BYE GEORGE

This is feeling like a trend. Bowie. Prince. And now George Michael. I’d add Natalie Cole to the list as well. (I’m just glad Joni Mitchell seems to have pulled through.) So now it’s time to end the trend. Let passing away be passé. Lionel Richie, Madonna, Phil Collins, you’ve got to live until you’re ancient. No one will remember you. Except other ancient folks and, when these other ancients reminisce about you dancing on the ceiling and pretending cones were your breasts, the young ‘uns will just think the old coots are having a delusional moment. Morphine and memory challenges will do that.

But back to George. His death may not come as a surprise. He’s had problems over the years. Maybe he was never supposed to have the spotlight solely on him. Maybe Andrew Ridgeley served a purpose after all. I think the Brits followed his problems more than those of us on the other side of the water. Here, he went from scandalous to a joke to obscure. We moved on. This is the land where we need to know about parking tickets issued to neighbors of fifth cousins of those Kardashian sisters. (Don’t ask me to name them. I’ll only sidetrack you with an analysis of Leonardo DiCaprio’s “Inception.” You won’t be able to argue. But we’ll go back to normal talk, disparaging Starbucks while nonetheless slurping down our caramel mocha half-sweet non-fat frappuccinos.)

See what I’m doing? I’m straying. Because I’m not sure what to make of George’s death. I didn’t know him. I wasn’t part of his circle of friends. I wasn’t even a neighbor of a fifth cousin. I never had a backstage pass to allow me to forever tell every acquaintance my one takeaway: He said hi—well, not to me, but to a hotter looking guy beside me—and I swear he had a distinct scent of green tea, scotch and pot on his breath. (Or maybe it was just Hubba Bubba watermelon.) No, all I knew was the George of MTV and awards shows and of one particular cassette that I’ll always consider a classic. (If only I had a device on which to play it. I'm an old coot who rather liked cassette decks. Bought my favourite George Michael cassette twice as all that damn ribbon had a tendency to unravel in my car radio system. Beloved tape decks had their flaws, just like all of us.)

I got much more from George than the nickel he got from me in royalties. I had a little crush on that handsome, blond-streaked bopper who first emerged looking way too happy in a CHOOSE LIFE t-shirt. At the time, I thought Wham! was another one-hit wonder. Like Kajagoogoo. And Haircut One Hundred. Oh, those pretty pretty Brit boys. George’s debut act—was it even a band?—didn’t deserve continued success, not with an exclamation mark in its name (just wrong!) and an odd song with a “Go Go” tagged on the end. (A Go-Go(s) tangent: I always thought Jane Wiedlin should’ve had as much solo success as Belinda Carlisle.)

But Wham! lived on because the lead singer had more than good looks; he had a voice. And despite “Everything She Wants” and the solo hit “I Want Your Sex,” I always felt there was a sensitive man wanting to emerge, wanting vocals to matter in the pre-Adele era. “Careless Whisper” gave us a window to something greater. I always felt “A Different Corner” and “Jesus to a Child” would never have been released as singles if George had been a lesser pop star.

I will admit that I enjoyed seeing him shake his stuff in those faded jeans in the “Faith” video as much as anyone else. And I enjoyed all the gay chatter. 

Is he?! 

But what about Brooke Shields? 

He was a master at feeding us an infectious hook, from the dopey “I’m Your Man” to the slick “Fastlove,” from the cheery “Freedom” with Wham! to my favorite single, his solo “Freedom ‘90.” These were the songs I danced to in gay clubs between Madonna, Janet Jackson and Bananarama videos. George gave us a good time. Over and over again.

But he went from pop icon to artist with the release of “Listen without Prejudice, Volume 1.” “Praying for Time” haunted against the backdrop of the AIDS crisis. The song begins with a plea for charity but ends in the kind of uncertainty that fit the period:

It's hard to love, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope when there is no hope to speak of
And the wounded skies above say it's much too late
So maybe we should all be praying for time.

