DOWN BOY: KEEPING THE BLOG AT BAY

I blame the blog.

When you create a blog focused on a crazy decision to live as a single gay man where there are no other single gay men, it can be a constant reminder of a part of life that’s not working. 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.  When I moved from Vancouver seven years ago, I wanted to step off the treadmill.  I felt like I was putting in a lot of work and getting nowhere.  I was tired of wasting time idling at traffic lights.  I longed for a night’s sleep, uninterrupted by sirens. 

Hindsight is a humbling thing.  I don’t yearn for the sound of sirens, but my move may have been extreme.  Perhaps the answer wasn’t going from the city to nowhere; perhaps I was just supposed to try another city.  Victoria?  Toronto?  Ottawa? 

I know now that I was not alone in feeling alone in Vancouver.  A month ago, the Vancouver Sun ran a series on how disconnected residents are.  They don’t reach out to one another.  They don’t even nod or say hello in passing.

To hammer home the point, the newspaper published a story two weeks ago about the struggles of singles in the city.  The focus was on single straight women, but I took liberties to apply their woes to single gay men.  I certainly don’t see any evidence to the contrary.

So I got things half right in leaving Vancouver.  I’m not a big baseball fan, but I know a 0.500 batting average is a marvel.  As for life changes, it adds up to nothing.

The pessimist in me grew out of adolescence when I learned that I was a pimply faced, athletically challenged loner whose best friend was a pop radio station on an AM radio in Hamilton, Ontario.  The pimples and pessimism multiplied when the family moved to Texas, with me perfecting teen disconnect on the drive down in the family van.  I pulled away from family, but struggled to find another place to attach.

I found good friends on a swim team in high school.  We were basically Sweathogs in Speedos, a frightful sight.  I was two years younger than my peers and never figured out the East Texas dating scene with class rings, Friday night corsages and, well, boys dating girls.

The pessimist in me could see the future:  I’d be alone for life, like my great-uncle in Ottawa, whose sexuality was never discussed.  I could pass time cementing my knowledge of Billboard music trivia and experimenting with ways to spice up Kraft Dinner for one.  (Oh, to get my hands on what the Barenaked Ladies referred to as “all the fanciest Dijon ketchup”!)

Seeing “Moonstruck” in 1987 proved a game changer.  No, I did not develop a completely unwarranted crush on Nicolas Cage.  Or Danny Aiello.  While part of me identified with Cher’s grandfather, walking around on his own with a pack of dogs on leash, one scene with Cher hit me then as it still does when pessimism tries to take control.

“Snap out of it!”

I love how she slaps the mopey Cage across the face.  It’s the kind of gumption one would expect if the outstanding Olympia Dukakis really were your mother.

And that—along with a song from a 1986 animated mousemovie—is when hope clawed its way back into my life.  Hope’s a tricky thing.  It can be a taunting mirage, that out of reach oasis in the desert.  I see it at the gym, not in any of the grunters who talk of deer hunts and drunken Tuesday nights, but on the muted TV screen as a nicely dressed, well coifed political analyst or author gets forty seconds of glory on CTV News.  Intelligent, decent looking, knows how to dress (or at least take advice from a producer),...my kind of man.  All playful nods to my favorite newscaster aside, it’s not the “star” factor.  I just crave conversation with a well-rounded man who happens to glance in the mirror before heading out for the day.  There’s a difference between vanity and a healthy self-regard.

Yes, I do know that figures on the TV screen, even those many rungs below dear Anderson, are not attainable.  However, they present a look, a standard.  Unfortunately, my present life doesn’t present any such men in the flesh. 

It would be nice to put my thoughts completely on hold while my life remains on hold.  And yet, the blog hovers over me.  Post something.  But what?  Got the “rural” thing down.  Nothing new on the “gay” front.  There’s no real pressure.  I only post when I feel I have something to say.  But just checking in a couple of times a week—“Anything to write today?”—can be haunting enough.  Yes, Fievel, I still hear you.  But “Somewhere” can seem so far away.

IS FIDO A LIABILITY?

A week and a half ago, the Vancouver Sun ran an article, “Wherefore art thou”, featuring local single women bemoaning the difficulty in finding a few good men.   I read with interest.  Even though I’d like to think there is a clear distinction between straight and gay men, I can commiserate with anyone over the apparent man shortage. 

Since I no longer have a daily subscription, I don’t know what followed in the letters to the editor section, but today’s inclusion from Kean Krytenberg of Burnaby caught my eye.  It appeared under the caption, “A dog isn’t a dating woman’s best friend”.

