FULL OF PRIDE, IN MY OWN WAY

In one respect, I’d have made a commendable Jehovah’s Witness. I’m not big on holidays. None of ’em. Overhyped, high expectations, forced reverie. (Seriously, what is it about changing a calendar—heck, who even has one—that warrants fireworks?) So it should come as no surprise that Pride Month almost got away from me.

 

I could defend my humbug homosexuality by saying I’m holding out for Vancouver’s Pride festivities which peak on August 3 and 4, but I’ll be out of town for the hoopla, not by design, I swear, just by life moving along and not specifically revolving around makeshift beer gardens on a cordoned off field and glittered up go-go boys clutching water bottles on a float that’s basically a roving rave. I prefer Go-Go’s that got the beat and profess to seal their lips.   

 

As with most things in my life, I’m perfectly content with a lowercase pride instead of an official Pride, sponsored by Evian, three phone providers and four local financial institutions. I’ve said before that I regard the parades as the equivalent to Olympic events—once every four years is enough, eight years if I want to play the boycott card as Canada and the U.S. did in 1980.

 

I don’t need a month and a postscript to feel proud. I think about queer issues—pride, prejudice and other problems—year-round. I read plenty of queer books, both fiction and nonfiction. I write and post queer-related essays to this blog. I wear rainbow socks and rainbow high-tops whenever I feel like it.

 

But then a fun opportunity crossed my mind in the form of a pamphlet in a coffee shop where I was writing. It promoted several walking tours offered by Forbidden Vancouver. Since I live close to two of the oldest parts of the city, Gastown and Chinatown, and where cruise ships dock, I frequently walk by tours in progress, the tour guide usually dressed in something that reminds me of Sherlock Holmes or a Jane Austen character. A history buff, twice removed, I sometimes consider lingering within earshot to hear what people are learning about “my” city. I suspect most people know these tours are highly curated to showcase a lurid underbelly populated by mobsters, murderers and a cast of creepers that would give Taylor Swift three double albums worth of new material on haters.

 

However, in addition to offerings like “The Dark Secrets of Stanley Park” and “The Lost Souls of Gastown,” there is “The Really Gay History Tour.” Local history, local P/pride. I’m having food issues lately so, rather than take a friend for his annual birthday dinner—another celebration(!)—I asked if he’d like to join me for a two-hour “really gay” walk.

 

Tour booked.

 

Here’s the pamphlet description:

It’s time for Vancouver’s secrets to come out of the closet. Drag kings, two-spirit warriors, gay church ministers: the queer heroes who fought for change.

 

Our guide, Glenn Tkach, who specifically researched and put together the tour, met us on busy Burrard Street. He was easy to spot in his pink felt hat, a pink t-shirt with the tour name on it and gray Converse high-tops with pink laces. (I dressed for the occasion in rainbow unicorn socks and rainbow high-tops. I’m not the total humbug I cast myself to be.) 

 

My friend moved to Vancouver in 1991 and my first stint in the city started in 1994 so much of what was shared was already known to us. Still there were several sparkly bits tossed in—a song by the Village People connected to Vancouver!—that had the dozen of us joining the midweek tour (also offered on Sundays) entertained and better informed about stories that had previously been vaguer notions. 

 

ted northe: a proud pioneer in
Vancouver and Canada's
queer rights movement

Today, near St. Paul’s Hospital, there is an alley the bears the street sign, ted northe Ln, named for a gay activist who wasn’t big on capital letters, but was huge in helping decriminalize homosexuality in Canada. A persistent activist, he showed up in August 1958 on the steps of the downtown courthouse, dressed in drag, flanked by four supporters and holding a sign that said, “I am a human being.” His efforts paid off with northe having a direct link to the 1969 legislation championed by Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau to officially decriminalize homosexuality and homosexual acts. I won’t share more because I feel the tour is highly worthwhile and oversharing may lead someone to think they’ve already reached their learning max. 

 

Tour, dah-ling. You’ll sashay away with a little more substance. 

 

One of the wonderful things about Glenn’s storytelling is it put bits and pieces of Vancouver’s queer history together in a way to see patterns and themes…as history is wont to do. It’s no surprise that our history includes oppression, discrimination and empowerment, but it’s more impactful when considered as a whole. Moreover, there was significant division across and between various sectors of what today is our supposedly neat, cohesive 2SLGBTQI+ community. (This is the acronym used by the Government of Canada.)

