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...

One in Ten. Really?!

Last weekend a friend sacrificed the hot summer city action for a visit to my peaceful abode. He always marvels at how dark it gets at night and how many different birds can be heard chirping at 4:30 in the morning. These matters are remarkable when you're accustomed to the mood lighting of office buildings that remain lit 24/7 and when blaring sirens and rumbling motorcycles drown out any auditory evidence that animal life exists. I'm glad my setting has something to offer! 

Over a bottle of wine, we sat on my deck and chatted about a range of subjects. Somehow, the conversation drifted to an oft-quoted stat that I heard in the late 80s when I was on the verge of coming out. One in ten. 

I would try to imagine it, going back through my high school classes to figure out what other two students in Government 12 were gay. My imagination always seemed lacking. All I could come up with was one in thirty. Me.

Living in Dallas, I'd scan a restaurant or a movie theater and try to identify the others who'd bring the crowd to ten percent gay. Granted, it was easy to do before a screening of "Maurice", but I struggled while grabbing a bite at Long John Silver's, name notwithstanding. I took comfort in the stat even though I questioned it. 

Once I moved to Los Angeles, it no longer mattered. I could go to the gay ghetto, West Hollywood, and experience gay immersion. The same happened in Vancouver, with its much prettier ghetto, the West End. I was not alone. 

Now that I live in the boonies, the stat has resurfaced with all its doubt. About three thousand people live in the closest town and, counting the outlying areas, the population reaches about five thousand. That means five hundred gays. Not a chance! Sure, many would have fled for metropolitan areas, but the numbers don't even seem to reach three figures. I'd put it at seventy, with lesbians representing the bulk of that. 

Even in Vancouver, I don't think the numbers hit ten percent. My friend suggested that many continue to hide within heterosexual relationships. No doubt, some do. But we have gay marriage throughout the country and, while there will always be intolerant oafs, things are pretty open and tolerant. 

One in ten? I just don't see it.

Fashion Flutter or Clutter?

I'm in Victoria for a few days of relaxation. And shopping. Even though I had a talk with myself about restraint and responsible spending on the ferry ride over, I went berserk today. I'd held out for two days, but this being my final full day in an urban environment, I caved.

I needed a new Speedo for my length swimming in the community pool back home. They do not sell Speedos in my area. Frankly, I was worried that my old suit was perhaps a little too faded from all the chlorine. Had the locals been talking? I bought two new swimsuits instead of one--a minor extravagance.

I also wanted to buy a new pair of casual shoes for weekend walks. I narrowed it down to three styles. That's where the narrowing process stopped. I bought all three pairs. Lucky they had my size in each!

Multiple fever also hit when I bought a new dress shirt and decided to buy several matching ties. No one but me would ever notice, but it always feels good to mix things up with my work attire.

The stumbling block came when I searched for a few casual tees to freshen up my spring wardrobe. Here's the thing: when did scribbles on fabric become a fashion forward men's t-shirt?! Yeah, the scribbles may actually be some vague message in cursive or a three-line word (e.g., Un--spok--en), but I'm not all that comfortable with strangers staring at my chest and abs long enough to crack the code. (Face it,...it's never the right strangers who stare!) Apparently, butterflies and leaves are trendy too. Whether it's scribbles, flying insects or tree discards, it all amounts to a cluttered mess. Today, I also bought a box of thank you cards with a leafy pattern on the front cover. Maybe I should tape one to a Hanes undershirt and prepare to walk the runways of Paris. Sure, I know I don't have the ridiculously high cheekbones or the heroin addict body, but JUST LOOK AT THOSE LEAVES! Aren't they falling artfully?

I bought a solid black and a solid brown tee and locked up my credit card in the glove compartment. Neither I nor my rural environs are ready for Paris yet.

All the Gays Are Waiting

I look forward to my jaunts to the city. While I regularly remind myself that Vancouver is only a ferry ride away, I don't go every week. Ferry costs, wait times, chores at home make trips less frequent.

Last week I headed over for a doctor's appointment. Of course, there are family doctors in my area, but I'm a nervous dweeb around all things medical and, having established a rapport with one doctor, I'm not about to change. He is also gay and that helps, should I need to discuss anything sensitive. (If only!) It doesn't hurt that I have a big ol' crush on the guy. Sure, he's got a partner he's been with for years--as the framed photo of the loving couple reminds me each time I enter the examination room--and I know about the boundaries of doctor-patient relationships, but it feels good to have a few flirty butterflies mixed in with the nervousness that overtakes my body when I have a medical appointment.

My doctor shares an office with a group of doctors who are also gay. When I enter the waiting room, it's like any other medical waiting room: dull paintings, scattered publications, cushioned chairs in outdated colors with clunky armrests. Except all the clients are gay.

As I waited, one gay couple reconnected with an acquaintance, loudly carrying on a conversation while seated at opposite ends of the room. Marv and Ben moved in together in December. They love being together. They held hands and kidded about laundry duties. Cam was heading to Mexico the next day, anxious to escape the cold weather and the possibility of more snow. He was a little worried that he hadn't fit in enough gym workouts before throwing on (and off) a swimsuit, but c'est la vie--only in Spanish.

