A Dash of Bitter with the Sweet

I always thought of myself as a romantic person.  And by that I meant that I was a sucker for love, and love being in love, and would always put love first if given the chance.  And I guess that's still true.

But it also meant that I was waiting around for love to "strike."  I was raised on a diet of American pop culture, and so I've ingested more than a few romantic comedies, which all have the same basic formula: two attractive people meet, and they can't stand each other; their dislike grows the more they get to know each other until they are the chief antagonists in each other's lives; then, suddenly, they realize that they're, in fact, perfect for each other and have been madly in love from the very beginning; they didn't choose this love; love chose them.

And I just don't think it works that way. Outside of the movies, I mean. I still consider myself a pretty romantic guy.  I'm dating, and I guess I'm doing so in the hopes that I'll find love again. But I'm not expecting it to find me. I went on a few dates recently with a guy I was really starting to like. He was a bit on the shy side, and cute in a nerdy sort of way.  We went on three dates, and there was a lot of kissing and hand-holding going on, particularly on dates #2 and #3. And it was nice. But when I called him up for date #4, he needed to tell me something. Uh-oh.

He wanted me to know that while he thought I was a really nice guy and he found me attractive, he just wasn't feeling a "spark." He suspected that I wasn't really feeling a "spark" either, and - partly to avoid an even more awkward conversation, and partly because it was true - I confessed that no, I hadn't. There was no "spark" on my end, either.  The thing was, I wasn't really expecting a "spark" to occur.

I'm coming to the conclusion that you make your own "sparks" if you want them.  People feel "sparks" because they want to.  Those wanting to live in a romantic comedy often feel "sparks" around someone who's completely inappropriate for them, and they believe that they've been struck by Cupid's arrow because they want to believe that. But at some level, they made a choice.  This is why people who cheat describe themselves as victims, because clearly, love is something you can't control. And I'm about to call bullshit on that one, too.

I was sad when my shy, cute, nerdy guy basically told me that he wasn't interested in a fourth date, despite my being really good for him on paper (my words, not his). Not sad because the love of my life was casting me aside, just a little wistful because I thought he was a nice guy, not unattractive, and a good kisser to boot. The fact that I wasn't mentally picking out china patterns after only three dates was, to my mind, a sign of progress - not an indication that a "spark" would never occur just because it wasn't there after three evenings out. I was perfectly willing to feel a "spark" - when and if I was ready for it. And now, I won't get that chance.

I'm going out with someone tomorrow night.  It's something of a blind date; we found each other online.  But I liked the way he described himself, and his photos display a handsome man with a devilish smirk. And dimples.  Dimples are a plus.  I hope we find something to talk about. I hope he's as cute as his picture. I hope he likes me, too.  But I'm not hoping for a "spark." I simply trust that it will be there if I want it to be. I guess I'm not as romantic as I used to be. And that's okay, too.

Hi Ho, Alas and also Lackaday

So, it's Valentine's Day. And I'm single.

 And you know what? That's totally fine.

 I've been single on most of the Valentine's Days of my life, and it was always (I thought) a painful reminder of my singlehood, my inability to be loved by anyone I found remotely attractive, and the bleak, perpetually single life that lay before me. I may be overstating things a little. But only a little. I really hated the day. I understood that it was a holiday manufactured by the greeting card, candy, floral, and diamond industries to basically make money by persuading dating and/or married people to spend a shit-ton of money or else be perceived by their spouse or significant other as uncaring and aloof. But it seemed to me that all of the dating and/or married people in my life were having a hell of a time playing along, and, well ... it made me sad. 

Which is okay, too. Nothing wrong with wanting what you want, and perhaps a little sadness now makes the sweet even sweeter later on.

I was not single on this date last year. It was the third Valentine's Day of that courtship. And I'm not going to put all the details of my prior relationship all over the internet machine, but it will suffice to say that I wasn't very happy. I likely believed myself to be happier than I really was, but I wasn't in a good place. It will suffice to say that I was not making him happy, and his unhappiness was not making me happy. Nonetheless, gifts were exchanged and a romantic dinner out was planned. And I went through the motions and felt really happy - mostly I was grateful that I was no longer single and alone on the day that used to make me feel more single and alone than ever.

