Pass the schnapps

Yes, it’s summertime in Toronto and your gay/lez/bi/trans/curious summertime dreams can all come true! I have come up with some wonderful ways to beat the heat, both here and out of town, so snuggle up with a hot chocolate and a flannel blanket
… I’m sorry, that was just mean. Grab a frosty beer and sit with your face next to the air conditioner and let’s explore the summertime possibilities together.

The simplest solution to summertime blues is escaping the city to engage in the cottage life. Just picture it: lounging on the dock or paddling about a chilly northern lake. If you can’t afford a cottage or don’t own one yourself it’s very simple, start shtupping someone who does. Even if you have to close your eyes while you do it, you do it and you’ll be glad you did. It’s win-win for everybody!

For the less DIY in the crowd, what could be more lovely than going to stay in a B’n’B with someone you care about? Although I don’t recommend the one I stayed at in Niagara-On-The-Lake, where the fiftysomething Kathy-Bates-in-Misery-ish propriatrix, Sandra, purposefully woke us up at 8:30am by playing the songs from Dirty Dancing full tilt boogie on the stereo. Apparently this indicated that it was time to get up; breakfast* was being served (where * indicates misshapen omelette and a scary-looking strawberry.)

I have to say that, what with the bitter clanking down of our breakfast plates in front of us in the morning and a begrudged half-a-splash of coffee, this particular B’n’B seemed way more like sleeping at some lady’s house rather than a B’n’B. Unless one “B” stood for “bitter” and the other “B” stood for “Boo! That’s one scary-looking strawberry.”

I should accentuate the positive. The place was a treat! It sure was fun to sit down with one’s girlfriend at Sandra’s dining room table. Every time the kitchen door swung open and Sandra bitterly heffalumped her way into the kitchen with a sigh to retrieve a forgotten creamer or fork, we could see her oversized 20-year-old son, sitting like The Thing at a child’s Playskool desk, hunkered over the kitchen table, eating his Cheerios and giving us dirty looks. Swoosh open went the swinging door, dirty look, swoosh closed, swoosh open, dirty look — the door never seemed to stop freakin’ swinging.

But a B’n’B can be a wonderful way to save some money while staying someplace quaint. For those travelling homos who don’t want to have to check-in as friends and push the F-ing beds together (or, worse, hold hands, arms outstretched in bunk beds), why not stay at one of the many wonderful gay B’n’Bs out there? It’s the perfect solution for those who would like to leave for their vacation gay and actually manage to remain gay throughout.

There’s Big Dutch’s Cottage in Stratford, where former tractor-trailer driver Dutch O’Leary and her wife Maureen serve a wicked hemp scramble in the morning and entertain you late into the night with their Ferron songbook. (For those people who don’t remember Ferron, imagine an older Melissa Etheridge with dissimilar features and shorter hair.)

Then there’s Sissy Pete’s in beautiful Bobcaygeon. The toast of the Bobcaygeon hoi polloi, Sissy Pete has been called the “Quentin Crisp of the Kawarthas.” Now getting on in years, Sissy Pete will make the drinks but that’s about it. He has most of the housework performed by a good-looking hustler named Dave, who has an amazing trick for picking up loose change he finds in the couch cushions.

And who could forget My Tranny House, started by Miss Elizabeth, a drag queen with a flair for entertaining. Unfortunately, My Tranny House was eventually closed by the health department because Miss Elizabeth kept insisting on serving breakfast in an apron and nothing else.

If out-of-town isn’t your thing, there’s lots a homo can find to do this summer right here in the city. There’s the International Scary Thong Contest, held every year out on Hanlan’s Point. Pick any day you like, set up a beach blanket, crank the tunes and let the parade begin. The Scary Thong Contest goes hand-in-hand with the International Peekaboo One Of Your Nuts Is Exposed Because Your Bathing Suit Is Too Small Exhibition; same location, showtimes frequent.

For the ladies, there’s the Belly Flops At Linda’s Show, where you pull up a lawn chair in the backyard of my friend Steve and watch the lesbians next door get drunk in the afternoon on endless Coors Lights and shooters of whatever Linda’s got left in the house and then attempt to dive gracefully into the pool. It’s not pretty, but it’s fabulous!

So there you go, summertime options galore. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be at Linda’s. I hear she’s got some peach schnapps left over.