Up in Smoke

While I have no statistical evidence, it seems that cigarette smoking is less common as one heads west across North America and as one ventures into more urban areas. I can't get much farther west where I live unless I go to Vancouver Island. I only know one person in my broad social circle who smokes. I suppose I take it for granted that people I'm in contact with in Vancouver will be nonsmokers.

Maybe that explains my failure to read the not-so-fine print in the online profile of someone who sent me a message of interest. We exchanged several messages and had two positive dates. It wasn't until I picked up Hal at the ferry terminal that I smelled smoke. Even before the hug, the scent hit me from his shirt. Turns out Hal is a smoker. It was stated in his profile--I later went back and read that he had indicated "Occasionally" beside the "Smoker?" line. How stupid that I missed that!

Should smoking be a big deal?

Fifteen years ago, I tried being flexible and I dated a smoker for a year and a half. I resented the fact that a cigarette was the first and last thing to touch his lips each day. I hated the interruptions during arguments when, due to the stress, my ex had to take a smoke break on the balcony. A warm embrace never felt so good with my head buried in his smoke-scented jacket or shirt. I never got used to riding in his car, trying to draw my breath from the air coming in through the rolled down window.

Compromise is necessary in any relationship, but being with a smoker simply made me feel badly about myself. I have honed a healthy lifestyle focused on regular, intense fitness and a vegetarian diet. I have heeded every directive ever given by a doctor. Being with a smoker didn't--and doesn't--jive with how I want to live.

With the third date altered at the moment of greeting, I found myself struggling to get through the long visit. There were many positive things about Hal and yet I started picking out the negatives--the louder than normal speaking voice, the style of his clothing, the nose from side profile--as if to give me more reason to end things beyond the fact that he smoked. I was also hard on myself. Had I read closely, a first date wouldn't have even occurred. I am certain of this because I reviewed this dilemma with another online messenger who contacted me at the same time as Hal. (When it rains, it pours. I know to expect an online drought next.) As much as I appreciated Chris' wit, his love for animals and his positive attitude about life, the smoking shut down any chance for a first date.

After Hal caught a later ferry home, I continued to question myself. Am I being too picky? The last four guys I've dated have all been interested in me and I've said no to each on the third or fourth date. Am I like the characters on Seinfeld, grasping for any reason to dismiss a budding relationship? When I'm single and seventy, will I look back and still think I made the right move in dumping a funny, attractive, caring man--who happened to be a smoker--when he clearly wanted a longterm relationship? I'm telling myself I'd have no regrets, but hindsight doesn't come after a day.

Coincidentally, when I reread Hal's profile to confirm that he had indeed stated he was a smoker, I clicked on one new profile. The guy included the following as part of his statement: Not particular on ethnicity although smokers (and yes even those "quitting") must EXIT here. The guy was far younger than I, yet much clearer on what he didn't want. I don't like sounding negative, mentioning what I don't want, but I see that being direct might make things much easier in the long run.

[Incidentally, the model in the first ad, Alan Landers, died of cancer at 68.]

Am I Proud?

It’s Gay Pride Week in Vancouver. I won’t be attending any of the festivities this year. I seem to keep the parade on my own Olympic schedule. I don’t need an annual parade booster shot to be proud. The drag queens, the dykes on bikes, the club boys who dance on floats in their underwear, the PFLAG contingent, the multicultural organization participants, the handshake happy politicians,…I hope they have a great day. And put on sunscreen so as not to ruin the fake bake tans. Gotta protect the investment!

I got to thinking, am I proud? And, if so, is that pride at least connected to being gay? Proud is defined in my trusty Random House College Dictionary as “1. thinking well of oneself because of one’s accomplishments, possessions, etc. 2. feeling honored, as by a distinction conferred on one. 3. governed in one’s words or actions by self-respect.” Other definitions are provided. Blah, blah, blah. Top three is good enough.

One of the great things of accepting oneself is being able to look at the self as a whole. Back in my awkward coming out years (and painful NOT coming out years), the gay thing consumed me. It labeled me—er, branded me—, particularly during my years living in Texas where so many people lovingly said, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” Ick. The sentiment still smacks of self-righteous ignorance. As a nascent drama queen, I’d written a couple of suicide notes and sat in the darkness of my room, bottle of Tylenol at my side. (Not even sure you can OD on headache medicine, but it was all about making a personal statement: I hate myself because I’m gay.

I’m definitely NOT proud of that period in the late Seventies and early Eighties. That dark period reminds me of why it is so important to have official Pride events: to break that feeling of isolation, to laugh amidst the frivolity, to find strength in marchers pushing for equality.

Thankfully, I moved to Los Angeles and had an opportunity to start over. Away from a smothering Baptist, conservative culture, I could go to a gay club without fear that I might be bashed in the walk to or from the car. (I remember the shocked reaction when I called a gay helpline in L.A. “You’ve been here two months and haven’t met a single gay?!” He regained his composure and pondered which club to recommend. Naively, or perhaps to amuse himself, he asked, “Well, what’s your scene? Do you like leather?” Ultimately, he directed me to something basic. Making that phone call was huge for me and it changed everything.)

I had my years where I oozed gay pride. I was gay, first and foremost. I clubbed regularly, volunteered with AIDS Project Los Angeles, joined a gay gym and took to the streets for several days in a row when Governor Pete Wilson vetoed Bill 101 which would have banned workplace discrimination against gays and lesbians. Aside from school and work, my life was all gay all the time.

