There are times when I don’t want to be associated with basic parts of my identity.
On the night of Game 7 of the Stanley Park finals, I felt embarrassed to be a Canuck fan. Is there really supposed to be a link between hockey fans and cop-car-burning, business-looting hooligans? Sure, many of the rioters weren’t fans at all, but they infiltrated Downtown Vancouver in Canuck jerseys, leaving the rest of the world with plenty of video evidence to show that Canuck fans are poor sports and, worse, mindless thugs.
When California Attorney General Dan Lungren used my law school graduation ceremony to speak boastfully about the successful implementation of the death penalty on a convicted criminal earlier that week, I was ashamed of the school’s name on my diploma. I would forever be an alumnus of this university, the same law school that subsequently named Kenneth Starr as dean, the man who zealously investigated President Bill Clinton’s relationship with Monica Lewinsky. (No, I have never donated a penny to the university and I take comfort in the fact I was on full scholarship throughout the course of my studies.)
To be sure, I embarrass easily. It consider myself a discriminating music fan but—GASP!—I own a Bobby Brown album. Worse, I used to think a certain someone on “Growing Pains” was kinda cute. (Yes, Alan Thicke, but the other one, too.) And this Donald Trump commercial should have made me seriously consider giving up Oreo cookie ice cream. Oh, the shame that I continue to reward myself with this flavor of DQ Blizzard!
Oops. How did this post devolve into a Donald Trump reference? The egomaniac will only gloat that another serf is pimping his name.
The topic again? Guilt by association. How can I identify as something when others who make the same claim seem so unlike me,…so, uh, icky. To be specific, there are a lot of gays out there in the Twitterverse who utterly embarrass me.
Today, as I scrolled down to read Tweets from other gay men, I noticed many references to Naked Sunday. Huh? And then there were several “twit pics” attached to tweets. Seems it is the day when gays unabashedly post photos of their bare butts.
Oh, where is my Pride flag when I need to wave it about? Why do I no longer have a pink triangle slapped on my car bumper?
Forget gay adoption, marriage equality, non-discrimination legislation and anti-bullying initiatives. Apparently, the true gay cause centers on Naked Sundays.
A common response would be for a gay twentysomething with a perfect bubble butt to accuse me of being a homophobe or, worse, an old guy with a saggy ass. Call me a prude. Say I’m bitter because I’m single and someone walked off with my camera during a showing of my house over the past three months. You’re entitled to your beliefs and judgments just as I am.
Funny, I just now recalled a happy story about an online butt shot. A dear friend of mine in California has been with the same partner for sixteen years now. They officially married before Prop 8 took away their status. A few years ago, while visiting, I asked how they met. “Online,” my friend replied. “I posted a pic of my ass, he liked it and the rest is history!”
Okay, so maybe Naked Sunday is harmless fun. So long as employers don’t track one’s Twitter account. We’ve come a long way since Stonewall, since Anita Bryant’s rants and since the dark days of the AIDS crisis. (The global crisis continues, but the media and even most gays seem to have tired of it.)
This is an era of greater freedom for gay men. Freedom to marry in some places. Freedom to hold hands without fear (in some places).
And freedom to moon the world.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
JOCK TWITCH
Jocks aren’t gay. Been that way since the beginning of time. Everyone knows that.
Don’t mistake the manly hugs and affectionate locker room nicknames for anything but team spirit, that extra oomph that might mean The Cup, The Ring, The Title will finally come this year. Yes, we all love Kesler (“Kes”, because Kesler really is a mouthful), but in the manliest of ways. It’s about body checks, dekes and goals and certainly has nothing to do with this.
There has never been an openly gay, active player in the NHL, the NFL, the NBA or Major League Baseball. Never. Like I said, jocks aren’t gay.
Oh, there was an injured minor league rugby or soccer or hacky sack player from England or Belgium or Brazil who came out last year. It generated a lot of buzz on the internet for about ten minutes. Eve
n when I view the world with fuchsia-colored glasses, I know that’s not much. It doesn’t set the precedent that prompts elite athletes to blow kisses in the stands at ever-loyal best buds named Chaz or Stewart.
Australian Matthew Mitcham won gold at the 2008 Olympics. That should have amounted to something. But, of course, it didn’t. Divers shave their bodies, strut about in teensy Speedos and spend too much of their day practicing pointing their toes. Diving isn’t much of a sport. Everyone knows cannonballs make a bigger splash.
