FILLING EMPTYING & SCRATCHING

YOU CAN DANCE

2011-03-11T01:01:00.006-05:00

It's the way that girl moves.

TANK'S NAKED ESCAPADE

2011-03-06T02:20:00.033-05:00

Something I really like about being a grown-up is that I don't have to explain why I do everything I do. One spring morning I got up at 5 a.m. and presented myself at a certain downtown street corner. I took off all my clothing, I lay down on the pavement and I had my picture taken.

Do you know the work of Spencer Tunick? People are often pretty passionate about his art: They love it or they hate it; there's little middle ground.

Spencer is an artist/photographer who has been taking pictures of groups of naked people in public places in hundreds of cities worldwide, since 1992. He juxtaposes the softness of the human body against the hardness of city streets.

Spencer feels sometimes like an explorer and sometimes like a criminal. Most of the time, he feels like an artist who creates his work under very stressful conditions. The nude bodies themselves aren't so controversial, he says. The controversy lies in the fact that he uses the city as his landscape. The conditions in which he creates his work are 'tense, crazed and unpredictable'. His models are 'urban adventurers and he helps them see the world in a different way'. He creates 'memories they will hold forever'.

This urban adventurer saw a notice in the newspaper: “Pose nude for a group photograph by Spencer Tunick in downtown Montréal. Wear loose clothing and no jewelry. You will be nude for a few minutes and the entire event will take 20 minutes. In exchange for posing you will receive a print of the event signed by the artist. If interested, reply by email.” I'm no nudist but I could not resist this unique opportunity.

The event was totally endorsed by the City of Montréal (which might have sucked some of the air out of Tunick's badboy persona, but hey, that's the kind of city this is). Police set up barricades ensuring only we imminent strippers could enter the vicinity. Gawkers were kept at a distance.

2500 people of all shapes and sizes had registered to participate.

Spencer assessed the size of the crowd and positioned the aerial lift from which he would take the first picture. Then we got our instructions: “Remove all clothing, leave it in a pile on the sidewalk and walk westward on Ste. Catherine Street until reaching the trio of police cars. Stand close together, and when you hear the whistle, collapse on the pavement. Fall naturally. Don’t reposition yourself for comfort, and please, no talking. Now get undressed.”

And without hesitation, we did. I didn't want to see anything too gross so I kept my head upright at all times, not looking below anyone's shoulders. I suspect others did the same. It was weird and it was wonderful. But hot and sexy? Probably about as erotic as a meeting of your grandmother's bridge club.

Spencer took three different pictures in the streets next to Place des Arts and on the grounds itself. That's me next to the pole on the right-hand side. I was actually laying across a sewer.

There was a brief delay between each shot but there was no naked mingling. Three times we got naked and three times we got dressed, each time leaving our clothes and shoes in a little pile somewhere on the asphalt.

By the time we disrobed for the last pic, the routine had become somewhat banal, at least to me. I'd grown oh-so-blasé and didn’t make a mental note of exactly where I'd put my clothing. And wouldn't you know it, after the final shot, the stuff went missing.

Swear to god, it was like living in an unfunny skit on Saturday Night Live. Totally starkers, I darted frantically amongst the half-dressed and fully-dressed people leaving the premises, looking for my little pile. It's not so easy to see a clump of clothes on the road when one's view is obstructed by 2500 pairs of legs.

An hour later - well it felt like an hour; it was probably about five minutes - the stuff turned up and I returned home pretty darn pleased with myself.

IT REALLY DOES.

2010-09-24T09:40:00.004-04:00

If only I'd seen something like this.

SWEET GEORGIA BROWN, MISS ANITA O'DAY

2010-09-13T19:55:00.013-04:00

Love it love it love it. Newport Jazz Festival, summer 1958.

HOW TO BE ENIGMATIC

2010-09-12T19:02:00.009-04:00

If I'm not an enigma by the age of fifty, admittedly, it's unlikely to happen. But not on account of a lack of know-how. StevieB tripped over a useful lesson on eHow.com which I keep close at hand.

How To Be An Enigma

Being mysterious is something alluring to many people. Movies, books and the media are constantly cultivating an aura around characters that always leaves you wanting more. So what is it about certain people that makes them so alluring. They are enigmas. Follow these few steps to be an enigma to your friends and family, and be alluring to all you meet.

1) Practice saying as little about yourself as possible when interacting with others. Ask other people about themselves and listen intently without interrupting too frequently.

2) Try to stay away from places where you will run across many people you know. Create a sense that you shop, eat and socialize somewhere no one else knows about.

3) Dress in an understated and fashionable way. Cultivate a sense of fashionable difference from what is trendy.

4) Be nonchalant about most things. Say unexpected things that people wouldn't expect you to say then return to being unaffected and aloof.

5) Limit access to your home and personal information. Take time to cultivate interests in different and off-beat things that others may not know about or think that you would have knowledge of.

It's that simple.

B & B's BIG DAY

2009-12-04T01:34:00.091-05:00

Welcome everyone and thank you all for joining us on this very special this afternoon !!

Brock and Bill have invited us into their home today not to witness the beginning of what will be but rather to celebrate what already is. In the 30-plus years they've been together, their love and understanding of each other has grown and matured. They have decided to live the rest of their lives together as a legally married couple. In doing so, they’ve invited us to participate in the celebration of a union which began when they were teenagers.

Theirs is a partnership freely chosen and founded on love, friendship, trust and respect. It is a partnership that encourages open communication, self-expression, the sharing of knowledge and most importantly, an enthusiasm for life.

For the record, I am Teresa T and I have been authorized by the Minister of Justice of the Province of Quebec to solemnize the marriage of Brock and Bill on this day, October 24, 2009.

Bill and Brock, you have come to love each other deeply and sincerely. That love has given you the desire to unite in marriage. In this ceremony, you are dedicating yourselves to give happiness and well-being to each other.

Your marriage is an act based on love and rational thinking. It mustn't be based on the vain hope of what the other will or will not do or what he might or might not become. It must be based on the firm belief in your own individual worth and that of the other.

Your pledge today is an expression of your devotion. The words spoken in this ceremony will validate your marriage only if your love and commitment to one another are strong enough to sustain it.

Brock and Bill, you have invited us to witness the happiness that you have found in each other. Did you come here freely and are you ready to make the pledges to which you commit yourselves to each other in love?

'Yes'

Do you Bill and do you Brock solemnly affirm that you do not know of any lawful reasons why you cannot get legally married?

'We do'

Are both of you prepared to accept one another as your legally wedded spouse?

'We are'

It is appropriate that you, their families and friends, are here to participate in this wedding. The ideals, the understanding and the mutual respect which Brock and Bill bring to their marriage have roots in the love, friendship and guidance with which you have provided them.

Before uniting you in the bonds of marriage, I am required to read to you the following articles from the Quebec Civil Code which set out the rights and duties of spouses:

1) "The spouses have the same rights and obligations in marriage. They owe each other respect, fidelity, support and assistance. They are bound to live together."

2) "In marriage, both spouses retain their respective names and exercise their civil rights under those names."

3) "The spouses together take in hand the moral and material direction of the family and assume the tasks resulting there from."

4) "The spouses choose the family residence together."

And finally,

5) "The spouses contribute towards the expenses of the marriage in proportion to their respective means. The spouses may make their respective contributions by their activities within the home."

Samuel Johnson, distinguished poet and novelist of the 18th century, facetiously described wedding rings as, quote, “a circular instrument placed upon the noses of hogs and on the fingers of women to restrain them and bring them into subjection”.

Times have changed. In the modern era, the wedding ring has come to represent undying love and the continually renewed vows of the married couple.

Their circular shape has long symbolized timelessness. Certainly the operative word for these two guys is “timelessness”, as they’ve been together for their entire adult lives. They can hardly remember a time when they weren’t together - and some of you here this afternoon probably can’t remember it either.

Now I’m going to invite them to tell you the story of their wedding rings themselves:

Back in the early 1980s, Brock and I exchanged signet rings on our birthdays. This didn’t have any particular significance at the time. We just thought it would be cool to exchange symbols of our friendship.

Today’s story begins about 20 years later, in July 2005. We were on vacation in Provincetown and Bill thought it was time for a ring upgrade. He found just the rings for us at a trendy little shop on Commercial Street.

