by extension true queerness, was only accessible with the effortless confidence and impeccable appearance of those I saw in the media — and I didn’t have that. So for years, I spent weekends in WeHo lamenting that this place where everyone was supposedly welcome didn’t seem to have room for people like me. 

And then, I had a realization. One of my constant anxieties was the fact that I didn’t have a large group of gay males to go out with; every weekend, I saw countless packs of perfectly coiffed men roving the streets searching for the next club. Most of my long-lasting friends are queer women and non-men, and often I would go to West Hollywood with a gaggle of girls trying to dance the night away. Each time, I would always see a group of guys out of the corner of my eye and feel deeply, deeply inadequate. I’d ignore the outpouring of love from those around me and reiterate to myself that I’d once again failed at fitting into the vision of “WeHo Gay” I’d always seen as mandatory. It wasn’t until one day, when I was at a video game event with one of my best friends (an utterly badass bisexual woman), leaning over her shoulder as she completely demolished Ryu, that I had a revolutionary thought: I’m happy. 

It didn’t matter that I was navigating this city in a way unlike what mainstream culture told me was the norm of WeHo. In that moment, I realized that if the core of West Hollywood is true queerness, then that means this city must be welcoming to people of all identities. That it couldn’t only be accessible to those who fit a singular Hollywood-set image of gay. I looked back on my nights out and realized that in being so nervous about not ‘fitting in,’ I was ignoring the rampant joy of being with those I felt closest to. People who experienced this city ‘correctly’ by focusing on nothing more than being their queerest, most authentic selves. 

With this realization came an overwhelmingly new experience of West Hollywood. As I focused not on how I didn’t fit into some self-reinforced image but rather how much fun I was having with friends, I began to feel like those men I’d always seen on TV. Not in appearance or social standing, but in the prideful confidence I’d been chasing for the first two decades of my life. And as cliché as it is, it was when I stopped seeking acceptance that I began to receive it! With this recognition came new connections, new contacts, new parties where I could spend hours dancing without caring about how I looked to everyone around me. As I walked (and, occasionally, stumbled) along those rainbow flag-lined streets with my found family, I finally realized what West Hollywood meant to me: a celebration of queerness, in all of its countless forms. And, exuding this newfound awareness, the city I’d always dreamt of finally brought me into its concrete-clad embrace. 

This is how I found myself in West Hollywood. Not in dances with strangers or tips in gogo boy g-strings — though those definitely didn’t hurt. I found myself in West Hollywood through the people I spent my nights with there; by looking around and realizing that the WeHo nightlife scene, something that I once associated with nothing but envy and inadequacy, was a space where I could truly be myself. It gave me the confidence I’m still nurturing, and it taught me what it really means to be my gayest, proudest self in LA today.

Whether you have heard about the salacious sex scenes, the hype, or the attractive leads, Heated Rivalry has clearly found its place in the zeitgeist. Whether you’ve seen it, love it, hate it, or have strong opinions knowing nothing about it, this show has become a hot topic for the LGBTQ community. 

With public opinion of the LGBTQ community under fire, a show about closeted hockey players and their budding romance has galvanized audiences. Based on one of the Game Changers books by Rachel Ried, this series has launched countless memes, TikTok think pieces, and the stars appearing everywhere from Vanity Fair to Hi Tops bar in West Hollywood. 

Some of the hot takes include taking issue with the source material being penned by a woman, speculation over the sexual orientation of the stars, and, as actor Jordan Firstman would have us question, is the sex unrealistic? The I Love LA star started beef with his HBO Max coworkers by dragging the show. However, some social media content has quickly squashed the beef. That’s the power of Heated Rivalry. 

The question is, why the hate? The fundamental issue is that we end up popping our own balloon. This show and the dialogue surrounding it reveal many blind spots of the gay/queer male community. Drunk on the multiple iterations of Will & Grace and Queer as Folk, we can assume there is an inexhaustible pool of queer content that can break out into the mainstream. We also hold it to impossible standards: not gay enough, too gay, too much sex, not enough. 

Heated Rivalry is a love story of two hockey players whose eponymous Heated Rivalry turns to sexual tension, to sex, then maybe…romance? Word of mouth has led to appointment viewing like other signature shows on HBO. 

One beef is that people take issue with the fact that it’s focused on athletes. Why this story? Why venerate masculinity? And yet, don’t gay men still venerate masculine and even straight men? There are still gay for pay pornstars, pressure to have the body of an athlete, and an outdated sexual fixation on performative masculinity. 

Why not explore the last bastion of homophobia: professional athletics? If someone of Travis Kelsey’s level of fame could come out, wouldn’t that help people stop focusing on queer issues as a reason for the ills of society and maybe look at the real issues? 

It’s not surprising, given our political climate, that both Boots and Heated Rivalry would come out around this time. Both explore homophobia and queer men in heteronormative spaces. Major league athletes are still less likely to come out, while the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell has made it easier for queer men to be in the military. They represent widespread appeal to straight communities. After all, where else can a straight man cry and scream than about his favorite sports stars?  

