(NOT) SO FAR AWAY

I get the sense that a lot of older single gay men fail to go the distance. Sure, you can read that as not being fully committed, but I am referring to something more fundamental. They fail to consider that Mr. Right might exist beyond the gay ghetto of their chosen city. In Vancouver, that rather scenic ghetto (save for litter-strewn Davie Street) is the West End. 

 

I realize I am not objective here. I am fortysomething and single. I do not live in the West End. In fact, I am more than an hour (and a ferry) away.

 

I’ve only had a date cross the waters twice in six years...and each occasion only came after we’d had a few promising outings in town. 

 

Still, I have had many coffees in recent years with online single guys. I’ve heard the stories. Vancouver is a city of bridges and, if a gay has to traverse a bridge to date you, it rarely happens. Guys in Kitsilano, off Commercial and near Main Street have all shared their frustration that West Enders won’t travel. Many West End dwellers pride themselves in walking to work, to the gym and to restaurants. They boast about not having to buy a car or pay the insurance, gas and maintenance. Indeed, their lifestyle is environmentally sound and, with all the walking, rather healthy. 

 

There are, of course, drawbacks. There are 44,000 people who live in this downtown area. For better or worse, it only takes a few years to recognize and/or become acquainted with the gay neighbors. If you are going to online dating sites like Plenty of Fish, then chances are the dating pool has dried up. If you are over thirty and single, I believe who have to toss out a larger net if you want to reel in fresh fish. 

 

But West Enders are not that adventuresome. At best, they will meet for coffee...in the West End, of course. Many times, my coffee companion has shot me a puzzled gaze and asked, “Why don’t I recognize you?” Sigh. There may be plenty of fish, but they’re all swimming in the same fish bowl. I’m reminded of an old Roseanne Roseannadanna—I miss you, Gilda Radner!—quip: “Jacques Cousteau is swimming in a fish’s toilet.” 

 

This post does not arise from my own dateless existence. Yesterday I received a message from a 59-year-old man on Plenty of Fish. He begged people to overlook the fact he lived beyond the ghetto. His three-sentence message to me included the following: ”I live in the burbs -for the last 2 years - but am considering moving into the city to broaden my social life.” Read: It takes a little extra effort to see me, but don’t hold that against me. 

 

The profile explained that he’d retired and moved to White Rock (which is a beautiful beachside community south of Vancouver). He stated he needed to establish a social life and then made his pitch: “I travel into downtown Vancouver fairly regularly by car or public transit. The public transit is actually pretty good out here - I can be in downtown in 50 minutes by bus and Canada Line.” Don’t dismiss me. I’ll come to you. Less than an hour. 

 

Come on, people. This does not constitute a long-distance relationship! 

 

I felt sad after reading this. We did not have anything in common, but that had nothing to do with location. (At this point, I’d date a guy in Portland. Or Pittsburgh.) 

 

Here was a guy who settled in a lovely place where he thought he’d live out a happy retirement only to realize that being single in the burbs was not practical. 

 

Okay, here’s the interesting thing about writing. As I wrote the preceding paragraph, I realized I was the same as WhiteRockTim. I too live in a peaceful, scenic area and I feel the isolation. I am desperately waiting for my house to sell. Am I returning to ghetto life? Maybe. 

 

If immigration matters work out, I’ll be back in L.A. where I thought nothing of battling freeway traffic and dating a guy in Reseda or Silver Lake. I even fell in love with these guys! 

 

But then maybe it was just me. Maybe I am a gas guzzling gay. Am single. Will travel. Is that an anomaly?

MONOLOGUE FOR TWO

I had a date last night and I’m barely awake this morning. Are the two related? Read on.

Who am I kidding? How could they be? (And, really, I wouldn’t want them to be.)


Date first: Rennie and I agreed to meet at a Starbucks in the West End. 7 a.m. I squeezed in a jog along the seawall beforehand and, after showering and walking the dog, arrived two minutes late. There was nobody resembling Rennie’s online photos in the café. I got in line to order. The line moved slowly and a couple in front of me seemed to think they could entertain the queue by speaking loudly and making ha-ha annoying comments about others in line. I must have clearly conveyed my patented standoffish stance because I got a free pass.

At 7:10, while awaiting my drink, I spotted a guy who might possibly be Rennie outside Starbucks. He checked his iPhone, then walked away. Once my drink was up, I scurried out and tried to spot him in the crowd walking up Davie. White t-shirt. Yes, I see him. Crowd obstruction. No, he’s gone. Vanished after a block.

