It’s here folks! It doesn’t seem that long ago that I was preparing for last year’s Pride. How things have changed in a space of year.

I’m Jewish. I’m a comic. Gone are the activist days, and I’m so fucking happy. If I hear one more person seriously try to tell my why I have to say all the letters in LGBT…….

I will barf. This happened about two weeks ago.

People, wake up! I don’t give a shit. I don’t even want to give a shit. I just want to have fun. I now shun people who think that social justice and action means spending hours analyzing the semantic nuances of acronyms.

I’ve discovered that I’m actually quite allergic to people who wrap themselves up in oppression to live out their lives. It’s a violent allergy in fact. I’ve been told to keep my Epi Pen with me at all times, especially during Pride.

Coming up this week I have a set at the Laugh at Slacks Music Bar & Lounge Open Mic on Wednesday (June 27^th).  I’m really looking forward to it, as it’s a stellar line up. So much so I’m a little intimidated by it. But I’m intimidated by everything, that’s the problem being really neurotic. I’m not really happy until I have something about which to worry.

The main even for me is July 4^th. I’ll be hosting the Laugh at Slacks show. Not only is it the American Independence Day, it’s also my Chihuahua’s fourth birthday. I’m hoping the weather is nice, but not too hot. Slacks front opens up completely to allow some of the street life in. On the first night of Laughs at Slacks, I could see pedestrians stopping to check out the action going on inside.

The next day I heard about people who had been walking by and recognizing my voice bellowing over the PA system. We really haven’t had a venue open up onto Church St. like this since the days of Bar 501’s Window Show.

I’m really hoping that this can be cultivated, providing it doesn’t get so hot that the A/C forces the windows to be closed up.

In any event, come out and support the only open mic gear for specifically women and the “gays” (fill in the letters accordingly – I’m calling July 4^th a BYOL even “bring your own letters, or in this case lesbians too). 

I love the women comics. The energy is very different. I find them to be more supportive, and I get to hang out with them in ways that the straight comics don’t always get to. It feels less competitive. During my first set at Slacks, I could see the comics attentively listening and engaged. It was really nice.

Now that my Jewish conversion is done, I’ll be announcing far and wide that I have the freshest kosher virgin cock in all of Pride 2012. I think it will make for a great ad on Craig’s List or Kijiji.

Being on stage is great. Instead of shelling out money for a Manhut profile (btw someone still has a profile using my photos. I’m very flattered that he says I’m only 37) I just announce on stage that I’m single & looking for cute Jewish guys. And if it’s the kind of date that only lasts under 60 mins, then I don’t care what the guy’s background is. Just bring the right body parts for the occasion and we’ll be great 

Happy Pride Everyone and remember to come out to Slacks June 27^th & July 7^th. Come to July 4^th if you have to choose! 

In this day and age of instant stardom, over-hyped comebacks and tabloid fodder, the loss of a true talent that refused to be a part of the fame game is indeed a great loss. I can’t think of any other artist that managed to slip in and out of the spotlight, on their own terms, without capitalizing on their prior successes or personal struggles. She kept her private life and those she loved from being exploited, relying solely on her passion to share her love of music. Her estimated worth upon her death of $75 million is testament to the true artist that she was. It was never about fame, fortune or celebrity that drove her to share her gift with us. And what a gift she had. 

Her life was a perfect example of one who transcended stereotyping - from her early years of being apart of a deeply religious African American family to her well-guarded battle with lung cancer that unexpectedly took her from us. Her personal struggles with drug use, depression, affairs of the heart and her reaction to the media’s attempt to shatter her fan base only became public knowledge upon the release of her autobiography, “Ordinary Girl: The Journey” in 2003. With plans for a musical based on her life, two albums in the works and a secondary career soaring as an abstract artist there seemed to be so much more to come from the one and only Donna Summer. Her untimely demise at 63 saw her records soar up the charts again as a testament to an artist we unwittingly took for granted and yet were deeply moved by the profound influence she had upon us. 