I was probably happy - truly happy, I mean - on the first and second Valentine's Days I spent as someone's boyfriend, but really, I wasn't much happier on February 14th than I was on February 13th or 15th. Or March 27th or October 4th or April 22nd or August the 17th or any other random day on the calendar. What made me happy about that relationship made me happy, no matter what the greeting card companies said. And what eventually made me sad about that relationship still made me sad. The calendar, as it turns out, was ultimately irrelevant. It's a simple thing, but not as obvious as you might think, and really nice to know.

And now I find myself single again, but not really alone. I have a wonderful group of friends who keep me from being lonely, and I have every confidence that love will find me again - only next time I'll be smarter. I could spend this Valentine's Day evening with my dog in front of the television (I have last night's episode of "The Americans" on the DVR - have you seen it? Great show! Ssh. We'll talk about it later, maybe.), and that would be perfectly okay.

As it happens, one of the last things I did in an attempt to save my prior relationship as it began to inevitably sink was buy a mini-subscription to one of my favorite Washington theatres. I picked Thursday nights because they were cheaper than the weekend but close enough to the weekend to warrant a post-show cocktail if the mood struck. By the time the tickets arrived in the mail, my ex had already moved out of the house, and so I had these theatre tickets - a pair of them - for four different Thursdays throughout the following year. One of those Thursdays just happened to be Valentine's Day. And so, I'm going to the theatre tonight with a single friend who likewise has no romantic dinners planned for Valentine's Day. We actually couldn't get a reservation in any decent restaurant ANYWHERE tonight, so we're eating takeout in my kitchen before heading over to watch talented actors bring a script to life in front of our eyes. So, don't cry for me, Argentina; I have something to do on Valentine's Day.

But again - even if I didn't, I'd be fine. Looking at the Facebook machine today, I'm seeing lots of references to Valentine's Day today - either public declarations of love from one half of a couple to another, or grumbling references to "Single's Awareness Day" from the single folks in my life. But for the first time in my life, I'm reveling in my single status on February 14th. I put on my sassy red tie covered in hearts (the girls in the office are getting a kick out of it), I've accepted a flower from someone who decided that everyone on my floor needed a flower, I plan on accepting chocolate from anyone who offers it, and I've got a great big smile on my face. Because I think it finally hit me: I don't need anyone's permission to be happy except my own.

Happy Valentine's Day. No, seriously, I mean it.

It's (Not Just) the Economy, Stupid

So it's been over a week, since Rep. Todd Akin made his incredibly stupid remarks about "legitimate rape" that appalled Democrats as a rule and even sent Republicans scrambling to denounce him and urge him to step out of his bid for the U.S. Senate.

And it's been twenty years since James Carville and the rest of Bill Clinton's election team used the phrase, "The economy, stupid," to mobilize voters and keep their candidate on message.

Since that time, it's become a staple of political wisdom, almost silly in its obviousness, that when the economy is in the shitter, it's a dumb idea to dwell on what we call "social issues" - things like women's health, immigration reform, gay marriage, reproductive rights, voter suppression, stuff like that.  When politicians talk about jobs and money, they're on point, but when they talk about social issues, they're clearly distracted - and it's boneheads like Todd Akin that are doing the distracting.

And it's almost taken for granted that voters who care deeply about these distractions, these "social issues," are flimsy thinkers, easily distracted, the kind of people who would buy a car because it's a pretty color with no knowledge of important things like, say, fuel efficiency, or torque.

And yet, it seems that everyone is just this distractable, as Todd Akin and his belief that magical vaginas can tell the difference between self-actualized, feminist-friendly sperm and bad, evil, rapey sperm, and will secrete spermicidal fluids when under stress shows.  That little bit of ridiculous twaddle has been distracting the entire nation for over a week now, so clearly we're all susceptible.

I personally have no problem with this.  My problem, and it's a minor one, has to do with this notion that jobs and the economy are the only issues worth discussing.  And they're important, don't get me wrong.  I'm lucky enough to have kept a job throughout the recession we've been experiencing for the past four years, but I do know how lucky I am.  Friends of mine - talented, imminently employable friends (and members of my family) - have not been so lucky, and I've seen first-hand how painful a bad economy can be.  Jobs and the economy should absolutely be on the table.