“Freedom '90” represented an artistic shift in its absence of the singer in the video, something that must have given record execs ulcers even as they dropped hundreds of thousands into a delicious fashion video with the supermodels of the day. (My roommates were obsessed with models at the time and we argued playfully (?) over which model was supreme. Being the prideful Canadian, I always went with Team Linda.) Behind the gloss of the video and the groove of the music, the lyrics begged for us to see George as he truly was:

Heaven knows I was just a young boy,
Didn't know what I wanted to be.
I was every little hungry schoolgirl's pride and joy,
And I guess it was enough for me….

But, today, the way I play the game is not the same;
No way.
Think I'm gonna get me some happy.
I think there's something you should know.
I think it's time I told you so.
There's something deep inside of me.
There's someone else I've got to be.

But nobody—other than the gays—wanted George to be anything different. And, really, George already had the gays in his back denim pocket. I’ll always believe “Listen” was grounded in a real relationship with a man but no one wanted to see that. Or maybe I wanted to see that too much.

The album didn’t get the sales or the recognition it deserved, perhaps because its songs demanded that the listener actually think, perhaps because he didn’t want his ass or even his face to be a part of the promotion, perhaps because his record label wanted to teach him a thing or two about corporate conformity.

When news broke of George propositioning an undercover police officer in a Beverly Hills park bathroom, I took perverse pleasure, not in seeing a star humiliated—at least not that much—but in finally having confirmation that Georgie Boy was one of us. Hell, he could be mine! If only he’d look beyond urinals or bathroom stalls in public restrooms. (I don’t have a clue where exactly the propositioning occurs. I’m more concerned with there being soap and a hand dryer that works even just a little. (They never work beyond “just a little,” do they?))

I’ve read that George never embraced his coming out. He didn’t want to be the trailblazer. And who can blame him. His career in North America dried up after the bathroom incident. No more U.S. charting singles, even with the buzz-generating “Outside” video. Sam Smith et al. have no idea what homophobia was like back in 1998, particularly for an artist whose sexy looks were part of the draw.

And so a mega-star with ten Number 1s and twenty-three Top 40 singles flamed out. But I continued to have my “Listen Without Prejudice” binges. It was part of the soundtrack to many of my road trips and, just two weeks ago, I spent a Saturday night playing my own George Michael marathon, even discovering a new gem, his Rufus Wainwright cover, “Going to a Town.” Admittedly, I have less than stellar weekends, but there was renewed joy and appreciation in listening to the man sing.

We’ll always have that. It’s unlikely that he would have had any kind of musical resurgence. The real tragedy is for those who knew him personally. I don’t know how he died but I hope it wasn’t at the hand of one of his demons: drugs, depression or a combination of the two. George Michael helped define my days of coming out and the years that followed. He added feel good moments to the process. I’m not sure he ever gave as much to himself.

I’m still listening, George. Without prejudice, but for now with great lament.  

THE MUSICAL ROAD TO GAY ACCEPTANCE - Part IV

There are people who play Beatles records backwards, convinced there are hidden messages. Others have written theses on Don McLean’s “American Pie”. My greatest lyrical fascination involves George Michael’s Listen without Prejudice, Vol. 1.

I never bought Michael’s more popular, Grammy-winning Faith which came out two years earlier. “I Want Your Sex” felt gimmicky and “Father Figure” came off as plain icky. But then came the 1990 release of Listen’s debut single “Praying for Time” and I dashed out to buy the album on cassette. (Yep, the music industry made a killing off me, first switching from vinyl to cassette, then to CD. Good thing I never had an 8-track contraption.)

Officially, George Michael publicly came out in 1998 after an embarrassing interaction in a Beverly Hills bathroom. But I was convinced he’d already attempted to step out of the closet eight years prior with the release of the Listen album. It’s just that no one really listened.

On the surface, one can say ”Listen without Prejudice” was George’s plea that the public not prejudge the album based on previous gimmicky/icky fare. No doubt, George felt he’d come a long way since Wham’s debut earworm, “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” It seemed he wanted to scream, “I’m a real musician. I’m an artist. I’m more than a pretty face.”

But, in my mind at least, dear George was desperately dropping every possible clue without actually saying, “Yep, I’m gay.” I empathized with the man. So often in my own far more private life I longed for people to ask or simply conclude and accept that I am gay. Expressly coming out can involve way too much drama.

