PREPARING TO MEET AN ULTIMATE FIGHTER

Okay, I know nothing about Ulimate Fighting. (Is it even a proper noun?) Well, I remember Courtney Cox’s Monica dating an ultimate fighter played by Jon Favreau on an episode of “Friends”. Yet it’s coffee with a gay ultimate fighter tomorrow. Way to shatter the stereotype, man! (Last guy I had coffee with was a hairstylist.)

Keeping an open mind…

Apples for Apples

Well, I’ve struggled to retain and experience any gay part of my identity since moving to a rural area in British Columbia nearly four years ago. For unrelated reasons, I’ve taken a leave of absence from my regular job and I’ve traveled to a new place for a two-month sojourn to pursue creative projects. So where did I go? New York City? Chicago? Montreal? Tokyo? A rural area on the Ottawa River in Ontario. Ottawa is an hour’s drive away.

As with my home, the family cottage where I’m staying has a water view—only closer and better. The closest town is about ten minutes away. The services there are similar, sans the Starbucks (alas). A pulp and paper mill is one of the biggest employers in both areas. Things are remarkably similar. Why did I trade apples for apples? And why did I drive 4,600 kilometers to make the trade?

This cottage is what I retain from childhood. This is a place where I am able to think differently, possibly sparking new creativity. Here is where some of my most profound life decisions have gotten sorted out.

Will any part of my being gay further develop here? It’s unlikely. I have switched over my hometown from Vancouver to Ottawa on an online dating site and changed the “seeking” option from dating to friendship. I’m not looking for a long-term relationship or even a fling (though stumbling into either wouldn’t be so bad, would it?). Simply connecting with another gay person would be welcome. While I had many friends here as a child, it’s been almost thirty years since I’ve seen any of them. I’m a tag-along at social outings with my relatives and their friends.

I’ve been here four days and things are as quiet as they are at home. I am making progress with my writing so the primary purpose for being here is coming to fruition. I’ve had a couple of Ottawa guys indicate they’d like to meet for coffee. Neither would be a dating candidate and I’m not even sure that there will be anything on which to base a friendship. (One guy’s subject header read: “Yo!” Are there pirates in these parts or is this a middle-aged gay man who really thinks he can pull off an urban gangsta persona? His interest in Ultimate Fighting also baffles me. Random Michael Jackson quote: I’m a lover, not a fighter.) But I’m going to try to remain open, parenthetical thoughts notwithstanding.

I also have my aunt and cousin trying to play matchmaker. Super. I need the help. But I get the feeling their efforts are misplaced. It seems one of my childhood friends is single (though he has a child), attractive, in good shape, has a dog and likes running and biking. On paper, they’ve got checkmarks in each box for both of us. I’m trying to remain sensibly cautious (negative?). For a match, at least three things need to be: (1) He has to be gay; (2) He has to be single; and (3) He has to be interested in me (and I in him). Three big hurdles and I’ve never been much of a hurdler.

At this point, I remind myself that I’m here for my writing. Anything else is a nice distraction and a bonus. Of course, who doesn’t like a nice bonus?

Highlighting Summer (What Makes a Gay Icon?)

Yesterday, I reread a tribute article about Heath Ledger. When he died, gays were particularly effusive in praising him and embracing his legacy. That got me wondering, How does someone become a gay icon? Especially when they are not gay themselves. Sure Heath Ledger played a gay cowboy in “Brokeback Mountain”, but so did Jake Gyllenhaal. I don’t see Jake having the same status amongst gays. Even if he suddenly died—tragically at that. (And I would contend Jake is at least as good looking as Heath. Check out the promo shot for his new movie, "Prince of Persia: Sands of Time", in the July 24 issue of Entertainment Weekly.) Jake's got the acting chops, too. (I just did a check and he, not Heath, won the ultra prestigious MTV Movie Award for Best Performance. Heath and Jake shared the coveted Best Kiss honor.)

But this isn't about Heath. Or Jake. I started thinking back to one of my first entertainment idols, back when I was twelve. Did all fortysomething gay men grow up gyrating in the basement to the pulsating beat of Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love”? (Once, maybe twice, I mimicked the rhythm by plucking a rubber band. That part couldn’t be gay, could it? Geeky, yes. Unfortunately, I can't find the original version on YouTube. It seems everybody's got a remix or a hokey, sit-on-the-stool-in-the-family-room cover. Hey, listen to--er, watch--this gay-pleasing version of "I Feel Love" on YouTube. You won't see where the elastic comes in because there is a clapping effect instead. You won't care. Trust me.)

