GAYDAR SAYS...

I attended an art exhibit on the weekend at a painter’s idyllic estate in town last weekend. It’s the kind of place featured in home and garden magazines. No surprise, it has been in a national publication though I never saw the issue. I imagine there was a picture of the easy-on-the-eyes artist sitting barefoot on the porch of character home along with his stylish wife, each of them holding a cup of coffee while their cat, named after Rembrandt or Beethoven or Socrates, nudges up against his leg. (These aren’t Whiskers or Felix people.)

The gala was scheduled to run from 5-8 p.m. and I worried about looking like I didn’t have a life, arriving at 5:10. Turns out there were a lot of other life-less folks. Cars lined the rustic lane and at least fifty people were already milling about in the pristine gardens, chatting amiably, gazing at the emu and alpaca and, yes, studying the pieces in the industrial studio with the open glass garage doors letting a gentle breeze stream through both levels.

The exhibition is held each year in July and I’m usually out of town at the time. This is an abstract artist whose work I have admired since I first moved to the area five years ago. If and when I finally get back to civilization, I would like to take one of his larger works with me to adorn a wall in my cramped city condo. Unfortunately, the selection seemed smaller than when I’d last attended an exhibit four years ago. Moreover, the colour and composition failed to dazzle me. I had my chequebook ready, but I had no inkling to sign my name and reduce my bank account by another couple of thousand dollars in support of the arts. My art collector days must wait at least another year.

On my last visit, I hadn’t been able to make the opening and instead showed up during an afternoon showing later in the week. At that time, red dots indicated that almost every painting had been purchased. Still, the artist was charming—and attractive—and he offered me a tour of the inside of his home and the meandering gardens. But for the dots, I would have gladly bought one of his works, not sure if due to genuine art appreciation or pure lust.

Given the crowd, there were no personal tours this time. It’s just as well since I would have only felt more frustrated and confused. This man appears to be living an existence that I can only fantasize about. Gorgeous home, gorgeous studio, gorgeous grounds and, well, gorgeous artist. The whole package! The assortment of animals only adds to the ambience. I drove away thinking If only...

How is it this man has a wife? I know my gaydar gets little use here in the boonies, but this man isn’t on the Is He/Isn’t He fringe of the monitor. He’s comes up smack in the middle of the gaydar screen right where you’d find Chris Colfer, Adam Lambert and, yes, Anderson Cooper. (Don’t worry, Andy...no one reads my little blog. Especially not the Baptists in the Bible Belt.) With so few gay men in the area, his lovely wife has taken one of the good ones—okay, maybe the only one—in my age bracket. Doesn’t she know? Doesn’t HE know?! Here we are forty-one years after Stonewall, twelve years after George Michael’s public toilet bust, and months after Justin’s coming out on “Ugly Betty” and being gay still isn’t an option in some rural areas of the least religious province in relatively tolerant Canada. That successful, sexy artist could be mine. What competition is there in these parts?! Alas, he’s crossed over to the hetero life.

In his dreamlike setting, I wonder if he is indeed happy.

COMING OUT FOR THE NEXT GENERATION

I had coffee with Donna this morning. She is a neighbor of my aunt and uncle in a rural community outside of a town of 7,500. Her son Carter is seventeen and gay. She had cried on my aunt’s shoulder and, after meeting me last week, desperately needed to talk to an older gay man to gain some perspective on what might be best for Carter. (Bless Donna. She thought I was approaching thirty, not forty-five. How could I not want to bond with this woman?)

We chatted for almost two hours and both went away feeling nourished. As she explained Tyler’s coming out process, I was reminded how much things have changed in the past thirty years. When I was Carter’s age, Elton John had declared himself bisexual, but had a wife. A guy named Jack on “Three’s Company” pretended to be gay to get closer to Suzanne Somers’ breasts. That was it. I had no other gay reference points. Oh, there was a song by Rod Stewart, “The Killing of Georgie”, a stunningly accepting testimonial about a friend’s gayness. Unfortunately, as the title reveals, poor Georgie was beaten to death by a less accepting swarm.