But the store didn’t have our sizes in stock. They’d have to be ordered from Switzerland and mailed to us here at home. In the meantime, we thought we’d move our old signet rings to the traditional wedding-ring fingers, where we’d eventually wear the new rings. Never mind that the fit wasn’t quite as snug as it should have been. It was just short-term, until the new ones arrived from Europe.

Later that afternoon we cycled out to the beach at Herring Cove. The tide was rising, it was windy and the water was rough. In retrospect, what happened was almost predictable: As we splashed around, the poorly-fitting ring slipped off my finger and disappeared into the water.

We knew it had to be laying just inches from where we were standing, but we couldn’t see or feel it, as much as we squinted in the salt water and frantically groped around in the sand and rocks. It was gone and we were devastated.

But right then, we had a Harold and Maude moment. Harold and Maude is a movie, a dark comedy that came out in 1971. It’s the story of a nerdy teenage boy and a quirky elderly woman who meet in a cemetery and fall in love.

The couple visits a seaside amusement park and Harold gives Maude a token inscribed “Harold loves Maude”. Maude admires it, saying it’s the loveliest gift she’s received in years. Then she tosses it into the ocean with the pledge “So I’ll always know where it is”.

Right then and there we had our own Harold and Maude moment. Something about having just one of the old signet rings between us was unbalanced and just wrong. We agonized for a few moments, silently hugging in the swirling water, tears filling our eyes. Half a minute later Bill said, “It's gone”.

We like to think of our old signet rings at rest together, somewhere in Cape Cod Bay. We’ll always know where they are.

When we decided to get married, we considered exchanging wedding rings. But we chose not to. Because no rings could ever be more significant than the ones we are wearing now. We hope you can now appreciate why.

Do you Bill take Brock to be your lawfully wedded partner for as long as you both shall live?

'I do'

Do you Brock take Bill to be your lawfully wedded partner for as long as you both shall live?

'I do'

For as much as you have declared your love for one another and have agreed to be united in marriage, I, Teresa T, by the power vested in me by the Civil Code of the Province of Quebec, now pronounce you, Brock and Bill, to be legally wedded partners.

And I present to you, family and friends, the newly married couple...

We all wish for you that this marriage be great and remain so as you continue your journey down the road of life together. We don't know what lies ahead. Nevertheless, as a community we are prepared to help you to make the best of whatever comes your way. We wish for you that you hug each other often, talk, and laugh a lot.

We hope that you continue to enjoy each other as you already have for so long. May you realize that nothing or no one is perfect and that you look for the good in all things and all people, including yourselves.

Remember to treat yourselves and each other with respect, and remind yourselves often of what brought you together in the first place.

May you continue to respect each other's likes and dislikes, opinions and beliefs, hopes and dreams and fears.

May you learn from each other and to help each other to grow mentally, emotionally and spiritually.

May you realize that there is purpose in your lives and that if you hold onto each other, you will know that things have a way of working out as they are meant to be.

Most of all, may you keep lit the torch of love that you now share in your hearts so that by your loving example you may pass on the light of love to others around you.

Allow me, on my behalf and on behalf of all those present, to offer you our best wishes for your continued happiness. Congratulations Bill and Brock !!

(photos by Kathleen VanderNoot)

THERE'S NO STORY HERE

2009-10-15T23:53:00.021-04:00

Except to say Mom and Dad turned right around re-my upcoming marriage and they did it as abruptly as they'd expressed their initial apprehension. To recap:

Day One: Announce to the 'rents that my companion of 35 years and I were finally going to make it legal. They tell me they have "misgivings".

Day Two: Dad calls with an itemized list of reasons why my marrying Bill is a bad idea. I have him read it to me twice - you know, to be sure it all really sinks in.

Day Three: Dad calls again, this time to apologize for any hurt the first response may have caused and to express their congratulations.

I don't know they why they were so ignorant on Day One and I don't know what made them do the one-eighty only forty-eight hours later. All I know is, they did. I'm not digging any deeper.

2009-10-02T23:02:00.070-04:00

This column was published last week in the local newspaper of the suburb where I grew up, directly across the river from Montréal.

I imagine Leonardo thinks he's hip to the ways of "many enlightened folks". He's made an astute observation on an ironical occurence, he believes.

Do truly enlightened folks pad their accounts of street crime with preconceived notions of the races of the individuals implicated? When the author draws attention to the purse-snatching - which certainly isn't a big news story in and of itself - and so-called "role reversal", he perpetuates the very stereotype he means to refute.

Shame on David Leonardo. The sad part is he's probably entirely oblivious to it.

I'm re-publishing his words here lest anyone forget that ignorance is still running rampant even in supposedly progressive places.

PAPERWORK

2009-09-29T19:09:00.017-04:00

It might actually be easier to find a husband around here than to interpret the forms to be completed before you can marry one.
"Enter the name of officiant only followed by 'designated officiant' for officiant's quality."
Say what? Holy moley. Only in Québec.

I'M ABOUT TO BEGIN WHAT COULD BE THE MOST EVENTFUL FOUR WEEKS OF MY LIFE SO FAR

2009-09-25T18:13:00.006-04:00

I'll be turning 50 years old, I'll be joining the Quarter Century Club at work and I'll be getting married.

Oh do I ever want to savour every minute, luxuriating in celebrations of the wonderful life I've cobbled together in spite of having been a complete loser for the first twenty years of it.

And I want the fuss to be over with already. Ironically, while I'm an attention whore, I'm all queasy inside when I'm at the centre of it.

But if I've ever learned anything about the human condition it's that we have to allow for the contradictions in ourselves. No one is just one thing.

Celebrations start this evening. Happy Tank.

2009-09-23T21:21:00.053-04:00

A bottle just like this was left in the locker room at the gym tonight. Is it just me or does something about the product seem vaguely incongruous?
Dippity-do was a popular styling gel in the '50s and '60s, applied when the fairer sex had their hair done. Picture ladies installed beneath hairdryer bonnets, immersed in movie magazines.
My mom had it laying around. It's translucent pink and has a unique smell that conjures up memories of my childhood. Frankly, I'd forgotten all about it.
So, Dippity-do Sport. Really ??

SAMMY SAVES THE DAY

2009-08-23T12:16:00.040-04:00

...when she emails me this note after reading my bits about the 'rents and my current marriage issue:

As a parent, I can honestly say that we say and do the stupidest things sometimes... As much as you probably don't want to hear it right now, it comes from love, fear, shock, etc.

I can remember my wedding day, I was almost 7 months pregnant and as my dad walked me to Klaus he whispered in my ear... Sammy, you don't have to do this. You can come home with me and mom.

I'll never forget it. Dad passed away last month and to be honest, it's one of the fondest memories I have of him... and I have alot of wonderful memories.

My oldest son was married last month (what a month!) and I'm still struggling with accepting the relationship. She's a wonderful girl, perfect for him. Wtf, I don't understand it myself.

So there's my little contribution. Live your live baby!

Sam

My brain had been polluted with anger, hurt and frustration. Sam's message completely shifted my mindset. She helped me realize Mom and Dad are just as able as anyone else to say really dumb things. Which is actually a relief.

*****

Sammy had been a pal of Teresa, a girl I dated when we were teenagers. Thirty years later we reconnected on Facebook and had lunch last summer. Now she steps in and saves the relationship with my parents.

You just never know when a seemingly random person is gonna show up and make a difference.

THE NEXT DAY

2009-08-19T18:35:00.026-04:00

Dad called back. He'd gathered I'd figured out that he and Mom had "misgivings" (his word) about the marriage. And thus he'd prepared a little speech, he advised me, and would be consulting his notes as he spoke.

I had to smile because I recognized myself in the old guy: When I was younger, I too would draw up an outline when I'd something important to communicate to someone significant.

As the years go by I'm realizing there's an indelible connection between my father and I, despite my having tried to distance myself from him and what he represents since I was a teenager.

He read his diatribe, an itemized list of stuff I'd done and said in the past, all of which supposedly contradicted the concept of my marrying Bill now. Then I thought to have him read it a second time.

The first time, his arguments astounded me in their absurdity. I won't even recount them here; they were idiotic. I hoped the second recitation would enlighten him on just how ridiculous he sounded.

But I wasn't going to do any bullying. I didn't want to argue. We're not belligerent people. I just let him deliver his little lecture. When he was done I said calmly, "I guess you won't be coming to the ceremony". His response: "I didn't say that".