But it's a big table, and governing our country is a big job.  It seems to me that there ought to be room in the national discourse for lots of legislative issues that affect our lives.  And therein lies the problem.

Because, you see, the country is run - by and large - by straight white men.  If you have any position of power in our government or our society, you're probably at least two-out-of-three (straight, white, or male) - or you're Oprah.  And if you're a straight white man, then a lot of "social issues" - things like women's health, immigration reform, gay marriage, reproductive rights, voter suppression, stuff like that - can easily be seen as someone else's problem.  It's not easy for a lot of straight folks to truly feel the pain of gay couples who can't get married, difficult for a lot of men to empathize with women who are being threatened with less than full control over their own bodies, and hard for white people who are largely blind to their own whiteness to get too awfully excited about voter-ID laws that don't make it any harder for them to vote, or immigration "reforms" that don't require them to carry proof of citizenship at all times.

Not that all straight white men are bad.  There are a few who are downright awesome.  But most straight people, white people, and male people simply don't know what they don't know about what it is to be not straight, not white, or not male in America in 2012.  It sometimes seems that the only straight white men in this country who are truly invested in the silly superficial "social issues" are the assholes who believe that equity for non-straight, non-white, non-male people will somehow result in some sort of hostile takeover where only one kind of person has dignity, social standing, and the freedom to make their own choices - without realizing that this is exactly the world we live in and that one kind of person is them.

So here's the takeaway: social issues are not going anywhere.  They will continue to distract us for a long, long time.  Because for women, issues of women's health are life-or-death issues.  For gay people, the ability to get married means that you can visit your partner's deathbed, inherit his/her legacy without being taxed to death, or not be deported.  For people of color, Arizona's SB-1070 or Pennsylvania's new requirements for voter identification make you less valid, less human, less American in the eyes of the law.  This is really important stuff for a lot of people, even a few of the downright awesome straight white guys.

I don't feel stupid when I talk about social issues.  I don't feel like I'm being distracted from the really important stuff.  For me, it's all really important stuff.  And maybe when our politicians, our legislators, our media, and our citizenry starts treating it all like really important stuff, we can actually take a step forward as a nation.

Different, Nonetheless

I came out of the closet, to myself and everyone else, at the age of 25.  In my generation (born in 1970, I’m in my early forties as I write this), that’s generally considered a “late bloomer,” especially the part about coming out to myself, consciously realizing that I am gay.

Why I was in denial for so long and what that looked like might be another post for another day, but today, I’m struck by that moment of realization.  It was a positive moment for me, full of joy and relief.  I didn’t fear being thrown out into the streets, as I was gainfully employed and paid my own rent.  I knew that some members of my family wouldn’t be thrilled, but I never dreamed they’d reject me (happily, they did not).  In many ways, my life suddenly made sense – my seeming inability to truly fall in love with the wonderful women I’d dated, the conflicted feelings I harbored about the cute boys in junior high and high school, the fact that my best friends had always been female, even my love of old movies seemed to fit the new me moreso than the old me.

But the thing is, there was a new me.  Suddenly, I had a new identity, and unlike almost all of my other identities – white, male, employed, able-bodied, Christian (at the time) – this was lived on the “oppressed” side of the privilege divide.  Which thrilled me, actually.  My liberal guilt was actually relieved to be on the receiving end of societal hate for a change, and not always identified with the side that was dishing it out (of course, coming into real contact with homophobia wasn’t the lark in the park I expected, but that’s yet another story for another day).  And having a new identity also meant that I was part of a new club.  I had a tribe now.  And I was eager to learn more about them.

For twenty-five years (or however long it had been since I'd formed a political identity), I had identified as a socially liberal straight dude, and I had pretty much bought into the idea that gay people were just like straight people in every conceivable way, except of course who they slept with – and, by extension, who they dated, who they created families with, etc.  But in every other way, they were just like us.  Except that now, I was a “they” and no longer an “us.”  Did it follow that we were just like them?