Carter had found a gay confidant online in a distant Canadian city. He’d also found some of the more risqué sites, satisfying his curiosity and graphically revealing what gay sex is all about. He also lives in a country where gay marriage and gay adoption are legal. Protection against discrimination is embedded in the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Carter has grown up with far more gay influences. Ellen Degeneres is one of the most beloved TV personalities out there. Adam Lambert overshadowed all contestants on this season of “American Idol” and made the cover of Rolling Stone. Television is filled with gay characters on past and present shows like “Will and Grace”, “Brothers and Sisters”, “Desperate Housewives”, “Ugly Betty” and “Glee”.

Coming out is still a challenge, a burden even. So much drama. So much to carry on your shoulders. Despite all the recognition in pop culture, the personal resources remain hard to come by, especially when you don’t live in a big city. Donna had never heard of PFLAG and had only talked about Carter’s sexual orientation with my aunt and myself. She grew up in Toronto and could recall gay acquaintances there. Her husband grew up in this rural area and still can’t even say the word gay despite knowing for over a year that his son is gay.

While I believe most high schools still have too much machismo, too much gay taunting, Carter’s school in town is particularly brutal. He suppresses his love of writing and photography and plays up his fascination for fast cars. He has not come out to a single peer. He is as lonely and isolated in his personal world as I was.

Still, Donna and Carter are ahead of where I was in my teens. Carter accepted his identity at least five years before me. He didn’t have to make a Grand Declaration of Gayness to Donna; instead, she stumbled upon a letter he’d written on the Internet, hugged him and told him she loved him. (I had to fly from L.A. to Alabama for my official Coming Out Weekend to my parents when I was twenty-eight.)

Donna began our talk saying she felt uncomfortable. By the end, she was smiling and hugging me and hoping I would move closer—to Ottawa, not the local town. I felt like I was giving back in a way to another family, maybe making their growth a little easier, their bonding a little stronger. At the same time, I feel a little less isolated and a little more encouraged.

Highlights of Summer

I am trying to convince myself that highlighting my hair is not a gay cliché. Doesn’t David Beckham go for the blond streaks?

Okay, I cannot put myself in the same league..for anything. (Gotta admit, I think he overdid it on the tattoos.) I see teens and twentysomething guys playing with their hair color all the time. It’s a hip thing to do.

Of course, I’m a fortysomething and I don’t wear hipness convincingly. The dye has been cast. I now have my own streaks of blond.

Two decades ago, the blond would have appeared naturally as I lifeguarded and spent countless hours outdoors in the midday summer sun. Melanoma changed that for me ten years ago. No more sun. I’ve got the scars to remind me that pasty white is my permanent skin tone from now on. Still, I missed being a bit blonder—and, let’s face it, being a bit less gray. (My hairstylist mistook some gray for blond so I can’t complain. And I still have all my hair, another windfall!)

I did get highlights one other time, many years ago. Probably right after the melanoma. I needed a pick-me-up after sitting in the waiting room of a skin cancer institute, thirty-five years younger than all the other patients. I was so worried that my dye job would overly feminize me, as if my voice and my mannerisms were textbook he-man. Anyway, I asked for the dye job to be subtle. It turned out to be so subtle that no one (other than my partner at the time) noticed.

This time I was (slightly) more daring. As I read an older issue of Rolling Stone—hey, that Adam Lambert* guy is gay! At least little “Idol” girls still have Seacrest*--while the product bleached clumps of hair, I fretted over the reveal. Egad! What if it’s Pamela Anderson platinum? Or Anderson Cooper white? (Cooper white is fine if you’ve got the piercing blue eyes and Ivory skin. Hmm, no and no.)

My stylist did a spot-check after a half hour and announced it was “still too yellow”. She walked away and chatted at length to another idle stylist and the new gay receptionist with the lovely (South African?) accent. Another tangent: there’s a new gay in town! Turns out his partner is the gay guy at the bakery. That makes it official. Yes, I am the only single gay in the community.

I worried that the conversation was distracting my stylist. If the dye stayed on too long, what color would my hair become? Would magenta work with my green eyes? Fortunately, it all worked out. I didn’t trust the mirrors in the salon so I rushed home and verified the look in each mirror.

The highlights are apparent but “natural”, recalling years past. Do I look younger and kissed by summer? That was the goal.

Maybe I really am a clichéd, old gay fart, but this cliché feels fresh. Good enough.

*Dyes/highlights his hair.