Another problematic thing is speculating about the actors’ sexualities. Whether they are queer or not, they are representing our community fairly well. My personal theory is

Connor Storrie is a gifted actor somewhere under the LGBTQ umbrella, and Hudson Williams is a soft heterosexual bottom. Both represent a queer experience.  

What matters more is their performances. Storrie learned Russian for the role and has a Meryl Streep-level transformation from an LA actor/model to a Russian athlete with an awe-inspiring caboose. Williams captures so much nuance and holds it down for masculine bottoms. 

Finally, who cares if the source material was written by a woman? As queer men, especially gay men, we may rarely interact with women, but we can afford to learn the benefits of integrating emotional and social intelligence, which women are more allowed to cultivate socially. 

Ironically, the female fanbase driving up viewership and rhetoric around the show is doing more allyship than a million bachelorette parties at gay bars. 

Fundamentally, Heated Rivarly is giving queer men something to gab about and invite discourse in the same way that Drag Race became the Super Bowl of hyperfemininity and helped queers connect and converse. Heated Rivalry offers a tender romance amid the toxic masculinity, intimacy issues, and competition of toxic masculinity. 

My personal theory for all the hostility and hot takes about Heated Rivalry is that it centers on yearning. One thing women get permission to do is have a healthy relationship with longing. With queer men, it’s often one-sided and creates this dark addiction to yearning for someone who doesn’t want us. This turns into codependent crushes on your best friend or a hyperfixation on turning a friend with benefits into a partner, all while ignoring the people who want us. 

Longing is a slow-building, uncomfortable emotion that explores the range from happiness to sadness. You can try to fuck it away or explain it to bits but for a community inoculated against feelings by the patriarchy, bullies when we were younger and drunk on the power of polyamory and Dan Savage’s countless anti-monogamy talking points, the idea that two men can meet, have a slow budding relationship, build a rapport, develop intimacy slowly over time, and fundamentally realize they want to be together is not the norm. This could be aspirational and may be why the universe inspired a woman to write it, a gay man to develop it into a series, and two actors of indeterminate sexual attractions to play the sex scenes and the emotional angst so we could take a hard look at how we see male love.  

Rob Reiner was an anomaly in Hollywood: the unabashedly Democratic liberal “good guy” who honestly wanted to dialogue and passionately debate issues such as marriage equality with Republican conservatives as a way of advancing democracy and seeking a more perfect union. 

“I’ve always said, ‘You cannot have a healthy democracy unless you have a healthy Republican Party and a healthy Democratic Party so that we can actually debate the ideas of where we are,’” Reiner told Republican political commentator Margaret Hoover, host of PBS’s Firing Line With Margaret Hoover, in a tribute rebroadcast of a show recorded April 2019. “I mean, we are a…capitalist nation, but we also have a lot of socialist programs inside the capitalist nation, and we have to find a way to balance those things. And the only way to do that is to have two parties arguing with a common set of facts.” 

Reiner talked about how he befriended many Republicans after Republican legal icon Ted Olson shared his deep belief that marriage is an individual freedom and therefore a fundamental right for lesbian and gay individuals. He reminded Hoover, a longtime LGBTQ+ ally, that they first met at the federal district court in San Francisco for the hearing over California’s anti-gay Prop 8. She excitedly reminded him that they sat together. 

Hoover actually served on the Advisory Council for the American Foundation for Equal Rights (AFER), the organization Reiner created with longtime gay friend and fellow progressive advocate Chad Griffin and Griffin’s business partner Kristina Schake. The idea for the federal challenge to Prop 8, which passed with 52 percent of the vote in 2008, started formulating soon thereafter during a lunch with the three and Michele Reiner at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel. Later, an acquaintance suggested they contact Ted Olson, who supported marriage equality.  Reiner shared his excitement when Democratic stalwart David Boies, Olson’s opponent in the infamous 2000 Bush v Gore case, joined the federal case, effectively taking politics out of the argument. (Read New York Times investigative reporter Jo Becker’s book Forcing the Spring: Inside the Fight for Marriage Equality for an engrossing behind-the-scenes look.)

Watching Hoover and Reiner spar, laugh, and exchange stories is a horrific reminder of what we’ve lost. Who else could head up a Truth and Reconciliation Commission after Donald Trump and his acolytes have left the scene?  

The sudden brutal stabbings of Rob Reiner and his beloved wife Michele in the bedroom of their Brentwood home in the early morning hours of Sunday, Dec. 14, allegedly at the hands of their drug addicted, mentally ill son Nick, hit many of us personally. Through his acting, writing, and incredible films, or through his work on progressive issues, we felt we knew Rob Reiner. And our hearts break for their immediate and extended family. 

