SK8TER BOI

Sometimes you can’t shake the cliché. Of all the events in the Winter Olympics, which one would you expect to be the biggest draw for gay men? Men’s figure skating. Duh! And, yes, Thursday night I’ll be in the stands watching the men’s final.

I hadn’t planned to go to any of the events. Too expensive while I’m taking the year off my regular job to write. When my friend Ron called and said he had an extra ticket he was about to sell online, I leaped. Just a regular jump…no triples and certainly not a quad. The Olympic spirit had been ignited by the torch relay and further stoked by kd’s soaring rendition of “Hallelujah”. By the time the phone call came, I might have agreed to fork over a hundred bucks to watch a big screen at Hockey House. One hundred fifty for the men’s long program is a steal by comparison!

Of course it’s going to be a Gay Old Time. After all, this is the sport that brought us Toller Cranston, the Brians (Orser/Boitano), Rudy Galindo, Emanuel Sandu and Jeff Buttle. (How Elvis Stojko ever stumbled into the sport I’ll never know. Still, he was entertaining despite the fact the poor boy never understood that niche domain of figure skating fashion. He can offer support to this year’s derided Ukrainian pairs entry in the “Avatar” unitards.) I’ll be in a small contingent of gay men from Vancouver and it will be such fun to be in a group where I’ll actually be the least informed. Ron and another friend have already been to the pairs’ final and they’re known to plan vacations around ice shows. (Sorry, I can’t get excited about Nancy Kerrigan doing a double and aging Scott Hamilton doing a flip for the millionth time.) Moreover, I’ll get to reconnect with Danny, a former gymnast and friend I met when I first moved to Vancouver fifteen years ago. We lost touch around the time I found myself wading into a doomed longterm relationship.

I have a couple of things to do before the big night. I need to buy a teddy bear or two to throw on the ice, the figure skating equivalent to “Bravo!” and I finally have an occasion to purchase and don the omnipresent red Canadian mitts. If I’m going to be a cliché, I might as well do it right!

TORCH SONG THRILL-OGY

So many times, I get the feeling that where I live isn’t on the map. It’s certainly not on the gaydar. But, thankfully, life isn’t all about being gay and every so often my little community stands out. Today, the Olympic torch comes to town.

In British Columbia, complaining about the Olympics has hit new heights as lifelong Half Empties have been in a fog since this wacky winter has knocked weather from the top of the complaint agenda. (I lost a glove about a month ago—it’s no doubt hiding out with a few odd socks—but there has been no urgency in purchasing a new pair.) I understand the critics, but I do hope the Olympics are a resounding success. And one thing that warrants commendation is the effort VANOC has made to permit as many people as possible to have the opportunity to see the torch firsthand. It’s the only “live” event most of was will experience.

To be sure, the torch didn’t need to get sidetracked coming to my area. But on this balmy day when the sun is shining and snow dusts the mountains across the water, it makes for an idyllic setting. Sitting in the local library, I can view the marina and the main stretch of town where the torch will journey. The arrival is an hour and a half away, but the excitement builds as musicians set up and people stroll through the park, many decked in red, a public fashion choice that usually makes me want to gag on bad Valentine’s chocolate. People mingle in the library as well, putting in time, having nabbed a prime parking space in advance of the big event.

In this moment, pride is inescapable. Not gay pride, not national pride, but a sense of connectedness to a charming little town that at other times has made me feel so isolated. Yes, the torch is but a symbol or perhaps a tool, allowing me to see my environment in a sunny light. That, in itself, is an Olympian achievement.