MAKING THE COFFEE ROUNDS

Twenty years ago when I was first trying to figure out the dating scene, I might have agonized all day waiting for a phone call that never came and then scrawled my desperaton and despair in a journal that I stored underneath a stack of t-shirts in the closet. God forbid anyone should read it. Now I blog. That only makes it slightly more public--people have to want to read what you post--, but it's still odd. At least I'm not killing a tree. 

I have been single now for seven years. It's my longest streak since I first walked into a Dallas gay bar at the age of twenty-four. That night, I abruptly left, frazzled and perplexed, after an inebriated guy skillfully spelled his name (D-A-R-R-E-L-L) and kissed me on the nose. My first thought at the time: "Huh?!" 

Since then, I've fallen in and out of love three times. The first time, I was too closeted, too insecure. The second time, I got involved with someone I knew was wrong for me from the first date. The third guy seemed perfect for the first nine months before the cracks started to show. I stupidly remained committed for another six plus years. I was relieved, even exhilarated to finally regain my freedom. Now I'm just bored, restless, impatient. And I continue to walk away from every dating episode with the same thought: "Huh?!" 

I've had three coffee dates in the past month. Dud, dud and double-huh. First came Ward, an earnest TV documentary producer. At 53, he was seven years my senior. Not a big deal, except I noticed age spots on his tanned hand as we introduced ourselves at his local Starbucks. I should recall more about his line of work, but what stands out from that meeting was him taking and explaining frequent pee breaks because he drinks eight liters--yes, liters, not glasses--of water a day. He texted me before I got home, eager to meet up again. My work and his work made the next two weeks an impossibility. He agreed to contact me after returning from a business trip in Banff. Never heard from him again. I'll assume he got maimed by a moose while refilling his water bottle at one of those pristine freshwater springs. 

Next was Darius, a 25-year-old law student. I should never have responded to his first message, but curiosity got the better of me. No, it was not ego. I don't need to feel some sense of affirmation by having a guy twenty-one years younger than me by my side. I wanted to know why in the world he'd contacted me. Daddy issues? Looking for a financial supporter? It turned out that he desperately wanted to connect with someone he perceived as educated. My three degrees, including one in law, fit the bill. I showed up at a downtown Blenz, thinking I'd at least have something to write about. 

Turns out Darius only gets two paragraphs. For an hour, he knocked the Canadian education system and everyone his age. They were all beneath him. I am guessing (and hoping) they surpass him in the area of social skills. He messaged me the next day and I didn't for a moment feel the urge or the social obligation to reply. 

And then there's Ross. Of the three, he's the only one I initiated contact with online. Our date was only two days ago and I'm still feeling raw from the experience. He was the date that mattered. I felt uncharacteristically nervous driving to Delany's coffeehouse on Denman. As he'd included a "must love dogs" line in his profile, we'd agreed to grab a coffee and walk along the seawall with my dog in tow. 

At first glance, I thought it was another mismatch, but then he took off his sunglasses, smiled and I knew something was possible. Beautiful day, fairly smooth conversation. It was a Fourth of July without fireworks, but something to build on. The only sticking point I could detect was the fact I had unexpectedly moved out of the West End a week ago. Yep, I'm a ferry ride away for the next two months. 

I didn't sense it was too big of a deal as Ross is from Victoria and is accustomed to ferry travel a couple of times a month. He did say that the last guy he dated was from Surrey and his friends questioned that distance. I know the type. Life beyond the West End? Unthinkable! 

As we parted, Ross mentioned "next time" and said that he would program my number into his cell, a rather daring statement I thought. I keep numbers on Post-its since deleting a cell phone contact would require me to upgrade my tech skills. As I headed home, I felt relieved, even elated. At last I'd get another chance at the Holy Grail of gay online experiences: a second date. I sent him a message later that evening, indicating I'd enjoyed the walk and suggesting a bike ride or meal should he want to meet again. 

No response. 