DONT ASK DON'T TELL: HOME EDITION

2009-08-16T11:49:00.032-04:00

Announcing to my folks the news of our upcoming marriage didn't go well. They were all tongue-tied, barely coherent but dripping with disapproval. I was entirely deflated.

This, after Bill and I lived together as a couple for 25 years. This, after they've always been very generous towards him at Christmas and his birthday. This, after they've welcomed him into their home and the homes of their friends and relatives literally hundreds of times. To be sure, their objection knocked the wind right outta me.

Background: I came out to them almost 30 years ago. At the time they told me they were disappointed but they'd always love me and I'd always be gladly received in their home. And that was the end of the discussion. Forever, apparently:

Since my initial opening up in the early '80s, they've never wanted to know anything about my 'gay lifestyle' (you'll forgive my use of that horrible term) - which, frankly, suited me just fine. Neither have I felt any compulsion to wave the rainbow flag in their faces or expose them to my private affairs. I'm healthy, gainfully employed, have a roof over my head and they are safely ensconced in the suburbs. In my family, nothing else matters.

Still, I'm surprised and hurt by their response to the news of my nuptials. So I'm questioning my years of effectual silence on gay issues and my life in general. But they didn't ask and I didn't tell. Have I done something wrong?

Hell no, Bill and I've lived together since 1984. How much more preparation did they need? I'm blameless.

My parents know what little they want to know about my sexuality and what it encompasses. The particulars are superfluous to them. It's not that they don't care; they simply don't want to deal with details. And they just can't wrap their brains around the idea of their son marrying another man.

I'd like to think they are more enlightened but this marriage issue suggests otherwise. I guess some people have to live with their heads buried in the sand or they'd go nuts.

THIS FILLS ME & SCRATCHES ME

2009-08-15T12:08:00.013-04:00

WE DON'T SET OUT TO DO CORNY STUFF

2009-08-12T01:31:00.068-04:00

Sometimes it just turns out that way. Like the hokey Ring Story of 2007 (even we throw up a little).

Case in point: Last month we were enjoying our annual Provincetown getaway, celebrating Bill's 50th over dinner and drinks, when the subject of marriage came up again.

Same-sex unions have been legal here in Québec for years and we haven't taken advantage. We haven't decided not to either. It's been discussed and we've agreed it might be a good idea someday. But we're lazy and not particularly politically inclined. Someday meant probably never.

After sharing a home for 25 years and having been inseparable for 10 years before that, legal recognition seemed unnecessary; a lot of bother for inconsequential result. We don't like bother and we sure don't need to prove anything to anybody.

Still, this summer in Ptown we tossed around the idea once again. And I dunno if it was the Turning 50 or the cosmos or the angel-hair pasta but all of a sudden Bill batted his big ol' baby-blues at me and said "Let's get married on your birthday."

And thus it is to be. Engaged on his birthday, married on mine. And you know what? We were wrong. Impending nuptials change everything. Maybe we're not quite giddy like schoolgirls but there's a spring in our step and a twinkle in our eyes I don't think we've ever known before.

I CAN'T BELIEVE

2008-11-22T23:40:00.062-05:00

Last week I partook in my first political demo and rally ever. Having been born and raised in the hotbed of moral decay some people call Canada, I guess I've never really felt oppressed.

But I was in San Diego the day of simultaneous country-wide protests of the passing of California's anti-gay marriage Proposition 8. Despite having full marriage rights here at home, I wanted to support my brethren.

That such an exercise is necessary in this day and age baffles me. Honestly, another parade? I mean, are there actually people in our modern world who're unable to wrap their brains around the fact that, whether they like it or not, granting gays the right to marry is inevitable?

How can proponents of Prop 8 not understand that suppressing the rights of gays is only going to make us louder and more in-their-face? That denying us a basic human right only serves to thwart to their presumed ultimate goal of making us disappear altogether? That we won't shut up and go away until we all have the same rights they do?

Even if the hets think legalizing gay coupling is ethically wrong, why can't they see it's only a matter of time before it's ratified anyway? What powerful initiative of social change ever just faded away and disappeared? That's simply not the way the world works. Never has been.

Gay marriage is legal elsewhere without ruinous fallout. The tide is turning. Wingnuts, face it, you're wasting your time and your energy. Find something to do that matters.

Women and blacks won the right to vote, different races can marry each other, the sun rises every morning then sets every night and gay marriage is going to happen. Get over it, ferchrissake.

LOOKIT ALL THE FOREIGNERS SUPPORTING OBAMA

2008-11-04T10:14:00.012-05:00

IF THE WORLD COULD VOTE

11:00pm postscript: we're real happy up here too

LAND IN THE COUNTRY

2008-09-28T22:00:00.093-04:00

The family had just sat down to my birthday dinner when TankDad thought he'd inject some of his dry humour into the proceedings.

"We've added to our real estate in the Townships" he announced with a lilt to his voice and twinkle in his eyes. I know my father's mannerisms. He thought he was being clever about something. There's never been any land in the country.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"We've bought the plots next to your grandparents and mine" he said, pleased with himself. "The monuments are up and the engravings've been made: Stewart C., 1929- and Shirley E., 1934- . Only the years of our demise have to be filled in. You should get out there sometime and take a look" he chuckled. Apparently he thought it droll that their names should already be adorning their final resting place.

But it devasted me. We're not a close family by any standards but my folks've always been a steady presence regardless of what was going on. Dad'll be 80 next year and TankMom isn't far behind. They're invincible as far as I'm concerned. There's no world without them.

Dad's flippancy knocked the wind right outta me. At first I tried to play along: "You're sure it's all been paid for, right?" I asked sarcastically, eyebrows raised in mock selfish concern for my own financial responsibility in this endeavor.

He assured me it was all taken care of and continued on about how the cemetery people had recommended they not engage the local tombstone engraver who was something of an unsavoury character, yadda yadda yadda.

Whatever he said next was lost on me. I crumbled. "Please don't talk like this" I cried, lowering my head into my hands, dissolving into tears in the middle of the restaurant. I was not willing to be confronted by the brutal reality of my parents' mortality during my birthday dinner. Or anytime, for that matter.

We TankPeople are not for the most part raw-emoting folk, particularly not in public places. Mom and Dad were stunned into silence by the off-the-chart display. "Well I didn't expect this" Dad finally mumbled.

I know he didn't mean to put me off. He thought he was being funny. It's genetic, actually: episodes of inappropriate expression run in the family. We can't help it.

After a few minutes I pulled myself together and we carried on with a perfectly fine meal.

Now some hours have passed. Intellectually, I'm perfectly well aware their making such advance arrangements is a gift to us, their children. And it affords them some peace of mind. Nonetheless I'm unable to wrap my brain around Mom and Dad not being here forever.

ELLEN'S THE SKELETON

2008-09-13T00:35:00.071-04:00

Stepping up onto a local bus last night, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Ellen L. sitting close to the front. At precisely that same moment, she jerked her head in another direction, presumably so our eyes wouldn't meet. I sailed past and planted myself towards the rear, watching the back of her motionless form for about ten minutes, until she disembarked.

Once upon a time Ellen and I'd been great gym pals: We laughed, we gossiped, we exchanged training tips, we went to eat afterwards. Then I mucked things up in a big way. She'd been wetting her whistle at the water fountain and I made an inappropriate gesture.

See, I'd been under the misguided impression that we shared a certain camaraderie that permitted some amount of benign physicality. But benign schmenign: she exploded, ripping into me like I'd squandered her life savings on the lottery.

This occured twenty-plus years ago. I'd never before been hollered at with such ferocity (and I probably haven't been since).

I grew up real quick that afternoon. After Ellen finished her tirade - in the middle of the gym, no less - I summoned all the grave sincerity my naively immature self could muster. I took her aside for a talk and made an impromptu little speech professing my profound regret.

I explained how I knew what I'd done was disrespectful of her and the entire female gender (which was likely what she needed to hear). I told her I'd learned an important life lesson I'd carry with me for the rest of my days (which I have). I asked what I could do to make things right again (which was nothing, apparently).

Quite a mouthful for the young Tank. Just as I'd never been yelled at, neither had I felt the compulsion to make such a significant and genuine statement to another human being (two milestones for the price of one). All things considered, I thought I'd handled the gaffe pretty well.