What?!  Blasphemy! 

It would be easy to dismiss Krytenberg.  Vancouver, like no other city where I’ve lived, has clear divisions:  East versus West, drivers versus cyclists, Starbucks versus everything else, dog lovers versus dog haters.  Oh, very few people dare come right out and say, “I hate dogs.”  No one wants his effigy burned during a lantern festival on Commercial Drive.  The Anti contingent usually confines canine conversation to specifics about owners who view the entire city as an off-leash playground, muzzle-free Chihuahuas and “My dog didn’t do it” clumps of doo.  All dog owners are lumped in with the not-insignificant band of rogue dog owners.

Anti letters are always followed with reactionary Pro letter writers who momentarily set aside Rex’s sticks and bones to toss some old-fashioned names.  Dog hater!  Human supremacist!  Cat lover!  Intolerant inflictor of your wishes on others!  I know where my sympathies lie, but I am also aware that nothing will sway a rigid Anti or a calm an it’s-always-about-me Pro.

Rather than take potshots at the letter writer, I pondered his message.  According to Krytenberg, single women get dogs as “a replacement for human males” which then “precludes these women from ever bonding with the real thing.”  Okay, that smacks of Anti extremism.  Dogs to replace men?!  We single folk know that dogs won’t sit for hours watching pro football and acting like they could do a better job in every position on the team.  We know you can’t dress a dog for long in socks and sandals before it tugs the fashion eyesore off.  And we know that dogs won’t ramble on about how many points they scored on the newest app on the latest and greatest tech toy.  Clearly, Krytenberg’s assertion requires no further response.

But then there are some specifics.  He cites dates in which women want him to come over early so they can walk Fido around the block before grabbing dinner.  (Could it be she wants more time with you?)  And then he bemoans the 11 p.m. curfew, for the next round of the never-ending game of Walk the Dog.  (Again, it sounds like she just invited you back to her place.  Do you really need another Bud at the bar?) 

Krytenberg sums things up as follows:  “[I]f you choose to bond with a dog because there is no emotional risk involved, do not be surprised if your pool of prospective mates is reduced to near zero.”

It is easy to get into Sic ‘Em mode against poor Krytenberg who may have just reduced his own dating pool.  I’ll leave the ladies to that.  (Hey, Antis, he’s all yours!)  But have I missed out on dating opportunities due to my own strong canine bond?

In a word, yes.  Undoubtedly. 

When I had two dogs, I’m sure it was even worse.  There are many single gay men in Vancouver still confined to condos in the West End.  While the area is loaded with dog walkers, many buildings prohibit pets.  I recall a date cut short with hugs on the street as my dog lounged in the car on a chilly February night, unable to come up for a home tour.  I could curse the condo bylaws, but I think the dog simply provided a welcome excuse for the man to call it a night.

Perhaps my photo of me and the dogs on Plenty of Fish deterred a few hunky AND brainy suitors, even the rumored-to-be-out-there Perfect Man.  (Yes, I believe in the Big Foot and the Loch Ness Monster, too.)  The photo and the “Pets” line on the standard profile serve as a way for dog-hating date shoppers to weed out the ruff-raff.

More often, however, I think my dog tendencies have helped establish a superficial initial bond.  (After that, unfortunately, everything rests on the other guy and me.)  The first online dating message I ever sent was to a guy who had two miniature schnauzers.  Uncanny, I thought.  I have two miniature schnauzers!  Surely this is kismet.

Sadly, it wasn’t.  But it got this classic Wait-and-See guy to act.  That’s something.

My greatest “success” story from online dating was a nine-month relationship with a guy who messaged me after seeing my schnauzer shot.  Yes, he too had a schnauzer.  Tragically, it’s a long way from Vancouver to Toronto.

My most recent date was with a guy who clearly wasn’t a dog lover.  “I’m allergic,” he said.  It was hardly a tragedy of “Love Story” proportions.  I recovered quickly and I’m sure he did, too...after the recommended dosage of Benadryl. 

I’ve gone on dates where meeting the dog was the best part.  (I am realistic enough to know others felt the same on a date with me.)

Okay, Mr. Krytenberg, you made me think, but my beloved pooch is not a liability.  I just hope your letter doesn’t make a single woman Shepherd-shy.  Life doesn’t wait on hold while singles pine for partners.  Dogs don’t replace Mr. Right.  They do, however, for many of us, make life richer.  I can respect the fact a dog owner wants to and needs to exercise his/her pet.  I’d be more than happy to be invited along.