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“Words cannot even begin to describe the unimaginable pain we are experiencing every moment of the day,” Romy Reiner, 27, and Jake Reiner, 34, said in a statement Wednesday. “The horrific and devastating loss of our parents, Rob and Michele Reiner, is something that no one should ever experience. They weren’t just our parents; they were our best friends.”

The siblings requested respect. “We are grateful for the outpouring of condolences, kindness, and support we have received not only from family and friends but people from all walks of life. We now ask for respect and privacy, for speculation to be tempered with compassion and humanity, and for our parents to be remembered for the incredible lives they lived and the love they gave.”

But their request was met with outrageous moral indecency from Trump and click-bait speculation by Megyn Kelly that Nick’s attorney might try the Menendez defense. 

While these cruel antics have generally been met with disgust, other human beings are bearing their anguish over the murders and the alleged murderer in silence.

Those who experience mental health issues and their sphere of healthcare providers face heightened uninformed stigma after it was revealed that Nick had been diagnosed with schizophrenia several years ago and his medication had recently been adjusted or changed.  

And many in 12 Step communities are bereft. We are excruciatingly familiar with alcoholic/drug addict arrogance, impulsiveness, and the compulsion to get what we need by any means necessary. “I want what I want when I want it – and I want it NOW!” 

And this: “An alcoholic is someone who could be lying in a gutter and still look down on someone.” 

And then there’s rage that’s so chemically exhilarating, you forget what you’re enraged about. 

Whether hooked, self-medicating, or mixing street drugs with pharmaceuticals, there are some drugs that can take a brain hanging ten over a cliff of insanity and tip it over with a whisper or nudge. Some who have fallen don’t get back up. Others don’t want to. 

What are loving parents to do? 

LSD tipped me over; at the age of 20, I became a ward of the State of Connecticut after an almost successful suicide. The nurses put me in a bed previously occupied by a young woman who hoarded her sleeping pills and died there three days earlier. The staff asked me if I needed any pills to help me sleep. 

The absurdity was clarifying. I stayed in that Norwalk Hospital psyche ward for months – my parents were too afraid, too ashamed to visit, and left me to “experts” who visited for 10 minutes and lots of Nurse Ratched wanna-bes. I learned what I had to do to avoid shock “therapy” – smile, nod, lie, and not judge my fellow inmates. 

When I finally got out, I gave up LSD and, having dropped out of college, I studied philosophy at Fairfield University. My brain kept pressing existential questions as if they were immediate and real. I took up the occult and hitchhiked to Alfred University in Upstate New York to study A.E. Russell, W.B. Yeats, and the Rosicrucians. I lived with a bunch of witches and warlocks with whom I drank beer and watched the original “Star Trek” broadcast from Canada – after which we smoked doobies and argued existential bullshit about each episode.  

One guy in the house had dropped so much acid that he was stuck. He’d either wander around blank-eyed or jump on the furniture like a threatening chimp. I was glad I’d given up acid.   

I didn’t get clean and sober until 1980 when my bosses at CBS News thought I’d make a good test project for their new Employee Assistance Program. The theory was: it’s easier and cheaper to sober up a good, screwed-up employee than to hire and train a new one.  I balked. I had reasons. I had excuses. They didn’t understand. I’d stop on my own.  

But I couldn’t stop, and they did understand. They gave me an ultimatum. Go to rehab or get fired. I thought of jobs where I could drink and use without hassle. But being a journalist had become my identity. Who would I be without that? Now that was an existential question. 

I had two bad glasses of white wine and smoked a joint before I went to a rehab that June near the Amityville Horror House.  But I’ve been clean and sober ever since.  

It took me WAY LONGER to surrender my alcoholic arrogance, and even decades later in recovery, I still have bouts of depression, which I link to my dormant addiction. Today, I cherish life and my choices. 

But with Rob and Michele Reiner’s murders, a rehab phrase has reappeared: “You know you’re getting better when you’re homicidal and not suicidal.” 

I know this was intended metaphorically to help a suicide addict like me: first, a ludicrous smile; then accessing the long-oppressed anger, fear, and abandonment; then taking steps to get out of it. But recognizing that addiction kills is no laughing matter. 

I do not know Nick Reiner. I met Rob Reiner through Chad Griffin and AFER. However, like so many others, I appreciated him “representing” hippies as caring progressives on “All in the Family.” He was similarly caring in real life, as evidenced by his humble, emotional reaction on Piers Morgan’s show, honoring Erika Kirk’s forgiveness of her husband Charlie Kirk’s assassin. 

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I do not know Nick’s story – I do not know the anguish of having schizophrenia and drug addiction. But I know in my heart his parents loved him to the moon and back. I suspect Romy and Jake and the Reiners’ friends are struggling not just with unimaginable grief but with how, in some way, to have compassion for this ill addict they loved who lived among them. 

Perhaps this is an odd way to express gratitude to America’s greatest “good guy.” I hope by sharing my story, the spirits of Rob and Michele may realize they did everything they could – they did not fail their son. He, too, has individual freedom – including to make horrible wrong choices willingly, even those orchestrated by addiction. Or did mental illness combined with addiction strip him of that choice?

