Classic! (Summer soundtrack #2)

Only five years late to the party. Nevertheless, I'll keep dancing.

Streetcar Stories: Hot fuss in Hogtown

"Flexity Outlook" on Spadina Avenue by Booledozer. Public Domain.
Via Wikimedia Commons.

[Author's note: This text was written while riding the 510 Spadina streetcar in Toronto on June 28, 2019.]

There's a group of elderly New Yorkers on my streetcar right now, two male-female couples easily in their 70s. Footloose and fancy-free in America's hat: Canada.

That accent is a dead giveaway. But who am I kidding? At this point in life, everyone living between Philadelphia and Boston sounds the same to me. I've never had a good ear for the nuances of Yankee accents; it's even worse now that I live in Canada.

One of the older gentleman is wearing a Killers t-shirt, aka The Killers, the contemporary rock group from Nevada.

Or so I'm assuming. He could just be advertising his default approach to problem-solving.

Killer is also the crankiest, snarliest member of the group.

Partner: "Have a seat. You should sit down before you fall."

Killer: " I don't wanna sit down! I wanna go to Chinatown!"

Killer groused for a while longer until a woman riding on the car told him that Chinatown is a way's off and that he should have a seat and relax (as if!), that she'll let him know where the stop is.

But sit down he did and stay mostly quiet. But then his fellow travelers started in.

"Is this Chinatown?"

"Is it this stop?"

Announcer: "This is Queen Street. The next stop is Sullivan Street."

"Is this Dundas?"

"Where is Chinatown?!"

Finally the lady who helped earlier told them to exit early and walk up the street.

"Which way is up the street?"

🤦🏻‍♂️

So lessons learned:

• Canadians are nice, but only up to a point. I think the Canadian woman offering assistance finally just gave up on their sad-sackcloth and ashes routine and told them to exit early. And I can't say that I blame her.
• Americans are less nice - at least this American is. I would have left the car much earlier and prayed they ended up murdered moments later by disgruntled former cast members of Canada's answer to the soap opera (smh!), Degrassi Junior High.
• Toxic New Yorkers are the world's worst ambassadors. And if you need further proof, take a gander the Baby-in-Chief in Japan this week, who has managed to sell us out to the Russians, the North Koreans, the Chinese, and the Saudis. Winning! So much winning!
• Toxic New Yorkers are why we should very carefully select our next president--unless we like being yelled at by confused, irritable, clueless, nasty-tempered, and perpetually aggrieved seniors on a non-stop basis.

And looking at the 2016 election process and results, whether it's Bernie or Babyshambles, apparently many of us do.

Mystery candi-date

Every now and again, I need to see this to know I'm still alive.

This is a TV commercial from 1965 for the Mystery Date board game. In my childhood, I would have given my eye teeth (it's a Southern thing) to have owned this game, let alone played it.

I could argue that I was fascinated by the technology--turn the door knob, get a new picture!--or just loved the music ("Or a dance!"). But, come on, even I'm not that disingenuous.

The fact is I wanted to meet my own dreamboat, not something little boys in the North America of the mid-'60s could own up to. And come to think of it, even now, 50 (gulp) years later, it isn't easy for many to admit and embrace these thoughts and feelings.

But at this moment in time, that's neither here nor there, neither a complaint nor a lament, neither pride nor shame. Rather, in this era of non-stop politics, I would like to make the point that playing Mystery Date is akin to picking a Democrat for U.S. president.

Except even Milton Bradley and young girls in the '60s had enough sense to know you don't give the people 20+ candidates to choose from and expect them to sort our their dreamboat over two nights in late June while discussing health care and immigration policy. In Spanish, ferchrissakes.

So maybe we could install a big door at every polling both and let the people spin the door knob and take a chance. Or maybe we could just have each candidate pimp themselves out by sharing their best photos and musing over their ideal date, sort of a Bachelor or Bachelorette for the Age of Wonk.

And while I know all the good gay money's on Pete Boot-edge-edge and Beto O'Rourke, I've still got my eye on that thinking man's bit o' crumpet, Eric Swalwell.