I was able to accept the fact that being part of an oppressed minority naturally changes you.  It’s perfectly appropriate, I thought, that gay people would seek out each other’s company.  It’s safer, first of all.  Who wants to open themselves up to homophobic remarks and slights by hanging out with straight people all the time?  But beyond that, I believed, there was nothing really to distinguish us and them.

One of the first conversations I had about my newfound identity was with a lesbian couple I had met as a young actor.  One was a director and her partner often served as stage manager.  Upon hearing the news, they pretended to be shocked for about a millisecond, then immediately invited me to Rehoboth Beach the following weekend, where they’d introduce me to all of their friends, including some gay couples who had been together for almost thirty years.  It was a wonderful weekend (detailed here by Fay Jacobs, one of the wonderful women who eventually became my adoptive lesbian moms).  When I arrived in town, one of their friends, who I’d met before, gave me a hug and said to me, “Here, I want you to take this piece of paper and write down all of the words you don’t understand.”  Everyone around me laughed.  I didn’t get it.

The joke is from Auntie Mame, from the opening party scene, when Mame meets Patrick for the first time and is introduced to a glamorous collection of eccentrics he’d never encountered before.  Being part of a big gay community for the first time, I was like little nephew Patrick in a lot of ways, which is part of what made the joke so funny.  But mostly, the joke was funny because everyone in that room had seen Auntie Mame – everyone but me.

I’ve seen the movie since, many times, and I love it.  And I’ve learned that gay people – the men, especially – generally seem to love it.  It’s shocking, elegant, epic, campy, and fun – and the whole thing revolves around an indomitable, ferocious, whip-smart, self-effacing diva.  Gay men like all of these things – not all of us, but many of us – enough of us that it’s become part of the culture.

Admitting that there’s such a thing as gay culture seems to completely contradict the conventional liberal wisdom that states that gay people are just like straight people in every conceivable way, except of course who we sleep with – and, by extension, who we date, who we create families with, etc. Wrapping your head around gay culture forces you to admit that we’re different from straight people – not less than, not less worthy of dignity and equal rights, certainly … but different nonetheless.

I’ve been an out gay man for over fifteen years now, and here are just a few of the things I’ve noticed about gay culture.  This mostly applies to the guys, as that’s been my particular experience, but I’m pretty sure at least some of these apply to lesbians as well.

Shock! We as a people are known far and wide as being funny, and the world’s most famous wit – Oscar Wilde – is famously gay.  But when we’re alone, what makes us laugh more than anything else is something that we find shocking.  The jokes we tell can be unbelievably crude, but it’s not the vulgarity that excites us and moves us to uproarious laughter – rather, it’s the shocked expressions on the faces around us, and – if the joke is really good – the audible gasps. 

Diva Worship. Gay people – especially the guys – are consistently moved to fall in love with strong, fierce women who speak to our collective soul.  The divas change with each generation, but they’re always there, from Sarah Bernhardt to Judy Garland to Diana Ross to Lady Gaga.  (I’ve discussed this before – read more here if you’re interested.)

Sex, sex, sex. It’s true, we think about sex and talk about sex … a lot. Conservative gay-haters would have you believe that we’re simply sex-obsessed, and that this obsession is tied to some form of mental illness that made us gay in the first place.  I prefer the philosophy of Margaret Cho, who famously stated, “I think if you're oppressed over who you want to sleep with, when you actually go and do it, you're gonna have a really good time. If you are hated for who you like to fuck, you're gonna kick up your heels and fuck ... and it is such an inspiration to watch.”  (Psst – see the previous two paragraphs if you don’t think that’s funny and want to know why I do.)

A sense of style. There’s a reason that Charlotte took her sarcastic gay bestie Anthony Marantino to help pick out a wedding dress, and not any of her female fashionista friends.  Gay men – not all of us, but many of us, enough of us that it’s become part of the culture – know what looks good.  We can help you pick out a wedding dress, place settings, and furniture that is both modern and inviting.  And then when you leave and we’re by ourselves, we take out the glitter and the peacock feathers and the sequins and the high, high heels that are only outdone by the height of our enormous wigs.  Yes, Mama!  A dear friend of mine likes to quote a dear, departed friend of his in reference to his annual holiday decorations: “It’s not done until it’s overdone.”