I knew from the first single that George Michael wanted to say something far deeper than “I Want Your Sex.” “Praying for Time” may be about people turning away from the downtrodden, the homeless, the destitute. But given that this was 1990 during the AIDS crisis when people found new reasons to spew hate toward homosexuals and use God’s wrath as retribution for a sinful “lifestyle choice”, the lyrics had to be viewed as a heartfelt attempt to create compassion for persons living with AIDS. In 1990, AIDS was still a death sentence, many dying within the first year of diagnosis. How could George be referring to anything else?

And it's hard to love, there's so much to hate
Hanging on to hope
When there is no hope to speak of
...Maybe we should all be praying for time.

I contend that another song on the album, “Mother’s Pride”, continued to humanize the tragedy of AIDS. Many viewed the song as being about war and, indeed, it received considerable airplay in the U.S. during the Gulf War. This is the literal take, but it fails to consider the War on AIDS that activists and regular families waged against medical companies and governments.

And as he grows
He hears the band,
Takes the step from boy to man
And at the shore she waves her son goodbye...

Mothers pride
Just a boy...
He's a soldier waving at the shore
And in her heart the time has come
To lose a son.

So hurrah, George bravely sang out on behalf of PWAs. (He later contributed songs to Red Hot + Dance, an AIDS album fundraiser.) But the second cut on Listen was even more personal. “Freedom!‘90” focused on George desperately wanting to shed the pop idol image he’d first created with Wham and further enhanced with some eye-catching butt shaking for Faith. That image helped him achieve fame and fortune.

I was every little hungry schoolgirl's pride and joy
And I guess it was enough for me.

But George then dropped two lines to break up with this rabid fan base:

I don't belong to you
And you don't belong to me.

What struck me more was the rest of the song. All the thoughts expressed the struggles of someone playing it straight and wanting to come out.

I think there's something you should know,
I think it's time I told you so,
There's something deep inside of me,
There's someone else I've got to be.

 

All we have to do now
Is take these lies and make them true somehow.

I think there's something you should know
I think it's time I stopped the show
There's something deep inside of me
There's someone I forgot to be.

May not be what you want from me,
Just the way it's got to be;
Lose the face now
I've got to live, I've got to live.

 

How could this not be a coming out song?! I read interviews following the release of Listen without Prejudice and fully expected reporters to ask the obvious questions, with George providing the obvious answer.

Nothing.

George knew that coming out was the path to Freedom, but the starmakers would not have it. Indeed, George instead dove into an intense legal battle with his record company, seeking to sever ties for failing to actively promote the album. How could they not? Faith sold 25 million copies. While Listen may have been more introspective, it still had plenty of hooks. I contend the label did not want their artist of the moment to risk being shunned by many God-fearing Americans. Better to let the album and George’s attempt at artistic and personal honesty quietly pass.

So much for Freedom. Another dance song on the album, “SoulFree”, echoed the longing of being himself.

Won't you come with me?
Baby, gonna get my soul free.

Oh, if only.

While “Heal the Pain” is a love song at its core, George still opened with a hint about coming out:

Let me tell you a secret
Put it in your heart and then keep it
Something that I want you to know
Do something for me
Listen to my simple story.

This intro seemed to be an aside, much like the backwards Beatles messages, for the rest of the song focused on another person, someone whose love and trust George sought.

Other songs on the album spoke of a failed relationship and George’s desire to try to make it work again. George avoided gender pronouns, but playfully referred to a man (“Mister”) while later retreating to a woman (“Sister”) in “Cowboys and Angels”:

I know you think that you're safe,
Mister.
Harmless deception
That keeps love at bay.
It's the ones who resist that we most want to kiss,
Wouldn't you say?
Cowboys and angels,
They all have the time for you.
Why should I imagine
That I'd be a find for you?

George let things “slip” and still nobody noticed. Except me.