 

In all, it was a fabulous tour, as a queer tour should be. Pride, as I understand it is about knowing and celebrating ourselves, but it’s also about knowing where we came from as a community, what our present challenges are and where we are going. I’m prouder from the partaking.

 

 

 

 

 

  

HOW TO MEANINGFULLY CHECK IN WITH SOMEONE WHO HAS MENTAL HEALTH STRUGGLES

Okay, last week I bemoaned the fact that people say, “I’m here for you” when their follow-up words and actions indicate otherwise. I needed to unload. I needed to leave readers with food for thought…maybe some introspection and some tweaking of their own interactions. 

 

It’s nice to be nudged instead of nagged.

 

Still, I feel this post is a necessary complement to last week’s. Mental health still has its stigma. It’s hard to wade into unknown waters. Perhaps my perspective regarding what I’d want may provide guidance to navigating heart-to-heart conversations with your own friends and family who may experience mental health challenges.

 

Let me preface things by saying I have had a few good conversations lately in which I’ve felt heard and understood. One of my closest friends moved to Montreal six months ago and I flew there for a weeklong visit. She’d known I was struggling, partly with depression but primarily with my eating disorder, and we were talking about it in-depth within the first hours of the visit. Another person is a new friend whom I met for a second time for a glass of wine on a deck overlooking Jericho Beach and the Burrard Inlet. To be clear, both these people have been open with me about their own histories involving eating disorders. There is nothing that compares with talking with people who can knowingly nod—Been there, done that…or something like that. These people are dearer to me for letting me lean when I’ve needed to. Their understanding is implicit, but it is expressed, too. I’m not expecting a friend or family member to provide that caliber of support. That just wouldn’t be fair.

 

Still, whether it’s an eating disorder or any number of other mental health conditions—on my Insta account, I describe myself as a hoarder of MH labels—one basic tenet that I want people to know is that the condition is not a one-day thing. It’s not like someone saying they’re “depressed” because their team lost a game or you lost a key document when your laptop crashed. It’s not like when someone says they’re “anxious” about a date tomorrow night or have anxiety over an upcoming job interview. Without further information, these are presumably non-clinical cases of sadness and worry…regular emotions situationally arising in predictable contexts. In such cases, listening to the person requires being in the moment and perhaps a next-day or next-week follow-up. “Hey, did a tech guy recover your lost document?” “How’d the date go?” Done. 

 

If you don’t have the same mental health diagnosis, your understanding of what someone is going through requires more information…from THAT person. In a nutshell, it’s about asking open-ended questions and then actually listening, even seeking further clarification.

 

“How are you doing?” is a starting point. 

 

Often, I don’t trust that the person really wants to know. Even if they listened well on a previous occasion, I tend to assume it’s a default question with a default answer: Fine. Okay. Good. Sometimes I even reflexively say, “Super!” It comes from a boss of mine who used that word to define her mood and most everything else. It’s a basic word but, when used by an adult, it comes off as surprising. We’re socialized to not be so enthused…unless our team has a big game and we’re wearing a block of cheese as a hat. At meetings, I entertained myself by tallying spoken “supers.” My punishment? The word found a prominent place in my own vernacular.

 

You don’t get a gold star for asking “How are you?” to a depressed person. Upon first ask, the answer is rarely, “Not so good” or “I’m struggling.” That only comes as a first response if they truly trust you, if the two of you have a track record of meaningful check-ins or if they just can’t even fake an “Okay.” If anything, I’m less trusting after being more open. Too many times the other person has gone out of their way to shut down the gloom. Good god, it's Debbie Downer again. Sometimes they reach too quickly for a diversionary tactic, such as an upper from the movie Up: “SQUIRREL!”

 

To let the person know you really want to know, you have to express that, maybe by even naming the context:

 

“How are you?” 

“Fine.”

“What I mean is, how are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

“Last time you were feeling depressed. What’s your current mood?”

 

I think there’s an assumption that naming a mental health condition is invasive. Tread lightly. Be the holly-jolly friend. Be the pick-me-up.

 

Yeah, that’s just grating. Obnoxious even. If I’m depressed and you’re playing the role of cheerleader, I want to flee. I want to block your number. You and your “super” this, “super” that” are not good for me. (I really must expunge that dang word.)