The sister-walk. I’m just going to say it: some gay men act like girls.  A friend of mine calls it the sister-walk, because it reminds her of the stride also employed by her empowered black female friends.  It’s a strut that’s defined by the use of one’s hips and a certain rhythm that permits everyone who sees it to hear a disco beat (oom-ch, oom-ch, oom-ch, oom-ch) even when there’s no dance club for miles.  And it’s not just the walk, it’s a complete attitude, with an accompanying vocabulary.  It’s the freedom to blur the gender lines that comes when you realize that you’re a gender outlaw, and you’ve already broken the biggest rule of all, so you might as well have fun with your feminine side.  Perhaps it’s accentuated by a Disney-Princess culture that all little kids are subjected to, where all the stories we hear end with the girl getting the guy, which little gay boys see and immediately without thinking put themselves in the role of Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Ariel, Belle, or whoever gets kissed by the handsome Prince at the end of the movie. Or perhaps it’s something even more innate, with us since before birth, that allows us to revel in femininity if and when we so choose.  Whatever it is, it’s under attack, moreso from within our own community than outside of it.  Professor David M. Halperin, author of How To Be Gay, sees more than a little danger in the ways in which we collectively are muting the fiercer, more fabulous parts of ourselves in order to be more acceptable to the straight majority around us.  “For all its undeniable benefits,” he says, “gay pride is preventing us from knowing ourselves.”  And yet, get us in a room together, and you can still watch the feathers fly.  You’ll have to trust me on that one.

I feel a song coming on.  Yes, this is the part about musicals.  Gay men love musicals.  Not all of us, but many of us  – you get the idea. And to get to the bottom of this one, I had to wrestle with the question, "what's not to love?" People love a good story, and people love good music.  When you put those things together, how can it be bad?  And I think that those who don't like musicals, both inside the community and outside of it, don't like the degree to which they must suspend their disbelief when watching a musical.  When someone is so filled with joy or sorrow or angst that an unseen orchestra begins to swell just as they burst into spontaneous, joyful/sorrowful/angst-ridden song, it's almost ... embarrassing to some.  And then there are the rest of us, who realize that this is not the way life is, but know in our souls that it's how life should be.

Our moms.  Okay, this is the one I didn’t even want to write about, because it’s so cliché and almost offensively predictable.  But whenever female friends of mine are discussing their sons and contemplating the idea that one or more of them might be gay, I’m always quick to remind them: “Well, if your son turns out to be gay, it works out really well for you: until the day you die, you will be the most important woman in his life.”  Of course, not every gay man has a great, or even tolerable, relationship with his mother. But for those of us whose mothers are still part of our lives, they retain a unique power that I don’t know is shared by our straight counterparts.  Maybe it’s because there’s a spark of truth in the quip I share with the young mothers of sons in my life.  For every boy – gay or straight – who’s lucky, his mother cared for him and nurtured him, made him feel special, and made him feel loved.  But for the straight boys, they also role modeled the kind of woman that they would eventually pair off with themselves.  For the gay boys, they are something unique unto themselves, and will never be replaced, or even asked to share the stage with anyone. 

And you know what, there’s probably more where that came from.  And I don’t have anything especially profound to offer in conclusion, except that I want to be an equal citizen in the world regardless of my sexual orientation, but I’m glad I’m not the same as everyone else.  I’m glad that I have a tribe, and I don’t believe that I need to become an ultra-masculine jock who speaks in a monotone basso profundo voice in order to have equal standing in the eyes of the law.  And if that were the only option, I wouldn’t take it.  I love my people – and myself – a little too much.

Godless, not Soulless

So, I’ve had a lot of conversations over the past few weeks about my religious identity, and I get the feeling that a lot of folks in my life have been surprised by my answers.  For the past four or five years, I’ve identified as an atheist, and that’s still the case – but I think the surprise comes into play because people believe that “atheist” can only mean one thing.  So in an effort to a) be clear, b) get my own head around where I stand on matters of faith and spirituality, and c) just to see what comments, if any, this might generate, here’s where I am.

1.  I don’t believe in an omniscient, omnipotent, unified force in the universe that guards over us and intervenes in our lives.  To most people, that means “I don’t believe in God,” so I guess that’s true.