But there was Ellen last night, all these years later, perched at the front of the bus, too proud or too scared or too stubborn to even nod. Seems I'm still a wretched ogre, a despicable creature, a misogynist of the first order - to the degree that she can't bear to look in my direction. Ellen's the skeleton in my closet.

***

Don't cry for me, readers. Water under the bridge and all that. I guess there'll always be people and circumstances I'll never understand. Poor Ellen L.

The incident does, however, represent a third milestone in the life of the now not-so-young Tank: being the object of intense personal animosity, deserved or not. Kinda weirds me out.

THE LADY FAYE

2008-09-04T19:31:00.081-04:00

I've a thing for a lady named Faye who works in my building. Just smitten. Our paths cross in the hall or elevator, we nod or exchange pleasantries and I'm swooning inside.

At a lean six feet, with shoulder-length - albeit 'encouraged'- blonde hair (way too long and way too blonde for a woman in her 60s but who's noticing?), Lady Faye is the goddess that towers above me. I'm pretty sure she's had work done on her nose.

Yesterday she oozed intention for attention. She'd gussied up real special. So what if it was a weekday morning? She sashayed through the lobby in pointy-toed white stilettos, hair flapping in her wake and hips swinging with such vigour her deep pink, loose-fitting flared miniskirt bounced above her knees, pasty bare legs exposed like a Rockette.

Up top she wore a low-cut, sleeveless white blouse with probably too much cleavage for the office and ropes of stringy fringe jiggling around the neckline and armholes. Her golden tresses framed the weathered face, emblazened lips coloured to match the magenta of her skirt. No eye makeup. She was a hybrid of Stevie Nicks circa 1977 and a majorette who'd seen better days.

But don't get me wrong; I type these words with admiration and affection. She's ravishing. The lovely Lady Faye, just so perfectly Faye: living out loud, true to herself and to hell with everybody else.

HOW TO KNOW WHEN IT MIGHT BE TIME TO CHANGE GYMS

2008-07-27T19:36:00.061-04:00

My gym hangs decorative banners from the ceiling
advertising the services of its personal trainers. Each banner features a fresh-faced kid and the slogan: After 90 days with so-and-so... followed by the promise of achieving some random fitness goal. After 90 days with Leroy, you'll lose those love handles. After 90 days with Mikey, you'll like what you see in the mirror again.

A certain banner caught my eye this afternoon: After 90 days with Tyron, you'll be able to survive 'circuit parties' (italics theirs).

This is what I have to deal with. Oxymoronic, it is: the sensible gay gym for grown-ups. Pity.

TANKY WARHOL

2008-06-12T14:31:00.089-04:00

I enjoy a good tag (tag me people). This one's courtesy of my Santa Monican bloggin' buddy who comes to us from the worldojeff:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Locate the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences on your blog and in so doing...
5. Tag five people (nope won't do that again) and acknowledge who tagged me (done).

Saturday April 8, 1978: Mick wanted us to hear his new record, and we were going to bring it over to Studio 54 but it was at Earl McGrath's house so we went over there (cab $4). Jann and Jane Wenner were there and Stephen Graham who had something wrapped in foil in his pocket. It looked like drugs, but it turned out to be a Rice Crispie (sic) cookie.

About a dozen years ago I went through a period of being infatuated with All Things Warhol. I learned the whereabouts of some of his old haunts in NYC and made a project of checking out where they'd been: The Factory at Union Square, for instance, and Max's Kansas City (the latter, presently incarnated as an Asian deli, where I just had to have lunch. Planted in the dimly-lit dining area on the second floor, I chewed on chicken teriyaki and conjured up images of Iggy Pop and Candy Darling across the room doing lines of blow).

It was around that time a thoughtful friend gifted me with The Andy Warhol Diaries. I devoured it. Today the pages are brittle and yellowed like an old Bible and its contents as pertinent as People magazine. But I hang on to it for sentimental reasons. Plus it's a fine toilet read.

LAST NIGHT I WAS ELEVEN AGAIN or, "Go Habs Go!!!"

2008-05-04T15:30:00.028-04:00

I've spent 35 years in Hockey Denial.

As soon as I was old enough to tell my parents what I was and wasn't gonna do on Saturday nights, Hockey Night in Canada was over for me. No more father/son bonding in front of the ol' black & white, me with my quarter-pound of Spanish peanuts and Dr Pepper, he and his rum & coke. Watching games on the box with my dad was a weekly ritual of WASPy suburbia I was anxious to abandon.

One of the perks of my being a very young gay man, many moons ago, was believing my sexuality allowed me to disassociate from whatever made me uncomfortable simply on the presumed basis it wasn't compatible with having sex with men. I'd joined a secret underground society that gathered in public toilets, back stairwells, dark parks and shadowy bars. Who needed sports?

The rah-rah-rah of the crowd at a brightly-lit sporting event was poisonous to me. Besides, I figured I could find more interesting sticks to play with in other arenas.

Yesterday evening I StairMastered at the gym as one of the overhead televisions broadcast what turned out to be the last in a best-of-seven series between the Canadiens and the Philadelphia Flyers. And lo and behold, I was positively glued to it as if it were an episode of Sex and the City or The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Mesmerized. Who was this cocksucking pseudo-alpha male, wincing when the puck narrowly missed the Canadien's net, roaring (albeit internally) when we scored? I know not.

But why does anyone enjoy hockey? It's the speed, it's the stick-handling, it's the tension of a scramble in the crease, of course. Hockey fever. I can't explain it, but I got it back last night. Alluva sudden, the game mattered. I can hardly wait to tell Dad.

CHARLIE BIT ME

2008-05-03T13:42:00.010-04:00

Start my weekend with a smile.
Thanks toomuchawesome.

THAT'S ENTERTAINMENT

2008-04-12T23:48:00.034-04:00

Over the years I've seen a number of movie musicals, shows and concerts that've transformed me into a different person.

During their opening minutes I've felt tingles up and down my spine, my face flushes and my eyes well up. I became emotionally overcome, and the subject didn't have to be sad or sentimental. I believed I was witnessing something bigger than the collective talents of the artists and I'd never be quite the same again.

Chris Isaak in concert and movies Jesus Christ Superstar, The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Grease did it. So did Broadway's Urinetown, Cabaret, Chicago and Avenue Q. I'm not musically inclined myself, but each of these shows gave me a rush like I don't get from anything else.

Maybe it's something about the assemblage of a show - and especially a musical show - that makes me joyous. Audience members as well as perfomers and crew each have a common goal of being a part of a piece of entertainment. They're all on various sides of a single unit for its duration. I'm a huge nut for stuff that unifies otherwise-unconnected people, even if it's just for a little while.

It happened again this afternoon when I saw the Rolling Stones' Shine A Light, directed by Martin Scorsese.

It's like I'm not the person I was yesterday: Now I've seen the Stones up real close in a spectacle unlike a live show or other concert footage I'd already seen.

I thought I was already pretty familiar with their on-stage antics. But in Scorsese's film, the tunes I heard seemed almost secondary to the phenomenon that is the band and their showmanship. It was like I'd never seen them before.

From the opening chords of Jumpin' Jack Flash to the Brown Sugar / Satisfaction encore I sat spellbound, unable to be still in my seat as I wiped my eyes and immersed myself in the firestorm.

I'd have gladly sat and watched it a second time. I'm burstin' here.

PHONEBONE FOLLIES

2008-04-06T21:45:00.005-04:00

Had to share this with you.

>>FOUR THINGS<<

2008-03-26T19:07:00.072-04:00

Mister J over at worldo'jeff has tagged me with the Quadruple Challenge...

Four Jobs I have had in my life:
busboy
newspaper subscription saleman
sandwich maker
mailclerk

Four Movies I could watch over and over:
Annie Hall
Grease
Nashville
American Graffiti

Four Places I have lived:
Pine Ave &
Sanford Ave, St. Lambert and
rue Jeanne-Mance &
ave du Musee, Montreal

Four People who email me regularly:
Jacqui
Mateo
Bearpaw
Teresa

Four TV Shows that I watch:
30 Rock
Entourage
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
Californication

Four Places I would like to be right now:
Le Garage, circa 1983
In high school, making different choices
At Nanny C's apartment, loving and being loved
Boating on the Aegean

Four Favorite Foods:
poutine
basilic pesto
London broil steak
chocolate mousse

Four Places I have visited:
Amsterdam
Istanbul
San Diego
Freeport

Four Events I am looking forward to this year:
Matty's return
BearWeek with Bill
Visiting Drew and Joan
December 31st

Four People who should post four things:
Eddy the circleinasquare
MSM of self-loathario
Gerry, thethrillofmaybe
Mike inthemiddleages

2008-03-25T09:12:00.008-04:00

If only.