 

Here’s an obvious statement that nonetheless needs to be stated: If you’ve never had, say, an eating disorder, clinical depression or been diagnosed as bipolar, there’s an inherent imbalance in knowledge and experience. This is not the time to play Match Game. To talk about when you went on a diet and then—Presto—suddenly stopped, isn’t going to connect you to someone with an eating disorder. It sure isn’t helpful advice. It shows a complete dismissal of what the person with anorexia or bulimia is going through. 

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. You don’t need to come up with an anecdote about how you can relate because you can’t. A person doesn’t talk about a bout with the flu to respond to a cancer patient going through chemo. A person doesn’t mention a broken wrist to relate to someone who has had their leg amputated. A person’s appendectomy doesn’t come up when someone is scheduled for brain surgery. 

 

Relating is often part of empathy, but sometimes understanding comes from listening and letting all that’s said digest, the nods coming not from “been there,” but “I hear you.” 

 

One more key point: Don’t try to fix your friend or family member. All I want and need is to be heard. Just talking about a current struggle releases some of the inner chaos. Just be present. Be there.

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. Keep nodding from gained understanding. That’s all.

 

For my eating disorder, I’ve dealt with the following professionals, all in multiples: medical doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, dietitians, occupational therapists, counsellors, art therapists, cardiologists, group home attendants, medical technicians, adapted exercise instructors and spiritual therapists. I’ve also been in support groups for people with eating disorders. My team.

 

I’ve had different teams for depression, anxiety and being bipolar. Smaller but still a full enough roster so we could don uniforms with garish colors and stand beside a head-scratching mascot for a team photo. None of that happens. I don’t want to start a mental health scrapbook. 

 

Think about it. If whole teams of professionals can’t fix me, there isn’t a suggestion or piece of advice you say that will suddenly make all the pieces of me fit together better. 

 

“Why don’t you try—” STOP!

“Have you thought about—?” STOP!

“If I were you, I’d—” STOP!

 

I’ve had well-meaning people complete each one of those statements. Many times. It only simplifies what is complex, and not in a helpful way. It negates the entire conversation. It isolates the person with the mental health condition. You don’t understand. 

 

It only increases the chances of the next check-in to go as follows:

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“No. I really want to know. How are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

 

A pat on the back for you. Now the chat can move on to something more enjoyable. Your “crazy” cat. That new show on Netflix. Are Ben and Jennifer—oh, yeah, “Bennifer”—actually going to make it? 

 

Sure. They’re fine, too.

As a postscript, I'll say that reading and learning about eating disorders may help you understand and support your friend or family member. I'm cautious about this recommendation. We all know how Googling anything medical may lead to misinformation or may offer dire and overly broad statements that don't apply to particular individuals. I spent ten minutes searching "how to support a person with an eating disorder" and had to stop. Despite clicking on government-related posts, I still found inaccurate information and advice that made me cringe. This article is okay though it still raised issues for me. Perhaps the best thing to do is to ask the person directly, "How can I support you? What helps? What doesn't?" 

Ask. 

They may shrug you off, but it sure beats asking nothing and having the person think you are yet another person shrugging first, their struggle being something taboo.

 

 

 

“ANYTIME”…BUT NOT NOW

My ears pricked as I heard a line from the conversation from two women sitting on the two stools beside me in the café. A simple question: “How are you doing?”

 

So ordinary but it stood out. I’d been typing away from my perch for fifteen minutes. The women had preceded my arrival. A lovely back-and-forth between two women in their early seventies. It was clear they were catching up after some time apart. Every so often, one of the women would drop the f-bomb and I kinda loved it. Not delivered with rage. Same conversational tone. But refreshingly unexpected. Human. Be the seventy-something you want to be. 

 

When “How are you doing?” pops up mid-conversation instead of at the start, it means something. It’s not a throwaway alt version of hello. “Fine” or “Good” doesn’t seem to be the acceptable response. Confirming this hunch, I heard the questioner follow with a quick add-on: “Is it okay that I ask?”

 

A few words like sleep and treatment dotted a lengthy response. I made the assumption cancer was in there too, expressly or implied. My ears shut down. They knew this was private. They knew the period of being amused over f-bombs had passed. If another followed, the delivery would be much different. 