2. I do believe in the human soul – however, what I call a “soul” someone else might just call a “personality.”  What I call “spirituality,” someone else might just call “psychology.”  I believe that there’s something within us that exists separately from our biological, physical selves that defines who we are as people.  I believe that there’s such a thing as being spiritually evolved, and that people who attain this state tend to be happier, kinder to each other, more aware of the needs and feelings of others, more able to handle life’s tragedies, and more able to put things into perspective than those who are not.  Spiritual health to me is different from psychological health, which (to me) basically just means that you’re free of psychological disease.  Spirituality is about your psychological state, but also gets into ethics, worldview, and a lot of other things.  Speaking of ethics …

3. I ascribe to a moral code.  Some of the things that are a part of my morality are found in the Bible, but that’s more of a coincidence than cause-and-effect. There are lots of things I think are perfectly moral that the Bible condemns, and plenty of things that the Bible encourages that I think are downright evil. Basically, my morality consists of two tenets: I believe that we’re all connected, and I believe that we have an inherent responsibility to care for one another to the best of our collective abilities. That’s it. When I hear about people conducting honor killings in the name of religion, bullying gay kids until they want to die in the name of sacred texts that were written during the Bronze Age, or denying health care to those in need in the name of a political ideology steeped in religious fervor, I am disappointed in our ability to collectively evolve spiritually.  And I will admit – at these moments, I believe that my moral code is superior.

4. I’m completely open to the idea of divinity. But, if there is such a thing as “the divine,” I believe that it exists within us and not up in the sky somewhere.

5. Guilt is good.  In moderation, that is. I’m all for people being kind to themselves, but only insofar as they have done their level best to be kind to others.  Forgiving yourself for your past mistakes is crucial, but so is accountability. Doing whatever the hell you want, no matter what damage you leave in your wake, then saying to the world, “I refuse to dwell in the past, so I forgive myself, la dee da” does nothing for your personal growth and pretty much guarantees that you’re going to continue to make the same mistakes, over and over again.  Being truly kind to yourself might involve doing a little digging in the darker corners of your soul (personality, whatever), bringing the muck you uncover into the light, and dealing with it.  And it’ll also result in fewer people being hurt.

6. I have nothing against religious people.  If you go to church every week, pray to an omniscient, omnipotent being so that s/he might intervene in your life, and that works for you: dandy.  If it helps you to be a better, kinder person: extra dandy; you should keep doing that. Just don't use your religion to justify unkindness.  Don't attempt to codify religious tenets that have nothing to do with ethics into law.  Don't prevent me from buying a bottle of wine on a Sunday if I feel like buying it and some merchant somewhere feels like selling it to me. Don't prevent a gay couple from getting married just because your religious leaders have an "ick factor" around sexuality and are telling you that it comes from God and not their own squeamishness. Don't restrict a woman from making her own health care choices because you think you know what's best for her. You don't. Don't be mean, and then say God made you do it.  Because that's a lie.

And that’s about it.  Yes, you can call me an atheist and I will not be offended.  But please don’t say that I have a closed mind, no soul, no sense of morality, and no purpose in life. Because I’ve done a lot of work on those things in the past five years – way more work than I did when I identified with a religious faith, I might add.

Aaaaaaand, scene.

I'm Too Sexy For This Blog

So, among the important news of the day: unemployment, the federal deficit, Occupy Wall Street, inequities in education ... y'know, the fun stuff - there's a story about how lots of fans are outraged because this man was named People Magazine's "Sexiest Man Alive."

This is apparently a travesty, because it's clear to said fans (who are "protesting," to be clear - not on the streets, but on various social media platforms - but are nonetheless using the scant minutes afforded to them by this little life to voice outrage on this issue in particular) that this guy clearly is more deserving of the title:

And okay.  Ryan Gosling is hot, too.  And he's got this whole Chuck-Norris-for-hipsters vibe that Bradley Cooper (the shirtless one, above) cannot match.

But here's the thing ... or rather, three things.

1. Bradley Cooper is hot.  Sorry girls, but it's true.  Getting upset because a gossip rag calls him sexy makes you look not just shallow and seriously underutilized by the world around you - it just makes you look dumb, period.
2. It also makes you look shallow and seriously underutilized by the world around you.  C'mon, with all the things you could be upset by, you choose this as your cause?  Seriously. Get a life.
3. There might be something to get upset about here.  But it's not what you think it is.