To a kid who was almost a decade away from the club scene, what drew me to a singer whose biggest album was “Bad Girls” a concept album paying homage to female prostitutes? I didn’t know a thing about drag queens back then so that couldn’t have been the link.

I didn’t know anyone who openly identified as gay at the time. I hadn’t yet figured out my sexuality. All I knew was every part of my existence felt awkward. Why did I take solace in all things Donna? Nobody observed my feeble batter’s stance during agonizingly long beach baseball games and suggested that I should stay inside and listen to a danced up version of a song about leaving a cake out in the rain.

Yet somehow I knew. Donna Summer was my idol. I had all her albums and the poster that came with “On the Radio” was displayed prominently in my room.

Right beside an oversized montage of Olivia Newton-John writhing in water with dolphins.

On a surface level, I was passing for straight. Gorgeous women adorned my walls. But why did I hang posters of Donna (and Olivia), not of Farrah? (My parents refused to let me watch “Charlie’s Angels” because they felt it was risqué. Oh, I’ll bet they wish they could have a do-over on that one! Might have even slipped a Beta video of “Debbie Does Dallas” under my pillow.)

I realize I am painting with an awfully broad stroke when I link Miss Summer with gay men of a certain age. Still, I think many of us connected with her. What drew us to disco instead of Pink Floyd? Somehow Summer fit.

It seemed to be destiny how I met my first love years later at a gala celebration to honor volunteers of AIDS Project Los Angeles. As an AIDS buddy in the early 90s, I had to attend monthly sessions with a facilitator to ensure that each of us felt supported as we, in turn, supported an APLA client. During a retro disco dance, I hovered in the background safely mixing with other volunteers who were already taken. When the DJ announced it was the last dance he played—what else?!—Donna Summer’s Oscar winning song. My facilitator came out of nowhere, grabbed my arm and tugged me onto the dance floor. I stood there, feeling awkward—somehow that never really went away—while he rushed off. Moments later, he reappeared with one of the APLA employees. “This is John,” he informed me. “You two really need to get together. Now dance.” We did. And we did.

The love didn't last, but Donna did. She continues to release new music. Some of her songs apparently still hit the dance chart. I find them on YouTube, listen a few times and that’s that. Like all aspects of pop culture, Donna Summer’s star has faded. But, on a Saturday night when I have nothing going on—and there are many such Saturday nights—I will often dig through my CD collection, passing over the ones by Barry Manilow, the Divine Miss M and Babs, and put on vintage Donna. Yes, the cake is gone and I will never have that recipe again, but Donna can still whet my appetite.

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.

Can we get rid of the online laughtrack?

As I continue to live as a single gay guy in a rural area, my dating options are limited. I cannot be satisfied watching poor Jillian's suitors on "The Bachelorette". (It's down to two and the chatters online are divided into the Ed's gay camp and the Kiptyn's gay camp. Please don't let Ed be one of us--not with those shorts and that leisure suit!) Before moving on, I did learn from Reid how important it is not to hold back your feelings, but I am still faced with that glaring obstacle: to whom? I don't intend to talk to a tree. (It won't listen, dammit.) I seem to have no opportunity to apply my reality TV lesson!

Which brings me to the online dating thing. Yeah, still trying. Still getting nowhere. I've had a few new messages in the past week and they remind me of one of my peeves regarding online communication, be it emailing or blogging or desperately seeking someone. Can we please all agree to put lol to rest? The initial thing reminds me of that preteen character played by Gabby Hoffmann in "Sleepless in Seattle". It's CFJBAMS (cute for juveniles, but adults must stop)--Hmm, that one isn't going to catch on.

Are we all so insecure with our ability to write something funny that we have to cue the reader? Bad start today. I slipped on a banana peel with a cup of hot coffee in hand. lol. Maybe it's time for the monkey to go. lol.

If comments are not funny (see above paragraph), will someone actually laugh or smile because of the lol direction? Who is so easily manipulated? We've gotten away from canned laughtracks for sitcoms so how did the written equivalent creep into the Internet world? Please kill the lol. That would at least give me something to smile about. :)

Don't get me started on the typed happy face...

When in Rome

I go to a gym in the small town closest to my house. It’s a decent facility, equipped with the standard free weights, machines, treadmills and bikes.

