Does that make me...?

So, I’m confused. I’m not quite straight on something and I think I may have always had a queer angle on it. It’s not my fault, as I think I was born this way. But this issue has always been something of a bugger for me, and I feel like I’ve closeted these feelings long enough. I’m just going to come out and say it: I don’t get March Madness.

I know it’s a big deal for college (?) basketball, and every business across the nation is using it like a holiday. RC Willey, and other fashionable outlets, are having collossal sales on TV’s and furniture that relates somehow, I’m sure, to basketball. Even the company I’m working for is running an obscenely low subscription price during the famously masculine season. I was invited to a creative brainstorm on the campaign yesterday, and I found myself with precious little to offer. Headlines naturally centered around basketball terms-- a lexicon so unfamiliar to me that I sat mute in the corner with my legs crossed, waiting out the clock. The only basketball terms I can remember were shouted at me by red-faced PE coaches and angry teammates: Stay out of the key! Get rid of it! Whatever you do, don’t shoot!

What does it mean that I’ve never watched an episode of Sports Center? Do they even call them episodes? How come I’d never heard of PTI before Tone mentioned it on this blog? Why didn’t I understand the first word that came out of Carlos Boozer’s mouth when he was apparently so eloquent about the Jazz’s chances for... a slot in the... victory over... valuable asset to the division semi-final Western Athletic Conference? What?

Ask me what I wore every day last week. I can tell you. And I can tell you which of those clothes needed and received laundering and if they were subsequently folded correctly or placed on the proper hanger in my closet. Ask me if I still sweat over the fact that I have more brown belts than black, and the black belts that I have are too formal for everyday wear. What if i want to wear black leather shoes with my jeans? I have to wear a sweater that will cover my waist all day, eliminating the possibility of exposing the overaggressive sheen of the leather there. Or I go without the belt all together, an equally embarrassing predicament to be caught in if the sweater comes up while I’m sitting down. Am I gay?

Ask me, when I’m wearing a printed top, if I will also wear a hat with print. The answer is no. No navy and black either.

And it’s not that I am obsessed with clothes. I don’t even have enough money to wear really nice clothes (although a boy can dream). But I find I can keep track of that stuff, and I can’t keep track of sports statistics. I wanted the Giants to win the Superbowl because I think they have the best logo in the NFL, but I didn’t stick around to see if they won. I don’t know who plays for the Jazz. I can’t tell you who Shaq plays for and when people bring up the Shaq-Kobe rivalry like it’s a thing of the past, I think, when did they part company? I can tell you that Jack Nicholson is a Lakers fan. I can tell you who starred in any number of sports movies over the last few decades, whether I saw them or not. I can tell you enough of Hollywood-related trivial facts to make your eyes roll. I can keep track of that stuff-- I‘m interested in that stuff. Does that make me gay?

I am still very happily and actively married to a woman that I have loved for almost 15 years now. I am still ravenously attracted to that woman, to her enduring relief/dismay (depending on the day) and, sometimes, to her fatigue. I have always liked girls. I maintain that in the first grade, my fondest and most ardent wish was that one day, all the girls would have to come to school naked. First grade. In kindergarten I used to find obscure and secreted surfaces whereon I could scribble the initials of the girl I liked. Many of them are still there as proof in my parents’ home-- under tables, on opposing bedposts, inside the bathroom cupboards-- you know, all the places a love-sick 5 year-old can reach.

I’m crazy about this new Goldfrapp album. If you’ve heard it you might think that’s another strike on the gay side. But how many points do I get for thinking that Alison Goldfrapp is gorgeous enough to stare at? I defy any straight man to give it a listen and not wish that she would sing you to sleep every night.

And it’s true that if I were offered tickets to a Jazz game or Rachmaninoff at the symphony, I’d take Rachmaninoff every time. Especially if Pavel Kogan is conducting because he seems to bring more out of the orchestra than Lockheart. But what about the passion it breeds in me for my wife? And let’s not forget that one of the reasons I’d choose the symphony is that I am more likely to get Jayne to come with me, and there is no one I like better than she. And settling into those seats in Abravanel Hall, regarding her in her Symphony Formals, taking her hand in the dark... there is no greater peace in the temporal world.

Is that gay?

So I’ve decided maybe I’m part gay. Just like I’m part Norwegian, from my mom’s side, and part Welsh, from my dad’s. I’m part gay, part straight, and part arson (don’t ask). Is that so bad? The idea of intimacy with another man is repulsive to the point of shivers. In fact, in a conversation with a gay friend, he asked if I could live with my best friends, and I said yes. He asked if i could make out with any of them (he named Tony, because he’d met him) and I wretched. Sorry, Tony. But the gay part of me will gladly go shopping and cluck her tongue at every bad piece of design she sees along the way.

So, if anyone is having any March Madness or Final Four parties, I’d love to come. I’m always game for comradery and male bonding (not that kind of male bonding, you filthy beasts). But don’t expect me to contribute to any debate about the merits of a given team or player. And you can’t coax it out of me with gay jokes. I’ve come to terms with my part-gayness. Maybe some of you should take a good long look as well, and embrace that inner queen. We might find that some of us that went into March as lions, may come out as lambs.