People Magazine has been handing out this title since 1985, pretty much on a yearly basis with a few hiccups. All in all, 26 guys have earned the title.  Of these 26 specimens of hot-blooded testosterone, 25 of them have been white (the sole exception was Denzel Washington, back in 1996 - a full 15 years ago).

Big deal, says you.  But it is a big deal, says I.  The media has about as much influence as we collectively allow it to have - but sadly, at least in the USA, we grant it quite a bit.  And with great power, as Spider-Man would remind you, comes great responsibility.  And in this case, People has failed in its responsibility.

Mind you, I'm referring to the "Sexiest Man Alive" case, not the specific Bradley Cooper case.  Because, as I've already said (but it bears repeating, somehow), Bradley Cooper is hot. But in the larger context, People has been, for the past fifteen years at least sending a very clear message that only white people are "sexy."

Again, says you, big freakin' deal.  It's not like they're saying that white people are more intelligent, more talented, more moral, or more worthy.  Well ... except that they sort of are.  Because - at least in the North American culture - people who are perceived to be more attractive "are more successful, make more money, are more confident, have more sex, enjoy better health, receive better treatment at restaurants, hotels, and shops, are perceived as more intelligent and competent, and are happier" than those perceived to be less attractive (read the whole story here).  And if we're honest with ourselves, we can say the same thing about white people in our society.  See the connection? Who is "sexy" and who isn't matters.  It matters more than it ought to, that I will grant you - but it matters nonetheless.

And no, the media isn't solely responsible for determining the amount of sexiness we will assign someone.  Admittedly, much of this is driven by our own hormones.  There's often no accounting for why someone you see on the street causes you to involuntarily crane your neck if only to spend six or seven more sumptuous seconds gazing upon his or her gorgeous face and luscious form (not that this ever happens to me, mind you). But, at the same time, can we possibly deny how much of this is driven by the media?

Indeed, part - perhaps much - of what forces you to turn your head at the sight of some sexy stranger you spot on the street is a product of not what you believe about beauty - it's what you've learned about beauty.  We all know that one-piece polyester jumpsuits are hideous, right?  No one has to teach us that, at least.  Except that forty years ago, they were the norm - and quite fashionable at that.  So how is it that people forty years ago learned the exact opposite of what we so clearly know to be true today?  It's because we don't know anything, not really.  For a nation of such rugged individuals, we're actually quite good at doing what we're told to do - believing what we're told to believe - and slobbering over those we're told we should slobber over.  It feels very primal and visceral, but it's all learned behavior.

I think that People Magazine, so long as their annual "Sexiest Man Alive" pick is a national conversation, has the ability, in its own small way, to make the planet better or worse, by exerting what influence it has (and I believe it probably has more than we give it credit for) in an age of ever-increasing globalization to expand our notions of beauty to include more than just 16% of the world's population.  Actually, it's more than just an ability - I believe it's an obligation.  And against this particular backdrop, getting mad because some other white dude was picked over your preferred white dude is just ludicrous.

Return of the Fanboy

As a kid, I loved comic books. Every month, I spent my entire allowance on titles such as The New Teen Titans, X-Men, and The Huntress (who is, of course, Batman’s daughter in a parallel universe – I kid you not).

My parents discouraged this habit and counseled me on financial responsibility. But secretly, I think they were happy about it. After all, I showed no interest in sports or trucks or toy soldiers – my obsession with comics and superheroes was so stereotypically boyish that it must have provided them with some small degree of comfort.

And they’re not the only ones. A decade ago, a friend invited me to dinner with her new husband. When I arrived, she was clearly nervous, but hopeful that these two very different men in her lives would find something, anything to talk about for an hour or two. She needn’t have worried. The first X-Men film had just been released, and we were both dying to see it. We spent the entirety of the meal discussing our favorite characters and storylines, and went straight from the restaurant to the theatre, where we revisited the sense of wonder we had known as children. My friend sat between us, relieved yet befuddled at being surrounded by two such incredible geeks. I didn’t much notice; when I wasn’t lost in nostalgic reverie, I was concentrating on Hugh Jackman’s chest hair.

