Big Mike: I Know What I Am — I Think

October 13th, 2009

As if I needed more evidence that I live in a bizarre world of my own creation, The Loved One spent all last night arguing that I am gay.

No, she didn’t find evidence of me logging in to gay match sites — I keep that well-hid…, er, I mean I don’t go there. And no, she didn’t find text messages or emails from DL lovers. Really, honestly, I’m not gay. Sheesh, I feel like I’m 17 again, crowing to the world what a flamboyant heterosexual I am.

Here’s the background. IFC (cable’s Independent Film Channel) showed Woody Allen’s “Manhattan” last night. One of my favorite movies of all time up until the news broke that Woody was raiding Mia Farrow’s adoptive litter for potential bedmates. If you recall, Woody’s character in the film, a 42-year-old comedy writer, has an affair with a 17-year-old girl (“I’m dating a girl wherein I can beat up her father.”) What I originally took to be an envelope-pushing comedic construct then became downright creepy.

Anyway, I told The Loved One that “Manhattan” was chock-full of gorgeous George Gershwin melodies. Sure enough, whenever a familiar tune came on — “Someone to Watch Over Me,” “He Loves and She Loves,” “I’ve Got a Crush on You” — I started singing along.

The Loved One endured this caterwauling in silence until, about a third of the way into the movie, she couldn’t hold herself back any longer.

She: “You know what?”

Me: “What, angel of mine?”

She: “You’re gay.”

Me: “What the fuck?”

She: “You heard me — you’re gay.”

Me: “What the hell does that mean?”

She: “Oh, I don’t mind. It’s okay if you’re bisexual.”

Me: “Um, uh….”

She: “C’mon. These are show tunes. You’re singing them. You know them. You’re gay.”

How do I respond to that? I thought for a moment of getting up, crossing the family room and ravishing her forthwith on the sofa. Just as a rebuttal, mind you. Who knows? Maybe that’s what she wanted me to do. Of course, I think it would have been more effective for her to say something like, Darling, take me.

But since my lovely bride was wiped out from another long day at the factory, I don’t suspect she was all that interested in putting on the French maid uniform and for me to fetch the handcuffs.

Me: “You’re out of your mind. Gershwin isn’t a gay marker. He isn’t Stephen Sondheim or Mariah Carey, for chrissakes. It’s Gershwin!”

She: “You’re gay.”

Me: [Mumble. Grumble.] “Smart ass.”

The Loved One spent the next half hour giggling to herself at intervals, proud that she’d flummoxed me so. I mean, really, if you can’t convince your wife you’re not gay, who can you convince?

I stopped singing along — which may have been her aim all along. Then again, a less painful method would have been for her to say, “Shut the hell up!”

Still, I couldn’t shake her words from my mind. I know I’m straight. I just know it. I dream of Dana Delany, Lauren Graham and Hannah Storm, not Liam Neeson or George Clooney. Like Isaac Davis in “Manhattan,” I peruse the lingerie ads in the Sunday paper. And I loathe, just loathe, Kathy Griffin, the “Real Housewives…” shows on Bravo, and every single one of the Kardashians.

Slowly but surely, I started to feel better about myself. I even started singing (under my breath, of course) those famous Muddy Waters lyrics:

I’m a natural born lover man/
I’m a man/
I’m a rollin’ stone/
I’m a man/
I’m a hootchie cootchie man.

I even flexed my biceps once or twice. Gay — yeah sure.

Before I’d gone into my silent funk, The Loved One had been quizzing me about the names of the tunes. She knows who Gershwin was, of course, but isn’t as up on his songbook as I am. Anyway, she was too pleased with herself to continue the trivia test.

Then, suddenly, the staccato French horn of one of Gershwin’s more renowned tunes sounded. The Loved One perked up — she obviously liked it.

She: “What’s this one?”

Me: [Grimacing. Defeated.] “The Land of the Gay Caballero.”

She: “Gay Caballero! Perfect! See, I told you. You’re gay!”

I was defeated. I retired to the bedroom, lay down and opened a book. I only got through the first few paragraphs of a Truman Capote short story before I fell asleep.