Forgiveness is not yet on the horizon. But perhaps a greater willingness for compassionate understanding can be. 

And hopefully, by sharing these human frailties, those who are struggling will find the strength to defy stigma, fear, and addiction’s arrogance and reach out for help. 

As for me, today, I humbly acknowledge: “There, but for the Grace of God, go I.” 

SAMHSA’s National Helpline is a free, confidential, 24/7, 365-day-a-year treatment referral and information service (in English and Spanish) for individuals and families facing mental and/or substance use disorders.

 1-800-662-HELP (4357)

This essay was updated from the original posted on Karen’s LGBTQ+ Freedom Fighters Substack.  

By Dana Piccoli

The Choose U World AIDS Day panel brought together three longtime advocates living with HIV to talk about care, stigma, and what living with HIV over the long-term means to them. The conversation featured Jahlove Serrano, Joyce Belton, and Andrew Nichols, who have each lived with HIV for more than 20 years. News is Out hosted the event in partnership with Gilead Sciences.

“Co-created with community representatives from around the world, Choose U is comprised of inspiring examples of how the outlook for aging with HIV has dramatically changed,” Gilead shared in the recent launch of the program. “By focusing on the real-world experiences of people in different circumstances, Choose U spotlights individuals prioritizing starting and staying on HIV treatment, self-care, and overall strategies to help them lead healthier lives.”

The Choose U ambassadors opened with a clear message: Lived experience drives understanding.

Each panelist talked through the decisions, relationships, and periods of uncertainty that shaped their HIV care. They also described their approaches to HIV treatment and adherence, including the importance of staying on treatment to help lower the risk of HIV drug resistance. They reflected on the shifts they have seen in HIV treatment over the decades, the value of honest conversations with providers, and how staying engaged in care and on HIV treatment helped them lead longer, healthier lives.

The panel discussed U=U, which stands for “Undetectable equals Untransmittable.” Undetectable means there is so little virus in the blood that a lab test can’t measure it. Research shows that taking HIV treatment as prescribed, and getting to and staying undetectable, prevents HIV from spreading through sex.

The panelists also spoke about the emotional side of living with HIV over the long-term and the stigma they have faced. Joyce described a personal moment when her pastor visited her in the hospital and how that experience began her work educating her church community about HIV.

Jahlove talked about how his biological family reacted to his diagnosis. “When I disclosed my status, they told me that I put a shame on the family,” said Jahlove. When he shared his status with his peers, they responded with support, which gave him a sense of empowerment.

Andrew, a professional therapist, described how he has experienced stigma in dating and in his workplace, and why he turns to therapy for guidance. “Therapy has really helped me rebuild my confidence and realize my self-worth has to come from me,” said Andrew. “Then after that, I can help with the greater community.”

The panel closed with a message for others living with HIV: They encouraged viewers to start and stay engaged in HIV treatment and care, ask questions, and rely on supportive networks. Their stories show how starting and staying on treatment over the long-term, community, and affirmation can shape well-being.

A recording of the full 30-minute event is now available on YouTube, which you can access here.

I was recently at a holiday party, one of those seasonally messy affairs where the conversations get bolder as the drinks get stronger and some folks inevitably decide that “boundaries” are negligible. After a few rounds of Jenga and drinks, someone leaned in and hit me with the all too familiar question I’ve been asked time and time again: “So… what’s it like doing porn?” Cue the predictable follow-ups: “Do you, like, actually enjoy it?” and, inevitably, the million-dollar question my publisher had just asked me to write about days earlier: “What’s your dating life like?” At least this time, the interrogation into my very public sex life gave me the perfect opener for this piece. 

Dating has come a long way since the rom-coms of yesteryear. If You’ve Got Mail were made today, it would sound more like: “You’ve got 56 unread texts, 13 reels from that cute twink you met once in San Juan, 3 Zoom meetings, a stalker on TikTok, a case of social anxiety… and some mail.” Between notifications, memes, and a constant influx of digital attention, it’s getting harder to pause and breathe, let alone build a romantic connection with someone else.

And if managing modern dating wasn’t already complicated enough, try stacking the stigma of being an adult performer on top of that teetering Jenga tower. Despite an apparent cultural “sexual awakening,” stigma toward sex workers remains deeply ingrained in most layfolk today. According to a 2022 study from the University of Victoria, Challenges and Benefits of Disclosure of Sex Work, nearly 70% of sex workers reported negative judgment from potential romantic partners after disclosing their work, while only about a quarter said it deepened intimacy or understanding. For an industry that thrives on exposure, we still live in a society where transparency may cost you connections.

