It’s not nice to stereotype, but I’ve got to tell you, the average gay guy in Florida looks a lot different than his counterpart in Rehoboth Beach or most other resort areas in the northern climes.

Dressing out-of-date is all the rage in the Sunshine State. It’s not just a thing with Southerners, as it’s especially true of men who have moved down from places like Provincetown, Washington and Rehoboth. And I’m not talking only about older guys who can’t be bothered trying to be trendy anymore. The same goes for many in the twenty- and thirty-something crowd. Stylish men who passionately pursue au courant fashion for happy hour at the Blue Moon or tea dance at Cloud 9 suddenly lose all concern about what they’re wearing when they venture below the Georgia line.

John and I have observed the phenomenon in the most popular discos of Orlando and Tampa—even at a Madonna concert last month in Fort Lauderdale, where fringed vests, white tights, plaid pants and paisley shirts ruled the arena. The arriving crowd set us to spinning commentary like Joan and Melissa Rivers at the Oscars.

"Look at her," John said, "we sold those exact same lace-up football shorts 15 years ago." (At the time, we had a trend-setting clothing shop in Rehoboth.)

"Maybe they’re back in style," I offered diplomatically.

"Perhaps, but that brand has been out of business for at least a decade."

"Oh, that’s probably why they look a little shopworn."

A few hours north, at the gay camping and trailer resort where we make our weekend getaways, one of the favorite social pastimes is going to Goodwill and selecting the kind of ensembles the Lauderdale crowd wore to Madonna. It’s not a matter of everyone being on a tight budget. Many of the participating camp dwellers drive brand new Cadillacs or state-of-the-art conversion vans with computerized entertainment systems that a hip-hop record producer would envy. Every week, our next-door neighbors pack their oversized van with fellow shoppers for the long haul to a super-sized thrift store nearly an hour away. Then, at gay bingo on Friday night, everyone unveils his favorite new duds.

"Look what I found for 50 cents!" enthused a campground mate who used to frequent the hottest clubs in D.C. and Rehoboth. He twirled his torso so everyone could get a good look of his newly acquired "Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore" T-shirt.

"Let’s see, that was circa 1984," I whispered to John. "The design was by Stanley DeSantis, if I recall."

"I know it’s got a little spot on it, but isn’t it the pits?" our neighbor asked, certain of landing a compliment.

"It may be pitted," I offered, "but it’s probably collectible. Have you looked it up on eBay to see if it’s worth anything?"

"You should take it to Antiques Road Show," John added.

"I almost didn’t buy it because of the spot," our neighbor went on, "but I’m sure I’ll spill something on it at card night anyway."

Card night at our compound might better be described as carb night. As much as gay men shed their fashion sense when they move to Florida, many of them make up for it with gains in the waistline. Calorie counting seems to be a contest in which the highest score wins.

If you attend a gay soiree, don’t expect to find fruit or veggie platters presented as appetizers. When our pals host their weekly card party, the carefully arranged serving dishes boast a generous array of crackers (from Ritz cheddar to garlicky Goldfish), potato chips, pork rinds, pepperoni, corn chips, onion dips, cheese bites, and lots more crackers. Surrounding the main-course fare are carefully arranged rings of cookies, almost every variety available at the Pepperidge Farms outlet. The guys always stop there after working up their appetites at the super thrift.

"What we need at this resort is a gym," I suggested after stuffing myself with bread products and dip at a recent party.

"We could start one," John agreed. "The house special at the nutrition bar would be nachos."

It’s small wonder that our campground is so attractive to bears—the two-legged kind, that is. The poolside café features a menu as deep fried as a sunbather’s brain in the August sun. Fried chicken strips and fried fish strips are served with your choice of French fried potatoes or fried onion rings. For balance, the chef throws in a cup of potato salad.

The burgers aren’t bad, but we’ve learned to bring our own sliced tomatoes and lettuce. The kitchen has little use for vegetable accoutrements. "We used to have deli sandwiches and salads," an old-timer explained. "But they didn’t sell."

I’m not complaining, mind you. I realize that part of the fun of a "campground" is the illusion of roughing it. But a little dietary roughage wouldn’t hurt anyone either.

Fortunately, we’ve found a couple of stylish gourmet restaurants not too many miles from our camp. We invited several of our neighbors to join us at one of them a couple of weeks ago.

Although I couldn’t persuade any of the other guys to try a salad or veggies, the meal provided a special opportunity for each of us to break out his Sunday best.

Danny donned a vintage pink-and-brown striped Oxford-cloth sport shirt with its original Sears-Roebuck tag still intact. Brice debuted a once-Kelly, now-mint green sweatshirt from my old alma mater, Ohio University. And Jimmy put on a white surf-design T-shirt that actually covered his tummy (for a change). He even pulled a pair of tight jeans over the boxers that usually serve as his outerwear. At first, John and I felt a little overdressed in our silk Hawaiian prints and long dress shorts, but what the heck. Every man at our table, in his own distinctive way, was puttin’ on the Ritz—like Florida crackers. And, despite our superficial diversity, we all had a great time.