IS MELODY PLAYING WITH ME?

2008-03-10T21:43:00.081-04:00

Or am I thinking too much?

Sometimes I exchange smalltalk at work with a blind woman named Melody. Melody doesn't use the accoutrements generally associated with the visually-impaired - no white cane, no dog, no dark glasses. No eyewear at all in fact. She doesn't wanna advertise her blindness, right? No biggie.

She's affable enough and good with the banter. Star on her forehead: She remembers my name and she uses it. That's a small gift. She's saying, "I hardly know you but I respect you enough to store your name in my brain". Melody gets a gold star as she identifies me solely by the sound of my voice.

But hell, I sure won't again make the mistake of giving her a helping hand when she's juggling the office equipment. I learned that the hard way. Melody gets real testy when manual assistance is offered. She can manage on her own, thank-you-very-much. Seems her inner bitch isn't buried so deep where staplers are concerned.

That's the set-up. This's the issue:

The first words out of her mouth are usually "Long time no see".

So, is she taunting me? Her attitude suggests she doesn't want to be treated like she has a handicap. Fair enough. I can do that. Yet her initial remark begs for its acknowledgement, no?

It's like she's goading me to say something inappropriate. Or is she making a joke? Should I laugh? Am I being tested?

Whatever. I'll probably just continue to disregard this possible-provocation, which is pretty much how I deal with awkward social situations.

And I'm probably blowing this all out of proportion. I usually do that too.

SOME OF US NEED TO HEAR THIS

2008-03-03T19:18:00.028-05:00

> actor Stephen Fry (swiped from Self-Loathario)

Unrelated: I've a twitch like Fry's.

I'M BACK INTO WATERSPORTS

2008-02-28T18:08:00.100-05:00

To look at me today you'd not likely guess I was ever much of a swimmer. But awhile back, when pretense at the gym intensified to an intolerable toxicity, I abandoned dumbbells in favor of a Speedo. My proclivity for the pool lasted a good year or two.

I'm older now and while I've grown to dismiss infantile attitudes, weight-training's beginning to wear and the gym scene’s gotten stale. I thought it was time to shake things up again.

So Friday evening I hit the saltwater swimmin' hole down at the Y. Surprise-surprise: I managed thirty laps. Yippee me.

Guess I’m still a strong swimmer. But alas, the technique's lacking (frankly, it always has and probably always will). My front crawl is more like a lateral sweep.

I’ve been known to unwittingly smack other swimmers next to me. See, I don't glide through the water like an otter. I'm more bearish, awkwardly floundering about. The swimming gets done but not without much clumsy, seemingly uncontrolled movements.

People get to know my style and they avoid my lane. I guess that's nothing to be proud of, but it pleases me anyway. I like my space and I don't care how I secure it.

True to form, I clobbered one uninitiated young fella in a pair of maroon trunks on Friday. Poor kid couldn't have known know any better. Later the maroon trunks hovered outside my shower stall, tugging on his member. But that's for another post.

SHORT MEN RISE UP

2008-02-19T08:45:00.081-05:00

“The short guy who’s sensitive is in deep shit. The average person doesn’t understand the transformation a short guy has to go through in order to live his life in a proper, fulfilling way.”

“Most short-statured people are just resigned to their fate of second- or third-class citizenship. You may be ignored, you may be dismissed, you may get less respect if you get any respect at all, you may get less courtesy if you get any courtesy at all.”

“Guys who are not short have no conception.”

> from S&M: Short and Male by Instinct Films. It's an enlightening and irreverent look at the built-in burdens faced by us height-challenged men.

I'm not linking to its trailer cuz it focuses largely on the difficulty wooing women. Happily, I’ve been spared that particular hardship.

But I almost have a second coming-out when I watch the clip ahead. I'm reminded there are others like me and I'm kinda-sorta proud to be a pipsqueak. I mean, height's as worthy of pride as any other innate characteristic, right?

NOSSA: It's about time.

WHAT BOOK ARE YOU?

2008-02-14T17:21:00.021-05:00

You're Siddhartha
by Hermann Hesse

You simply don't know what to believe, but you're willing to try anything once. Western values, Eastern values, hedonism and minimalism, you've spent some time in every camp. But you still don't have any idea what camp you belong in.

This makes you an individualist of the highest order, but also really lonely. It's time to chill out under a tree. And realize that at least you believe in fairies.

Bingo.

Take the Book Quiz.

IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THIS YET

2007-10-22T16:49:00.005-04:00

...see it now. It's not what you might expect from this guy Noelbear, which makes it all that much more delicious. He scratches me real good and he will you too.

MY SURROGATE SIS' IS GONE, I'M HURTIN' AND THIS IS NO JOKE

2007-10-14T21:11:00.001-04:00

It seems my co-worker Inge and her hubby almost-accidentally discovered sand on their land north of the city “just like the Beverly Hillbillies struck oil,” she'd laughed. (She saw herself as Ellie May. I told her she was more Granny or Miss Jane. She hated that.)

They’d signed a ten-year contract with some sand people who’d be trucking the stuff off-site for big bucks, affording them the luxury of abandoning the 9-to-5. Previously only hobby horsepeople, they'd now be able to devote all their time to equestrian pursuits.

Initially, her impending departure delighted me - because goddammit, her work habits were so bloody irritating. She was like an over-grown teenager, lacking a concept of what’s supposed to happen in a workplace. I could hardly wait to be free of her.

See, I’m more of a Protestant Work Ethic kinda guy and Inge was whatever is the opposite of that. Only occasionally on time in the morning, her arrival was contingent on external factors like weather, traffic, family obligations, her son’s school bus etc etc.

Cigarette breaks, snack breaks, schmoozing-with-the-supervisor breaks, taking off midday to move her car from one side of the street to the other; you get the picture. There was always something coming between the girl and her duties.

When she didn’t happen to be speaking to anyone in particular, she’d be talking to herself or making random sounds, sequestered in her corner cubicle. And I’m sorry but I like my quiet.

One afternoon, for example, she was back in her little space, out of view and yammering away about her agitation over the different pronunciations of the word 'tomato': “How come some people say toMAYto and others say toMAHto???” she grumbled, “It’s madness. Why do folks have to bicker about the most trivial things? It’s a complete waste of time. Is arguing about it so necessary? Can’t people agree on anything???” And thus she carried on, bemoaning variant tomato pronunciations.

I turned to another colleague and said, with a wink and so all could hear, “Oh Inge, I do think there’s something we can all agree on…”

Well you had to be there. But trust me when I tell you it was a brilliant moment. Everyone laughed and Inge shut up. She was furious, but only in the transitory way an older sister might feel towards her younger bro. She never got deeply angry or held a grudge. She didn’t know how.

I loved teasing Inge for the sport of it, partly because she deserved it and partly because it was just so darn easy. She set herself up for it by flagrantly spurning workplace standards of conduct and remaining true to her own natural impulses.

Her reactions to my jabs were invariably dramatic - supreme reinforcement for an upstart like me: first she’d flare up and get red in the face and then she’d pout. Oh, how I loved to make Inge pout.

She was a dream target. I used to tell her she wasn’t really a co-worker; she was more like an office mascot, on the payroll for the entertainment of others. This, of course, would infuriate her. Privately, I’d advise her to tone down the dramatic responses and not encourage me by getting all hysterical, but that only made her angrier still. Of course she didn't follow my advice - she probably couldn't.

I gave her every opportunity to shut me down, but underneath it all, I'm sure she loved my antics as much as she loved me. I know she did. How could she not? I was her baby brother and she thought I was cute. And I loved her back, I have to admit. She was the ornery sis' I never had.

Everyone subscribed to The Inge Show - even the boss - partly because she gave him cigarettes but mainly because she was so likeable. She knew no strangers. Newcomers warmed up to her immediately. She was the girl-next-door who made everyone feel comfortable in their shoes. And she wouldn’t gossip, as much as one might try to wrangle confidential bits out of her. God knows I tried.

Underneath her adolescent tendencies, she was a good egg. You couldn’t help but be charmed by Inge. She made it fun to go to work in the morning. I miss her cubicle cacophony more than I ever thought possible.