The atmosphere is, however, far different from where I worked out in Los Angeles or the clubs in Vancouver. In L.A., I belonged to Sports Connection, the West Hollywood club commonly referred to as Sports Erection. In Vancouver, I joined Denman Fitness and then Fitness World, both in the West End gay ghetto/mecca. The previous gyms were cruisy…or so I’m told—I certainly have no personal experiences. I grew accustomed to enjoying the scenery between sets: smooth, tanned, glistening male bodies with muscles bursting from skimpy, yet trendy lycra outfits. A look was a form of flattery to feed their already sizable egos. The music was the latest in dance or pop. Madonna was always in the mix. Step and aerobic classes were subscribed to based on the popularity (er, hotness) of the instructor. Basically, a trip to the gym was an experience much greater than that exercise in futility whereby I longed for any sign of growth in my own muscle mass.

In my small town, I go solely to workout. There are no fitness classes. You got yer weights, you got yer machines…go to it. There are a surprising number of muscular men, but they have more machismo in their hangnails than I have in my entire being. I catch them eyeing themselves in the mirror, rather than the physiques of others. There is no lycra or spandex. Cargo pants rule. Still. As for music, if it’s not the classic rock station from Vancouver Island, it’s AC/DC’s greatest hits. I actually get excited when they mellow things out with a ZZ Top tune. Oh, yeah, she’s got legs, she knows how to use ’em…

I do my best to fit in. I have corrected that old habit of kicking out my pinky finger when I sip from my water bottle. My shorts go below the knee. I watch the score ticker on the constant feed of the sports channel. It’s much safer than peeking at a guy’s biceps while he’s mid-curl.

I am also overly self-conscious. The biggest employer in town is a pulp and paper mill. This is True Blue blue collar. (Madonna references still slip in.) On the treadmill yesterday, the television monitor closest to me aired golf—not my thing, but I didn’t notice it was on until I was at a full running pace. Ten minutes into my run, the golf suddenly ended and a show about scrapbooking took over. Oh, my! Who was responsible for that one-two punch of programming?

The gym was fairly empty for a Saturday afternoon: just a hulking guy with a Regina Fire Department t-shirt, a guy with biceps bigger than my butt, and a shady, baseball-capped dude with tattoos running up his solid calf muscles, down his triceps and covering his neck and, I presume, his entire back. And me in my matching black Nike outfit with the CK athletic socks. What would they think if they passed by? It was golf, I swear! The scrapbooking popped up out of nowhere, guys. A quick glance at me and there was no way they’d buy my story.

After a couple of minutes of glancing in disbelief as the screen ran flashing messages like “At Last! No More Die Cutting!” I paused the treadmill and changed the channel to an all-news network. Whew!

Just in time as a new person—a still fit guy in his fifties—arrived, glanced at the screen and then asked for permission to change the channel.

The sports channel with the ticker scoreboard once again. In a small town, change is a slow process.

The Coffee "Date"

While in Vancouver, I met a guy I'd contacted through an online dating site. (More about these sites another time.) This is the third person I've met face-to-face and--SPOILER ALERT!--the results have all been disappointing. Is it me? Is it the coffee? Let's just say it's him. Why not? He can't defend himself here. He can create his own blog if he so chooses.

There should not be any great expectations for such meetings. He--let's give him an exotic name: Bob--even minimized any possible hype online by calling the first in-person chat an "introduction", not a date. That didn't help me suppress my unruly nerves and sweat glands. For a guy who lives a ferry ride away from anything gay, these intros are high stakes. Plus I'm 43. A nursing home is just around the corner.

Bob had three pictures of himself online. One was hot; the other two, not so hot. Deep down I suspected the hottie shot was a fluke, a credit to good lighting, a perfect angle and that one day each decade when everything comes together just right. Still, it was his photo. There was a chance that the other two shots were simple statements that Bob may not be photogenic. We all know people who look wonderful in person but are cursed by camera gremlins.

It was a fluke all right. And I know I am sounding superficial. I sat at an outdoor table while he ordered his coffee and hoped that chemistry would draw me in. Within the first minute of conversation, I knew there would be no such thing. It start with the laugh. I'll readily admit that I have a laugh that can be polarizing, but his was an expression of elfin glee that made his eyes bulge and his upper body shake. I did not bolt. I stayed for ninety more minutes, just so I wouldn't come across as rude. Or shallow (even though that's how I felt). Remember watching Seinfeld and being amused, yet repulsed at how quickly the characters could dismiss an otherwise date-able person? I'm sure The Laugh was featured. Maybe I am doomed to a life like George.