Even Johnny Weir, donning a flamboyant getup at the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver played coy over his sexuality. Why should he admit to anything? Save it for the income-generating book when he’s relegated to being the warmup act at the ice capades.
After retirement, jocks can stray. Every so often a retiree will hold a press conference, announcing he is gay. (Yes, it’s usually a brief public statement. “I talk about it in depth in my forthcoming memoir.” Only retirees say things like forthcoming.) How do current jocks handle the coming out party of a retired jock? Not sure but I wonder if it can be attributed to a side effect from frequent concussions. I mean, something’s gotta be messed up according to jock logic.
Okay, so let’s review: jocks are not gay.
But wait, you say, what if they are? A few, at least. If not ten percent, then maybe one or two. Gosh golly, it must be pretty uncomfortable for them in the locker room. Maybe even more uncomfortable than it would be for the straight jocks, unknowingly showering alongside closeted gay jocks.
Hooboy, someone insert a dropping-the-soap joke. (That never gets old.)
Yes, I have no doubt that locker rooms are among the last bastions of sanctioned homophobia. Behind closed doors, I am sure many coaches resort to references about “playing like girls” and “queer/fag/gay” references to the opposing team. All that after-the-whistle trash talk on the field/rink/court? If the guys had mikes attached to their jerseys, I am certain we’d hear all sorts of gay putdowns.
That is why I find the newly launched You Can Play campaign a small, yet significant step forward. Regardless of what you think of Toronto Maple Leafs’ Brian Burke as a general manager or an ex-coach, I give him kudos for stepping up with his son Patrick to honor Brendan Burke, Brian’s gay son who died in a car accident on February 5, 2010. Burke made headlines by appearing in Toronto’s Gay Pride parade in 2009 with Brendan and in 2010 and 2011 in Brendan’s honor. For many, that might have been enough. But the Burkes have continued their public advocacy of accepting homosexuality. Their first commercial featuring a number of NHL players sends a simple message. Hockey is about skills. Sexuality is irrelevant. Gay or straight, just play.
The initiative supposedly finds some of its inspiration from the It Gets Better project, but I admit that “If you can play, you can play” message feels watered down, similar to the Don’t ask, don’t tell “breakthrough” that Clinton negotiated with the U.S. military twenty years ago. (Yes, back then, it was real progress.) The reality is that professional sports are significantly behind the times. Yet this is a starting point.
The website explains that the initiative aims to end “casual homophobia” that occurs on sports teams. By “casual”, the message is that most athletes are not blatantly homophobic; rather, the gay taunts are part of institutionalized trash talk banter, comparable to “That’s so gay” references heard in hallways in many high schools. While I do not find any homophobic remark to be casual, I acknowledge that this campaign first attempts to raise a consciousness about what players and coaches say. In time, the rhetoric may be eliminated. Looking forward, there may come a time when active athletes, revered by many, may step forward and come out. Imagine the positive impact this will have.
I see that as a long way away. But progress often begins with a single step, however small. If and when more athletes from a range of sports join in the campaign, more small steps will be made toward ending sports-sanctioned homophobia. In time, a series of small steps may amount to a considerable distance moving forward.
Thank you to the Burke family for taking the lead.
Don’t mistake the manly hugs and affectionate locker room nicknames for anything but team spirit, that extra oomph that might mean The Cup, The Ring, The Title will finally come this year. Yes, we all love Kesler (“Kes”, because Kesler really is a mouthful), but in the manliest of ways. It’s about body checks, dekes and goals and certainly has nothing to do with this.
There has never been an openly gay, active player in the NHL, the NFL, the NBA or Major League Baseball. Never. Like I said, jocks aren’t gay.
Oh, there was an injured minor league rugby or soccer or hacky sack player from England or Belgium or Brazil who came out last year. It generated a lot of buzz on the internet for about ten minutes. Eve
n when I view the world with fuchsia-colored glasses, I know that’s not much. It doesn’t set the precedent that prompts elite athletes to blow kisses in the stands at ever-loyal best buds named Chaz or Stewart.Australian Matthew Mitcham won gold at the 2008 Olympics. That should have amounted to something. But, of course, it didn’t. Divers shave their bodies, strut about in teensy Speedos and spend too much of their day practicing pointing their toes. Diving isn’t much of a sport. Everyone knows cannonballs make a bigger splash.