After thirty-plus years of university employment, Inge’d attended plenty of farewell dinners. She anticipated it'd be real peculiar being the guest of honor at such an event. She could hardly take it seriously since the sand windfall had been pretty much a fluke and she was awfully young to be retiring. So she mocked the whole affair - tongue-in-cheek, mind you - and told the boss she'd agree to be the princess for a dinner out on the town, but only reluctantly.

So the boss went out to the Dollar Store and purchased a tiara for Princess Inge and presented it at the restaurant along with the other farewell gifts. She wore it for the duration of the meal, good sport that she is – then to work the next day too, which was her last.

And I bawled like a schoolgirl.

(photos by Kathleen VanderNoot-Resch)

TODAY I LEARNED HOW TO GET RID OF A TELEPHONE SOLICITOR

2007-09-26T18:57:00.000-04:00

Just got a call from my internet provider. The rep said his name was Adam and asked how I was doing. "Great!!" I was glowing, "It's my birthday!!!"

He couldn't have anticipated my unbridled burst o' fervor. "And what can I do for you?" I continued, like it mattered.

I was feelin' pretty chipper, perky as a game show host. My usual Grumpy Gus-ness had gone AWOL. Sheer madness, I tell you.

"Oh this's just a promotional call," he went on, "I wanted to introduce you to a new service we're offering. But I'm sure this isn't a good time. I should let you go. I don't want to ruin your evening".

And without further ado, he hung up. End of conversation. I was stunned.

How cool izzat? Note to self.

I DON'T LIKE BANDWAGONS

2007-08-04T01:39:00.000-04:00

If everyone is doing something or has something or wants something, that same thing’ll probably turn me off. One of my defining paradoxes is a proclivity for wanting to be accepted and loved by the masses while simultaneously trying to remain on the periphery of the mainstream.

All this to say, Mr. Periphery jumped on the gay-gym fashion bandwagon this afternoon and donned the current uniform of the de rigueur faggot athlete: I worked out in camouflage shorts. Alert the media.

Now, real sportsmen - which I fancy myself to be - train in veritable sportswear. But Divers/cite is happening this weekend and I used the impending festivities to rationalize a pushing of the appropriate-athletic-attire envelope.

Alas, I quickly realized it was just plain wrong for me to be sporting pseudo-military gear while pumping iron. As if the impracticality of long, heavy, multi-pocketed shorts wasn’t bad enough: Worse, I looked like everybody else who'd jumped on that same frickin' bandwagon.

I felt entirely out of my element, totally untrue to myself, because I fit right in with the rest of the trendy boys.

Oh how I longed for the periphery this afternoon. What a curse to be a cookie-cutter queer, even for just a little while.

*****

Easy now, Self. You have to allow for contradictions in yourself. No one is just one thing.

HOW TO STUFF A WILD BIKINI

2007-07-26T00:33:00.001-04:00

OMG!!! JUMP ON THE BED!!! If this doesn't cure the post-vacation mid-summer blues, nuttin' will (thanks James)

HOW RICH ARE YOU?

2007-07-25T19:12:00.000-04:00

I'm the 262,713,044 richest person on earth!

Discover how rich you are! >>

If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.
- Dorothy Parker (1893 - 1967)

THIS ONE MIGHT MAKE YOU BARF

2007-07-21T23:30:00.000-04:00

Or you might find it endearing. Either way, it could be one of the most saccharine-sweet stories you’ll ever read from a coupla muscle bears.

First, some background: Many many years ago, I bought Boyfriend Bill a sterling silver signet ring for his birthday. A couple of months later he bought me one for mine. It hadn’t any particular significance at the time. We just thought it would be nice to exchange symbols of our friendship.

It turns out we were building a relationship that’s lasted a lifetime. Who knew?

Today’s story begins on vacation in Provincetown on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Bill thought it was time for a ring upgrade. Crackerjack shopper that he is, he found just the bands for us at a trendy little shop on Commercial Street.

But alas, they had to be ordered from Switzerland and mailed to our home in Montreal. In the meantime, we decided we’d start to wear our old signet rings on the traditional wedding-ring finger, where the new rings would eventually live (up 'til then they'd been on a middle finger). Never mind the fit wasn’t quite as snug as it should have been: It was just short-term, until the new ones arrived from Europe.

Late that afternoon we cycled out to the shore at Herring Cove, after the masses had left for t-dance. We prefer an abandoned beach. The tide was rising and the water rough, just the way we like it.

As we splashed about - and, come to think of it, this was entirely predictable - the ill-fitting signet ring slipped off my finger and sunk into the turbulent waters of the Bay. Shit.

We figured it had to be laying mere inches from where I was standing, but we could neither see nor feel it, as much as we squinted in the salt water and groped around in the sand and sludge.

It was gone. I was distraught. We were crushed.

Right then, we had a Harold and Maude moment,
recalling when Harold gives his elderly beloved one a token inscribed “Harold loves Maude” at the seaside amusement park. Maude admires it, saying it’s the loveliest gift she’s received in years. Then she tosses it into the ocean with the pledge “So I’ll always know where it is”.

Possession of just one of the old rings between us seemed awkward and unbalanced. We knew what had to happen next.

We stood close together in the frigid waters. Silently, we looked into each other’s eyes, tears welling. Half a minute passed before Bill said quietly, “It’s gone”.

We like to think of our old signet rings resting together, somewhere in the Atlantic. And we’ll always know where they are, romantic goons that we are.

TANK, TAGGED

2007-07-01T12:41:00.000-04:00

The Rules:
1. Post these rules.
2. Players who are tagged write eight random facts/habits about themselves on their own blog.
3. At the end of the post, choose eight people to get tagged and list their names with links. Don’t forget to leave a comment on their blog telling them that they’ve been tagged and to read your blog for the details.

1. A note was once passed to me in a public bathroom stall, the result of which was my piloting a small aircraft.

2. I’ve met two internationally famous lesbians of the entertainment world, albeit briefly. One of them didn't seem to want to touch me when our picture was taken. The other pawed my pecs and said, “You’ve got big ones”.

3. I used to have two tattoos, then I had no tattoos. After that I had two tattoos again and now I have one tattoo. I'm fickle when it comes to tattoos.

4. When I was a kid, I hated looking younger than I actually was. But people said it would serve me well when I got older. They were right.

5. I don’t drive a car anymore and I likely never will. You don’t want me behind the wheel. I get too angry with stupid people.

6. I shook hands with Donny Osmond here. It seems he was trying to change his image.

7. I had four girlfriends during my adolescence. Chronologically: Carolyn, Teresa, Diane and Nicole. I’m still friendly with the first two.

8. I had braces on my teeth on account of an errant fang protruding from my upper gum. Five years later, the repositioned tooth was knocked out in a bicycle accident.

Woody Allen said he couldn't be comfortable in a group that would accept someone like himself as a member. Similarly, I'd been almost offended no one ever'd bothered to tag me - and then Mike did and I found myself between a rock and a hard place: I was expected to assemble my own list, which turned out to be fun. But I also had to ask other bloggers to do the same - and frankly, I'd rather stick needles in my eyes.

So consider this the opportunity for y'all untagged folk to jump on the bandwagon. This is The Wild-Card Tagging Blog, for those who've fallen under the radar thus far. Come play with us.

LINDA N AND ANGELA C WOULD REACH AROUND AND SLUG US IN THE BALLS

2007-06-21T18:45:00.002-04:00

...kinda horrible, when you think about it.

These two girls sat in front of David K and me in the fifth grade. Periodically, they'd turn in their seats towards us, fists clenched. They'd proceed to punch us in the nuts, gleefully exclaiming 'STONED YA!!!'

David and I pretended to resist their unprovoked attacks - but not too much, lest they stop. We were eleven-year-old geeks relishing in the attentions of these oh-so-fine babes.

It's one of my earliest memories of David and our camaraderie.

That, and going to Lawson’s Store on Saturday afternoons, splurging on a quarter’s worth of penny candy, which was a pretty decent heap of sweet in those days.

The goodies fueled tournaments of Clue in David’s parents’ basement. We were crazy about Clue. We promised we wouldn't cheat and I don't think either of us ever did.
Miss Scarlett in the Conservatory with the Lead Pipe!