I don't know how many times I checked my email yesterday. Damn you, Air Canada! Don't tell me about your 10% off offer. Curses to the string of emails from my writing group listserve! My inbox was filled with clutter. No new messages from Plenty of Fish. 

So I'm right back where I started from. "Huh?!" At this point, maybe I'd even welcome a misguided kiss on the nose. 

Something is amiss. So far, I've coped by wondering What's wrong with online dating? and What's wrong with Vancouver guys? At some point, I may, however, have to regress to wallowing in What's wrong with me? Oh, don't make me go there!

CATCHING UP...

One common piece of advice I read about attracting an audience to a blog is that you have to post regularly. I read it, but I don't follow it.

I could post more frequently. Perhaps you'd be amused over my (unsuccessful) attempt to tame the beastly hedges on my side yard. Maybe you'd join me in scorning my neighbors who allow their children to deposit their sun-faded Fisher Price toys for weeks on end in front of my house. I'm sure I could rant for several hundred words about that. (A Tweet won't do.)

But this is a blog about being a foolish single gay guy who moved to a rural area (not rural enough--see neighbor comment, above) and naively thought a soulmate would miraculously appear on a hiking trail. Alas, all I have to show for my wilderness walks are scratches on my legs from blackberry branches and an almost recovered twisted ankle. My gayness goes into hibernation for extended periods; hence, no posts.

I did rent a condo in Vancouver from my ex for the past ten months. (Troubling words in preceding sentence: from my ex. More on that in a moment.) With a foot in the city, I planned to reconnect with old friends, dine at the hip restaurants du jour and mingle during intermissions at the theater. Shine that spotlight on my naivite once more. Old talk with old friends proved stale, French bistros are all the rage (this vegetarian cannot live on a baguette and Chardonnay alone) and I passed on Carol Channing reading "The Vagina Monologues". Missed opportunity?

Truth is Gay in the City gave way to Slave to Work. At the end of a long day, I didn't feel like trekking to 4th Avenue to wait forty-five minutes for a table and a bland, twenty-dollar pasta primavera. It was easier to stay in and whip up my own mediocre meal, cutting down on dishwashing by eating from the pot. There, I admitted it. I have not grown much from my college slacker ways. At least the utensils aren't plastic anymore.

I have more time in the summer. My ex knows that. Why shouldn't he rain on the emerging sunshine? A minor "disagreement"--I was choosing to take my dog to work the next day instead of dropping him off at my ex's mother's--led to a flurry (and fury) of text messages demanding that I vacate the condo ASAP. Oh, he recanted the next day, but I'd already loaded the car and begun hauling my stuff back to the boonies. Exes don't change. Naive again? No. Plain stupid. Lesson learned.

So my big gay renaissance never materialized. Not much to blog about. Maybe later today I'll take the dog for a walk through the local trails and look on the bright side. In another month, the blackberries will be ripe. In the meantime, I can surf the internet and figure out how to make jam. No more leftover pasta in the pot for brekky. Progress.

BELLY FLOP

Curse you, Ryan. I'm talking to all three of you: Gosling, Kesler and Reynolds. You've set the bar too high. How am I supposed to have abs like that and hold down a day job?

I know, I know,...I shouldn't compare myself to world class athletes and actors with personal trainers and personal chefs. The Ryans do not belong in the realm of reality. And yet they taunt me. Ryan Reynolds has some new superhero movie due out this summer and he will once again put the rest of us to shame as he graces more magazine covers.

I tell myself that the extra weight in the middle region is natural for guys in their forties. We've earned it. That gut should represent contentment before our appetites diminish and we choke down a glass of prune chose every morning. Let the gut push beyond the pecs. The Ryans will be puffier too when the time comes.

And then there's that damn Rob Lowe to blow my rationalization. Stupid Vanity Fair cover. Forty-seven years old. The man needs a super-sized bag of Cheetos. Every day. And a puppy that chews up his sneakers. He's not a Ryan, but his name begins with the same cursed letter.