 

Oh, how I would love a mid-chat “How are you doing?” It doesn’t come. I can almost see the person I’m with doing an artful dance around it. Let’s maintain some levity, shall we? Laughter is good medicine, after all. Even when forced. 

 

So many topics. Pick from the following:

A.      “Unseasonable” weather

B.      Recent travels

C.      The Tony Awards (even though neither of us 

         has been to NYC this year)

D.      Any Trump trial

 

Hell, even Gaza or Ukraine will do. Anything but a meaningful “How are you doing?”

 

I totally get that a person with cancer doesn’t want every conversation to be dominated or interrupted by the topic. Sometimes it’s nice to instead posit whether Dua Lipa will have the staying power of Lady Gaga (Hope so.) or even talk about whether Edmonton can make the ultimate comeback in the NHL finals (Shrug.). That’s why the woman’s “Is it okay that I ask?” was a perfect followup. Her companion’s reply: “Of course!”

 

Ask me. 

 

Someone. Anyone.

 

I don’t have cancer. Cancer sucks. F-bomb that. In my family, it was a taboo topic with an asterisk, that little star meaning it wasn’t to be discussed with the person with cancer but was open for discussion with anyone else, a trickle down of intel acquired somehow—did someone break taboo or was it all speculation. I mean, just look at her. 

 

It wasn’t just my family that played things hush-hush. Laura Linney starred for four seasons in a Showtime series called The Big C. To be clear, the nasty c-word was cancer, not the nastier other c-word. I’m perfectly comfortable talking cancer; the other word? Nope. Never. Not even a men’s locker room. (Another c-word comes to mind: cavemen.) 

 

We are getting better at talking directly about tough physical health conditions. Cancer. COVID. AIDS versus HIV. It’s partly because I’m a guy of a certain age but colonoscopy has come up in conversation a few times in the past year. I’m not skittish about the topic, just procedure-averse. Any procedure. I’ll still ask questions. It’s part of acknowledging my friend, inquiring about what he’s going through and whether he has any concerns. A colonoscopy conversation sounds more pressing than his take on the Tony Awards. Let’s talk…if that’s what you need. 

 

The taboo is still entrenched when it comes to mental health. Every time another celebrity comes out about an experience with clinical depression, being bipolar or having an eating disorder, I feel hope just as I did thirty years ago when some famous person came out as gay. 

 

It’s not just me. 

 

There is a public name and face for this “quirk.” Regarding anorexia nervosa, few male celebrities have come forward. (Zayn Malik has referred to food restriction while part of One Direction but the oft-repeated quotes do not include a specific diagnosis. Not so helpful. It doesn’t bring a conversation forward. It’s the equivalent to if George Michael said in 1990 that he’d crushed on a guy. What exactly is that…if anything?)

 

Labels matter. Until they don’t. 

 

Me saying I’m gay? These days, so what. Anorexic? Um…How ’bout dem Tonys?

 

My current downward spiral into severe food restriction—beyond my normal restriction practice—began March 25. This is Day 86, an uninterrupted streak. I’m down to the last hole in my belt, a shift of four holes. My face is gaunt, my arms and legs significantly thinner. So much of the muscle gained through decades of disciplined gym workouts is gone even as I continue the same workouts. Muscle is lost before fat. 

 

There was a point during this streak when my body looked “hot.” Six pack, body fat presumably negligible. (I never weigh myself. When I must step on a scale at a doctor’s office, I close my eyes or stand backwards on the device. I’m very clear with the medical provider: Do not tell me my weight. If I know a number, it feeds into a warped game—how low can I go?)

 

I’m well past the point of “hot.” Now I try not to look because sometimes the sight in the mirror makes me cry. I’m doing damage. I can’t stop.

 

Someone who doesn’t have any understanding of eating disorders could easily say, “Just eat something.” A donut. Two. A lunch. A carrot. Hell, a “baby” carrot.

 

The understanding isn’t there because this is a food-obsessed society. I’m more aware of this when I’m in a phase of severe food restriction. Food is all around me. Ads. Signage. Tossed cups and wrappers. Restaurants. Grocery stores. Overheard conversations. The pair of seventy-somethings have left and, at this moment, sitting beside me, two young women have been talking for fifteen minutes about avocado toast, omelets, fried eggs and poached eggs. On and on and on…It’s progressed to “favorite chocolate bar.” This is what friends are willing to talk about. This is much more in the realm of normal than my current state. 