Even Johnny Weir, donning a flamboyant getup at the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver played coy over his sexuality. Why should he admit to anything? Save it for the income-generating book when he’s relegated to being the warmup act at the ice capades.
After retirement, jocks can stray. Every so often a retiree will hold a press conference, announcing he is gay. (Yes, it’s usually a brief public statement. “I talk about it in depth in my forthcoming memoir.” Only retirees say things like forthcoming.) How do current jocks handle the coming out party of a retired jock? Not sure but I wonder if it can be attributed to a side effect from frequent concussions. I mean, something’s gotta be messed up according to jock logic.
Okay, so let’s review: jocks are not gay.
But wait, you say, what if they are? A few, at least. If not ten percent, then maybe one or two. Gosh golly, it must be pretty uncomfortable for them in the locker room. Maybe even more uncomfortable than it would be for the straight jocks, unknowingly showering alongside closeted gay jocks.
Hooboy, someone insert a dropping-the-soap joke. (That never gets old.)
Yes, I have no doubt that locker rooms are among the last bastions of sanctioned homophobia. Behind closed doors, I am sure many coaches resort to references about “playing like girls” and “queer/fag/gay” references to the opposing team. All that after-the-whistle trash talk on the field/rink/court? If the guys had mikes attached to their jerseys, I am certain we’d hear all sorts of gay putdowns.
That is why I find the newly launched You Can Play campaign a small, yet significant step forward. Regardless of what you think of Toronto Maple Leafs’ Brian Burke as a general manager or an ex-coach, I give him kudos for stepping up with his son Patrick to honor Brendan Burke, Brian’s gay son who died in a car accident on February 5, 2010. Burke made headlines by appearing in Toronto’s Gay Pride parade in 2009 with Brendan and in 2010 and 2011 in Brendan’s honor. For many, that might have been enough. But the Burkes have continued their public advocacy of accepting homosexuality. Their first commercial featuring a number of NHL players sends a simple message. Hockey is about skills. Sexuality is irrelevant. Gay or straight, just play.
The initiative supposedly finds some of its inspiration from the It Gets Better project, but I admit that “If you can play, you can play” message feels watered down, similar to the Don’t ask, don’t tell “breakthrough” that Clinton negotiated with the U.S. military twenty years ago. (Yes, back then, it was real progress.) The reality is that professional sports are significantly behind the times. Yet this is a starting point.
The website explains that the initiative aims to end “casual homophobia” that occurs on sports teams. By “casual”, the message is that most athletes are not blatantly homophobic; rather, the gay taunts are part of institutionalized trash talk banter, comparable to “That’s so gay” references heard in hallways in many high schools. While I do not find any homophobic remark to be casual, I acknowledge that this campaign first attempts to raise a consciousness about what players and coaches say. In time, the rhetoric may be eliminated. Looking forward, there may come a time when active athletes, revered by many, may step forward and come out. Imagine the positive impact this will have.
I see that as a long way away. But progress often begins with a single step, however small. If and when more athletes from a range of sports join in the campaign, more small steps will be made toward ending sports-sanctioned homophobia. In time, a series of small steps may amount to a considerable distance moving forward.
Thank you to the Burke family for taking the lead.
Monday, March 5, 2012
COASTAL CONNECTION
I’ve regularly expressed frustration over being stuck in my rural community, a ferry ride away from civilization. To reiterate, I love my mountain and ocean view and the town that is three miles away has many postcard images, particularly in the quaint harbour; however, I feel very much alone. The FOR SALE sign has blurred into the landscape, much like all the Post-its bordering my computer at work. Seems the term of my stay remains excruciatingly indefinite.
And yet there are swells of contentment, one of which came this weekend. On Saturday night, I picked up a friend and we drove thirty miles down the coast to a former c
olleague’s house. Fifty of us gathered for a private house concert performed by Juno-winning Canadian recording artist Barney Bentall. Now, at first mention, that might be a sad statement about Canadian music. A nationally known musician with a string of hit records in the 1980s and 1990s is strumming his guitar in someone’s living room?! Better than a casino, I say. And much better than rehab or reality show apprenticeship.