Was it him? Maybe. Maybe not. Why wouldn’t he have walked inside? I tired to visualize the original message. There are many Starbucks in the West End and I have been known to show up at the wrong location, but I was sure I recalled the right street intersection. 80% sure.

Perhaps he’d said 7:30. Lucky I’d ordered a venti. I perched on a stool, skimmed the barebones news coverage in the free dailies and continued to cool off from the jog.

At 7:40, I headed back to the condo. Perhaps he decided at the last minute to catch the latest “exclusive” insider information about that Kim Kardashian wedding on “Entertainment Tonight”. Perhaps he was raised in a military household where being two minutes tardy meant you were shunned for the next seven months. Perhaps he saw my sty from three blocks away and frantically made his getaway.

I walked up Davie, thinking about dinner for one. A cauliflower and a tub of hummus. For some reason, I glanced in a hair salon a block and a half away and there was the guy with the white t-shirt, sitting inside, not looking like he needed a trim. Very attractive! I stopped, hesitated. He looked at me. “Rennie?” I mouthed. He didn’t have time to think otherwise so he nodded.

“Your hair looks much better in person,” he said as we introduced ourselves inside. Thanks. “In your photos, it’s too yellow. Uh,...thanks?

“Do you still want to grab a coffee and go for a walk?” I asked. Another out, but he didn’t take it. We walked to a Thai restaurant. Cauliflower and hummus could wait another night. Hadn’t been a craving; just a convenience.

The monologues flowed. His time in Montreal after moving from Beirut. The unfinished renovations at the condo of his ex. The new, hostile boyfriend of the ex. His homophobic Greek boss at the first salon where he worked in Vancouver. The discovery that he was a diabetic.

All interesting. I made comments and asked questions to show interest. The Rennie Show continued with only two breaks: “Do you speak French?” and “Your profile says you’re a writer. Are you published?” Perfunctory answers. And now back to how he quit his job at that first salon.

No chemistry. How could there be?

Déjà vu. What has happened to the art of conversation? Is there a glut of self-absorbed middle-aged single gay men or am I at fault for failing to jump in and perform my own monologues? How I learned to conjugate être.

Is there a cultural difference? Other Arabic acquaintances I’ve known have seemed assertive, but I recall us talking a great deal about politics and they were genuinely interested in hearing my perspective.

For whatever reason, Rennie and I failed to connect at any point.

The lack of sleep? No, I did not toss and turn in despair over a lackluster date. I’ve built up an immunity after having plenty of them. It was my first night back in my ex’s vacant condo (after he’d had a meltdown in June and told me to get out). All summer I’d stayed in my rural home, sleeping in a silence only occasionally punctured by howling coyotes and screeching Stellar’s Jays. With the summer heat, I had to leave the condo windows open and the racket of revving motorcycles (I’m at the beginning point of the Burrard Street Bridge) and screaming sirens (I’m also a few blocks from St. Paul’s Hospital) and noisy buses (the condo is along a major bus route, with a stop directly across the street) kept me wide awake until 3:30 in the morning. My venti Starbucks had nothing to do with it. I’d ordered a decaf.

Second day back to work after five weeks off and I feel just as tired and woefully single as before the break. I’ll pick up a fan to drown out the din. If I suffer another sleepless night, perhaps I can work on a decent monologue.

MAKING THE COFFEE ROUNDS

Twenty years ago when I was first trying to figure out the dating scene, I might have agonized all day waiting for a phone call that never came and then scrawled my desperaton and despair in a journal that I stored underneath a stack of t-shirts in the closet. God forbid anyone should read it. Now I blog. That only makes it slightly more public--people have to want to read what you post--, but it's still odd. At least I'm not killing a tree. 

I have been single now for seven years. It's my longest streak since I first walked into a Dallas gay bar at the age of twenty-four. That night, I abruptly left, frazzled and perplexed, after an inebriated guy skillfully spelled his name (D-A-R-R-E-L-L) and kissed me on the nose. My first thought at the time: "Huh?!" 

Since then, I've fallen in and out of love three times. The first time, I was too closeted, too insecure. The second time, I got involved with someone I knew was wrong for me from the first date. The third guy seemed perfect for the first nine months before the cracks started to show. I stupidly remained committed for another six plus years. I was relieved, even exhilarated to finally regain my freedom. Now I'm just bored, restless, impatient. And I continue to walk away from every dating episode with the same thought: "Huh?!" 