 

Sights. Smells. Imagined tastes plant themselves on my tongue.

 

I’m on a 3-4 month wait list for outpatient support despite having been officially diagnosed by several psychiatrists, assessing me independently of one another. I’ve previously had an extended hospitalization. I’ve been in a group home. 

 

The referral process started at zero again. 

 

So it’ll be September, maybe October before another round of the same ol’ outpatient oversight. I didn’t buy into before as part of an I’ll-try-anything twenty-one month period in 2018 and 2019. I’m not all that hopeful anything will resonate this time around. But I won’t be alone with this. All the group sessions will be filled with people like me. Sort of. People with eating disorders, at least. Women. Under thirty. But I’ll see and feel their nods as I talk. I’ll nod for them, too. The nods won’t be formalities. Instead, they will mean, I see you; I hear you. 

 

If I continue on the current path, I may wind up in Emergency first.  

 

Again, I can’t stop. Despite what I know rationally, the eating disorder owns me. It’s scary. It’s sad.

 

Whereas people with active eating disorder behaviors typically go to extremes to be secretive, I am open. I am hiding nothing. I have previously opened up in an essay published by CBC, in a podcast and as being the patient on a panel for Toronto nursing students (my co-panelists being a professor and a social worker). If I talk, it may help another guy who is struggling. Maybe he’ll seek help. Maybe interventions will come sooner. Maybe his habits won’t be ingrained over four decades before an initial diagnosis. Maybe he’ll move past it.

 

Right now, I’d love to talk, to be heard, to have someone ask away about what they don’t know or understand. Maybe my conversation will break down stigma and allow that person to “be there” to listen and support someone else…and maybe help me just by letting me babble for a few minutes, feeling heard, feeling less freakish, feeling less alone in all this.  

 

I’ve mentioned to my friends around me I’m struggling. The response is always the same, an empathetic spiel something like the following:

Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s awful. I’m here for you, you know? If you ever need to talk about it—anytime—know that you can talk to me. [Pause to catch a breath.] By the way, did you see The Tony Awards? I’m so glad Daniel Radcliffe won. Aren’t you?

 

No lie. A bizarre segue happens. Every. Single. Time.

 

This is what makes people give up. This is one-sided affirmation. What a good person for offering an ear. Not now, of course. But someday. As long as it remains indefinite, in the future, always beyond reach. 

 

I, in fact, feel worse from this demonstration. I know these are good people. I don’t have tolerance for people who aren’t. But they can’t handle it. Just the topic of mental health is too foreign, too scary, too taboo. 

 

If I hadn’t shared, I could have floated the possibility that Joe or Sue might be supportive. Someday, yes, in the future, always beyond reach. Instead, another door is shut.

 

A dream scenario...

I’m more alone in this just from raising the subject. 

 

How am I doing?

 

Fine.

 

Do you think these gray skies will ever go away?

 

 

 

 

REFRAMING A CITY

A long-distance relationship has its obvious drawbacks. Seeing one another requires a constant review of logistics. Early on, my ex proudly announced some sort of monthly calendar rotation regarding how we’d spend our weekends: one his place, one my place, one “wild card,” one off. Or something like that. He’s a planner and the plan made him happy. Settled even. I’m definitely not a planner, but I’ll never knock anyone’s efforts to set things in stone, even if it turns out the stones roll. 

 

Despite my customary resistance, I too had to allow for some degree of planning in the relationship. A spontaneous text—“Wanna come over?”—doesn’t work when it includes crossing an international border and takes about three hours (for him) or five (for me—extra stops along the way, naturally). 

 

There is an upside in any breakup…once the cycle of humiliation, sorrow and WTF wanes. Okay, even during that cycle. That upside is more obvious when the relationship was long-distance. I have roamed Vancouver freely without any concern I’d run into him on the sidewalk, in a store or even online while scrolling people near me on Grindr. 

 

Out of sight. Out of mind? Someday.

 

Last time I fell in love, it was also a long-distance scenario. A guy in Portland. When “we” ended, I knew I couldn’t quit the place. I still loved the city. I’d risk a chance encounter. I’m not anxious about the possibility anymore because we worked our way back to friends and, besides, he moved to Iowa. (Why?!) 