I avoid the mirror, but I caught a glimpse by mistake this evening. How can I have a beer belly when I don't drink beer? Not even during Canuck games! To be fair, I'm pretty sure the tummy has not inflated to beer belly proportions just yet. I've always been hypersensitive about my weight. People continue to say I'm thin but I worry I'm one Timbit away from a total body shift.

If I had a partner, he'd reassure me. He'd lie and tell me a little bit more weight just means there's that much more of me to love. And then he'd go back to "reading" his Vanity Fair.

Being single, I have to remain vigilant about my weight. Forties contentment must wait. For my online dating profile, I have indicate one of the following as my body type: thin, athletic, average, a few extra pounds, big and tall/BBW or prefer not to say. I don't even know what "BBW" stands for and I am fairly certain that most people will not admire my moral stance in opting for "prefer not to say". People may infer in the same way I do when someone chooses that language for the "Smoker?" line. I am athletic, but lately it's more like Kyle-Wellwood-after-summer-vacation athletic. Not outrageous, but not a draw either.

I know, I know,...I should get back to swimming 2-3 times a week. It's a catch 22. Swimming has always been the best way for me to stay slim, but I won't wear a swimsuit in a public setting until I shed a few pounds.

And, yes, I should content just to be healthy. However, I am not wired that way. I have dieted officially or unofficially as much as Oprah. I have never been considerably overweight; instead, I have ventured the other way...to the point where friends had an intervention with me in university after I discovered that eating only one (large) meal a day helped me shed the pounds to the point where I was fifty-five pounds lighter than I am now. All my fretting and Ryan hating is about 5-8 pounds. But I know see the difference. I feel the difference.

And, yes, I know that an easy place to start getting back on track is to change my Rewards Program. My job is intense and so I build in a couple of perks as the end of the week approaches. Thursday after work, I pick up a Blizzard from DQ. Friday on the way to work, I savor a Solly's cinnamon bun. (I do exercise restraint. I get it without the icing.) I am well aware that I should not reward myself with food, but soft ice cream with crushed mint Oreos mixed in holds so much more appeal than a whole sheet of scratch n sniff stickers or a pat on the back or a whispered, "Way to go."

I slogged away at the gym today and I'll do the same tomorrow...if all that syrup on my weekend reward pancake platter doesn't knock me out for the afternoon (as it usually does). At the very least, I'll walk my dog an extra block. Yep, that'll work off a chew or two.

I don't just curse the Ryans. Aunt Jemima, I curse you, too!

IT'S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTS

Things haven't been so good lately.

One of my dogs died a month ago after a period of declining health. No amount of preparing myself for the final decision actually prepared me. I realized in the days after his death that, aside from my other dog, I was completely alone. It took eight days before I could get the simple token of comfort I desperately neeed: a hug.

While I have struggled to connect in Vancouver, I know that much of the isolation comes from my own way of being. I don't think I ever completely broke from my secretive teen identity when I tried so hard to conceal certain mannerisms and "sinful" longings. Since that awkward time, I have never fully let my family back into my life and my reserved nature veered toward hermit status when I moved to a more rural setting.

Grief mixed with anger that I directed at myself. I have always cherished alone time, but loneliness has crept in. In becoming the boss at work, the isolation grew. While everyone needs to see me, the conversations are respectful and collegial, but I learned early on that friendship is out of the question. Nobody wants to be seen as being too chummy with management. I contribute to the separation by being an asexual entity. I'm single and have no children, but my sexuality is never discussed. I assume everyone knows.

I never liked the drama that came with coming out talks. In particular, I never liked the fact that, with one exception, I always had to initiate these conversations. Fifteen years ago, I decided I was done with outing myself. If anyone wanted to know, the person could ask me. And in the last fifteen years, no one has.

Asexual. Lump me in with aphids and rotifers. Not the greatest company. Heck, even the dung beetle is sexual.

