New Week, New List

a little more substance but not by much

I can’t lie, I really enjoyed last week’s PDW listapolooza. Not sure why someone would lie about such a thing but I refuse to do it. In any case, I enjoyed it so much that I thought I would bring you another edition of Things I’m Thinking About. These are the nuggets that my brain has been turning over all week. Some of them could get fleshed out into proper PDW posts. Others should definitely stay in list format.

As always, thank you for being here.

And here we go -

The Oscars

Were the Oscars several weeks ago? Yes, yes they were. Have I watched all the best picture nominees yet? No, no I haven’t. Sometimes we must abandon ‘perfect’ for ‘almost passable.’

Nevertheless I keep thinking about the Oscars. In particular I keep thinking about the women of the Oscars. It would appear that skinny is in again (one could argue it was never out) and I’m genuinely horrified.

Like extremely concerned.

The 2026 Oscars was a parade of skeletal bodies in full glam and couture gowns. Ribs were protruding. Clavicles were clavicling. Ne’er a fiber of muscle or fat to be found. There were a few actresses who genuinely made me gasp. They look like they’re knocking on death’s door. A bunch were also debuting brand new, fresh-off-the-assembly-line, never before seen, faces.

But I digress.

In my naive bubble of being a man, I thought we had moved on from this bullshit (even just slightly). The body positivity movement had me believing that the conversation was changing, that we were a little less extreme and a little more balanced. Maybe we were even a tiny bit gentler and accepting. The Oscars definitively and savagely popped that bubble.

The GLP-1 bomb has officially detonated in Hollywood. We are back to Heroin Chic but with a vengeance. Heroin on crack.

On one hand I’m mad. Like truly, actually mad. Little girls and young women and older women and all of everybody sees this. Whether folks are looking for it or not, images from the Oscars make their way into the feeds and algorithms of many an unsuspecting consumer. It hits the eyeballs of girls whose prefrontal cortexes haven’t finished baking. These bodies transmit a message, unintended or not.

So what is being said, what message transmitted, when we laud starved bodies decked out in jewels on a red carpet? What happens when no one speaks the truth and it’s all called ‘beauty?’ What are we saying about the ideal body? It’s entirely normalized. And it’s so incredibly dangerous.

I’m also pissed because a wealthy, white, powerful actress with an already established decades-long career is in the best position to reject this bullshit. They are the most inoculated from harm in speaking out about body image, eating disorders, extreme plastic surgery, and unhealthy “beauty” standards. They should be the ones leading the resistance. And some are (cue Kate Winslet and Naomi Watts). But, by and large, Hollywood has not only succumb to but propagated the tsunami of maximal thinness regardless of the cost.

And there will be a cost. There always is.

I fear that we will one day wake up to headlines that some actress, a beloved national treasure or some up-and-coming ingenue, has died. She will have flown too close to the sun. The body can be starved, by means of will power or violent off-label GLP-1 usage, only for so long.

And therein lies the sadness for me. I have a lot of empathy to accompany my rage. These women are also victims of the thing they’re propping up. I cannot look at such a gaunt body and think, that’s a happy person. They are unwell. That is sad. That warrants kindness. I can’t imagine the nightmare of disappearing while still alive.

And, truth be told, I’m certainly no stranger to body dysmorphia. I’ve had a lifetime of struggling in a queer body that didn’t live up to some unobtainable ideal. I have a belly and love handles and a distinct sense that is somehow wholly unacceptable. Who’s to say what I would do if I had the same resources and visibility as these women. Perhaps I too would fly too close to the sun.

Heated Rivalry

For those who might be living under a rock, there’s a show that has swept the globe called Heated Rivalry. It seems that everyone is, or at least was, talking about the HBO gay hockey drama based on the book by Rachel Reid. Across 6 episodes, audiences follow Ilya and Shane, Scott and Kip, as they navigate falling in love and doing sports. Oh, and there’s lots and lots of sex.

In some ways the show is revolutionary. It shows emotionally articulate (ish), high-achieving men who happen to be gay. There’s a Hallmark Channel-like sweetness to how quickly these boys fall in love and how easy any dramatic tension gets resolved. Also no one gets punished for being gay (which is sadly one of the revolutionary things about it).

Plus lots and lots of sex.

While it’s not necessarily my preferred style of storytelling (give me a pathetically sloppy and chaotically un-put-together protagonist any day), I found myself almost instantly invested. It’s sweet, sexy, and satisfying. I will always cheer whenever queer folks get to exist and take up space. I will always champion queer art.

It’s also worth noting that queer people were involved in the making of the show, both in front of and behind the camera, which still somehow feels refreshing even in 2026.

But I have to be careful when watching it. In all it’s sexy sex glory, my body dysmorphia rears its nasty head (peep previous item).

The four lead men are extremely and painfully attractive with lean muscled bodies, 8-pack abs, bulging shoulders, huge perfect butts, and stereotypically handsome faces. Even Kip, the shy art school student/smoothie barista, is somehow ripped as fuck. I actually laughed out loud when I saw him shirtless for the first time.

Like…why?

Just like the actresses at the Oscars, the bodies of Heated Rivalry transmit a message. Whether intended or not, they make a statement about who is desirable and, therefore, worthy of love. It’s ironic that something so fortifying for gay folks, something that has made people feel seen, can quickly send me into the bad place if I’m not on my guard.

And, yes, I’m aware there’s some hypocrisy in all this. That I’m hypercritical of gaunt actresses and yet forgiving of the Heated Rivalry hunks. I could parse out what it all means and the ways they don’t intersect but, again, this is just a list and not a deep dive. What I will say is that I think most can agree there is a difference between starving oneself and working out a bunch. And at the end of the day, anything that celebrates and honors queer love and queer sex will be a net positive in my book. No matter how many contradictions and conflicts lie within.

Zyka

My roommate and I have become obsessed with Zyka Indian restaurant. We don’t know if it’s pronounced Zee-ka or Z-eye-ka and we change the way we say it every time. But we don’t care. It’s our go-to spot for take out when we need to buoy our weary spirits.

We get the same thing every time (Chicken 65, Aloo Tikki, Butter Chicken for me, Chicken Kalimirch for her). Ordering, eating, and leftovers have become a ritual. I strongly encourage forging such rituals.

Zyka day is always the best day. I want it to be every day.

Fiber

It’s not an exaggeration to say fiber has become my new personality. As you may recall in my last PDW, I was flirting with the fiber ways. Since then I took a dive head-first into the psyllium deep end. I can’t look back. No one can make me.

Like all new converts, I’m relentlessly excited while still being a clueless amateur. I’m testing and tweaking the precise regime but fortunately have yet to make any horrible blunders. The goal is to get the highest dose possible without it completely overtaking my life. Getting there requires some finesse and a little trial and error.

Right now I’m mixing two tablespoons in 20 ounces of water which might as well be 6 gallons. Once I down that, I chase it with another 20 ounces of water because in the absence of adequate water, psyllium will rip all the way through you and then your ancestors. It’s not the most pleasant texture or taste or experience but I don’t think something called “psyllium husk” is supposed to be.

I do this before lunch.

Then at night I take 5 psyllium capsules with 16ish ounces of water and pray I don’t wet the bed in the night.

For reasons not entirely not rooted in science, I am convinced my new love affair with fiber will extend my life by a few decades and cure all my problems. I’m still waiting for those results but in the meantime you can find me chugging gloopy husk water and identifying where all bathrooms are at all times.

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So there you have it. The things on my mind this week.

Along with…ya know…all the “everything” going on in the world.