It was on the sidewalk outside David’s house one summer evening that my gang and I agreed we were gonna be bad boys from then on in. We excitedly promised one another we'd start drinking booze and smoking pot and having fun like the rocko-coolie kids.

And holy moley - the marathon philosophical discussions we'd have, late at night, in playgrounds or on street corners. Even as a teenager, David yearned for the meaning of life and what was right and true.

I hadn't thought of him for ages until last week. Perusing my high school alumni website, the words stung like a splash of ammonia to the eyes: 'David K passed away December 12, 2006, after a long struggle with pancreatic cancer'.

Oh no. Not David K. Poor, poor David. Too young. No way. David is the first of my high school group to die. No. No. No.

We’d not been in touch since the early ‘80s. There’d been no falling out, just a falling away.

In the latter years of our friendship, David and his family converted to Mormonism. Religion didn’t interfere with the camaraderie though. David was a buddy first, before everything else, or so it seemed to the rest of us.

But his life moved in a different direction. He was called to France on his Mission. We stayed in touch, at least for a little while.

I did a little digging a few days ago and I found the semi-serious missives he'd written me in his teeny-weeny script over 25 years ago. David liked to make fun of himself, mindful of the reputation of his fellow followers. In April of '81, he sent a mini-glossary of Parisian Missionary terms:

Bats [BATZ]: Slang for a tenant building. Derived from the French noun 'batiment', meaning building. These are what Missionaries 'prey on'. Hahaha…yech!

Four-story-walk-ups [FOR-STORI-WAK-OPS]: Post-war buildings which seem to have been designed with the intent of discouraging would-be 'door-to-doorers'. Though shunned by salesmen, these buildings – notorious for their odors – are fair game for Missionaries.

Weirdos [WIR-DOZ]: Admittedly a relative term, these people seem to like disco and leather. Some seem to be extra-terrestrial. Theory has it that, though most are obviously affected by the phases of the moon, they are in fact something called 'avant-gard'. Many are from the 'Left Bank'.

I don’t remember if I'd ever told David I was gay. Probably not - I wasn’t yet living the life back then, not fully anyway. But maybe he surmised it and was having some fun with that last definition. I'll never know and I don't care. Sometimes it’s not about sexual identity. Sometimes it’s just plain old friendship.

After his two years abroad, David returned and I heard he ended up in the American midwest with an Asian wife. By that time I was on my own sort of mission and had pretty much lost interest in my gang of yesteryear.

Now he's gone. Me and my battered balls will never again meet up with David K and his. Sigh. I still can’t believe it's true.

UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS OF THE NEW YORK KIND

2007-05-19T01:19:00.001-04:00

Here's a story first written last fall for my now-defunct MySpace page. It's worth retelling. And I'm not above brazenly name-dropping over here on Blogger either.

*****

Tank Montreal hit Christopher Street late Sunday afternoon. Ty's was jammed, the Hangar overflowing. But fate pulled me past these old favorites towards the river-end of the street and the Dugout.

Fate, and Lady Luck: There, holding court just outside the bar, were two long-time pals of the American persuasion. I'd known them casually for probably 15 or 20 years during their periodic sojourns in Montreal. Whatever'd happened to them, anyway? It'd been awhile and I never really knew what they got up to outside my city. But it didn't matter: Friendly, familiar faces in a bustling bear bar were life rafts to a socially awkward type like myself.

Personal idiosyncrasies be damned, I grabbed a Rolling Rock, put on my people-person face and swaggered up to me ol' buds and made friendly.

How refreshing to be warmly welcomed by these guys! Already encircled by a phalanx of friends, they'd no reason to pay me any mind. Yet they introduced me around as if I were someone their group needed to know. You'll forgive me for being a Pollyanna (I am Canadian, after all), but I found their hospitality real sweet.

And lo and behold, my Montreal pals of yesteryear were identified to me as the formerly-faceless farmboyz of Connecticut. I'd been following Perge Modo for months without knowing i was already acquainted with its author. What were the chances of that???

Before long we were joined by birthday boy Joe.My.God., whom I recognized immediately and who turns out to be just as engaging as his blog suggests. And then there was Paul - and Mark too. My home computer was springing to life in this grungy West Village bar.

There I was, like Dorothy back in the barnyard after Oz, recognizing the farmhands as characters from her fantastical dream. It didn't matter the bear bloggers were oblivious to the significance of my Dugout visit, just as Hunk, Hickory and Zeke had been dismissive of Dorothy's adventure. I was in a surreal little barnyard of my own.

So, people, do I even need to write it down here?
Tapping together the heels of my ruby red sneakers, I repeated to myself... "There's no place like New York, there's no place like New York". Cue orchestra.

It's interludes like this that keep me going back.

FROM THE "I HOPE I DON'T DIE BEFORE I GET OLD" DEPARTMENT

2007-05-14T14:54:00.001-04:00

CELEBRATING MATEO

2007-05-07T13:46:00.001-04:00

There's a college essay waiting to be written about the whys and what-fors of the friendship I have with Mateo, but this isn't it.

Suffice it to say: After more than a year of intense typing, talking and texting, Mateo of San Diego came to meet Tank Montreal.

We'd predicted that our meeting, in theory, had to be special, regardless of how we spent the time. We wouldn't let it be any other way, we'd promised ourselves.

We were right on the money. We had a super swell time. Mostly, we just poked around the city, not really caring what we were doing or seeing. We talked, we laughed, we walked, we explored, we danced, we ate, we shopped, we took pictures, we laughed some more - all of it framed by our unabashed gladness about being in the same place at the same time. They call it chemistry, folks.

So I'm climbing up on the roof of blogland, shouting out my love, respect and admiration for this man. Yippee - I got to meet Mateo!!! The virtual's turned into the tactile. Tank happy.

And the celebration continues. Big big smiles all 'round.

2007-04-13T23:27:00.000-04:00

FIREWORKS STEVE

2007-04-04T10:35:00.000-04:00

Have you ever known one of those sparkplug types who seem to do just about everything with pizzazz? They're like displays of fireworks, turning ordinary get-togethers into spectacles. Something about the way they talk - the ideas they get - the way they carry themselves - gives off an engaging glow: They're entertaining, and they can be inspiring too. My friend Steve was one of the Fireworks People.

I'd been trained as a volunteer companion/confidante to a person living with HIV. This was in the years before antiviral cocktails and infected individuals weren't always living the vibrant lives many do now. Some took on buddies to decrease their isolation and otherwise help them through difficult times.

Steve was my first client. I was unsure of myself in this new role, despite the training. I couldn't hide my nervousness.

But we got along famously, right from the get-go: He was amiable, he was bright and he had personality Out-To-Here. I’m more the quiet type, but I’m drawn to flashy people.

On my second visit I realized Steve had picked up on my self-doubt. And I learned just how quirky he could be:

He'd left the front door to his home unlocked. He heard me enter and called out from the bedroom, “Come in here!”

And there he was, laying on the bed, flat on his back. He was almost entirely covered by a blanket, from the top of his head to his ankles. All I could see of him were his bare feet. His toes wiggled rapidly, and he gave them voice, an affected falsetto: “Welcome back Tank! Glad you could come over again Tank! Nice to see you Tank!”

On the underside of each of his toes was written a character: H E L L O T A N K ! ...Hello Tank!!! Hello Tank!!! he squealed.

I convulsed in laughter, as did he, as he pulled himself out from under the covers. The rest of the visit was spent washing the ink off his toes, and a friendship was born.

Now I think I may understand why he concocted this craziness: He was responding to the uncertainty he sensed in me during our first meeting. The buddy/client dynamic was unfamiliar territory. It might get completely crazy, he thought, and he wanted to see if I were up to handling it. And, if i could, he wanted for us to bond. And bond we did. Instantly.

Months pasted and Steve’s health declined. He became increasingly demanding and irritable. But he was surrounded by a large group of loving and generous family members and friends who would do anything for him, regardless.

Steve knew he was loved, but he amused himself by pretending we all hated him for what he was putting us through. As retribution, he decided he would throw what he called "The First and Last Steve L.'s Caregivers Appreciation Party”. His idea was to give 24 of us the opportunity to 'get back' at him for what he perceived as his cantankerous behavior.

The night of the party he taped large photographs of himself onto the walls of his bathroom and stockpiled raw eggs and plastic squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard. His plan was that guests would enter the bathroom in pairs, recounting stories of his abuse. Then we’d hurl the eggs and squirt condiments on his pictures as symbolic acts of retaliation.