A few days ago, when a colleague asked me, "How are you?", I was tired of the rote responses ("Fine. "Good." "I'm okay."). I allowed myself to be human.

The conversation evolved from "Not so well" to a discussion of my connection to my dogs and the depth of the sense of loss I was experiencing on my own. LeeAnn did not back away. Instead, she pulled me into my office and shut the door.

"Would you be open to me trying to set you up?" she asked.

Open?! How about relieved, flattered, appreciative? Hey, aphids, I may be ditching you.

And then there was an awkward moment. She paused before vaguely asking, "So,...what type of person are you looking for?"

Okay, so I finished the outing process. At least it wasn't another solo performance. "Well,...you know I'm gay, right?"

Yep. She knew. With that hurdle knocked down, she proceeded to tell me there are a number of gay men in her neighborhood. She's close with this lovely gay couple and they have a friend in the area who seems to be single. Attractive. Really nice. Single! She'd talk to him in the next week. He's always gardening in his yard. (Yippee! Surely, he could help with my aphid problem.)

I thanked her and smiled. When she left, I padded the layer of sweat from my face. Even a shared outing is painful.

Today, LeeAnn popped back into my office and plopped into a seat. "Okay, I saw him yesterday..." she began. I could tell the news wasn't good. He was seeing someone or, worse, he was repulsed from the mere description of me. (What did she say about my nose?) I feebly attempted to look chipper. I hate when that bottom-of-the-barrel self-esteem from adolescence resurfaces.

She leaned forward before continuing. "It turns out he's not gay."

She had wrongfully outed the guy. Thankfully, he wasn't offended. (But why would he be?) Still, she was highly embarrassed, profusely apologetic. She hoped to see him again very soon so that she could have a different conversation and move beyond the uncomfortable moment.

Is it warm enough to plant zucchini?

"Sorry," she said. And with that, she flitted off.

No need to apologize. The thought, combined with the follow-up, went far beyond the hug that I needed. I was pleased to be considered, happy that a barrier showed signs of erosion and momentarily amused. Right now, I am grateful for such moments more than ever. As I continue to adjust to a life with one less beloved buddy, I am trying to figure out how to live more.

I'm an old dog, but maybe change is possible.

FEEL THE CONNECTION?

I am now connected. At least, that's the message I get when I go wireless at the local Starbucks. But how did being connected become such a distant feeling?

Am I the only one who, despite the marvel of reading a tweet from a heretofore unknown Australian writer mom about successfully putting her kids to bed, feels that online connections are shallow, mundane, even time sucking? (Hold on now, dear reader. I do appreciate the meaningful comments to my blog postings. Still, typical Internet contributions rarely go beyond American Idol rants and retweets of other people's material. The whole point of this blog has been to attempt to present an authentic perspective on what it feels like to be single, gay and, yes, unconnected.)

Yes, I try. I blog, I tweet, I surf. To be honest though, I don't feel the impact. I get emails informing me of new followers to my Rural Gay account on Twitter. Mostly, they are gay porn sites and scantily clad women. Seems "gay" is synonymous with "sex" to many who use the Internet as a marketing tool.

Time for me to state the obvious: I'm frustrated. It's not that I obsess over being single (or, at least, that's what I tell myself), but dating in my forties is an even greater struggle than it was when I was in my twenties and thirties. And, to be clear, I was significantly dating challenged back then.

Bars are no longer an option. Not that they were ever the fountain of long-term possibilities. (Still, my longest relationship lasted seven years after a mutual friend introduced us at Odyssey, a gay club now closed.)

I've been meaning to join a gay running group, but I can't seem to get home from work early enough for the 6:30 p.m. start time. I've signed up for a gay tennis league, but it stands to reason that, if I can't be somewhere by 6:30, a half hour earlier isn't going to work either. Let my membership fee be a donation to people who actually have a life (and a decent backhand).