I love this album. In my mind, at least, it will always be a Coming Out affair. Had people truly listened, perhaps things wouldn’t have gotten so messy for George. Perhaps his music career wouldn’t have fizzled so fast, suspended by the legal battle and further mired by substance abuse. Maybe he wouldn’t have needed to find temporary satisfaction in that Beverly Hills public space. Perhaps he’d be lauded as a gay leader who came out on his own terms. Consciously or subconsciously, it was all there in 1990.

THE FACT IS, I’M WAITING

“The fact is, I’m gay.”

Anderson Cooper’s grand coming out last week met with a yawn by the Told-Ya-So public.  I had a different reaction.  I immediately checked to see if he was a new member on Plenty of Fish. 

Not there. 

Drat.

Yes, I am well aware that it is unhealthy to crush on celebrities who don’t live in the same country, much less the same city town rural area.  But I’m the same guy who thinks that rescuing slugs from my driveway will bring good karma in the way of a modest lottery win.  (Don’t need $50 mil; 3 or 4 will do, thank you.) 

Until Anderson stepped out, I’d made very good progress on detaching from such crushes.  I haven’t thought of Parker Stevenson in at least a month and I’m steering clear all screenings of “Magic Mike”.  I’ve found the best way to deal with visual taunts from Hugh Jackman is to accept that he is indeed a happy heterosexual who innocently steals jobs from gays on Broadway.  As for the gay Green Lantern, I’m told by reliable sources it’s not Ryan Reynolds; in fact, he’s apparently a complete work of fiction.  Good to know.

But then Anderson came along and upset the balance of my sad single life.  Yes, Andy—no, scratch that...can’t see you as anyone but Anderson...or maybe Coop...or, after we split a bottle of wine, Cooper Anderson—you are my great white-haired hope.  I’d endure the heat of Atlanta for you.  I’d endure a spate of anecdotes about Larry King’s days on CNN and jealous rants about that scoop stealer, Christiane Amanpour.  I’d even travel to a war-torn country with you.  (A guy with your clout can rent the pope-mobile, right?) 

Don’t dismiss me so quickly, my blue-eyed beau.  We have so much in common, Coop.  Your maternal grandfather was a railroad heir and mine worked the trains—not sure his exact role, but he’d wave from the caboose while passing by our summer cottage.  If our train stories don’t connect, we could just listen to Train.  Maybe amuse ourselves over the ending to “Save Me San Francisco”. 

We were both born in the 60s.  Presumably, you were also heavily influenced by the late 70s/early 80s.  That means you should be able to relate to all my references to pre-schmaltzy Rod Stewart (shockingly, at one time, I did think he was sexy), “The Bionic Woman” and, yes, Parker Stevenson.  

We both have vowels in our names.  And consonants! 

Moms love me.  Gloria will, too.  My eventual prom date wore Gloria Vanderbilt jeans on our first date.  (Yes, Anderson, I succumbed to high school dating peer pressure.  I was just thankful that those tight pants stood between me and All Things Girly—or at least one thing girly.  How many girly things are there, I’m really not sure.) I’ll ooh and aah convincingly as I view her latest paintings.  In no time, your lovely mother will permit me to call her Glo, just as Kathy Griffin does.  (And, yes, Kathy and I are sure to hit it off.  She was clearly the best thing about “Suddenly Susan”.  Sorry, Brooke.  And ex-crush Nestor.)

I’ll never belittle your giggle, snort and all.  In fact, I’ll relish it, even encourage it.  (Maybe we can read Green Lantern comics together.  They’re supposed to be funny, aren’t they?) 

Yes, Anderson, the fact is, I am gay, too.  And now all my years of being single are beginning to make sense.  I just needed to wait for you.  Surely you’re not considering a famous boyfriend.  Clay Aiken?  If only he could stay “Invisible”.  Boy George?  You’ll never get any counter space in the bathroom.  And don’t ever get in a car with George Michael at the wheel. 

Call me, Anderson.  You’re guaranteed more than a maybe in return.

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.