 

I’m not willing to give up Seattle either. I’d visited many times before my two years of love. I’d built up a song’s worth of my favorite things, nothing involving bright copper kettles or whiskers on kittens. Three months after he dumped me, I returned for a couple of days. As a first time back, it was easier knowing I wouldn’t run into him. He’d moved to Denver which, if I harshly rewrite our personal history, I’ll say he did for the primary purpose of making me fly there to be immediately dumped. What an ending!

 

He can have Denver. He can do whatever it is he does there without any worry I’ll happen to be jogging past him. Technically, I’ve been back there, but it was only an airport layover en route to Philadelphia. It’s hard to imagine it’ll ever be a destination again. I’ve already turned down a family reunion there in July. (A prior commitment in California comes close enough to being a conflict.)

 

I’m regularly hit with memories of him as I go about life in Vancouver. Sometimes I shrug; often, I swear in my head. It’s my substitute for that old lady routine of grabbing a broom and telling a cat, a warren of dust bunnies or a DoorDash dude waiting for a tip to “Shoo!” Sorry, but sometimes “Shit!” feels so much better. Any transition from the stages of loss to nostalgia remains somewhere in the future. 

 

I knew the first time back in Seattle would be something I’d just have to get through. The Vancouver reminders are well into the repeat cycle now, but Seattle presented my first glimpse of the relationship highlight reel, Emerald City edition. 

 

For the most part, I played things strategically. My first evening, I ran to and around Green Lake, a place I could never convince him to join me for a walk. Green Lake has always been mine, all mine. He wasn’t a fan of ice cream, so I enjoyed a scoop of “rhubarb upside down cake” (yes, I’m still talking ice cream) at Molly Moon’s and a scoop of vegan “salty caramel ash” (a flavor, too) at Frankie & Jo’s. Zero memories triggered. 

 

But, slowly, carefully, I went to places clearly associated with him. I returned to his neighborhood and used my soon-to-expire parking pass to park on his street so I could write at Eastlake Coffee where I’d written so many times before. I was always comfortable there; the sessions were always productive. If he still lived down the block, I would not have gone back—ever. Too stalker-ish. 

 

I passed all sorts of bars and restaurants we went to. Didn’t go in. Didn’t need to. As I’m still going through a rough patch with my eating disorder, a scoop of ice cream served as an entire day’s intake. He was all about tacos and margaritas. Haven’t had either since. Passing up Mexican restaurants was helpful-ish, but I couldn’t pretend the spots had vanished. Even if I never go into any of them again, they will be tombstones marking a dead relationship. 

 

Adios! Hasta la vista (Terminator-style)! No burrrrrito for me. (I can’t roll my Rs so I always overemphasized it to make my ex laugh. I do miss hearing such joy and seeing it in his smile and his eyes. Gone. Take me down, Ah-nold.)

 

My wanderings became a mix. New things. Me things. We things. Meeting a friend near Pioneer Square, I got turned around coming up from the light rail station—that always happens when I emerge from underground. I auto-saved the experience as an anecdote to share with him later in the day. It was a harsh slap across the face when it dawned on me there was no later period for us. Our nightly shares and Seattle meetups were history. Twenty minutes below street level made me lose all bearings, far beyond just my sense of direction. 

 

Single again, you fool. How the hell did that slip your mind?

 

I suppose the whole breakup episode is still a mindfuck. I don’t understand. I just have to accept. 

 

While walking downtown, there was so much architecture I wanted to hear him explain to me. Such an expert! It was sexy listening to him talk cornices, railings, gates and lighting. Without him, I regressed to a word bank of pretty, detailed, and tiles. Sigh. Sometimes it’s like we never were. 

 

Would that have been better? 

 

I went to an Alexander Calder exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum and, knowing there was a Jacob Lawrence exhibit coming later in the summer, I bought an annual membership. It was a good sign. Arts supporter. Breakup survivor. I would not shy away from the city. I’d deal with the memories. I would continue to be blindsided by out-of-the-blue recollections, but maybe I would stop trying so desperately to bat them away, to not cry in public. 

 

I'll always have the troll.
Some consolation...

Maybe I’d become resigned to such moments. You again. Only not him, of course. A ghost of him. Not scary. I don’t have that association with spectral images. Not a ghoul but perhaps never a friendly incarnation either, à la Casper. Just a presence, his aura a part of me for the short-term. Just like his actual being in life as it turned out.