Back in the last century, I tried personal ads. Remember them, snuggled in the classifieds after the used car ads? (Fitting, no?) There were some strange, even scary responses. (One I distinctly recall came with the message "The word of the day is passion" scrawled on the back of the envelope. I deleted the i, making the phrase of the day "pass on".) A relationship arose when I replied to a man who sought someone who nurtured the mind, body and soul. Took me eighteen months to realize he was all about the body. His body. I couldn't convert to hailing the gym as my shrine or to making tank tops my closet staple. (My biceps have always been overly modest.)

So now the personals are virtual. Bland profiles portray every single gay man as an outdoor beast who craves kayaking/mountain-climbing/rollerblading/ice-cave-camping. My, we are an active crowd. And we all value honesty/integrity/commitment/humor/intelligence in ourselves and in others. Cripes, how is it that we are all single? We are all so well-versed on Virtues 101. Original thoughts? Not so much. The personals ought to be renamed the impersonals. Am I the only one who mistakenly reads the URL for Plenty of Fish as "plenty offish"? Makes me chuckle every time I log in.

Jaded? Maybe. (Okay, sure. I do profess to valuing honesty/integrity.)

I am feeling defeated by the Sears catalogue approach to finding a companion. Where have all the articulate people gone? The most recent message I received went like this: "love ur piccs! love ur dogs too!" I must suppress the urge to take a red pen to the computer screen. Of course, that message was far deeper than the one last week which consisted of "Hello" in the header and a blank message. Is this the SPAM method of online dating?

When messages do go back and forth, it seems that many guys are content to leave it at that. Is there an ego boost to carrrying on trivial text exchanges? "How you doing? Good bunny day wkd?" This message came after six weeks of sporadic online conversation. Good bunny day wkd?! That's it?!

I try to gear things to a face-to-face meeting, but often the other person ceases all contact at the mere suggestion of coffee. E-z there, dude.

These people aren't otherwise attached, are they? (Surely their partner or a friend of their partner could/would discover the public profile online.) Are their profiles false? What?! You haven't climbed Mount Everest but you read about it on Wikipedia?!

My gut tells me that these dating sites aren't filled with unfaithful liars. In an age where people yank out their iPhones and iPads while meeting friends in public, in a time when free porn proliferates the Net and people poke as many people as possible on Facebook--seriously, who has 758 friends?--, has genuine person-to-person contact become unnecessary? And if I dare not think so, have I become, gasp, old-fashioned?

I always thought wisdom and perspective came as we matured. Why is it that I am more perplexed than ever?

BAR FLIGHT

How much do we actually change as we grow old(er)? As much as I'd like to think I'm more composed, more comfortable in my own skin, there are humbling moments to remind me that that might not be the case.

Yesterday afternoon, I had another coffee date with a fellow who contacted me online. Pleasant enough experience, but I left knowing I had no desire to continue the conversation. Walking back to the car, I fought off Booted Contestant Syndrome, a combination of tears, despair and a Why-am-I-not-good-enough meltdown you can see every week in the final minutes of ABC's "The Bachelor". Instead, I admired the lovely tree-lined street and asked myself the same question I had twenty years ago: "Where does a single gay man look if he hopes to find a decent lifelong partner?"

Back in 1989, I first stepped into the unknown in an attempt to find love. I'd heard about Oak Lawn neighborhood in Dallas and driven down the main street on a few occasions, not daring to stop, illogically fearing that parking or getting out of the car would result in my being spotted and fired from my job with a religious institution. If not unemployed, weren't there homophobic gangs lurking around corners? (As a kid, I had a paralyzing fear of the bogeyman. And cracks in the sidewalk.)