Maybe I am just doomed to sitting through miserable "conversations" (er, diatribes) about Russia, China and India resolving to rock American power. (I lived in the U.S. for sixteen years and my whole family still lives there. I think during an introduction one should temper any urge to bash a country by listening to any lead from the person with stronger connections to that country. Just a thought.) He shifted to talking about his photographic memory. Hello, arrogance! He then rambled about his work in a business setting mentioning all his training, his five-year plan and...I don't know what else. My eyes glaze over when people talk business. Is that a flaw?

I felt myself shutting down. I regularly stared off and he turned a few times to see what I found more interesting. A banner. Bricks on a building. A cigarette butt. Oh, if he only had a blog!

I used to approach first dates with the idea that each one is a story. Good or bad, the date is an experience and the joy or pain can make entertaining conversation with friends. Somehow the stories are getting duller. They don't seem worth reading.

It's okay. There are other books. (Aren't there?) I don't think the online sites lead to much, but I don't seem to have other options at the moment. Still, I may wait at least a day before logging on again.

The Dangers of the Big City

I'm in Vancouver for four days attending a conference at the airport. It's peculiar living at an airport, but that's another story. 

Leaving my peaceful rural setting and returning to the big city can be dangerous. Yes, I am well aware of the reports of crime, pollution and nasty catfights between mayoral candidates. I still have a subscription to the Vancouver Sun (although it's been a major adjustment trying to save at least a cup of coffee in the pot until the morning paper arrives just before noon). 

The dangers for me are more personal. On the ferry ride over, I started planning my shopping stops. What did I need? What did I want? What might I buy for no justifiable reason whatsoever? I was getting very excited. 

In four hours in the city, I dropped $700. I felt I'd been robbed, but there was also a sense of pure elation. Did I really need new, hotel quality sheets for my bed? For the two dogs and me? It wasn't like there was anyone I had a shot of impressing. Didn't matter. Swipe that credit card! And why four Nike t-shirts, same style, different colors? My part of the world doesn't carry Nike (or Calvin Klein or Ralph Lauren or Hilfiger or any label other than what is sold in not one but TWO Mark's Warehouse stores--yech!). 

Don't think; just buy! 

Socks, undies, shorts, more shirts. 

The temptations in the big city are great. I succumbed. 

And I can't wait to do it again!

A Hike in the Boonies

Last weekend, two of my gay fortysomething friends schlepped over from Vancouver for their annual visit. Yep, once a year they leave their urban comforts and connect to small town/rural life. Fortunately, as with every visit they've made, the weather was perfect. We decided to go for a hike a five-minute drive from my place. (So close and yet I'd never made the trek myself. Sad. I could attribute it to a fear of encountering a bear, but still sad.) My tour book described the walk as an "unrelenting" forty-minute uphill climb. Armed with water bottles and smeared in sunscreen, we gamely (gaily?) set forth.

The walk began on a heavily forested path, ferns lushly serving as ground cover and mature pines towering above. As it was the hottest day of the year, the shade was greatly appreciated. After about ten minutes we came to the stairs, built into the slope. A sign screamed "Danger" in block read letters, but we weren't to be turned back. For the next twenty minutes, we struggled to breathe evenly as we battled the equivalent to an outdoor Stairmaster. Who needs a gym, city boys? Natural beauty AND a calf muscle workout!

We reached a few clearing areas with peak-a-boo views of the water and wondered if that was as good as it gets. (Truthfully, I think we all just needed an excuse to catch our breath and stretch our leg muscles before continuing.) Eventually, we reached a clearing, a large rocky summit that provided the view we'd hoped for. Breathtaking! The small harbor town closest to my home looked like a Mediterranean resort. The arbutus trees that twisted and arced upward from the rocks fascinated. The islands and boats below added to the beauty of the vibrant scene.

We sat and looked in silence for many minutes. It was a moment to enjoy the tranquility. No horns, no sirens, no schnauzers barking. It took me three years to take in this particular view, but all along the coast there are postcard moments. This is why I moved to the boonies.

No Luck at Potluck

I went with no expectations, but left a tad disappointed. How is that? 

I suppose I did entertain a few "possibilities" in my head before heading to the only gay event in my area of the past year. When gatherings are so rare, there is pressure to make the most of an opportunity. 

I had known about the potluck for weeks--discovered an announcement online--, but waffled about attending. Five hours beforehand, I rang the hosts and apologized for such a tardy RSVP. No worries, the guy on the other end assured me. I was the fifth to call in the morning and sixty-five people were expected. Sixty-five? Here in a remote area where I can't identify any gays? Of course, the event was open to lesbians and gays so that was bound to boost the numbers. Lesbian women are well settled in these parts. Still, there was a chance of a decent showing of gay men. Surely some would be single and, hopefully--okay, that's getting close to an expectation--there'd be a spark. 