This is the second concert I’ve attended in this intimate venue, the first featuring an accomplished blues singer/guitarist in January. It’s a wonderful setup. Folks mingle over wine and appies, first set, more socializing, second set, then linger or leave. The performance is in a spacious living room where rows of chairs replace cleared out furniture. As the room has cathedral ceilings, a row of chairs also lines the balcony.
Although I’d YouTubed Barney Bentall the night before and pulled out my Gin Palace CD, I did not recognize the man as he stepped up to begin the concert. The big hair days were lost to a receding hairline and he’d wisely gone for an appealing close-shaven look. Perhaps Barney is not the photogenic sort, as he looked taller, fitter and more attractive than any of his old publicity shots. (It seems that he’d gone for a Bob Dylan/Tom Cochrane/Bruce Springsteen image in the past—clear musical influences, but never legitimate style setters.) I’ll admit to a flash of groupie lust which immediately subsided as he mentioned his wife and seven grandchildren. Seven?! While many aging rockers look worn and leathery (hello, Steven Tyler), Barney ascribed to the Sting way of life.
This was not the dreary performance of a musician wearily singing tired songs of yore. No, even the oldies sounded fresh. Stripped down, his unplugged performance allowed more focus on the lyrics and highlighted the in sync musicianship between Barney and multi-talented instrumentalist Eric Reid. Barney played many new songs he planned to record in pending studio sessions and, with all the new music plus other projects he has going on, he’d sometimes consult with Eric on keys and opening bars. He explained that his head was bursting with new musical ideas and, based on the songs played, Barney still has the creative spark to truly matter to listeners.
Barney chatted freely
between songs. The connections to our coastal community quickly became apparent. Much of his music was recorded on an island I can see from my living room window, a location accessed by water taxi from the town harbour. He even met his wife on that island. He talked of bike rides on roads we travel regularly, mentioned a hotel in town and one of his newer songs gave a shout out to one of the bays in the area. Seems I was meant to attend this event. While the music entertained, the connections to the land and water reaffirmed that I live in a setting that can be a creative spark.
After the concert, I bought a greatest hits CD, dropping my money in an envelope left on a table in the hallway. Why have someone handling transactions when we could adhere to the honor system? Holding my CD, I caught up with some acquaintances and Barney Bentall approached. “Can I sign that for you?” he offered. How often does the artist approach the fan? He autographed and stuck around for some small talk before I headed out. Turns out he now lives on another island I can see from my home. The signing and quick chat capped off a perfect evening. If the paint begins to fade on the sign in my front yard and frustration rises, I have a soundtrack to ground me again while I wait out the interlude before the next stage in my life.
And yet there are swells of contentment, one of which came this weekend. On Saturday night, I picked up a friend and we drove thirty miles down the coast to a former c
olleague’s house. Fifty of us gathered for a private house concert performed by Juno-winning Canadian recording artist Barney Bentall. Now, at first mention, that might be a sad statement about Canadian music. A nationally known musician with a string of hit records in the 1980s and 1990s is strumming his guitar in someone’s living room?! Better than a casino, I say. And much better than rehab or reality show apprenticeship.This is the second concert I’ve attended in this intimate venue, the first featuring an accomplished blues singer/guitarist in January. It’s a wonderful setup. Folks mingle over wine and appies, first set, more socializing, second set, then linger or leave. The performance is in a spacious living room where rows of chairs replace cleared out furniture. As the room has cathedral ceilings, a row of chairs also lines the balcony.
Although I’d YouTubed Barney Bentall the night before and pulled out my Gin Palace CD, I did not recognize the man as he stepped up to begin the concert. The big hair days were lost to a receding hairline and he’d wisely gone for an appealing close-shaven look. Perhaps Barney is not the photogenic sort, as he looked taller, fitter and more attractive than any of his old publicity shots. (It seems that he’d gone for a Bob Dylan/Tom Cochrane/Bruce Springsteen image in the past—clear musical influences, but never legitimate style setters.) I’ll admit to a flash of groupie lust which immediately subsided as he mentioned his wife and seven grandchildren. Seven?! While many aging rockers look worn and leathery (hello, Steven Tyler), Barney ascribed to the Sting way of life.