I can only speak from my own experience – yes, for those not yet aware, I’ve been an adult performer and content creator for (gasp) going on four years now – but dating while doing porn is both surprisingly normal while also proving to be…  uniquely complicated. I’ve had my share of relationships (and situationships). The biggest difference is that my line of work acts as a filter. Being upfront about what I do weeds out many folks who, well, let’s just say, are not a right fit for me. It’s a built-in red-flag detector. And in this way, I appreciate its utility.

When someone responds with pearl-clutching or over-sexualizing, it tells me they’re not ready for the kind of honesty and communication that my lifestyle requires. On the flip side of the coin, the people who ask questions with curiosity instead of judgment are often the most emotionally literate people that I have the pleasure of meeting.

Still, it helps to know I’m not the only one navigating these dynamics. I reached out to my friend and fellow performer Cody Seiya, one of my earliest collaborators and someone whose kindness and authenticity I’ve always respected and connected with.

“My boyfriend and I met on Grindr,” Seiya shared. “What started as a mind-blowing hookup turned into a beautiful relationship that’s been going strong for three years.”

Seiya began content creation during the pandemic, right after college. “At first it was just a way to make ends meet,” he said, “but it became something much bigger – creatively, personally, even romantically.”

Seiya’s story is one of many that are testament to the fact that real relationships can and do exist and thrive within our industry. But he also reminded me of how visibility can sometimes complicate intimacy. “Sometimes people feel like they already know me because they’ve seen me online,” he said. “They forget there’s a person behind the content.”

That illusion Seiya describes – of being “known” through our content – is referred to as parasocial relationships. That is, the one-sided emotional connection people form with public figures or creators. It’s the same process that makes fans feel close to a favorite celebrity, only supercharged by sex.

Social psychologist Dr. Eva Illouz has written about this in her work on emotional capitalism – how intimacy becomes commodified in modern culture. When vulnerability is part of your job, boundaries tend to blur. For performers, those blurred lines don’t go away when the camera stops. They can sometimes spill into our dating lives, shaping how others perceive your availability, your emotions, even your worth. It’s a peculiar paradox, being both hyper-visible and invisible. People think they’re seeing us when in reality, they’re seeing one version of us, a version that is essentially a performance.

The University of Victoria study also found something surprisingly encouraging. Sex workers who disclosed their profession early in dating were more likely to report higher relationship satisfaction and emotional safety than those who kept it a secret. Honesty, it turns out, doesn’t just protect you from stigma. It helps attract partners who are capable of handling truth. For me, that early disclosure is important and natural. It has the tendency to pass the mic. By being open and transparent, I then allow others to reveal who they are in response to it. Dating as an adult performer teaches you a way of emotional efficiency. You gain the ability to read who’s projecting their own fantasy onto you versus who’s genuinely curious. 

When you really look at the bigger picture, there is a running baseline of people sizing up other people. Everyone gets judged time and time again – whether it’s based on their job, their beliefs, their bank account, or their social media presence. At the end of the day, I guess it is up to the individual to decide for themselves as to what extent they will indulge in their arguably natural instinct to place people in boxes based on said criteria. 

Authentic connection comes when folks think past their impulses and pay attention to the whole person in front of them, when they stop leading with their libido and actually engage with one another. That’s when true conversation can actually begin. And it is that particular flavor of open-mindedness, in my humble opinion, that is entirely swoon-worthy. Green flags across the board. 

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Queer infrastructure across the United States is collapsing. Not nightlife, not “the scene.” Infrastructure — the physical, social, cultural, and economic backbone that queer people have relied on for decades when nothing else would protect us.

The neon markers that once meant safety, belonging, and defiance are going dark. Entire ecosystems — entertainment venues, social houses, drag stages, queer workplaces, dance floors, community hubs, and the micro-economies that keep people afloat — are disappearing. What we’re losing isn’t a place to drink. We’re losing the architecture that has held our community together for generations.

And this isn’t guesswork. Between 2007 and 2019, the U.S. lost roughly 36–40% of its gay-bar listings, and more than half of lesbian-bar listings vanished. Even by 2021, the number of queer-focused venues recorded in national bar guides was about 40% below what it had been a decade earlier. The exact numbers vary, but the direction is clear. Our physical infrastructure is shrinking.

I’ve worked inside queer venues for twenty years. Long enough to know this isn’t a downturn; it’s a structural collapse. One venue closing — including my own struggles — isn’t the story. It’s one pressure point inside a much bigger storm.

Front 1: Economic Neglect

Queer-owned spaces have been hit by the same economic pressures crushing small businesses everywhere — rising rents, higher insurance costs, staffing shortages, and the general squeeze on independent operators. But unlike other industries, queer venues don’t have access to the same support structures, grant pathways, or advocacy groups that help businesses stay afloat.

At the same time, most funders genuinely believe they’re already “supporting the community” through Pride sponsorships, corporate floats, and seasonal visibility campaigns. That’s not malice — it’s simply where the cultural script has pointed them. Visibility has been positioned as the primary form of allyship, while the brick-and-mortar venues that keep queer people connected all year receive none of that investment. And because there’s no national body tracking queer-venue health or publishing financial data, the crisis stays invisible, even as other cultural sectors access emergency funds that don’t exist for us.