 

The second visit is now a month away. Less frequent than what used to be calendared. Nonetheless, I’m glad Seattle is still on my radar.

 

  

FLIGHTS OF FICKLENESS

The problem with fashion is it’s a moving target. To remain fashionable, you have to regularly invest—the money, obviously, but also the time people-watching, browsing magazines, scanning store racks and checking out online trends. 

 

If you love it, the investment is worthwhile. Who doesn’t love a stranger stopping them in the street to say, “I love your look!”? Many crave social media recognition. Post that selfie showing off that prized vintage find or your haul from Mr. Turk and glory in the uptick in followers and “likes.” If you’re single, you may even be approached by the right kind of guy—confident, professional, indisputably sexy—in a café, gallery or pop-up seaweed tapas restaurant—these are places fashionable folks hang.

 

It you don’t love it so much, any effort can feel expensive, exhausting and exclusionary. That is, if you even bother to let any of it register beyond the spectacle of the Oscars red carpet and the Met Gala. Events like that are accessible to all because they are so over-the-top. Nobody is going to go on Etsy to track down a knockoff of the meat dress Lady Gaga wore at the 2020 MTV Video Music Awards. Billy Porter’s black tux gown worn at the 2019 Oscars would accidentally(?) get stepped on umpteen times if you wore it while walking any sidewalk or hallway. (It looks like it would serve double duty as a sidewalk sweeper.) And, if you tried to buy online an approximation of Bjork’s swan dress from the 2001 Oscars, your computer would probably crash as a preventative measure.

 

Most men ascribe to a Clark Gable view of not following fashion: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” (Update in 2024-speak: “Fuck that.”) A football sweatshirt has all-year versatility. (In a heat wave, it can be laundered as the beer tee is pulled from the dresser drawer or, more likely, the heap that takes over the other half of the sofa. This incarnation of Clark Gable doesn’t have a person with whom to share the sofa, go figure. 

 

At least, let the t-shirt promote Bud Light.

 

As a teen, I wanted to be fashionable. The desire arose from a need. I desperately wanted to be seen. Popular, if I dared to be so honest. I didn’t come close…to popularity, to exuding a fashion sense, to registering. Silver lining: invisibility spared me from bullying. (Seriously! I wasn’t a target because I was never in frame.)

 

When I began college at Texas Christian University, a decidedly conservative upper-middle class private institution in an even more conservative state, it was the height of the preppy era. I’d been gifted not one, but two copies of The Official Preppy Handbook for high school grad. It was easy to build a wardrobe, if not to stand out, then to fit in. With a full rainbow of Izods and Ralph Lauren polo shirts, a few pairs of khaki pants in varying shades of taupe and a growing collection of topsiders, I was like everybody else, which was a more reasonable aspiration for an introvert than standing out. 

 

I hit my groove not long after moving to L.A. Presumably, preppies, if they still existed in Southern California, kept to Orange County and enclaves near San Diego. I spent a lot of time as a finally out gay man in West Hollywood, but I didn’t conform to the gay looks of the time which all seemed inspired by the mantra, Less Shows More. No, I didn’t have “more” to show. I went with clean, somewhat baggy clothes—“in” at the time among non-gays, at least—solids instead of patterns. Lots of linen, band collars, dark colors (olive, navy) with an occasional go at something brighter. (Wish I hadn’t worn out my peach Girbaud shirt and matching socks.)

 

Fashion mattered. Neither popularity nor blending in was a factor anymore but, being gay, I absorbed the expectation that I was supposed to have style. Most fashion designers were gay. Every man working at Barney’s, Bloomingdale’s and Fred Segal was gay, right? 

 

Being fashionable was supposed to earn my GAY badge. And also my longtime companion. That was the term of the time for a relationship that evolved beyond “boyfriends.”

 

My efforts proved, uh, fruitless. No badge, no boyfriend. (In hindsight, “longtime companion” was far too lofty.)  But the takeaway was that I made the effort. The biggest letdown once becoming part of the gay community? It might be inflammatory, but I stand by it…Here comes the big reveal:

Gay men are not fashionable.

 

Yep. I just said that. 

 

I suspect the original notion arose out of a whisper campaign from straight men. “Yo, bro. Watcha doin’ wearing designer clothes? You gay?” 

