Name changes happen. Facebook is now Meta. Datsun became Nissan. The TV sitcom, “Valerie,” was retitled “The Hogan Family” after Valerie Harper (RIP) left the show. Sir Elton John was born Reginald Dwight. Arnold George Dorsey performed as Gerry Dorsey before switching to—why, oh why—Engelbert Humperdinck. Prince (born Prince Rogers Nelson) transformed into
(aka, The Love Symbol) before settling on The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. Sean John Combs has been Puffy, Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, Diddy, Sean Jean, Brother Love and Sean Love Combs.
I seem to be on the Puff Daddy-P. Diddy-Diddy track.
It’s with some trepidation that I’ve renamed my blog. Way back in 2008, when blogging may have still been a thing, “Rural Gay” fit perfectly since I lived a ferry ride away from civilization. As a single homosexual in his forties, the title was bound to attract a little online attention, if only from initial curiosity. Why the hell would he make that kind of move?
Yep. Why, indeed. Seven years after starting the blog—and a decade after that cockeyed relocation experiment—I settled anew in Vancouver. Rural Gay no more!
For some reason, I figured I needed to keep that designation in the blog title, probably since it was the core of the web address. I gave the blog name a clunky tweak: Rural Gay Gone Urban. Always hated it. What did the wretched title say about my writing abilities? Still, I stuck with it, deciding my time was better spent writing posts as a pleasant diversion from drafting essays for occasional publication in the great beyond while continuing to hone novel-length manuscripts.
Another seven years have passed. I’m still blogging, even if that’s not much of a thing anymore. I’m an old dog and I haven’t developed an appetite for new tricks like podcasting and TikTok dillydallying. Old dogs can use words like dillydallying.
I don’t like to think of myself as old even though I’m almost at the point of admitting that the whiskers from three days’ growth on my chin are gray, not blond. (I should look into softer lighting in the bathroom.) I’m startled when I’m reminded that Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” is forty-five years old. I curse whenever I think of mentioning VCRs, answering machines or Charles Nelson Reilly in a conversation with my niece. (Charles Nelson Reilly? WTF?!) It’s always hard to transition after a blank stare.
Allow me to transition here to the new name for the blog. Like it or not, from my vantage point there are more young ’uns than old coots. We’re all aging, of course, but I’m more aware of it now. Remember how the time to reach sixteen or twenty-one seemed to move at a snail’s pace? Such an excruciating wait to drive a car or drink without a comically bad fake ID. Years and whole decades whiz by now. Staring into the bathroom mirror is now about checking for wrinkles, not zits. Oh, how I had so much hope for the powers of Clearasil; not so for my L’Oréal Revitalift eye cream. That thing about getting wiser isn’t always a good thing.
So, yes. I. Am. Aging.
I feel like I’m thirty-six in mind, body and spirit but, judging from how often I’m called “sir” these days, nobody else is buying it. I did get carded at the beer garden at the Washington State Fair last month, but I withheld the urge to woot. Standard procedure. She didn’t even bother squinting to search for where the birthdate is on a British Columbia driver’s licence.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise when I say I’m not exactly aging gracefully. Nope. I’m kicking and screaming. Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young” keeps popping up on my YouTube stream. Same for Candi Staton’s “Young Hearts Run Free,” a disco-era gem. Dammit, my song choices don’t help my case.
Okay, so enough about the “Aging” part of my NEW, IMPROVED blog title. On to “Gayly.” I had to keep some reference to “gay.” The blog has always been about being a gay man and that will continue to be the case. While I’m okay with “queer,” there was a time the term felt too abrasive—a derisive term that gays took back as their own. There are other descriptors under the LGBTQIA2+ umbrella that seem to suit me, but they weren’t around when I did the hard work of coming out. I love that there are more specific terms people can consider when figuring out their identity. I am committed to accepting and supporting anyone based on how they choose to define themselves with regard to gender and sexuality. In turn, I expect to be respected for sticking with “gay,” at least for now.
Old dog, remember. Throw me a bone or, better yet, just drop it in front of me.
As a stickler for the grammar and spelling, I’m accustomed to using “gaily” when writing, assuming I would use the word at all. Still, Merriam-Webster recognizes “gayly” as a variant used “less commonly.” I like that. After all, I’ve spent my whole life navigating less common tracts.
As a twenty-something, in a pre-GPS world, there were many times I sat in a car with gay friends and someone called out directions by saying, “Go straight.” The remark was always corrected. “Impossible. Go gayly forward.” Yuk yuk. Yes, these were the same people who chuckled over random references to balls, nuts and the number 69. Don’t be fooled by arty, gay pretensions. We’re as simple as other men…although I’m pleased to say I no longer laugh over farts and fart jokes. Some things just get old when one gets, ahem, old.
So there it is. A new blog title, keeping “gay” and chucking the rest. What do you think of “Aging Gayly”? This is likely a superficial change. I plan to continue to post on similar topics as before: gay culture, my relationship, queer literature and entertainment, and mental health issues, including eating disorders. I hope you’ll stick around, check the blog from time to time, leave a comment on occasion, here or on Twitter. (Retweets and other forms of sharing are always welcome!) I don’t want millennials to shy away from clicking to the blog, but I suppose it’s time for me to accept the gray whiskers while continuing to strive to sustain a healthy, active lifestyle. Thanks, as always, for reading!