We didn’t lose relevance; we lost reinvestment. Visibility alone can’t sustain infrastructure.

Front 2: Cultural Complacency

And I’m not pretending I’m innocent. I’ve created Pride-weekend events that pulled crowds away from physical venues. Most people who’ve worked in this world have. That’s the point — Pride has turned into a gold rush instead of a homecoming. When a system rewards spectacle instead of stability, it will eventually burn through its foundations.

And maybe we’re all a bit rainbow-flagged out. When everything is rainbow, nothing feels radical. Visibility becomes décor, and the meaning behind it quietly erodes.

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A post shared by Luke Nero (@lukenero)

Front 3: Post-Pandemic Behavior

COVID didn’t just shut venues down. It reprogrammed how queer people socialize. This generation treats alcohol the way we treat nicotine — occasionally and with a little guilt. One drink is fine. Getting drunk feels dated. It’s tough to sustain community spaces when the culture itself has shifted from swigs to sips.

Front 4: Digital Diversion

Apps absorbed the social currency that used to flow through physical queer spaces. Flirtation, validation, hookup energy, and emotional connection — all of it can now happen behind a paywall or a profile.

And festivals? They’re not the enemy. Many are stunning, creative, and run by queer visionaries. But they’re experiences — not infrastructure. A three-day utopia every few months won’t replace the weekly rhythm of a real-world community. Festivals build memories. Venues build continuity.

Front 5: Generational Loss

The AIDS crisis didn’t just take lives. It wiped out a generation of queer operators, business owners, mentors, and organizers. The people who should have passed down knowledge never got the chance. Today’s surviving owners have no one lined up to inherit their roles. That wasn’t only a human loss — it was an infrastructural one.

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A post shared by Andrés Rigal (@andresrigal)

Front 6: The Disappearing Ecosystem

During a recent trip to Florida, I toured a drag venue from the front door to the kitchen. Security, performers, bar staff, cooks — everyone moved with pride in what they did. It was a full ecosystem. A living, breathing workplace with its own culture and heartbeat.

When venues close, we don’t just lose “a bar.” We lose entire micro-economies. We lose livelihoods. We lose little worlds that have been built with love and skill. These aren’t side gigs. They’re careers.

Front 7: Cultural Invisibility

Promoters, DJs, drag artists, producers, and operators rarely get treated as cultural workers — even though their work shapes culture every weekend. Each night is its own creation: sound, mood, lighting, atmosphere, safety, release. But the people behind it all stay invisible, as if community magically appears when someone hits play.

Queer nightlife influenced mainstream culture long before influencers realized clubs were a backdrop.

Front 8: Community Accountability

And I’ll say this softly: it wouldn’t hurt if a few of the RuPaul girls — who can earn in one weekend what small venues make in a month — stopped by the places that raised them. Not charity — just presence. A drink. A photo. A wave. For small entertainment venues and social houses, that kind of drop-in can literally keep the lights on.

We all have a role in supporting the infrastructure that once supported us.

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Front 9: A Language Problem

Words matter. “Nightclub” doesn’t describe the modern queer venue. These places host weddings, fundraisers, drag shows, community meetings, film shoots, health drives — they’re entertainment venues. And a “bar” isn’t just a bar. It’s a social house. You don’t need a drink to belong. You go for community, safety, and a familiar face. Language shapes perception, and perception shapes investment. You can’t save an infrastructure that people miscategorize from the start.

Front 10: Political Weather Shift

Political weather can change fast. If hostility rises — and in some places it already has — queer infrastructure becomes survival infrastructure again. These spaces turn instantly back into what they’ve always been: lifelines. They are not indulgences. They are refugees. And if we forget that, we risk having nowhere left to stand when the next storm hits.

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A post shared by Luke Nero (@lukenero)

It’s not nostalgia — it’s infrastructure.

Queer venues are civic assets.

If we lose them, we lose safety nets, jobs, and history.

This is not mourning the party; this is protecting the culture.

If you love queer culture, show up for the places that still hold the door open. Ask where your money goes. Support the rooms that give you music, connection, safety, and the chance to meet someone who changes your life.

Pride began in a bar. If we lose our bars, we lose the heartbeat of queer liberation.

Luke Nero has dominated the nightclub scene on both the East and West coasts with tentpole events that include Mr. Black, Rasputin, and Evita. He is the CEO and founder of Strut Nightclub in Costa Mesa, California, one of the only queer clubs in Orange County.

Queer youth are in danger. As the administration continues to target initiatives and programs supporting the health and safety of LGBTQ+ community members, this year saw the end of a number of critical resources, including that of the “Press 3 option” in the national 988 Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. Previously, pressing “3” after calling the 988 Lifeline would direct young queer people to a specialized line where they could reach counselors trained to support them.