It was a ridiculous exercise. But we did it. We had to.

As it turned out, Steve wasn't feeling well that night. He sequestered himself in his bedroom for the duration of the party and didn't witness the scene in the bathroom. But we went ahead with the 'revenge' anyway, just as he wanted, without question.

Steve passed away a month later, in June of 1994.

Steve was that display of fireworks – loud, colourful, full of surprises. His show was over long before anyone was ready. But he lived his life with panache, touching everyone in its wake. And he goes on living in many of us.

*****

How do you think Steve would feel about my posting his picture online and using details of his final days as blog fodder?

Are you kidding?!?!? He'd LOVE it: Mister Steve, the centre of attention, once again, all these years later. He'd be thrilled to know he’s still very much alive in my life - and now, in yours too, at least for the moment. He was an incorrigible show-off.

And Steve'd get a real kick out of me, his quiet buddy, announcing this story to the world at large. I mightn't have letters written on my toes today, but I may as well have: The blogging phenomena is probably just as wacky. Steve would definately approve.

TANK MONTREAL: CHILD PORNOGRAPHER

2007-03-30T00:08:00.000-04:00

It seems the juxtaposition of a piece about Bill and I being together since we were teenagers and pics of my nether regions (find them yourself) got my adults-only website flagged as some kind of kiddie-porn page.

"Marketing the site utilizing content including 'kids', 'adolescent', 'underage' or any other words, images, or descriptions that would lead someone to believe that the models are less than 18 years of age is not permitted anywhere on the venue" decreed a certain Internet Service Provider.

"If the violations are not addressed within 10 days we will have no choice but to suspend your ability to process and possibly cancel the violating account".

Yikes.

Undaunted, my devoted webmaster fired off a reply, requesting the forbidden words' context be considered before a final decision was made. A follow-up review of the so-called non-compliant material was executed. And the Provider determined "the account is no longer violating the policy previously in question, and has been placed back in good standing within the network".

So they'll let us write about marrying our childhood sweethearts and post ribald images of ourselves, after all.

Phew.

SUSHI STORY

2007-03-13T20:41:00.000-04:00

I'd never tried it. Nothing about uncooked fish appealed to me. I'm a meat 'n potatoes kinda guy and pretty cowardly when it comes to unfamiliar foods.

Until last night. Some new friends lured me into a Japanese restaurant with a chorus of "C'mon Tank, you can just order chicken".

Not wanting to seem a poor sport, I let go my WASPy inhibitions and before I could say "teriyaki please", I was staring down a bento box of colourful concoctions.

And it actually wasn't all that bad. I almost sorta liked it. I ate everything on the plate and helped myself to seconds and thirds.

But the tasty camaraderie was probably the seasoning this boy needed. I've got to eat more of it.

TALKING FOR DOLLARS

2007-03-10T23:53:00.000-05:00

They say speaking in front of a group is people’s greatest fear. I don’t know if the fear of posting naked pics of oneself on the internet has ever been studied, but it must be right up there. In any case, I’ve done both. Public speaking is way scarier.

Still, I get a kick out of writing and delivering speeches, to the point of having joined a public-speaking group, just for the sport of it.

Moreover, I seem to have some aptitude. People tell me they enjoy my talks. Sometimes they laugh and sometimes they’re touched. I’ve won local contests too.

Ever the entrepreneur, I was wondering if could parlay my hobby into some financial gain. So I checked around. Who’s talking for dollars?

Dawn Wells, you remember her as Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island, commands upwards of $10,000 per engagement. Yikes. I want some o’ that.

Although her stint as a castaway fills only a portion of her discourse. She also designed a line of clothing for the aged and infirm. It's called the Wishing Wells Collection. Hahaha – get it? Donna’s an actress and a gifted wordsmith. I bet she’s a scream behind the lectern.

Maureen McCormick, aka Marsha Brady. She’s available. Guess what? Maureen went on to lend her voice to the Chatty Cathy doll. I did not know this.

But I wouldn’t pay to hear her speak. Nonetheless, there seems to be a market. Her fee is negotiable.

My point is, there are folks out there who probably don’t have a hell of a lot to say and they’re making big bucks saying it. Why not me too?

Though I wouldn’t want to tell my more *colourful* stories in a public forum. But that’s okay - I don’t have to. Some of these highly paid raconteurs refuse to discuss the very accomplishments that gave them celebrity status in the first place:

Tina Louise will not discuss the Ginger years. Susan Dey is mum on her Partridge past. They simply refuse to do it - yet they rake in the cash anyway.

So I’m ready with stories, folks. I can tell you about being stark naked on a downtown city street at six in the morning, or the life lesson I learned from the guy who almost killed me. I have plenty, and none involves garment design or talking dolls, I promise you.

Okay, so maybe I didn’t appear on a sitcom in the ‘60s or ‘70s. But I’m not asking for $10,000 either. As little as half that would be fine, plus expenses. Contact Knucklehead. He knows how to reach me.

MEET THE FOLKS

2007-03-09T18:37:00.000-05:00

Here we see TankMom and TankDad realizing they've been tricked: turns out it's not just a cozy dinner with the four sons. In fact it's a gathering of their oldest friends from far and wide, assembled to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary.
It'd been many years since we'd seen such a display of unmitigated emotion from them. Unprecedented, in fact.
Happy family.

ARE YOU SITTING DOWN?

2007-03-04T00:30:00.001-05:00

Here’s something astonishing: I’ve been with the same guy for over thirty years. We’re in our mid-40s now.

Bill and I first met as kids and became best buds in high school. Things evolved.

During the first few years of our seeing each other, uhm, carnally, we didn’t know any gay people and we didn’t live the gay life. Well how could we? It was the ‘70s and we were sheltered in suburbia. The seedy city scene may as well have been on Uranus.

The gay stuff only happened way after dark, in the recesses of our parents’ homes. We wuz gettin’ busy inna basemen' as da family snoozed upstairs.

But we didn’t talk about it, not even between the two of us. It was the Unmentionable Act, occurring not more than every second Saturday night. I guess we didn’t want to be enjoying ourselves too too often.

In retrospect, our self-imposed solitude may have given us an advantage right from the start. You know how Other People can be – especially Other Gay People, getting all jealous and complicated and ruining things. Yech. Sometimes, not letting others get involved is better. We just left them out.

Fast-forward thirty-plus years. Bill and I are now bona fide homosexuals, walkin’ the walk and talkin’ the talk. We mention the unmentionable. Our families know - but not about the furtive fucking in the cellars (and let’s keep that just between us, okay?) We’ve cohabitated twenty-three years so far. There’ve been three high school reunions. All is cool. Happily ever after, etc etc.

Sometimes you’d think we were still newlyweds, the way we carry on. My honey-bunny still calls me ‘luv’ or ‘babe’ at the beginning and close of every phone call.

Other times, we’re more like Edith and Archie. Nag nag nag. Occasionally we have words, mostly about home decor. Still, breaking up has never been on the table.

What’s the secret to our longevity? Simple: We each agree the other is the one we want as our life companion, warts and all. Too simple? Maybe. But while our choices and priorities aren’t always identical, they’re consistently compatible. And we’re always together, even when we don’t happen to be in the same place.

It may not always look to others like Bill and I have what they imagine the perfect romance to be. But we’ve always got someone to talk to, someone to hang out with and we’re never alone at night. And you can't argue with that.

I TEND TO STICK WITH THINGS FOR A LONG TIME

2007-01-21T14:02:00.000-05:00

My partner Bill and I’ve been together in one way or another since we were 15 years old.

I began working out regularly in 1980. I’ve not stopped.

A few years ago, a brass clock was awarded to me commemorating 20 years of service to the University.

I volunteered on a local gay information/help phoneline for five years. I spent six more years as a buddy to persons living with AIDS (until my last client fired me).

I kept a daily journal from the age of 17 until my 30th birthday (It was at that time I realized I no longer required a written account of my exploits in order to believe they'd actually occurred).

My current hairstyle is the same as that of when I was a child (although, admittedly, there were some middling years of misguided boy-next-door preppiness).

I’ve lived an average of 7.83 years in each home or apartment.

Core elements of my wardrobe have been Ts, plaid shirts and jeans since I was a child. I see no reason to modifiy this.

I'm nothing if not consistent and predictable - each of which is, in my opinion, highly underrated.