I've had three coffee dates in the past month. Dud, dud and double-huh. First came Ward, an earnest TV documentary producer. At 53, he was seven years my senior. Not a big deal, except I noticed age spots on his tanned hand as we introduced ourselves at his local Starbucks. I should recall more about his line of work, but what stands out from that meeting was him taking and explaining frequent pee breaks because he drinks eight liters--yes, liters, not glasses--of water a day. He texted me before I got home, eager to meet up again. My work and his work made the next two weeks an impossibility. He agreed to contact me after returning from a business trip in Banff. Never heard from him again. I'll assume he got maimed by a moose while refilling his water bottle at one of those pristine freshwater springs. 

Next was Darius, a 25-year-old law student. I should never have responded to his first message, but curiosity got the better of me. No, it was not ego. I don't need to feel some sense of affirmation by having a guy twenty-one years younger than me by my side. I wanted to know why in the world he'd contacted me. Daddy issues? Looking for a financial supporter? It turned out that he desperately wanted to connect with someone he perceived as educated. My three degrees, including one in law, fit the bill. I showed up at a downtown Blenz, thinking I'd at least have something to write about. 

Turns out Darius only gets two paragraphs. For an hour, he knocked the Canadian education system and everyone his age. They were all beneath him. I am guessing (and hoping) they surpass him in the area of social skills. He messaged me the next day and I didn't for a moment feel the urge or the social obligation to reply. 

And then there's Ross. Of the three, he's the only one I initiated contact with online. Our date was only two days ago and I'm still feeling raw from the experience. He was the date that mattered. I felt uncharacteristically nervous driving to Delany's coffeehouse on Denman. As he'd included a "must love dogs" line in his profile, we'd agreed to grab a coffee and walk along the seawall with my dog in tow. 

At first glance, I thought it was another mismatch, but then he took off his sunglasses, smiled and I knew something was possible. Beautiful day, fairly smooth conversation. It was a Fourth of July without fireworks, but something to build on. The only sticking point I could detect was the fact I had unexpectedly moved out of the West End a week ago. Yep, I'm a ferry ride away for the next two months. 

I didn't sense it was too big of a deal as Ross is from Victoria and is accustomed to ferry travel a couple of times a month. He did say that the last guy he dated was from Surrey and his friends questioned that distance. I know the type. Life beyond the West End? Unthinkable! 

As we parted, Ross mentioned "next time" and said that he would program my number into his cell, a rather daring statement I thought. I keep numbers on Post-its since deleting a cell phone contact would require me to upgrade my tech skills. As I headed home, I felt relieved, even elated. At last I'd get another chance at the Holy Grail of gay online experiences: a second date. I sent him a message later that evening, indicating I'd enjoyed the walk and suggesting a bike ride or meal should he want to meet again. 

No response. 

I don't know how many times I checked my email yesterday. Damn you, Air Canada! Don't tell me about your 10% off offer. Curses to the string of emails from my writing group listserve! My inbox was filled with clutter. No new messages from Plenty of Fish. 

So I'm right back where I started from. "Huh?!" At this point, maybe I'd even welcome a misguided kiss on the nose. 

Something is amiss. So far, I've coped by wondering What's wrong with online dating? and What's wrong with Vancouver guys? At some point, I may, however, have to regress to wallowing in What's wrong with me? Oh, don't make me go there!

BEST OF BOTH?

I'm back in the city. Well, on weekdays.

For now, I'm staying in a condo in Vancouver's West End, the area where I first lived after moving from L.A. in 1994. I love it as much now as I did then. (Though I do recall that, after two years, I felt boxed in and fled for Kitsilano. I'm a fickle lover.)

During my first week, I dabbled in the things I so enjoyed back then. I took the dogs to Spanish Banks where they could run, sniff and tumble off-leash along the shore. I perused my favourite bookstore in Kits. I jogged along the seawall past Science World and over to Granville Island. Much of the development is new, but the story on the water is still what catches my eye. I walked the dogs down to Sunset Beach and sat on a bench, taking in the sunset as kayaks shared the sea with freighters and yachts. I drove to a neighborhood on 10^th near UBC and walked with a friend while enjoying an ice cream. So good to be back!

Of course, I am still adjusting. I'm still thrown by people seeming to be everywhere as I walk the dogs in the West End. My schnauzers are not fond of leashes and even less fond of my reining them in as we dodge cyclists (on the

sidewalks!), swarms of joggers, a woman on a mission with her yoga mat in tow and an impromptu boot camp session under a bridge. Vancouverites are fitness crazed. My poor aging, deaf schnauzer struggles to stay on his shaky legs as we navigate the pedestrian traffic.