For the last three years, the federal government contracted various LGBTQ+ organizations like the suicide prevention nonprofit The Trevor Project to field calls from young queer people calling the 988 Lifeline and direct them to specialized LGBTQ+ youth counseling services. In July, the administration ended these contracts — removing the “Press 3” option altogether. While young queer people can still access the general crisis line, this option allowed them a more tailored avenue to seek help, support, and resources. 

The severing of this line comes at a time when rising concern over the mental health of young queer people is growing exponentially. The Trevor Project found in its 2024 national survey, which included more than 18,000 young queer people ages 13 to 24, that 39% of those surveyed seriously considered attempting suicide in the last year. This included 46% of its trans and nonbinary participants.

In the organization’s latest long-term study on the mental health experiences of LGBTQ+ young people, suicidal ideation amongst LGBTQ+ youth rose from 41% to 47% from 2023 to 2025. 

As community leaders and advocates struggle to create solutions, L.A. County Supervisors Lindsey Horvath and Janice Hahn, as well as Assemblymember Mark González, are working to restore “Press 3” services. On Tuesday, the three local officials announced a series of motions and legislation they’re working on to create localized and statewide solutions that support young queer community members. 

“Before this reckless cut, 1.5 million contacts were made to Press 3,” said González. “That doesn’t happen by accident — that happens because LGBTQ+ youth trust this lifeline and rely on it in their darkest moments.” González plans to submit a bill in the upcoming legislative cycle that, if approved, will fund and reinstate a statewide subnetwork that will support young queer Californians seeking help from the 988 Lifeline. The last day for bills to be introduced is Feb. 20th.

This bill joins national legislative efforts to restore the specialized queer youth service line. Senate Bill 2826 and House Bill 5434 were introduced in September and are labeled the “988 LGBTQ+ Youth Access Act of 2025.” They aim to codify “Press 3” into law and ask for sufficient funds to be directed to reinstating and operating the specialized service for young queer people.

Additionally, Supervisors Horvath and Hahn have authored a motion that supports González’s proposed bill and also encourages the county to move forward with a localized version of the “Press 3” option. This would require the County to contract crisis intervention service providers who would be able to provide counseling to young queer people using the “Press 3” option. 

The motion also includes a plan that directs the Department of Mental Health to develop a proposal for a “Press 3” pilot program in L.A. County, which includes identifying contracted service providers, creating a budget and finding funding sources, as well as developing a timeline for the program’s implementation. 

“Young people in our community face disproportionate challenges; taking away this critical resource is unacceptable,” said Supervisor Horvath. “We must restore this lifesaving support and make clear that every young person deserves to be heard, supported, and safe.”

Kristie Song is a California Local News Fellow placed with the Los Angeles Blade. The California Local News Fellowship is a state-funded initiative to support and strengthen local news reporting. Learn more about it at fellowships.journalism.berkeley.edu/cafellows.

For any person, queer or otherwise, who has ever shrieked “slay” over mimosas at brunch or whispered “trade” to their gym buddy in reference to the beef cake in mid-squat, reading this article is now your homework. Class is in session, the library is open, and the seats are plentiful. Take one.

Long before “yasss queen” spread through TikTok like the clap through WeHo and Bravo was infused with a mouthful of “shade”, queer folks were already creating their own coded ways of communicating on the DL – entire secret languages laced with wit while fueling solidarity – created not for entertainment but for survival. From mid-century Europe’s Polari to the thriving queer slang of today’s Middle East and then some, these tongues act as both armor and art. They are a testament to the fact that when society tries to police who we are, we always find a way to clap back.

In mid-20th-century Britain, one of these argots – and arguably the most widely known – was Polari. Polari was spoken by gay men, theatre folk, and sailors due to homosexuality being deemed criminal. So many of the words birthed by Polari have made it into modern-day queer vernacular (camp, butch, drag, trade). But Polari did so much more than fluff our collectively queer vernacular. It protected LGBTQI+ folks who could be convicted, shamed, or shunned simply for living as their authentic selves. It gave way to coded communication – a wink, a nod, a clever use of wordplay – at a time when discretion meant life or death.

Today in the Middle East, queer communities continue to speak in code out of necessity, yes, but also as a form of resilience. In many states where homosexuality is still criminalised – especially in regions experiencing conflict – the risk that visibility imposes is too dangerous. When displacement, sectarian violence, and authoritarian crackdowns converge, words result in wounds. So, language transforms. It adapts to hiding in plain sight -in a glance, a sly play of words, a borrowed metaphor that says “I see you” to those who are actually listening, those who need to hear it – while going unnoticed by those who aren’t and don’t.

In the din of places like Lebanon, Iraq, the Gulf States, or even refugee camps around Syria and Gaza, queer people face double – if not triple-layered dangers: authoritarian laws, war, and displacement. Under these types of conditions, conventional speech can be a luxury if not a liability. It is in these instances that the queer and gender-diverse communities turn to tongues that whisper under the radar. 