This was not the dreary performance of a musician wearily singing tired songs of yore. No, even the oldies sounded fresh. Stripped down, his unplugged performance allowed more focus on the lyrics and highlighted the in sync musicianship between Barney and multi-talented instrumentalist Eric Reid. Barney played many new songs he planned to record in pending studio sessions and, with all the new music plus other projects he has going on, he’d sometimes consult with Eric on keys and opening bars. He explained that his head was bursting with new musical ideas and, based on the songs played, Barney still has the creative spark to truly matter to listeners.
Barney chatted freely
between songs. The connections to our coastal community quickly became apparent. Much of his music was recorded on an island I can see from my living room window, a location accessed by water taxi from the town harbour. He even met his wife on that island. He talked of bike rides on roads we travel regularly, mentioned a hotel in town and one of his newer songs gave a shout out to one of the bays in the area. Seems I was meant to attend this event. While the music entertained, the connections to the land and water reaffirmed that I live in a setting that can be a creative spark.After the concert, I bought a greatest hits CD, dropping my money in an envelope left on a table in the hallway. Why have someone handling transactions when we could adhere to the honor system? Holding my CD, I caught up with some acquaintances and Barney Bentall approached. “Can I sign that for you?” he offered. How often does the artist approach the fan? He autographed and stuck around for some small talk before I headed out. Turns out he now lives on another island I can see from my home. The signing and quick chat capped off a perfect evening. If the paint begins to fade on the sign in my front yard and frustration rises, I have a soundtrack to ground me again while I wait out the interlude before the next stage in my life.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
JUST WATCH
Not my words today, other than to ask you to set two hours aside to watch a performance of “8”, a play created by Dustin Lance Black, featuring court transcripts from Perry v. Schwarzenegger, a case challenging Proposition 8, the referendum which took away the right for gays to marry in the state of California. Directed by Rob Reiner, actors performed a reading on March 3, 2012 as a benefit for the American Foundation for Equal Rights (AFER), featuring an impressive cast:
Brad Pitt
George Clooney
Martin Sheen
Kevin Bacon
Jamie Lee Curtis
Christine Lahti
Matthew Morrison
Matt Bomer
Bridger Zadina
Jansen Panettiere
Rory O’Malley
Chris Colfer
Jane Lynch
Jesse Tyler Ferguson
Yeardley Smith
James Pickens, Jr.
John C. Reilly
George Takei
Larry Kramer
Campbell Brown
Vanessa Garcia
Please click this link.
Brad Pitt
George Clooney
Martin Sheen
Kevin Bacon
Jamie Lee Curtis
Christine Lahti
Matthew Morrison
Matt Bomer
Bridger Zadina
Jansen Panettiere
Rory O’Malley
Chris Colfer
Jane Lynch
Jesse Tyler Ferguson
Yeardley Smith
James Pickens, Jr.
John C. Reilly
George Takei
Larry Kramer
Campbell Brown
Vanessa Garcia
Please click this link.
Friday, March 2, 2012
LITTLE THINGS, BIG THINGS
I didn’t notice him when I walked in. Me first? How had I beaten him after I’d dizzied myself, circling multiple times in search of a parking spot? I was three minutes late, but from our emails, I sensed Philip was a punctual guy. Cold feet? It happens.
Just after 6 p.m., an awkward time for coffee. Would it be weird if I grazed on a small salad? Being a guy who probably needs glasses but still doesn’t have a pair, I crouched over the display case and squinted at the labels of the different deli creations. Undoubtedly not a great pose and a flagrant violation of First Date Wait whereby I should have a smile Vaselined on my face, keep the stomach sucked in and look cool and confident standing in a public eatery alone. Mid-crouch/squint, I realized someone was suddenly standing beside me. Philip.
“I bought you a coffee,” he said and I followed him to a table at the far end of the bakery. “Decaf,” he explained. Perfect! Beside my latté was a small plate with biscotti.
I’d bought coffee for some guys on first dates, but I can’t recall another man treating me. Little things—what should be a basic in being a gentleman—make strong first impressions. I sat down and noticed Philip wore a perfectly pressed button down shirt. He’d given this meeting some thought, something that should have been evident when he texted me fifteen minutes ahead of time: “Looking forward to meeting you.”
A class act. A refreshing change.
