Tag Archives: gay
Jeffrey takes his vlog to the shark-infested waters of Bora Bora.
Used my new underwater camera. Probably not the best audio so just enjoy the view 🙂
That one shark did come too close for comfort.
Since the Gay Groom is at capacity for photos, I posted my Tahiti gay cruise photos to my Jeffrey Luscombe blog.
Click on the link below to view:
Here is your humble blogger snorkeling with sharks and stingrays in Bora Bora. I seem to drift a tad too close to the sharks at the end…
Look for more videos and photos of our Tahitian vacation posted soon.
And even more sharks!
Here is a repost of last year’s St. Patrick’s Day Post (I’m still 3/8 Irish). Enjoy!
Your humble blogger is 3/8 Irish.
Finding out that I was Irish (even 37.5% Irish) actually came as quite a surprise to me. It wasn’t until I was well in my 30s that we learned of my Irish background. It was after my family (being the nosy bunch they are) had sent away for the military records of my maternal grandfather who (as it turns out) was from Dublin, Ireland.
Now it wasn’t that my grandfather was secretive of his county of origin, instead he was a chronic alcoholic who ran off when my mother was only five years old. So we knew very little about him. That was until his military records shone some light on the bum. In fact, what we learned from the military records of both my maternal and paternal grandparents are worth a blog or two themselves.
But I digress.
Learning that I was Irish was actually rather exciting to me. Being a writer, I felt a greater kinship with all those great Irish writers: James Joyce, Oscar Wilde and Jonathan Swift (and the poets) William Butler Yeats and Seamus Heaney. Suddenly I understood the Circe episode in Joyce’s Ulysses (well, maybe 3/8 of it).
But looking back, I really should have known I was Irish all along. After all, green is my favourite colour. And I always liked potatoes, George Clooney and Irish whiskey… and I loved those old Shamrock Shakes they used to have at McDonalds.
However, it turned out that my paternal Irish grandfather was also a member of The Church of England (protestant), or so his enlistment form for the WWII stated. So the question arises: Does an atheist like myself who was descended from a protestant Irishman celebrate the Catholic St. Patrick’s Day?
Sure he does!
In fact, I celebrated St. Patrick’s Day before I even knew I was Irish. This may surprise you but before your humble blogger gave up the juice about a decade ago, he drank more green beer than he’d really like mention.
Let’s just say it was more than a couple of pitchers in my day.
Though Guinness always tasted to me like a beer that someone had stuck a cigarette butt in. Not my thing. But as I said, I’m only 3/8 Irish. Perhaps it takes a bit more to appreciate the stuff.
I’m digressing again.
And then The Gay Groom married the Husband who (incidentally) is named Sean Patrick.
And when you are married to someone named Sean Patrick, celebrating St. Patrick’s day is kind of a given. It is now an annual event to watch to the parade wind down Yonge Street in Toronto the Sunday before St. Patrick’s Day to see the Husband’s ‘clan’ go march by.
I don’t have a clan.
And did you know that (like Santa Claus in a Christmas parade) it is Saint Patrick himself that ends the St. Patrick’s Day parade? I thought the Husband was joking when he told me that. They find some poor old guy to dress up in green like an Irish pope to close the parade. But Saint Patrick isn’t what you’d call jolly like Old Saint Nick.
In fact, he’s sort of creepy.
Maybe it’s his dress. Or those little white gloves my mother wore in 1962. Or perhaps it’s the enormous cross on his chest (never a good sign). It rather looked like Saint Patrick just wanted the parade over with so he could get off his throne and go for a green beer himself.
So whether you are Irish or not (0r some fraction like your humble blogger), have yourself a Happy St. Patrick’s Day!! And remember: if you start peeing green, you’ve had enough green beer.
Erin go Bragh!!!
Jeffrey, The Gay Groom
Your humble blogger had to put down his heart-shaped box of chocolates long enough to write his blog.
Valentine’s Day has gotten a bit of a bum rap lately. People seemed to have turned on arrowed Cupid faster than Justin Beiber (Bieber? I don’t care, actually).
Yes, I get that Valentine’s Day is a pseudo-holiday made up by the greeting card, flower and chocolate industries. Yes, I get we are being duped into spending money for trinkets we don’t need to express our feelings of affection. Yes, I know Saint Valentine was, according to legend, imprisoned, beaten with clubs, stoned and ultimately had his head chopped off.
Not very romantic, I must say.
But that’s far too unpleasant and I like to keep my blogs positive. So I choose not to dwell on the real and instead pretend to fall for all the sentimental nonsense, if just to get my aforementioned heart-shaped box of chocolates.
And your humble blogger has been blessed with the ability to view almost everything ironically (for example, the use of the word ‘blessed’ above was ironic).
This morning the Husband and I exchanged Valentine’s Day cards.
Luckily, we live in a city where it’s easy to pick up gay greeting cards. I’m sure if we lived in Wyoming or Idaho (where Walmart is considered a distinguished luxury retailer) it could be a tad more difficult to get a gay-themed greeting card. Though even then, I suppose with a little planning one could purchase a card on the internet for delivery from the many gay-positive greeting card companies out there. It should be noted that these are often more expensive than straight themed cards. I was told this was due to smaller print runs and not because these “gay-owned” or “gay-friendly” companies are just gouging us.… and since it’s Valentine’s Day, I’m willing to buy that (more irony).