When I finally dared to walk into a Dallas gay bar, it was a brief, jittery visit. It was a weeknight and too early for bar hoppers. I ordered a drink, found a stool and kept my eyes on a TV screen. Yep, don't mind me. I just stopped in 'cuz the ol' Zenith was on the fritz. To my surprise, I had an intruder by my side in minutes. Darrell was his name. I remember him spelling it for me. (Was he wanting me to send him a card?) I nervously answered his questions with disinterest. Clearly, I wasn't ready for love or whatever it was Darrell had in mind. And then he swooped in. What was going on? I bowed my head at the last moment and his kiss landed on my nose. I panicked and hurried for the exit, managing a slight smile as Taylor Dayne's "Don't Rush Me" played on the sound system.

Driving home, hands shaking, I already sensed that the bar was not going to be my haven. Love would have to come from somewhere else. But where?

Okay, still no answer. So last night, after months of contemplation, I went where I was almost certain Mr. Right would not be. I headed to Numbers, one of the few remaining gay bars in Vancouver.

It was a struggle from the outset. I walked the dogs and decided to stay home. Then I told myself to just walk by the club. No need to go in; another walk would burn off the Häagen-Dazs (a spoonful or two anyway).

As I walked, my inner voice taunted me. "This is a mistake. Are you really looking for an aging boozer? You're old now...middle-aged for Pete's sake! (Proof of your ancientness: You use phrases like 'for Pete's sake', for Pete's sake!) You'll be the creepy old guy everyone thinks is leering at them. Yep, a mistake."

Methinks my inner voice watched too many seasons of the Simon Cowell era of "American Idol".

In addition to the nagging negativity, I was overcome my nervousness. Remember Tom Hanks asking someone out for a date in "Sleepless in Seattle" as "Back in the Saddle Again" played on the soundtrack? I hadn't been in a gay bar in Vancouver in a dozen years. What had changed? Wasn't there a bathhouse next door? What if I accidentally walked in the wrong place? What was the crowd like now? Was there still a coat check or would I have to lug my bulky winter coat around the place? Did people still dance? Was the dancing different,...more complicated now that there are all those dance shows on TV?

Deep breath. Maybe it's easier to be Tom Hanks in "Cast Away", talking to Wilson the volleyball.

I managed to walk up the steps to the club. The right club. Step one, check. The guy inside the door told me to spread my arms out and ran something like a curling iron up and down my body. Security measure or was this an odd way to warm up the crowd for a drag show? I then had another guy take my driver's license and scan it. After forking over six bucks (for Numbers?!), I was granted admittance.

Apart from the security screening the other immediate difference was the lack of a heavy smoke cloud filling the bar. I easily spotted the signage for the coat check, shed twenty pounds and tried to march confidently to the bar to order a drink. Cash only. A smiling bartender directed me to convenient ATM on the lower level. At last, I had my Corona in hand. Beer goes straight to the gut with middle-agers, doesn't it? At least the lime wedge could count toward my daily fruit and veggie intake. Yes, beer can be good for you.

The bar looked the same as it did in the '90s, only darker. Maybe it was my vision that was failing me. Don't squint. Doesn't look attractive. Adds wrinkles. Ooh, was that what all those "leering" guys were doing way back when?

I toured the various levels and rooms of the club. Total time warp. No changes, except the place had about a fifth of the people I recall it having on Saturday nights of yesteryear. The beer belly/too tight t-shirt look prevailed. One guy bucked the trend with an argyle sweater. (How is it that a conservative look comes across as loud?) The dance floor was empty. There was no crowd to blend into. I retreated to the main level and parked myself on a stool as speakers pounded out Kylie Minogue's latest. Yes, she's still making music...just less relevant.

I was that uncomfortable guy from Dallas all over again (only now I wore an aging face mask like the guy who slipped into Canada on a flight from Asia last year). What to do, what to do? I couldn't smile and amuse myself by the dancing fools. There were none. Couldn't try hopelessly making eye contact with a wardrobe-challenged handsome man or a Check Out My Biceps stud. None on both counts. I gazed around the sparsely populated room and took the cue from the other singletons. I pulled out my BlackBerry and read my emails from work. Bar goers are as closed off as ever, just supported by different crutches.