I became somewhat alarmed when he started talking: rapid pace, too much dwelling on a single topic, not enough back and forth. Please no déjà-vu. I’ve endured enough self-absorbed blowhards. Thankfully, it was just nervous energy. Toward the end of the date, as he joined me while I walked my dog along the seawall, I learned that I was his first date since he’d ended a ten-year relationship in December. Okay, that triggers a different déjà-vu. Dating freshly dumped guys doesn’t work out.
But I can ignore the warning signs. Heck, I’d ignored the nuts—which I hate—in the biscotti and graciously eaten the whole thing. I can ignore a lot when a guy leads with a latté-in-waiting.
Not a perfect first date, but there is definitely potential. On paper, we’re a good match. He’s 46, I’m 47. He has three degrees, I have three degrees. He’s incredibly fit and a marathon runner and, well, I try and I’m fitter than 95% of the men my age. Philip is worth a second date at least.
But then, as my dog tangled himself in a scraggly bush and I went back to my sexy crouching/sprinting pose, Philip revealed his own snag. “I got a job offer two days ago. In Edmonton.”
Of course he did. This was the business trip he’d mentioned in our exchange of messages. I’d made a series of lightly disparaging comments about the city—it’s so easy—in an attempt at humor. “I have to decide by Monday,” he said, sounding apologetic and genuinely conflicted.
Potential, yes. But I’m not the kind of guy you consider passing up a chance to move to Edmonton for. I mean, really, it’s Edmonton! If I’d known ninety minutes earlier, I’d have left the biscotti untouched, lied and mumbled something about anaphylaxis. And yet I’m glad I didn’t know. After dozens of go-nowhere coffee dates, that wonderful first impression proved restorative. There are genuinely nice single men out there still. Surely they don’t all move to Edmonton.
Just after 6 p.m., an awkward time for coffee. Would it be weird if I grazed on a small salad? Being a guy who probably needs glasses but still doesn’t have a pair, I crouched over the display case and squinted at the labels of the different deli creations. Undoubtedly not a great pose and a flagrant violation of First Date Wait whereby I should have a smile Vaselined on my face, keep the stomach sucked in and look cool and confident standing in a public eatery alone. Mid-crouch/squint, I realized someone was suddenly standing beside me. Philip.
“I bought you a coffee,” he said and I followed him to a table at the far end of the bakery. “Decaf,” he explained. Perfect! Beside my latté was a small plate with biscotti.
I’d bought coffee for some guys on first dates, but I can’t recall another man treating me. Little things—what should be a basic in being a gentleman—make strong first impressions. I sat down and noticed Philip wore a perfectly pressed button down shirt. He’d given this meeting some thought, something that should have been evident when he texted me fifteen minutes ahead of time: “Looking forward to meeting you.”
A class act. A refreshing change.
I became somewhat alarmed when he started talking: rapid pace, too much dwelling on a single topic, not enough back and forth. Please no déjà-vu. I’ve endured enough self-absorbed blowhards. Thankfully, it was just nervous energy. Toward the end of the date, as he joined me while I walked my dog along the seawall, I learned that I was his first date since he’d ended a ten-year relationship in December. Okay, that triggers a different déjà-vu. Dating freshly dumped guys doesn’t work out.
But I can ignore the warning signs. Heck, I’d ignored the nuts—which I hate—in the biscotti and graciously eaten the whole thing. I can ignore a lot when a guy leads with a latté-in-waiting.
Not a perfect first date, but there is definitely potential. On paper, we’re a good match. He’s 46, I’m 47. He has three degrees, I have three degrees. He’s incredibly fit and a marathon runner and, well, I try and I’m fitter than 95% of the men my age. Philip is worth a second date at least.
But then, as my dog tangled himself in a scraggly bush and I went back to my sexy crouching/sprinting pose, Philip revealed his own snag. “I got a job offer two days ago. In Edmonton.”
Of course he did. This was the business trip he’d mentioned in our exchange of messages. I’d made a series of lightly disparaging comments about the city—it’s so easy—in an attempt at humor. “I have to decide by Monday,” he said, sounding apologetic and genuinely conflicted.
