Daily Loaf

Fags, hags and stags.

Although spending the better part of the summer in Middleofnowhereistan has effectively stopped me from living la vida gay, on weekends I've tried to get some rest and relaxation among my kindred. That has obligatorily meant going to bigger towns like Oulu, Tampere and Helsinki.

Before I headed out towards the countryside, I had my sight set on finding a gayer side of Finland outside Ring III. Although I managed to gather a few leads on semi-urban people with queer leanings, I drew a blank when it came down to actually these people. I'm sure I must've ignored some venues; for example, just yesterday it dawned on me that the fennoswedes up the Ostrobothnian cost woud, naturally, use Sylvester's hook-up services, not those of City or Koodi.net. The fact that I'm in a dead zone when it comes to SETA's groups doesn't help much either; the closest are in Vaasa, Oulu and Kuopio, which are all equally far away from this place, the Wisconsin of Finland.

Yet at the bottom line one finds the fundamental difficulty of most gay encounters: they have, by default, a very powerful sexual undercurrent. On just about any given dating service you'll find that for every person looking for friendship (though these, too, are often just masked attempts at finding a serious relationship) there are about 20 people looking for a fuck. Now, I'm lucky enough to have a well-established circle of gay friends to support me through tougher times, and to have fun with when good times roll. But I don't have to extend my imagination much to imagine a situation in which the only gay people I know are the stereotypes on television or that one guy in my village all the older people talk about in hushed tones. When finding any gay man is such a challenge, is it a miracle then that friendships are unaffordable?

Enter the best friend of most any gay man; the fag hag. It's such an ugly word - I prefer the "homoemo" of Finnish (roughly: gay mama) - but the concept bears with it too many positive effects to count. I wouldn't be the only-mildly-twisted person I am today without my own. And I think the mental well-being of many a man up here and even in the big cities is highly dependent on having around someone who doesn't deny you the right to be exactly who you are, is there for you when you're down and parties like a bitch from hell when you're up, and asks very little in return. Kudos!

A straight friend mailed me a link to Shawna Wells' take on the feminine side of what might be involved. Hers is an atypical situation, I'm sure, but it doesn't surprise me that she writes some serious LotR slash, too.

As for the stags, well, those mystical beasts I've yet to meet.

Roundup.

Last weekend Jaakko and his family threw up one of the most divine parties in a long time. The word party doesn't do it justice, because it had nothing to do with the usual cityside events, hosted in cramped apartments. It was a festival, in a beautiful garden, a historically laden milieu that was oh-so-fitting for the theme of the occasion, the 1950's. Good food, good drinks, good people - especially the latter. Most participants had really thought out their costumes, giving the evening that additional twist that makes the difference between a good party and a great party. Even the few exceptions were only too appopriate; after all, the 50's were very much an era of budding rebellion.

Alas, I forgot a few essential items from my, mind the boasting, rather successful costume. The lack of the first, a hip flask, for which I even had reserved some single malt Scotch, was fortunately compensated by the well-planned inclusion of a bottle of Koskenkorva vodka - at the firewood stockhouse, as tradition dictates - which was fraternally consumed at one of those circular meetings of lads, which spontaneously come into existence whenever more than 2 Finns meet and there's alcohol available. The second, my digital camera, was woefully left at home, and the only other camera I saw during the whole evening was on Jaakko's father's mobile phone. The quality of those pictures is lacking to say the least.

dtm was a hoot afterwards, although most of my straight friends were not up for the challenge and left before even the upstairs was open for men; I hooked up with Lissu and her sister, who's name escapes me. We (sort of) decided that I was going to join the Wellness gym as soon as it opens up on Eliel square - they have a "body and mind" room with yoga and stretching, which sounds really promising. Prices are, as Hakkis pointed out, ridiculously high compared to the University of Helsinki gym, but I'm such a newbie that I'm going to need constant supervision or else I'll start loosing body parts. Partying with a three-piece wool suit is all fine and dandy, but it's a tough proposition heat-exchange wise, so by 3.30 I was pretty dead. It took me the better part of Sunday to recover, and I only made it to Tampere by midnight. Did manage to finish Peter F. Hamilton's Misspent Youth, though. He makes some good points about separatism in a federalised European Union, but otherwise it was typical - in good and bad - Hamilton, more along the lines of A Second Chance At Eden than the Reality Dysfunction trilogy.

Back up north it's been pretty miserable thanks to the bad weather we've been cursed with after the wonderfully crazy heatwave. At least MTV3's been having a Will & Graceathon. Yesterday, between rains, I managed to shoot a few nice pictures which I've been planning for a while already - mostly I've wanted to wait until it's dark enough. You can check out the best shots here. While a written synthesis of this summer's events will probably come sometime next week, a picture gallery might be in order as well.