Due to the warm weather, I have to keep the windows open day and night. The noise at the foot of the Burrard Street Bridge runs 24/7. Somehow sound amplifies as it is trapped between the high-rises. I don't miss a thing: sirens coming and going from nearby St. Paul's, busses, car alarms, skateboarders, motorcycles revving, even drumming that recalls the Hare Krishnas I used to encounter on weekends while biking by the beach in Santa Monica. I run a fan through the night, my feeble attempt to drown out some of the noise. Alas, most of the din shouts over the gadget.

When I returned to my place in Nowhereland Friday afternoon, I went straight to bed. The mattress, so much firmer, felt wonderful, the silence sounded even more inviting. Both my dogs seemed relieved, even thrilled, to be in a familiar environment. The elder flopped onto his cozy chair while the younger raced in and out of the house, searching for snakes in the back yard and rearranging pillows on the chairs and sofa that he seems to think exist solely for his comfort.

I need the city. The insanity brings sanity. It also causes (temporary?) insomnia. Methinks I need to invest in a pair of ear plugs.

ARMANI GOES AWOL

Where have all the Armanis gone? I used to be a decent dresser. Some people even said I had style. Women friends begged me to go shopping with them.

Now I fear I’m dangerously close to being one of those older men who walks around in knee-high brown socks, a pair of Dockers shorts and a factory outlet Hilfiger knockoff shirt with seven colors too many in the pattern. Okay, that image frightened me so much I’m destined to lie awake all night. I dream in color and I have a habit of thoughts during the day creeping into my dreams.

Yes, I’m a nightmare waiting to happen. This morning I headed to my appointment at the salon in a wrinkled pullover that has an inexplicable stain resembling the ring caused from the bottom of a poorly poured cup of coffee. (Yes, the shirt was clean. Seems the stain is here to stay. It’s the second shirt to bear such a mark. What is going on? Is someone using my shirts as coasters? Are the crop circle aliens shacking up in my closet?)

I used to iron my shorts before going to the gym. I never folded up my ironing board because I used it three or four times a day. (I rivaled Lady Gaga for costume changes although there is no way I could have ever carried off anything remotely close to her headgear!) Now the board is starved for attention, dust flying off it when I wrestle it out from behind the recyclables once every six weeks.

As I’m halfway through a year’s leave of absence so I can pursue my writing dream, there is no cash flow. I have not purchased any new clothing. My clothes are wearing down faster than ever. Armani, Michael Kors, Joseph Abboud, I do miss you! I fear we may never meet again.

Initially there was something freeing about becoming less image conscious. I didn’t have to keep a mental note of when I last wore each item of clothing and in whose presence. What I wore last week I will likely wear again this week. (My fingers got a little shaky as I typed that last sentence.) Deep down, I know I have a problem.

When I lived in Vancouver’s West End, I used to curse the fact that I could not simply dash out to buy a carton of milk. Inevitably, I would run into someone I knew. One wrong move and years of building an image would be shattered.

More often than not, I can now be seen in public in wrinkled, tattered clothing, my frizzy, straw-like, chlorine-absorbent hair lacking any trace of product. What was once freeing is now frightening. I fear I’ve reached rock bottom. Worse, I wonder if I haven’t!

LIFE IN LIMBO

I’m in a vulnerable state these days. I haven’t a clue what lies ahead. I can’t say where I’ll be living, what my job will be, whether I’ll ever see another manuscript published or if I’ll ever get over this single slump. Reminds me of freshman year of university in Texas. The first month was particularly exciting, meeting people from Florida, California, Minnesota, Colombia. Everyone was beginning a new phase and following a dream (or perhaps a family expectation). “What’s you major?” was the question that followed “Where are you from?” There were the bold philosophy majors, the quirky fashion merchandising majors, the khaki-clad, profit seeking business majors and the already caffeine-addicted pre-meds.

I was a pre-major. It was the university’s term of choice in lieu of “undeclared”. Always drew the same response: a quiet “oh” that always came across with the same tone in which people say, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Of all the possible majors, I hadn’t picked one. Undecided, uncommitted, unacceptable.

At forty-five, I’m a pre-major all over again. My mother would say I bring this on myself. Or, more precisely, she’d say I do these things just to see if that possible stroke side effect listed on her medication will ever kick in. Forget the meds…she’d say that adult children—because we’re always still children, aren’t we?—need to come with an extensive list of side effects. It’s true that I get bored with the same comfortable routines. My friend Roger, by contrast, tells me he is certain that he will never move from Vancouver and he never EVER wants a relationship. That’s what he said when I met him fifteen years ago and he’s been consistent with everything he’s said and done since. At times, I envy Roger—his outlook makes life easier—but I can’t ascribe to the same views.