Potential, yes. But I’m not the kind of guy you consider passing up a chance to move to Edmonton for. I mean, really, it’s Edmonton! If I’d known ninety minutes earlier, I’d have left the biscotti untouched, lied and mumbled something about anaphylaxis. And yet I’m glad I didn’t know. After dozens of go-nowhere coffee dates, that wonderful first impression proved restorative. There are genuinely nice single men out there still. Surely they don’t all move to Edmonton.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
FORGET PRETTY IN PINK
Okay, I loved the movie. Andrew McCarthy’s blue eyes popped in every scene. It helped that his entire wardrobe was blue. Annie Potts quirked it just right as the record shop owner. (Sigh. Remember when there were record stores?) Molly Ringwald’s whimsical fashion creations were so avant-“Project Runway”. And Duckie? I still feel sad she spurned him. If things had gone differently, he may never have had to endure becoming a Malibu roommate with a drug-addled, dwarf-bashing TV “star”. Yep, poor Duckie.
Thank you, John Hughes, but it’s time to put “Pretty in Pink” to rest. Indeed, now is the time for “Power in Pink”. Tomorrow being the last Wednesday of February is Pink Shirt Day (aka Anti-Bullying Day). Haven’t heard of it? Well, Pink Shirt Day began in Nova Scotia, Canada in 2007 and gains in recognition each year. When a male student wore a pink shirt to school five years ago, he was ridiculed by peers. In response, two high school seniors bought fifty plain pink tees and students showed up in pink clusters all over school the next day. The masses overtook the bullies, not by some act of vigilante justice, but by making a true fashion statement.
Pink Shirt Day is a day when bystanders can choose to be visible. Bullying, harassment, taunting, ridicule must stop. For all their bravado, bullies don’t have real power. Real power isn’t gained through coercion or through instilling fear. The targets of bullying also lack the power. Bullying occurs because there is a perceived imbalance of power. Bullies seek out the most vulnerable. It is the bystanders who can create change. They can speak up against the bullies. They can comfort and protect the victims. They can do the most to create a culture of not just tolerance but acceptance.
It doesn’t matter how old you are. It doesn’t matter how far removed you are from the impressionable, often brutal high school years. I’ve ironed my pink shirt and I have my pink tie. In fact, I go pink once a month. The annual event raises consciousness, but like that Christmas food bank drive, it is only a start.
By all means, though, please start. Show yourself. Wear pink on Wednesday. If someone asks why, don’t cop out with some lame comment about being pretty or needing to do laundry. Let our youth know that today doesn’t have to be like yesterday. Homophobia and all kinds of bullying must end. Let them know there is hope. Indeed, show them there is power in pink.
Thank you, John Hughes, but it’s time to put “Pretty in Pink” to rest. Indeed, now is the time for “Power in Pink”. Tomorrow being the last Wednesday of February is Pink Shirt Day (aka Anti-Bullying Day). Haven’t heard of it? Well, Pink Shirt Day began in Nova Scotia, Canada in 2007 and gains in recognition each year. When a male student wore a pink shirt to school five years ago, he was ridiculed by peers. In response, two high school seniors bought fifty plain pink tees and students showed up in pink clusters all over school the next day. The masses overtook the bullies, not by some act of vigilante justice, but by making a true fashion statement.
Pink Shirt Day is a day when bystanders can choose to be visible. Bullying, harassment, taunting, ridicule must stop. For all their bravado, bullies don’t have real power. Real power isn’t gained through coercion or through instilling fear. The targets of bullying also lack the power. Bullying occurs because there is a perceived imbalance of power. Bullies seek out the most vulnerable. It is the bystanders who can create change. They can speak up against the bullies. They can comfort and protect the victims. They can do the most to create a culture of not just tolerance but acceptance.
It doesn’t matter how old you are. It doesn’t matter how far removed you are from the impressionable, often brutal high school years. I’ve ironed my pink shirt and I have my pink tie. In fact, I go pink once a month. The annual event raises consciousness, but like that Christmas food bank drive, it is only a start.
By all means, though, please start. Show yourself. Wear pink on Wednesday. If someone asks why, don’t cop out with some lame comment about being pretty or needing to do laundry. Let our youth know that today doesn’t have to be like yesterday. Homophobia and all kinds of bullying must end. Let them know there is hope. Indeed, show them there is power in pink.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
ROUTINELY GAY
Is there a gay way to open a bottle of ketchup? A gay way to fill the gas tank? Wipe down the kitchen counters? I suppose I could hum a Barbra Streisand song, but “The Way He Makes Me Feel” isn’t all that hummable. It’s a song for the shower.