Despite her meteoric rise in the seventies as the voice that launched a new genre of music, Donna Summer managed to maneuver her way through a variety of musical categories and still remain loyal to her initial fan base. She is the only artist to reach the top of the dance charts in four decades. Yet her interpretations of ballads, gospel, rock, standards and rhythm and blues enabled her to be so much more than just the Queen of Disco. She was nominated seventeen times for various Grammy Awards, winning five in four different categories, including her only one for best dance recording, in 1998. She unwittingly set the standard for singers, songwriters and entertainers well beyond her gender, ethnic origin or any other classification. Her multitude of awards and career highlights include many that still remain unsurpassed. Though it does sound cliché, she did lay the groundwork for many of today’s musical superstars, as she was the first to achieve so many various distinct career milestones. Her fan base includes many fellow artists from various musical genres including Elton John, Dolly Parton, Barbra Streisand, Bruce Springsteen, Chaka Khan and Liza Minnelli. 

er brilliant mezzo-soprano voice, song writing skills, beauty and artistic sensibilities made her a true star that will continue to shine for future generations to enjoy and be inspired by. A large portion of her songbook has withstood the test of time and will no doubt continue to do so. Her sense of humor and her views on humanity kept her humble and always open to appear with those who adored and recognized her for the phenomenal talent that she was. Her guest judging stint on American Idol, singing with performance artist Prince Poppycock on America’s Got Talent and even her performance at the Nobel Peace Prize Concert in Oslo, which honored President Barack Obama, are well-documented examples. There is a rare clip of her being interviewed by Arsenio Hall on You Tube that is a total treat to view. 

She also donated her time, talent and financial support to a multitude of causes throughout her lifetime. UNICEF, Muscular Dystrophy, Juvenile Diabetes, Music Cares, Cancer Research, various hospitals, as well as several charitable foundations from her hometown of Boston. She was also an avid supporter of numerous gay charities and causes including Elton John’s AIDS Foundation and The Gay Men’s Health Crisis. 

I was greatly disappointed by the minimal media coverage over the passing of Donna Summer, especially when you compare it to the recent coverage of Whitney Houston. Although I am a fan of both artists, Donna Summer’s career was never overshadowed by her struggles, demons or personal life and she did have her share of ups and downs. Her body of work not only represented an era in time or one specific genre of music but also reflected an artist that transcended a multitude of boundaries, which in turn inspired many of us to do the same. Her songs of love, spirituality and of the down trodden touched our hearts and opened our minds. It is a shame that the media did not truly recognize the impact and artistry of the one and only Donna Summer. Her family, friends and fans will always treasure her memory, the way she graced us with her presence, the unique and brilliant artist she was and how sadly she left us far too soon.

I happened to walk past the mirror the other day...er...actually, no I didn’t; there was nothing coincidental about it. I approached the mirror as I do most days, determined to find every blemish that had dared to raise its head and ruin my day.

You’d really think that a 60’er wouldn’t give a damn any more wouldn’t you? Unfortunately, we may be sixty plus but us baby-boomers are still romping around Woodstock...in our minds! Anyway, today for the first time for some time, I really saw myself and it wasn’t pretty!

 Now, I’ve got a great bathroom mirror which hides a multitude of sins but if I want the truth I have to go into the spare room and look at the mirror there. That piece of glass is a ‘mirror, mirror on the wall’ which has been injected with truth serum! After looking; really looking, I suddenly realised that after you hit a certain age, you look older in dog years and the body ages even faster than the face!

Why is that even an issue? I’ve had a life, done some stuff, been good, been bad, you know the story and should really accept that nature slows you down for a reason. However rational that may be, the mirror still has the power to shock and re-awaken the vanity genes.

Men have always been slightly smug about the female need to look like super models and have sniggered at that weakness in the female character we always suspected was there. How could they fall for the hype? I know, stereotyping much! Yet any intelligent person can see that the beauty industry is exploiting people’s vanity?  Lesbians resisted for a while until the advent of fashion for dykes; upon which they rushed out, bought Versace and lip gloss and completed the cycle. Men would never feel the need to cover up our blemishes or fluff up the image...or so we thought, until we tumbled into the same trap!  In our case it has been called the Adonis Complex and the Ad men have finally won!

Yes okay, the male menopause probably exists and yes, we probably go through monthly hormonal cycles of behaviour and emotions and we’re used to having penis envy thrust down our throats, so to speak and accept that real men cry and that it’s okay to share with our emotionally retarded drinking buddies? However, do we really have to give in to that thing which has reduced healthy teenage girls and boys to anorexic waifs, driven people into the arms of wealthy plastic surgeons and made fortunes for fashion designers the world over? I’m afraid so. We men, young and old, have become vanity victims!