I pulled up to a charming home in the marina and felt it was a good sign that parking was a bit of a problem. You don't want to go to a party and find curbside parking in front of the host's abode. Being the hottest day of the year to date, I was faced with the embarrassing problem of a steady padding of perspiration on my forehead as I tried to act cool during initial introductions. Turns out I'd met the host once when we both lived in Vancouver. (A bit awkward since he'd put a bid on a design job on the house that I'd bought with my ex. We went with another person.) 

In the backyard, a garden party was in bloom. The crowd of about thirty was fairly evenly divided along gender lines. The first person to introduce himself was a retired gentleman. Very nice, but I got the feeling I just might wind up listening to talk about wintering in Fort Lauderdale for the whole party. Luckily, we drifted over toward another group of men about my age and I met several guys and their partners. 

Yep, everyone was with someone. I was the token singleton. Were they pitying me? I think, more likely, I was a curiosity. Why had I moved to such a remote area on my own? (If they only knew how many times I'd asked myself the same question.) 

One guy talked about how he and his partner were moving back to Vancouver in five days after giving the area a three-year trial run. He was the same age as me and they were tired of the commute; moreover, they simply missed city life. He talked--er, whined--at length and I did my best to keep my mouth shut. You don't show up at a party and try to outdo someone who is knocking the place where all in attendance have chosen to live. Still, it was mighty tempting. 

I managed to stay for an hour and a half. If things had been uncomfortable, I'd have vamoosed in less than twenty minutes. The people were very nice and the conversation was pleasant. I never fully relaxed and didn't joke or laugh, but I'm way out of practice. 

As I drove home, I looked forward to the warm greeting from my two dogs. Yep, I have become the male version of the batty cat lady. So sad. At least when I go to town to buy a bag of dog food, there's now a chance I'll run into a gay couple and we can exchange casual waves as they pity me once I turn to the next aisle. 

That's progress, isn't it?

Why the Blog?

I have lived in large urban areas all my life: Dallas, Los Angeles, Vancouver. That changed three years ago when I decided to buy a house and I couldn't afford anything in the Vancouver market where prices were skyrocketing. I held a professional position that paid well enough, but my only options were apartment rentals or buying a box (condo) in the burbs.

As stubborn as I am, I decided that I needed a place to garden and a yard for my dogs to roam. I needed space so my boys could bark without disturbing neighbors above, below or beside me. My dogs are small, but they have booming barks that no condo wall can contain.

With the Mary Tyler Moore theme playing in my head--"You're gonna make it after all"--I packed and said goodbye to city life. Ah, the peacefulness. And what a lovely view of the water and mountains! I only hear sirens a few times a year. I can walk my dogs through wooded trails just up the hill from my house and there's always a chance we'll spot a couple of deer during our early morning strolls.

So how did heaven become hell? It didn't actually. Except I fear I'm losing my gayness, references to Mary Tyler Moore notwithstanding. When I moved here at 40, I'd already removed myself from most of the Vancouver gay scene for many years. Waiting to hit a club at 11 p.m. was a distant memory. Sleep triumphed over sleaze. I'd tired of the gay sports clubs where I never seemed to dazzle anyone with my volleyball spikes or tennis drop shots. My status as fresh cookie, a new kid in town, had long faded. Just a stale, hardened, burnt discard.

Still, being in the city and near the West End's gay ghetto meant opportunity could always be there if I ever made the effort. I could remain gay by association. I could have coffee with friends who were still somewhat connected. I could spot an attractive gay couple in the grocery store and know that I was not alone in the larger gay community sense of things.

Now I live out of town. It's not the suburbs so much as it's the hicks. (I mean that in a descriptive, rather than derogatory way.) The town itself has a population of about 3,500 and even has a Starbucks. The people are friendly enough and I run into acquaintances every time I pop in for any reason. There was a gay couple who ran a hair salon in town, but they moved a year ago to the gay mecca of Regina, Saskatchewan. I don't know any gay male in the area.

So am I making a problem out of nothing? I do love my home and, most of the time, I enjoy the solitude. Still, there are times when being gay in a rural area leaves me struggling with part of my identity. Whereas I'd successfully gone through the whole coming out drama in my twenties, it seems I'm back in the closet and I can't find much of a reason for stepping out.

Is there anyone who can relate? How have you made the adjustment? Other perspectives are most welcome.