NEWSWEEK CAN'T SEE STRAIGHT

Here we go again. I checked my calendar and, yes, it’s 2010. Yet Newsweek publishes a piece by a purportedly gay writer who asserts that Straight for Pay does not work in the acting world. Tony-nominated Sean Hayes can’t play a straight man with a female love interest in Broadway’s “Promises, Promises”. Jonathan Groff can’t play one of Rachel’s love interests on “Glee”. And knowing Rock Hudson was gay reduces his credibility in playing a male romantic lead in his classic movies. (The author cites a single scene: Hudson taking a bubble bath by himself in “Pillow Talk”. Gee, do you think the writer had an agenda?)

Now I have not seen “Promises, Promises”. My rural abode is far from the lights of Broadway. But I would posit that, if there is any difficulty in seeing Hayes act the part of a straight character, it is because of his iconic role as the flamboyantly gay Jack on “Will & Grace”, not because Hayes is a gay man. Many actors struggle to be recognized in other roles when audiences continue to see them as a particular character viewed on their TV screens from week to week over a period of years. This is especially true with over the top, comic roles. For many, Michael Richards will always be Kramer. (In his case, that may be a good thing. Best to block out his infamous standup comic tirade.) Jason Alexander has also struggled with the supposed Seinfeld Curse. What can top the role of a lifetime as George Costanza? Candice Bergen has always remained Murphy Brown in my mind. Shelley Long, Delta Burke, Jackée, Julia Duffy,…their careers stalled after achieving notoriety as memorable TV characters.

Yes, there are many exceptions. That’s not the point. I am merely trying to get in the mind of a Newsweek writer who may be lacking analytical and self-reflective skills. I don’t mean to bash; all I’m saying is it seems too convenient to completely omit the Jack factor. For some, Sean Hayes will always be “just Jack”. (Add your own jazz hands.)

As for Jonathan Groff on “Glee”, what is there not to buy about him as Rachel’s love interest? I did not know the actor is gay, but I don’t dismiss him now that I know. I am a Gleek and I would suggest that any problem with Groff’s role comes from the fact it is underdeveloped. So far I’ve gleaned that he has a wonderful singing voice, but he hasn’t had much to do in wooing Rachel. He came on strong (and convincingly), but the Rachel-Jessie storyline has been diluted as other characters have been featured more prominently and as the show’s writers have continued to pit Rachel with both Finn and Puck.

I’m not sure that anything more needs to be said about the Rock Hudson point. “Pillow Talk”, for crying out loud! I watched it years ago and the whole thing seemed like an innocuous piece of fluff. If John Wayne were in that bubble bath, it would still seem hokey and, in the Newsweek writer’s view, not very macho. Many young (or newly out) gay men like to see the entire world with rainbow-coloured glasses. I dissected George Michael’s songs and easily found all the gay references I wanted before he ever got sloppy with his bathroom habits. When I watched Barbra Streisand in “Yentl”, she was a gay man, not a woman disguised as a man. The gay factor sometimes is more overpowering from a gay person’s point of view than it is for the typical heterosexual male who is too busy ogling over Kristin Chenoweth or Julia Roberts anyway.

The writer also expressed doubt that an out gay actor could have convincingly played George Clooney’s role in “Up in the Air”. That is not the issue. What other actor, gay or straight, could have played that part? I loved that movie, but it was clear to me as I watched that it was the perfect George Clooney part. Once you make the A-list in Hollywood, certain parts are tailor made for you.

I’m done with nitpicking over the flaws in the article’s logic. The bigger concern is the underlying message, especially from my vantage point, living in a rural area where I do not know any other gay men. (Yes, my house is still for sale!) If you can’t be accepted and embraced as a gay man on Broadway, what does that say for rest of us? If your options are limited there, what does that mean for gays struggling to be seen beyond stereotype as sons, friends, teachers, athletes and car salesmen in Peoria, in Moose Jaw and in places rarely designated on provincial or state maps? And if gay men can’t see gay actors as being anything other than gay, how evolved have we become in openly accepting others and in seeing ourselves as human beings with so many other aspects to our identity?

I have to wonder what the editors at a reputable magazine like Newsweek were thinking when they decided to run the article. This will be controversial! This will steal some of Perez Hilton’s buzz!

This. Will. Sell. Copies.

Good for business. Sad for gays.