After years of trying to develop acceptable toiletries for ungrateful males who used their Old Spice and Brut to scour the toilet bowl (some of course didn’t but you could always smell them coming well in advance!), our vanity was used against us and Cosmetic Ken was created to join airbrushed Barbie on the billboards. Heterosexual women were finally convinced that they had to drag their husbands’ sagging bodies into the 21st Century and a whole new gleaming set of products was born.

For gays of course, the whole process started much earlier and the well-toned, muscular hunk has never been out of fashion. Somehow though, in the fifties, sixties and seventies it all seemed much more innocent – those who sweated and worked that body, achieved what they wanted but the vast majority of us were still quite happy to parade around with what Nature had given us. Often a moustache and a cowboy shirt was enough to satisfy our needs to look macho swish. Nowadays though, if you can’t compete in the body-beautiful stakes, you can’t take your shirt off in the club or on the beach, much less join the ‘pecs’ parade! The drive to be Adonis has enlisted the help of the chemicals industry (never a stranger to gay society) and the innocence is gone. Never mind that steroids can shrink your genitalia and render you impotent; they can also make you sterile, which might concern Mr and Mrs Nuclear Family but has never really bothered us, has it? What is really frightening is the sheer size of the industry that has built up around the workout ethic and the fitness frenzy. ‘It’s all about the money, money, money!’ We won the battle to get homoerotic images into advertising but lost the war because we got sucked in! Duh!

There is a serious side of course. A whole generation of boys, gay and straight, and gay men of any age, is experiencing the angst, which their sisters have known about for centuries. Previously rare, the male anorexic is becoming a major problem and penis envy has been replaced by body envy. Gyms have sprung up like mushrooms and the number of home-fitness systems, as shown every day on Tele Sales programmes, is mind-boggling. We read horror stories of men carefully removing the nuts from their rough muesli and haunting supermarket aisles reading every word on the labels, seeking sugar-free and cholesterol-light. Diabetic food sales have never been so high! It can’t be healthy!

Actually, all people fall into three physical groups: Ectomorphs, Mesomorphs and Endomorphs.  The Mesomorphs have it easiest; they‘re the ones with rectangular bodies, an upright posture, thick skin and thick hair. They only need to play at working out and they develop muscles in all the right places. Thank God they turn to fat in later years! Ectomorphs are thin, have flat chests, are tall but stoop-shouldered and are supposed to have bigger brains, which is a fat lot of use when you’re trying to attract some Hercules across the dance floor! Endomorphs have the round, soft bodies; the underdeveloped muscles; the overdeveloped digestive system; have trouble losing weight and have the hardest job of all! So, for at least two thirds of the gay male population, this new body culture has been greeted with horror because no amount of working out, weights, or hormones will ever give us the body they say we should have. We have to do the best we can with the physique we were born with but there’s always someone better, someone to secretly envy! Oh come on, we all do it! The tragedy is that we give in to the temptation of that Wonder product which promises to let us achieve our dreams. And only $ 199,00!! Have your credit card at the ready!

For those whose idea of a full workout is drinking standing up, there’s always the scalpel! Cosmetic surgeries across the civilised world are reporting booming business from men! We apparently have more money than sense, so the face-lift and liposuction are within financial range and men are flocking to the chic clinics to have it done. Nobody tells them of course, that you have to go into hiding for at least three months afterwards, endure pain and infections and just pray that it all looks good at the end and no, I’m not talking from experience but I’m not knocking it either...it’s a cruel world if you’re getting sand kicked in your face!

Finally, before your insecurities cause you to rush off to dust off the weights and start pumping, consider this: In 1998 in the United States, there were over three thousand suicides of men between the ages of fifteen and twenty five, who suffered from Body Dysmorphic Disorder. Yes it has a name and is thought to affect 1-2% of the population in the western world! Of that 1 to 2%, between 20% and 22% have suicidal tendencies. That may not seem much but we’re talking about 1-2% of the whole population who are clinically depressed by body issues and you might safely assume that it’s somewhat higher in the LGBT sector.