 

Portraying the gays as fashionistas was the excuse men needed for not giving a damn. A pricey shirt would put a dent in beer money. Fuck that. Why let a new wardrobe get in the way of football tickets and a versatile jersey, allowing you to pretend you’re AIKMAN (a garage sale steal!), BRADY or MAHOMES as you shop for a bigger toolbox at Home Depot?

 

Deep fake from the dudes. The concept had nothing at all to do with gay men. It was a scheme to validate being a slob, based on an injection of homophobia. (Presumably, metrosexuals were early anti-vaxxers before that got taken over.) 

 

From four decades out of the closet, homo closets aren’t noticeably more stylin’ than straight men’s. Maybe the difference is we use hangers. For every stylish gay man, there are ten who aren’t. I’ve been to gay pubs. I’ve had umpteen coffee dates. I see the photos on Grindr…the ones with clothing. (Less Shows More has never gone out of vogue.)

 

I don’t know how to classify myself these days. Pushing sixty—that’s so hard to type, but I refuse to lie and acquiesce to the pressures of ageism—I don’t need to give a flip about fashion. What the hell would I do with a badge? What the hell would I do with a boyfriend? I’d only lose both.

 

The good thing about a good number of decades being in the rearview mirror is that no one expects me to set a style standard. To those of a certain age for whom fashion is still seemingly of vital importance, I am absolutely invisible. I say that with a mix of humph and hurrah. Finally, I can embrace a quote from Marlo Thomas—“Who?” Never mind. Go back to watching your fave TikTok style influencer. I can say to myself and my aging gay brethren, we’re “free to be you and me.” 

 

Happy dance! (I recommend you celebrate that declaration, shimmying to this song. (Maybe stretch first.))

 

A few days ago, CBC ran a “news” item entitled, “Apparently, ankle socks are the new sign that you’re old, and millennials are done.” (I assume articles like this are offered as easier consumption for readers who don’t care to grasp the reasons for a carbon tax and are bored with “that stuff in Ukraine.”) I clicked because, only two hours prior, I’d bought three new pairs of offending socks. What compelling reason was there for me to surrender my purchase to my nonagenarian neighbor?

 

Good grief, skinny jeans and the hair with a side part were passé as well.

 

Cancel culture has gone too far! 

 

But, yes, isn’t fashion constitute the forefather of cancel culture?

 

Penalty: Oblivion!

The most humbling takeaway—okay, I found it humorous—from the article was Gen Z wrath didn’t even apply to me. They were calling out “30- and 40-somethings.” Okay, then. I’m wearing a pair of my new ankle socks as I write this. #TeamClarkGable! (“Who? What? Um...you should not be hashtagging.”) 

 

Sometimes the fashionistas get it wrong. So glad I never felt the slightest pressure to wear cargo pants, Crocs or ripped jeans which then evolved to jeans with giant knee holes. 

 

The one constant is every fashion trend has an expiration date and an objective indicator for time of death is when the trend is embraced by forty-somethings or teens in Taos or Tulsa. (Oh, Taos. I will miss you for many reasons but not the hair, makeup or clothes.)

 

I still care about how I look. I don my glasses as I scoot closer to the bathroom mirror, ready to mow down ear hair and rogue eyebrow strands before they curl. 

I don’t ever pull out a favorite garment from the dirty clothes hamper. (Once you pass twenty-five, you should have a hamper, guys. Your stinky gym gear does not belong in a hump on the floor, the guest chair or strewn on your otherwise empty (gasp!) bookshelf.) I throw out socks with holes and undies with tears below the waistband. (No corresponding story to warrant saving them as a souvenir.) 

I like matchy clothes. (Alas, they don’t make Garanimals in adult sizes.) 

Trends for spring/summer '24
according to British GQ.
100% I can't carry off any of them.

I love color, even if it’s not this year’s designated palette. For Spring/Summer 2024, Vogue France is big on “futuristic silver” and “transparency” as in see-through—Aack! Sparkles, too. Not a color but a reason to be glad I’m not twenty-two. I can’t carry off any shirt transparency—retro shout-out to Less Shows More?—any better than I can adopt a French accent.

 

I care about what I like. What everyone else thinks? Not so much. 

 

Whew. It’s about damn time.