I much prefer wine to beer, but I downed my drink in fifteen minutes. I fought off the urge to flee, eying the door hoping to see a nice looking, possibly approachable man make his entrance.

Not him.

No way.

Nah.

Am I too picky? Being in a bar brought back the judgmental, superficial me. Dismiss him before he dismisses you. I realized it was a protective stance but also a non-productive one.

I scurried to the coat check, retrieved my jacket and made for the fresh air outside...or at least the smoky clouds the wafted about until I'd passed the twentysomething throng that blocked off the sidewalk area at nearby Celebrities.

On the short walk home, I didn't have any tree clusters to distract me, just masses of concrete that blanketed the ground and towered on all sides. I knew the bar wasn't the place, but I'd gone in to rule it out based on experience rather than on speculation. The bar was a bust. Same for online dating.

I walked faster as Booted Contestant Syndrome fought for dominance. Not even a disastrous nose kiss to console myself. That's it. I'm done. Single for life. The dog guy. I could learn to knit little coats for them. How about online Scrabble? Maybe I should collect something from the Franklin Mint.

Everything's better, of course, in the light of day. I don't even like those stupid collectors' plates. Besides, I'm clumsy; they'll chip or break. I can cancel my order, right? No more thinking about dating. Just be.

I should go for a jog though. Work off that beer. You know,...just in case.

BANNING FOR NOTHING?

Back in 1985, I wanted my MTV. Madonna got me "Into the Groove", I pretended George Michael was singing directly to me with "I'm Your Man" and lead singer Pete Burns both intrigued and worried me in Dead or Alive's video for "You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)." MTV picked up the torch from Bob Geldof and "We Are the World", broadcasting Live Aid. MTV was good, all good.

But then there was that Dire Straits song. It was catchy and it glorified MTV, but it also spit out the "faggot" reference. I was twenty years old and scared to death to come out of the closet in Texas. I was sure I'd lose my job, my friends,...maybe even my life. It seems overly dramatic in 2011, but I had enough self-hatred that the last thing I needed was Mark Knopfler's hardhat character taunting me. Yes, I listened intently to hear his explanation of the song. The lyrics and the video clearly showed the context, but the fact the song shot to number one in the U.S. and became an international smash affirmed that the term "faggot", while offensive, was not off limits. Plus, I knew that many rock listeners weren't thinking of context as they sang along to the following verse:

See the little faggot with the earring and the makeup
Yeah buddy that's his own hair
That little faggot got his own jet airplane
That little faggot he's a millionaire

I recalled people being more offended by Randy Newman's "Short People" (in 1977) than they were to "Money for Nothing". Nobody seemed all that concerned.

When I heard that the Canadian Broadcast Standards Council banned the unedited version from Canadian radio, I thought I'd misread the headline. What was the point of banning a song twenty-six years after it was released? I shrugged my shoulders and moved on. Yet now, as people take to the message boards online to rally behind the right to free speech, to criticize political correctness and to point out the song's context, it's like the dated reference to "faggot" needs to be defended.

At the very least the CBSC's decision may right a wrong from the past. In 1985, a lot of people didn't get worked up over using "faggot" as a putdown. Only a few years earlier, I wouldn't have dreamed of reporting to anyone that the term had been repeatedly used to degrade me. I never heard an adult speak up against using the world as an insult. While I don't think its usage was widely condoned, nobody seemed to want to deal with the subject head on. The banning may irk the classic rock enthusiasts, bore today's youth and mystify heterosexuals who do not feel any tinge of homophobia. I doubt that there are many people today who are struggling with their sexual identity who are harmed by a song from before they were born.

Still, taking a stand now reflects a different context, today's standards. President Ronald Reagan did not even mention the word "AIDS" until 1985. In 2010, President Barack Obama, posted an "It Gets Better" video for The Trevor Project. Yes, we've come a long way (MTV and its "Jersey Shore" excluded). Why stop now?