But then I did always prefer the dud over the dream.

(Sorry, Eric. I actually think you're a dream in every way, but a punchline is a punchline is a punchline.)

I think this very non-scientific method could work. And chances are in your favor that you would indeed get that dream candidate and four fabulous years of dancing--or bowling!

Just don't blame me if you open the door and staring back at you is Oprah's spiritual advisor Marianne Williamson or, the gods help us all, New York Mayor Bill de Blasio.

Right back atcha, bitch

"Does it ever stop?"

I'm sure this is the question hundreds and thousands of migrant children hold in concentration camps, asylum seekers drowning while crossing the Rio Grande, and assorted others trapped in an unforgiving, illegal system ask themselves everyday, Mr. President.

Pressure off (Summer soundtrack #1)

And I'm only four years late!

To me this song epitomizes the year 2015 in music (Nile Rodgers and Janelle Monae as guest artists).

To me, this song also epitomizes the Duran Duran sound, look, and ethos--the band to dance to when the bomb drops, as Simon Le Bon reportedly once said. The song sounds great--it is perhaps a progression in sonic quality--but I'm not sure it's really a progression in sound for the band. I'm no Duran Duran expert, but this wouldn't sound out of place on Astronaut, Medazzaland, or even Notorious.

And maybe that's OK. Duran Duran is nothing if not consistent and yet still remains exciting to watch and listen to, even after all these years.

Having said that, I'll never understand Nick Rhodes whole look. Is smug gender-bending with an unnatural hair color still a thing?

Oh, scratch that. I forgot the era in which I'm living.

People will surprise you

"The Plaque at the Stonewall Inn" by Grace Mahony.
CC BY-SA 4.0. Via Wikimedia Commons.

I'm going to put aside the curmudgeon, the malcontent, the very-disappointed-person that I can be for just a moment to share a "Happy Pride Month" story.

Trust me, I don't do this lightly. I'm generally not a very sentimental person, and I'm not a very good Gay with a capital G kind of guy in that a lot of conventional LGBTWhatever touchstones--like Pride events or every time a Q-list celeb proclaims, "Some days I feel like a woman"--just leave me uninspired. I know I should be feeling a certain way, seeing gay life and politics through a particular lens, feeling "the struggle" and recommitting myself to fighting the good fight and being out and proud. And yet mostly the inner snarky 14-year-old boy in me wins out, and all I can do is shrug and say, "This is lame."

***

This week a friend posted a photo on Facebook from the end of grad school, now 24 years ago, when a bunch of us celebrated by going to Ocracoke Island (off the North Carolina coast) and renting a portion of a beach house for a week. I don't remember whose idea it was and who organized it (not me), but it was a great idea, a way to bring about the often-wished for "closure" and to say goodbye before we moved on with our professional and personal lives.

My only regret from the week is that more people weren't invited along because grad school was kind of a golden time for me. There were a lot of people I enjoyed getting to know then, and it's unfortunate that time has moved on and I haven't kept in touch with all of them. And, word to the wise, if you let friendships lapse, sometimes you just can't return and pick up where you left off.

So on this trip, the friend who posted the photo (let's call him Doe, because he has the most beautiful dark eyes) brought along a friend of his (let's call him Jed), who was not part of our grad school circle, a friend that Doe knew from "real life" outside of grad school, and pretty much Doe's best friend. Jed was alright, but initially maybe a little surly and closed off in a sort of typical Southern straight guy way, very much the North Carolina Bubba with a strong hick accent and the sort of traditional redneck interests to match. (Or that's how I remember it: All I recall is an interest in cars and country music, and I'm not even sure about those two.)

Jed was nice looking, but I wasn't attracted to him in that way: I was very much in love at the time with someone (let's call him ... or never mind) who now I wonder what I ever saw in him--and, besides, Jed was dating (let's call her) Melanie, a fellow grad student, and while I wouldn't have described it as the love match of the century, Melanie and Jed seemed happy enough.