In the Gulf, the term ṣaf‘ūn (صَفْعون) is used by gay men to mean someone attractive, originally referring to court “slapped ones” in the Abbasid era. In Iraq, the term mustarjil(a) (مُسْتَرْجِل/مُسْتَرْجِلة) refers to a woman who presents as masculine – a term brimming with stigma but repurposed sometimes among gender-nonconforming people. In other areas, from Morocco to Tunisia, comes shawwāya (شَواية) meaning “grill-rack” used for a sexually versatile gay man. This term, like many others, is playfully encrypted for the queer ear.

In the queer underground of the Arab world, these avenues of coded communication work as a unifying force that fosters solidarity in the community. The recently published bilingual book The Queer Arab Glossary, composed by Lebanese-based designer and activist Marwan Kaabour, collected and comprised over 300 such terms across dialects – including Gulf, Iraqi, Maghrebi, and Levantine. One queer Iraqi contributor recalls how, at times of displacement, the ability to exchange a word like “Boyāt” (Boy-āt in Gulf dialect for masculine-presenting woman) quietly in a conversation on or offline becomes a lifeline for many. In Lebanon’s post-conflict environment, a study found queer refugees had to depend on coded slang and private networks because open affiliation carried the far too real threat of state-orchestrated scapegoating.

These communications don’t just exist in the hush-hush corners of bars and dressing rooms. Today’s queer-coded languages of the Middle East and beyond thrive in the all too familiar glow of mobile screens. Digital spaces haven’t just given these cryptolects new life – they’ve mutated them into something faster, slicker, and far more algorithm-resistant. Because whether it’s the state, the platform, or the algorithm that’s surveilling, our methods of communication had best be incognito.

Of course, there’s no single “queer dialect” of the Middle East. Much like the region itself, queer-coded speech is wildly diverse, shaped by geography, humor, trauma, and the delicious specificity of whichever local culture is utilizing it. In Lebanon, queer slang revels in camp – one part Beiruti French, one part diva-worship (and then some). 

In Iraq, terms carry the weight of sectarian histories. Words like mustarjil(a) are steeped in stigma but sometimes reclaimed as sly, irrepressible badges of identity. In Egypt, queer slang leans toward comedic exaggeration – melodramatic metaphors and references to TV stars that only the gayest of the gay can catch. In the Gulf, the codes often draw from classical Arabic, giving them an almost poetic quality. These differences aren’t arbitrary cultural signifiers. They are proof that queer life in the region is neither monolithic nor imported. They are as local and organic as they come.

Modern queer slang in the Middle East wasn’t born yesterday. These colloquial collections are descendants of older linguistic traditions that were queer-coded long before the word “queer” even existed. Take pre-modern Arabic poetry. So much of it is dripping with homoerotism that, if it were published today, it would make a nun blush and a priest, well, blush somewhere else. Poets of the Abbasid era wrote about beardless boys with gazelle eyes in verses that are still memorized in schools (albeit with the homoeroticism politely tiptoed around). Sufi poetry wove divine love and earthly desire into metaphors so gender-fluid that academics still argue about who the “beloved” actually referred to.

Ottoman culture wasn’t shy either. Male beauty tropes were celebrated widely and openly, and love poems addressed to young, pretty dudes circulated far and wide. And across the region, what historians now refer to as “shadow cultures” preserved pockets of man-on-man love and longing in storytelling, ritual, performance, and social customs.

At its essence, queer-coded languages tell us not only how communities communicate, but who they are. They reveal a sense of humor sharpened under pressure, jokes that double as shields. They reveal gender fluidity that far predates Western gender discourse, woven into wordplay and performance. They reveal something that the headlines so often miss – that queer life in the Middle East is not solely defined by suffering and sacrifice. It is defined by creativity, stubborn joy, and an innate understanding that community is built as much through laughter as through shared struggle.

Queer dialects, cryptolects, and coded talk across the region are living proof that language can be an archive of resistance, ingenuity, desire, and identity. Even when the world insists on silence, queer folks in Beirut, Baghdad, Basra, Tehran, Istanbul, Cairo, the Gulf, and beyond continue to speak. Not always loudly. Often in code. Always with intention.

The colloquial terms I mentioned earlier – camp, butch, drag, trade – may originate with Polari, but they didn’t evaporate with the change of times. They survived and integrated into queer vernacular. What this shows us is that coded speech is not simply a relic of oppression but something enduring. And just like Polari, these languages remind us that when society tries to snuff us out, we don’t disappear. We evolve. In the Middle East today, in societies torn by war, authoritarian collapse, or enforced silence, coded queer speech thrives just as hard as those using it. These words may hide in plain sight, exist in the hush-hush of chat groups, or circulate in graffiti and art collectives. But their purpose remains profound – they say we exist. Even when the society around you might deny it, target it or try their damnedest to erase it. We exist.