Many straight men see Valentine’s Day as a day specifically for women (where the man must fork out for flowers, chocolate, cards etc. to women – or else) and I recently have heard of men creating a, dare I say, “tongue-in-cheek” movement to have March 14 (one month after Valentine’s Day) be a declared a day for women giving back to the men. The proposed name of this day? Steak and Blowjob Day.
Straight people can be amusing.
So tonight the husband and I will be headed to a restaurant in the gay village in Toronto for an overpriced romantic meal (I’m hoping they have Ontario lamb on the menu… or maybe the duck). Not that we limit ourselves only to restaurants in the gay village, most of the time we don’t (as most of the food is terrible in the village). But it was the Husband’s year to choose.
And after dinner, we’ll share a dessert at home.
Where, ironically, we don’t have to wait until March 14.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
Jeffrey, The Gay Groom
This is a Christmas re-post of one of my most read blogs…
Continuing with my “Christmas in the 70s” series, I look back gifts. Not the gifts I wanted and received like my pogo stick, the soundtrack album to The Sound of Music or my Stretch Armstrong (or even the ones I really wanted but couldn’t mention like an Easy Bake Oven), but the one I received almost every Christmas and never ever wanted.
With visions of NHL hockey contracts dancing in his head, each winter my father would stand out back of our house in the freezing cold and flood our lawn with a garden hose to make my older brothers and me a backyard skating rink.
My dear old dad wanted your humble blogger to be a great hockey player. He had me on ice-skates before I was two years old. The logic being, I suppose, that the earlier I was on the ice then the better skater I would become.
Sadly, for him, this was not to be the case.
Unlike my older brothers, I hated hockey. I hated the cold. I hated the big heavy uniform. I hated the big smelly bag you carried the hockey accouterments in. And I especially hated how hockey skates hurt my feet. I told my dad that skating for long periods hurt my chest (my asthma not yet being diagnosed) but any protestations I made were dismissed by my father with a shake of his head as he would put those damned skates on my feet at the kitchen table each evening and then have me skate in circles around that backyard ice rink.
“You just need more practice,” he would say as he shoved me out into the cold.
On Saturday nights, he would have me sit in front of our huge Zenith color television and watch “Hockey Night in Canada.” The little Gay Groom did not like watching hockey anymore than I liked playing it. The games seemed to go on forever and I never really cared who won or lost. To pass the time as they skated up and down and up and down and up… I would critique the colors of their uniforms: loved the purple and gold Kings, hated the brown, yellow and orange Canucks, and decided that the Whalers needed a splash of crimson.
I would wait patiently for the end of the game when the camera would move into the locker-room and someone would put a microphone in the face of a half-naked husky hockey player with a bare chests and long sweaty hair.
In those days your humble blogger really dug those Montreal Canadians with their French accents. Actually, your humble blogger still does.
When I was seven, the time came for me to join the city boy’s hockey league, just as my brothers had, where I played on a team called the Cardinals.
“Shouldn’t cardinals be in red?” I asked my dad when I saw my green uniform for the first time.
“Stop worrying so much about color,” he said.
And I was hopeless on the ice. I tripped. I fell over. I slid on my face. And at times I simply gave up and lay on my back staring up at the lights on the ceiling as others skated around me. The lights are pretty from down here, I thought.
“Get up!” my father yelled from the stands. “For Christ’s sake, skate!”
I didn’t feel like it.
After a few games, I was not put on the ice much and spent most of the game sitting on the bench with Tommy Young who was also a terrible skater (and who, incidentally, I would run into at a gay bar a few years later) and discuss important things like Tiger Beat magazine. Warming the bench with Tommy was fine by me.
(I should mention at this point that many gay men are great athletes and, particularly, great hockey players… and the Gay Groom’s own rottenness at hockey should be in no way seen as stereotypical of all gay boys. There are excellent gay hockey players out there – I am just not one of them.)
On the drive home from the neighborhood hockey rink after a Cardinal’s game my dad was always quiet. He was never one to mask his disappointment well and would look shell shocked as he drove (rather like he did years later when I told him why my roommate and I had rented an apartment with only one bedroom).
“But he was on skates before he was two,” he would say quietly say to himself.
When we got home he would make me put my skates back on and skate circles around the backyard rink in the dark.
“You need more practice,” he said.
One night after he made me go out in the backyard to skate circles I waited until I saw him looking out the kitchen window at me. Then I stretched out my arms wide at my sides and, in the best Dorothy Hamill imitation my lousy skating skills could muster, I started to do big flamboyant figure eights on the ice. As my father’s eyes narrowed I even managed to throw in a few tiny little jumps without falling. The final spin never materialized properly but I still finished with a defiant “TA DA!”
It worked. He flew outside in a rage running over the ice in his stocking feet and pulling me by the shoulder, threw me through the back door.
My dad never made another backyard ice rink.
And as for your humble blogger’s first and only year playing hockey with The Cardinals? Now the only reminder I have of that unhappy winter is my team photo.
Jeffrey, The Gay Groom