As time passed, Jed loosened up some and ultimately was very funny and entertaining. But snob that I can be sometimes, I just thought, oh dear, he is such a Bubba. I'm sure I was thinking something like, "The sooner I leave this all behind, the better!" And yet in three months' time, I moved to Texas. So clearly I have a history of reaching questionable conclusions and making curious decisions based on those conclusions. (Still, my time in North Carolina and my time in Texas were some of the best of my life so far.)

But at that moment I didn't know where I was going--I still hadn't found a job yet and was likely occupied with my own personal concerns at the time. For example, this trip confirmed that I had developed a fear of heights, something that continues to this day. (The clue: I stayed in the beach house's lighthouse-like tower--tall, narrow, and vertical, like every condo building in Toronto--and felt the room spin and the urge to throw myself down the stairs every time I lay my head down on the pillow.) In addition, I probably spent a lot of time thinking how, once again, I was "the only gay in the village." Nobody made me feel uncomfortable--quite the opposite in fact--but for better or for worse, a sense of being "the other" follows me pretty much wherever I go.

To tell the truth, I was actually not the only gay in the village. There had been another grad student invited along on the trip (let's call him Jot), who prior to the trip I was told was dating a woman, a friend of Melanie named--

"Hold on. Jot is dating a woman? Like a real woman?"

"Yes, Jot is straight."

"Uh, Jot is not straight. Honestly, if he's straight, he's the nelliest straight guy I've ever seen."

"Well, he and (let's call her) Barbarella are engaged to be married."

I shrugged it off. My gaydar really stinks, I thought--except that secretly I was sure that I was right. And at some point before we left on that trip, Jot had an "old roommate" come to visit for a long weekend. And during said weekend, Jot and his old roommate pretty much blew the door off that closet.

So then I really was the only gay in the village ...

***

When Doe posted the photo, I saw that he had linked to Jed's profile. Hey, look, there's Jed! I thought. I'd almost forgotten about him! I wonder what he's been up to all these years ....

I clicked through and saw Jed looking pretty much the same as he did 24 years ago--still attractive and smiling a slightly bemused smile. Nothing out of the ordinary (other than 24 years of living had not reduced his youthful appearance), very much as I remembered him.

And then I saw that Jed had indicated he is married. I knew it wasn't Melanie; I had heard they'd broken up long ago. And, besides, the partner had a decidedly male name (let's call him Allis-Chalmers). I did a double-take and enunciated the words slowly in my mind: "Jed ... is married ... to ... Allis-Chalmers?"

This is surely a joke! He must have done this as a laugh! That Jed! Always such a kidder!

I scrolled a little more through his timeline and sure enough, there were several photos of Jed and A-C, some from what appeared to be a romantic vacation to a European country, perhaps a honeymoon, from a few years ago.

Talk about carrying a joke for a really long time ...

But then it sunk in: Jed ... is married ... to Allis-Chalmers! And that's a just wonderful.

***

I don't know why but this turn of events just amazes me in a very good way. I like the fact that Jed seems to have found his "true self," that he's found someone to love, and that they've spent time abroad. I like that Jed, who seemed like such a country boy, defied conventional wisdom and came out as a gay man, likely something that no one expected he would do, maybe not even himself.

I like that my friend Doe is still good friends with Jed--but then Doe is a thoughtful, kind, and deeply spiritual individual, so it makes sense that he would still be good friends with Jed when others might have let the friendship drop once Jed came out. (In a subsequent conversation with Jed, we both fessed up to having a crush on Doe. Doe was and still is quite dreamy!)

I like that Jed surprised me and taught me a lesson (which I will no doubt soon forget) about making assumptions, about presuming to know what someone is about based on appearance, accent, interests, etc. While Jot proved me right, Jed proved me wrong. I like that Jed reminded me that being gay and being a man can mean all kinds of things, not just the stereotypes that others have in mind nor the stereotypes that I have in mind.

So, Jed, you will likely never see this post, but I wish you and Allis-Chalmers all the luck and love in the world. Thanks for surprising me. Thanks for giving me something to be less cynical and more hopeful about.

Happy Pride to you and to everyone. At this moment, I feel very proud, of you, of me, of all of us.