I haven’t posted anything of late because nothing gay has come my way. I haven’t had a disappointing coffee date with someone whose destiny is to be featured on a future episode of “What Not to Wear”. I’ve overheard no one telling inappropriate gay jokes in line at one the local Safeway. And I didn’t tune in to watch Ricky Martin’s appearance on “Glee”. (Confession: I did YouTube a clip. Am I the only one who thinks our beautiful Ricky got a little carried away at the tattoo parlor? Note that “Ink it like Beckham” is not a catchphrase that has caught on.)
Sometimes life just goes on: timesuckingferrycommuteemotiondrainingworkchaostootiredtoprocesstelevisionsitcoms.
I don’t ogle at anyone in the thrice daily Starbucks line. No, I only curse (silently) all the humans standing between me and my next caffeine hit. When did it become acceptable to process $2.18 grande coffees with credit cards? And the too chatty barista? I only wish he’d shave his scruffy eyesore of a beard. (Yes, I get cranky when going through withdrawal.)
I don’t try to outrun fit guys in unitards on the treadmill beside me at the gym. In fact, there are no unitards at my gym. (That’s a good thing.) I only hit the gym on weekends. And I opt for the exercise bike instead. It’s so much more conducive to allowing me to read Writer’s Digest or, ahem, Entertainment Weekly. (What?! I can’t possibly relate to the gym’s reading options: Marie Claire or fitness rags with overtanned, oiled up, steroid-injected cover boys.)
I don’t even hit Home Depot to ponder home improvement projects. In truth, my own DIY possibilities involve gallons of paint and I’m not very motivated to freshen up the third bedroom. I never go in there anyway.
It’s not like I’ve lost my gayness. It’s just in screen saver mode. Waiting for a user. A browser will do. Still here. Not disgruntled (except during aforementioned caffeine deficits), not overjoyed. Quietly existing.
Madonna’s new CD comes out soon, doesn’t it?
What time does Anderson Cooper’s talk show air?
Maybe I should YouTube old Ricky Martin videos. Pre tattoos. Pre-“She Bangs”.
I haven’t posted anything of late because nothing gay has come my way. I haven’t had a disappointing coffee date with someone whose destiny is to be featured on a future episode of “What Not to Wear”. I’ve overheard no one telling inappropriate gay jokes in line at one the local Safeway. And I didn’t tune in to watch Ricky Martin’s appearance on “Glee”. (Confession: I did YouTube a clip. Am I the only one who thinks our beautiful Ricky got a little carried away at the tattoo parlor? Note that “Ink it like Beckham” is not a catchphrase that has caught on.)
Sometimes life just goes on: timesuckingferrycommuteemotiondrainingworkchaostootiredtoprocesstelevisionsitcoms.
I don’t ogle at anyone in the thrice daily Starbucks line. No, I only curse (silently) all the humans standing between me and my next caffeine hit. When did it become acceptable to process $2.18 grande coffees with credit cards? And the too chatty barista? I only wish he’d shave his scruffy eyesore of a beard. (Yes, I get cranky when going through withdrawal.)
I don’t try to outrun fit guys in unitards on the treadmill beside me at the gym. In fact, there are no unitards at my gym. (That’s a good thing.) I only hit the gym on weekends. And I opt for the exercise bike instead. It’s so much more conducive to allowing me to read Writer’s Digest or, ahem, Entertainment Weekly. (What?! I can’t possibly relate to the gym’s reading options: Marie Claire or fitness rags with overtanned, oiled up, steroid-injected cover boys.)
I don’t even hit Home Depot to ponder home improvement projects. In truth, my own DIY possibilities involve gallons of paint and I’m not very motivated to freshen up the third bedroom. I never go in there anyway.
It’s not like I’ve lost my gayness. It’s just in screen saver mode. Waiting for a user. A browser will do. Still here. Not disgruntled (except during aforementioned caffeine deficits), not overjoyed. Quietly existing.
Madonna’s new CD comes out soon, doesn’t it?
What time does Anderson Cooper’s talk show air?
Maybe I should YouTube old Ricky Martin videos. Pre tattoos. Pre-“She Bangs”.
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