Obsession with physical appearance amongst gay men has become the single greatest reason for visiting the psychiatrist and in San Francisco for instance, plastic surgery operations on men outnumber those on women by three to one. Well, who’s surprised but it does make you think! Are gay men always going to be suckers for the latest trend? Is this obsession with physique here to stay and for people with HIV, is it a reaction to the potential the virus has for wrecking the body? We like to think that we set the trends, not follow them but the beauty industry is quite happy to indulge our delusions.

Now where did I put those dumbbells?

There is an interesting convergence of issues in this moment, I think as I run my hand along the back of a man’s neck and pull him in for a second kiss. 

But then.  Almost every kiss is a coalescing of stories into a lovely experience of timelessness.  Or at least, it is if you’re doing it right.  And even if one of those stories happens to be “I saw him five minutes ago across the bar in something sexy”. 

Specifically? I was flashing through the last few years of my life.  Due to an unmanageably long set of issues I’d been in a record breaking dry spell.  Two years, almost, without sex.  It’s just how things fell out and generally speaking I’m good with that. 

At some point, however, one does become slightly restless. 

The unique perspective it grants, however, comes from feeling like this is all new again.  Of course it’s not.  But being out of the field, so to speak, for this long means a lot of old habits and ticks are either worn down by time or completely different than I remember them. 

For example I recall the image of myself as a hesitant, almost fearful, individual who would leverage alcohol and certain situations to rush across some invisible line between me and other people, fully crashing into sexual situations with an outward brashness that existed nowhere else other than in the illusion.  I desperately wanted intimacy, sex, men all the time.  But I was terrified of many of the aspects of the process. 

Speaking?  Being interesting?  Being sexy or even just sexual?  

Lord but that’s a lot of work when the insistent set of voices are adamant that we are not any of those things.  Or at least not enough. 

The pleasant surprise is the moment of caring and not caring at the same time.  Clearly I’d like men to fancy me, to want to get naked and all that.  But at the same time… some evolution had moved things along and I found myself really not as upset if they didn’t.  

Mainly because I’ve learned the secret of evolving.  Being exhausted. 

After a while the struggle to hold on to some perspective or opinion isn’t worth it and I move on. 

So as I kissed this man I confronted one of my bigger boogie-men and took a moment to lean back.  Look at him.  And despite only having exchanged a few random kisses, told him I’m poz. 

Sure I could be completely messing up any chance to move past the kissing stage.  And no, there should never be an assumption that random bar make-outs lead anywhere.  But.  I’m just not that into dragging it out.  I’d like to enjoy the moment, settle into some serious flirting and seduction.  If half my mind is on the question of my status or theirs or their comfort?  

I have to also acknowledge I’ve had men who have gotten a little freaked out from kissing alone.  So, there’s that.  I’m not sure exactly what their fear is, really, but it helps to randomly envision bits of me falling off during a make out session and having to sibilantly ask “oh, sorry, is that one of my lips in your drink?”  At least I get a laugh out of it. 

See, another not caring moment.  It saddens me.  It used to hurt.  With enough of the world, including some of my doctors, seeing me as a disease and forgetting the person, there can be a pretty reasonable bitterness when my community also loses sight of me.   Now I think of the men, the people in general that someone misses out on when that fear or misunderstanding moves them to walk away. 

Of course, I’m also shallow as all hell so I’m not necessarily judging people’s preferences here.  And I do tend to serosort, myself.  Not absolutely or with full conviction – let’s be honest, a hot man is a hot man and I have a weakness for that – but I do tend to acknowledge that tick in myself. 

So where there was shame, there is still a resigned sense that it’s an inevitable moment.  One that sometimes can be a non-issue, sometimes a wince inducing rejection.  As we’ve said for years. 

The only major difference is now?  Now I just don’t care.  It used to be far more political or charged a subject for me.  I still understand the need for discussion about it, hence the article.  But I think, for myself, that I’ve reached a point where I’d rather have people interested in me for who I am.  Not who I can elaborately convince them I am.  And part of that?  Is poz. 

Recently referred to as middle age, partnered, poz guy.  Middle aged, really? 

Oh.  And the guy?  Well.  I kept him up well past his bedtime.