Had I still lived in the West End of Vancouver--the gay ghetto--I would have tuned out the conversation immediately. Yeah, yeah, gay, gay, happy, happy. Now that I live in the sticks, I soaked in every word while staring blankly at an open newspaper. I am not alone, I am not alone. Damn ferry!

As Cam was summoned by an attendant, Marv and Ben locked into some goo-goo-eyed messaging and I looked for something different to read. Another big difference! Pretty-faced men adorned every magazine cover--except for the sole issue of Cosmo. I hadn't heard of any of the magazines, but they were are clearly gay or gayish. I decided to flip through the latest issue of the local gay newspaper, Xtra West, instead. At least I recognized something.

Continuing to wait--my doctor is notorious for running extremely late--I found comfort and amusement in the waiting room. More gays came and went. It was all perfectly normal by Vancouver standards. I was less nervous than ever. And I hadn't even caught a glimpse of my own version of Dr. McDreamy yet.

Gay-zing in Seattle

Vacations! My chance to see the city! On my first day off, I headed with a friend to Seattle for some shopping. It was a few days before Christmas and, while snow set the festive mood on the streets, the crowds of men looking for gay apparel created a glorious atmosphere inside. Crowds--normally I hate them. In the Men's Department at Nordstrom and Macy's, I say the more the merrier.

In my little community in British Columbia, there are two men's stores. And they are both the same! A discount store called Mark's Warehouse (or is it Men's Warehouse?). I am sure they stock an ample assortment of basic tees, flannel shirts and work boots. (Thankfully, the work boot look for gays passed fifteen years ago.) No fuss shopping. "I need a shirt. Yeah, that'll do." Here in downtown Seattle, good looking men were casually browsing through a collection of insanely soft scarves and matching designer ties with dress shirts. No sales assistance required!
I think I have a clearer picture of what it's like to be ADD. My neck risked whiplash, gay-zing this way and that. Overwhelmed, I couldn't pick a single item to purchase. Too much eye candy.
Thankfully, we still had two days of shopping in Portland.

True Pride Is but a Ferry Away

It's Gay Pride Weekend in Vancouver. I stopped going for many years. I did not feel a renewed sense of pride and affirmation from watching twenty-year-old go-go boys toss chains of colored plastic beads. Women in pasties on motorcycles did not do it either. With Amy Winehouse prominent in the press these days, I do not think drag queens with four foot high beehives will do it either. (Really...never did. At least they would make me crack a smile.)

Last year I took the ferry over and attended with a friend. We did not watch with the masses on a street curb. In the wisdom that comes with maturity--and, you might say, sucks the fun out of everything--we made brunch reservations at a trendy restaurant on the parade route. As I took dainty bites of multigrain French toast with blueberry coulis, shirtless boys (some scrawny, some enviously buff) and men (some sporting middle-aged muffin tops in the midriff, all lacking a sense of acting with proper restraint) waved and danced from floats. I smiled with satisfaction, knowing that I could watch without inhaling secondhand cigarette smoke and without having to hear a stranger named Bertha loudly give a parade play-by-play. ("Oh, look. I think that's Meg's float coming next. No, it's another group of men with leis and hula skirts.")

When we had finished our meal, the parade was still in full procession. We decided to brave the elements and mix with the street folk. Being tall, I had the advantage of looking over walls of people and having a full view of the parade from any spot on the route. My friend is shorter so we walked along until finding a slight opening for full viewing.

It was there that I recalled the power of a Gay Pride Parade. As young boys whooped it up on floats, I looked at their faces instead of their bodies. Grins. Eyes dancing. They looked truly proud. The obscure act of standing in a flatbed and chucking beads or condoms or promotional fliers for a bar was an act of freedom. Look at me. Look at me. Yes, I'm gay. In your face! After the struggles with identity during adolescence and the harshness of gay taunts before these boys had fully understood or accepted their gayness, this was a time for holding nothing back. The crowd was friendly and the cheers a resounding sign that, in this place and in this moment, any lingering self-doubt or angst had no place. Even an uncomfortable gawker in the crowd could not and would not rain on the parade. This is my moment.

I flashed back to Los Angeles, September 1990, my first Gay Pride Parade. I watched alone. As one in the crowd, I felt an affinity with the Berthas, Bettys and Howards near me. I eavesdropped and lapped up their comments as the parade passed by.  My eyes must have bulged in awe at the daringness of the (lack of) costumes sported by gays and lesbians in convertibles, on floats, in marching groups. I breathed in the air of acceptance, knowing I was witnessing a gay event with tens of thousands of supporters. Gay was okay. No, gay was It. That night, I watched the local news to catch its coverage which was mainly limited to shots of flamboyant drag queens. At that time, I had no objections. I did not worry that the viewing public would generalize based on a limited representation. Basically, I did not think. I felt.

Pride.