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.

ICON GENDER CONFUSION

The death of Dixie Carter and the series end of “Ugly Betty” got me thinking about what pop culture phenomena helped shape me in the early years of becoming a gay man. I read an essay on www.ew.com where Tanner Stransky wrote eloquently about how the characters of Marc and Justin on “Ugly Betty” contributed to his feeling safe in coming out. While Marc is not a character to emulate—same for Jack on “Will & Grace”—I can see how the character would inspire. If someone so stereotypically gay could find acceptance in the (fictional) world and by the viewing public, what do I have to be so worried about?

Of course, I began the coming out process in the mid-’80s and gay figures, real or imaginary, were not so easy to find. There were glimmers of inspiration. I was mesmerized by the television airing of “An Early Frost”, not just because it put a face to AIDS but because it portrayed an otherwise healthy, loving gay relationship. I recall feeling most empowered by an ordinary scene with Aidan Quinn’s character and his partner sharing the bathroom getting ready in the morning. Normal. Maybe I wasn’t a freak of society, doomed to Hell. (I was living in Texas at the time.)

A smattering of gay celebrities came out or were outed on account of AIDS: Rock Hudson, Freddie Mercury, Anthony Perkins. However, the fact that they reluctantly or posthumously came out was not inspiring. The message: Take it to your grave. When Greg Louganis later came out, I was proud of his courage, but I found little that I could connect to—the stud diver versus mediocre me.

As far as regular TV characters representing what it was like to be a gay man, the only one I can recall was Jack Tripper pretending to be gay on “Three’s Company”. Over-the-top antics to make us laugh, to show how uncomfortable people like Mr. Roper were around presumed gays. Not inspiring.

Perhaps by default my icons were women. (Perhaps not. Maybe I just relate better to women.) It started long before I came out to anyone. I remember my first week in university as a sixteen year old and a larger than life history professor asking each of us to identify a heroic public figure. I’m sure I disappointed him by failing to name Martin Luther King, Jr. or JFK or Mother Teresa. I was young and, yes, shallow. My world was ruled by entertainment. I really wanted to write down Olivia Newton-John. She owned the part of Sandy! She encouraged me to find my Mellow side. She swam with dolphins. And she had that lovely voice, for speaking and singing.

I may have been young and shallow, but I was astute enough to know that ON-J would send my prof into early retirement. He was extremely charismatic and I didn’t want to send him off in (total) despair. Instead of Olivia, I wrote down Bob Hope. Mr. USO, Mr. Congeniality, Mr. Bridge the Generation Gap. Clearly I was in need of another role model.

Without knowing I was following the gaystream, I looked to disco diva Donna Summer, brassy Bette Midler, and Barbra in her gender concealing role in “Yentl”. It was the closest thing I could find to a gay movie. As a he, she pined for Mandy Patinkin but couldn’t dare reveal him/her-self. While gay characters took the big screen in AIDS-afflicted roles (“Parting Glances”, “Longtime Companion”, “Philadelphia”), there were a few golden nuggets like “Maurice” and “Torch Song Trilogy”. Still, for whatever reason, Bette seemed a less outrageous icon than Harvey Fierstein.

I think the first gay figure who gave me lasting inspiration was Pedro Zamora in 1994 on MTV’s “The Real World”. Yes, he had AIDS, but his bravery went beyond that. He demanded acceptance as a passionate, articulate gay man. He had more courage in one bushy eyebrow than I had in my entire body.

Fast forward to 2010. While it’s sad to see Marc and Justin leave the small screen, “Brothers & Sisters” continues to build somewhat realistic storylines for Kevin and the adorable Scotty. (Alas, I wish they’d do more with Saul’s character, coming out late in life.) A gay brother on the current season of “The Amazing Race” is fully accepted by the other teams. (Unfortunately, the same show features a young woman who repeatedly said “lesbians” with the same disdain I reserve for Pat Buchanan and The Olive Garden.)

Out (or outed) public figures are still hit or miss. Just because you’re gay and famous does not mean you’re a great role model. For every Scott Brisson, there are more than a few Ricky Martins and Perez Hiltons. But the public rainbow is getting larger and more colorful. And that bodes well for gays seeking to step OUT themselves.

LOOKING FORWARD TO “LOVE HAPPENs”-ing

My cousin has been talking about the new Jennifer Aniston-Aaron Eckhart movie, “Love Happens” for weeks. Like me, she’s a romantic dreamer, but she is ten years younger and hasn’t gotten jaded from years of disappointment. I used to be a sucker for every Meg Ryan romantic comedy that came out. I still like the genre, but now I view the movies as light entertainment, bearing little semblance to reality.

One of the promos for “Love Happens” caught my attention. Yes, it has a sexy shot of a shirtless Eckhart, but I might never have glanced up to see that had his character not said it had been three years since he’d had a date. Not exactly inspiration, but certainly a statement worth commiseration. And utterly refreshing for Hollywood where characters have little trouble getting it. Since it first aired, the title character on “Ugly Betty” has had a far greater dating record than I have. What does that make me, Far Uglier Gay Guy? I remember an episode of “Friends” where Ross rues going six months (or weeks?) without sex. He and the Central Perk gang regarded the drought as the equivalent to the apocalypse. As much as I loved “Sex and the City”, I never related to the women’s rapid Rolodex of sexual liaisons.

A line in last night’s episode of “Glee” was both funny and more realistic than the way sex is typically portrayed. As Terri desperately tried to make her false pregnancy become real, she stepped things up in the bedroom. Her husband, glee club sponsor Will, boasted that the couple was going at it once a week now. Ah, how refreshing from the two or three times a day we’re hit with in typical showbiz depictions of horny couples. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love a healthy, active sex life; I just don’t need Hollywood rubbing its fictionalized glory in my face.

I’m not sure if I’ll go see “Love Happens”. I don’t want the rest of the plot to dilute the potency of the line in the preview. Still, if an Aaron Eckhart character can go dateless in three years, I don’t feel quite as pathetic. Sometimes love doesn’t happen; at least, not for a long time.