Naturally, when I moved to Vancouver, I settled in the gay ghetto, the fabulous West End. But I got tired of ironing my shorts before going to the gym and primping my hair before dashing out to the grocery store to buy another tub of frozen yogurt. Moving out of the West End helped me balance my life. I could be gay. And I could be more than that.

The pendulum is always swinging. Now living in a rural area, you might need an X-ray or blood test to detect the gay gene in me. The too-short shorts and tattered t-shirt I’m wearing at the moment don’t help matters. I haven’t even showered yet today. Gasp!

But am I proud? Do I feel a sense of self-respect? Do I feel a sense of accomplishment—without complacency—over accepting and embracing my gayness. Absolutely!

Happy Pride, Vancouver!

Second Date: A Sweaty Affair

I scanned a weather map of temperatures across North America yesterday. Boise, Phoenix, Miami,...all warmer. But here in coast British Columbia, temps surging above 30˚ Celsius make brain and body functions cease. For me, it means that I towel off every few minutes.

After a promising first date over coffee earlier in the week, I agreed to meet Hal after 6 p.m., thinking temperatures would be cooler (because 33 is so much better than 34, right?!). I drove on the ferry to avoid the sauna scene on the city bus and cranked the A/C for the first time this year. I had three shirts in the backseat, figuring I would do a last minute costume change before meeting at a coffeehouse in Vancouver's West End. I had it all worked out.

And then I walked in Melriches to get my (iced) coffee. No A/C in the place! I could feel the beads form on my brow and my (too?) snug shirt cling to my back. I peeked down the front and spotted the first water splotches. Not a pretty sight when trying to make a good second impression.

When Hal appeared, he said, "Where to?" and without hesitation I replied, "By the water."

It's a law of nature, right? It's always cooler by the water. Always! Well, Vancouver broke the law.

Call 911!

Waiting at a traffic light before reaching the seawall, I felt like I'd been crammed inside an oven...fully preheated on Broil.

For a city known for its gorgeous greenery, I expected to enjoy a shaded stroll beneath towering evergreens. Nothing doing! We started the walk on a stretch along the beach that would have made Paul Bunyan proud. The closest clump of trees was as out of reach as those six-pack abs that taunt me from the covers of men's fitness magazines.

(I no longer shell out the money to read the how-to plan inside. Science fiction has never been my thing.)

By the time we hit a shady patch, I was drenched. Glancing down at the front of my shirt, my sweat stain had formed its traditional Mickey Mouse head image. Used to amuse me. Not this time.

Hal was glistening with sweat, too. He, however, took it in stride and continued to converse about visiting the Philippines in monsoon season. Yeah, hotter than Vancouver. Not a comfort.

We found a bench high above the seawall, overlooking a beach and some swimmers--smart folks. Definitely envious. We stayed and chatted long enough for my shirt to dry. (Yes, it gets dark quite late in Vancouver in the summer. One advantage of being farther north.)

And it seems there will be another date. Things should cool down in the next few days. I'm looking forward to that as matters (possibly) heat up in other ways.

The Bachelorette: Are You Scratching Your Head?

This?!

Not this?


Well, at least not this:

Or this:

OUT 7 HOURS FOR A CUP OF COFFEE—WORTH IT?

Being a single gay man, my move to a rural area a ferry ride away from civilization might not have been my smartest idea. Wasn’t interested in dating back then; didn’t have the foresight to think things might change.

I rely on an Internet dating site as my only shot at connecting with other SGMs. No, not gay.com or Manhunt. Both seemed sleazy. They serve a purpose, no doubt. Just not what I’m looking for.

As with everything, Internet dating is a crapshoot. And my location is a definite handicap. Last week a hot guy fifteen years younger than me sent me a series of messages. My age turned out not to be a factor. Where I live? A dating death sentence. (Hey, I get it. When I was under thirty, living outside of a city seemed unfathomable, too.)

I went for coffee today with a guy only two years younger. The time together was an hour and a half. Very promising start. Of course, I left home at 10:30 in the morning and didn’t get back until 5:30 at night. I did no errands, I swear. Just coffee talk. (Oh, Mike Myers, I miss the funny you!)

Times ticks by when you’re dependent on ferry and bus schedules. (Driving wouldn’t have saved me any time. I’d just have had a longer wait at the terminal on the return trip and, in fact, I would have had to arrive at the terminal in the morning earlier in order to get a spot.)

Was it worth it? You betcha! Nice guy. There’s potential. Can I continue with this skewed reality? Not so sure.

Towel, Please

The fact that I'm the only gay guy at my local gym is not the only thing that makes me different. I'm also the only one--man or woman--who brings a towel each time.

We all sweat--well, I've got this one friend who doesn't seem to. It's so irritating to see his shirt and forehead are still completely dry after a vigorous two-hour tennis session! Anyway, almost all of us sweat. We need to be accountable for it.

They've set up these spray bottles with colored water in them and wipe rags, but few people ever use them. The treadmill folks are far better than the bodybuilders. To the he-men who throw ridiculous weights on the bars, it's like wiping down the bench is a girly thing. And staring at your pecs from front and side profile isn't? What about that triple berry protein shake you get at the end of your workout? And how about that conversation you guys were having about how to add more avocado to your diet? And here I thought the steroids did it all.

Yeah, I sound cranky. I get tired of being the only one with a towel. I feel like Linus walking around with his blue blanket. I'm no germaphobe, but sometimes it's like sliding in one of those Jello pits when I've gotta use a bench after these guys.

Towel off!

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.