Looking back, it’s hard to say why characters like Superman, Spider-Man, and Green Lantern were so exciting to me as a child. It’s too easy to suggest that I loved them simply because I could see every bicep and deltoid bulging beneath their skintight outfits (though I have to admit that I can still remember the day I discovered that Peter Parker slept in the nude on page 17).

Perhaps it was their altruism. No, really – I remember carrying on long debates in my head about what differentiated super-heroes from super-villains, and why anyone blessed with unique gifts such as flight, x-ray vision, or an invisible plane would use them so selflessly. At the end of the day, what attracted me to my masked crusaders for truth and justice might have been their innate sense of decency. Because at their core, these were good, good people … who just happened to have all those biceps and deltoids.

And yet, I know there’s something else that fascinated me about these muscle-bound do-gooders. There were similarities that extended beyond self-sacrifice and a lovely silhouette. Obviously, most were blessed with superpowers that mere mortals do not enjoy (I wasn’t one of those comic fans who liked Batman best because he had no superpowers; in fact, I thought it showed a real lack of imagination on his part). Also, most had not asked for these abilities, usually attained either by freak accident or alien birth. Finally, most of my heroes employed the use of a secret identity, in an attempt to obtain a halfway normal life, as if such a thing were possible. And I wonder: could it be that my sexually repressed 11-year old self was subconsciously seeing parallels between my closeted existence and theirs?

Whatever the reason, I loved them.  Unlike my fellow fanboys, I had a special affinity for female superheroes, like Supergirl, Batgirl, and Spider-Woman (at the time, I convinced myself that this attraction was evidence of heterosexuality, but now I think it was just another form of diva worship), but like most of them, I didn't continue to buy comics once I reached high school.  Comics provided an escape that was socially acceptable for someone in junior high, but not something I could even pretend was "cool" once I entered the ninth grade.  Just before high school began, I sold my entire stash of comic books for about a hundred dollars.  It seemed like a lot of money at the time, but it was probably a fraction of what those books were worth.  That was almost thirty years ago.

Two years ago, I met a charming fellow I'll call Shorebird, who would later become my boyfriend and then my live-in boyfriend.  Shorebird is a fantastic guy, with a variety of interests.  Among other things, he enjoys "So You Think You Can Dance," The New York Yankees, and ... Wonder Woman.  Not Wonder Woman comics, per se, but the iconography of Wonder Woman fascinates him.  And since he moved into the house, we've been collecting various Wonder Woman merchandise which we've been displaying in the kitchen.  Shorebird even went so far as to have an image of Wonder Woman tattooed on his arm.  That's commitment, people.

And I suppose that inviting Wonder Woman back into my life - or at least my home - has opened an old door for me.  Recently, I was on a business trip and looking for something interesting to read, and I came across The Supergirls: Fashion, Feminism, Fantasy, and the History of Comic Book Heroines, a wonderful book by Mike Madrid that recounts the history of women in comic books against the context of the changing role of women in society.  It sounds really academic when I say it that way, but the book itself was funny, provocative, and greatly entertaining.  Like me, Mike always had a special place in his heart for kick-ass superheroines, and I read the entire thing over the course of four airplane trips in two days.

And, as luck would have it, this rekindling of my love of comic books is coinciding with a much-hyped "relaunch" of the entire DC Comics line: 52 series, all starting back at Issue #1.  What's more, these days I can buy a comic book for two bucks via the Apple store on my iPad.  Need you ask if I've made any purchases lately?  Is Superman a space alien?  (For those who live in a cave, the answer is yes.)  Last week, I purchased the first of the relaunched titles, Justice League #1 (no sightings of Wonder Woman yet, but she's on the cover, so I hope to see her next month) and this week, I bought both Batwing #1 (a new colleague of Batman, based in the Congo) and Batgirl #1 (my favorite of the bunch so far, but also the most controversial, for reasons I might explore at a later date).  As the month progresses, I imagine I'll be purchasing Wonder Woman #1 (naturally), Teen Titans #1 (a favorite from my youth), Catwoman #1 (meow), and perhaps even a few others.

It would seem that I'm a fanboy again.