I’ve revised my résumé and I’m applying for one or two jobs in the Vancouver area each week. My house has been on the market for six weeks now and the listing seems to mirror my online dating experiences: lots of first coffees, no follow-ups. The feedback: they like the inside. The outside? Not so much. OK, must stop drawing parallels to my (non) dating life!

I’ve resisted sending any messages on the Plenty of Fish until I move back to the city. So many guys can’t fathom dating a guy who lives even beyond the boundaries of Vancouver’s West End. The fact that I am willing to do whatever commuting dating requires is of no consequence.

Last week, I caved and sent a message to a forty-one-year-old who posted an attractive photo of himself cocooned in a parka and wrote a decent profile—avid tennis player, no typos and no grammatical errors. I couldn’t help myself. When I checked the next day, there was a reply, sent five minutes after my initial message. (Again, no writing errors!) Based on my profile, he felt I was “genuine” and “a breath of fresh air”. Promising, eh?

Before sending another message, I reread his profile to ask a question or two based on what he’d shared. I noticed he’d updated his page by adding a few more photos. Without the parka, he looked even hotter. Had I seen them the first time, I’d have never sent a message. Out of my league! Still, I was that breath of fresh air, right? No deceptions from me. My profile has several photos and is (surprise, surprise) one of the wordier ones, proactively spilling some of my quirks. He’d replied even after getting a pretty clear picture of who I am. After a little pep talk, I sent off my second message. I never heard back.

Oh how quickly fresh air becomes stale! I have no doubt that his new photos generated a flurry of interest and some guy baring his pecs took his breath away. Rejection stings all the more when I can’t attribute it to my rural location.

I caught “The Truth about Cats and Dogs” on TV last night. I was single in 1996 when it came out and, yep, I’m single again. Related to Janeane Garofalo’s role as much as ever. Somehow, when I view my ever-uncertain life as a romantic comedy, it doesn’t seem so bad.

Am I Proud?

It’s Gay Pride Week in Vancouver. I won’t be attending any of the festivities this year. I seem to keep the parade on my own Olympic schedule. I don’t need an annual parade booster shot to be proud. The drag queens, the dykes on bikes, the club boys who dance on floats in their underwear, the PFLAG contingent, the multicultural organization participants, the handshake happy politicians,…I hope they have a great day. And put on sunscreen so as not to ruin the fake bake tans. Gotta protect the investment!

I got to thinking, am I proud? And, if so, is that pride at least connected to being gay? Proud is defined in my trusty Random House College Dictionary as “1. thinking well of oneself because of one’s accomplishments, possessions, etc. 2. feeling honored, as by a distinction conferred on one. 3. governed in one’s words or actions by self-respect.” Other definitions are provided. Blah, blah, blah. Top three is good enough.

One of the great things of accepting oneself is being able to look at the self as a whole. Back in my awkward coming out years (and painful NOT coming out years), the gay thing consumed me. It labeled me—er, branded me—, particularly during my years living in Texas where so many people lovingly said, “Love the sinner, hate the sin.” Ick. The sentiment still smacks of self-righteous ignorance. As a nascent drama queen, I’d written a couple of suicide notes and sat in the darkness of my room, bottle of Tylenol at my side. (Not even sure you can OD on headache medicine, but it was all about making a personal statement: I hate myself because I’m gay.

I’m definitely NOT proud of that period in the late Seventies and early Eighties. That dark period reminds me of why it is so important to have official Pride events: to break that feeling of isolation, to laugh amidst the frivolity, to find strength in marchers pushing for equality.

Thankfully, I moved to Los Angeles and had an opportunity to start over. Away from a smothering Baptist, conservative culture, I could go to a gay club without fear that I might be bashed in the walk to or from the car. (I remember the shocked reaction when I called a gay helpline in L.A. “You’ve been here two months and haven’t met a single gay?!” He regained his composure and pondered which club to recommend. Naively, or perhaps to amuse himself, he asked, “Well, what’s your scene? Do you like leather?” Ultimately, he directed me to something basic. Making that phone call was huge for me and it changed everything.)

I had my years where I oozed gay pride. I was gay, first and foremost. I clubbed regularly, volunteered with AIDS Project Los Angeles, joined a gay gym and took to the streets for several days in a row when Governor Pete Wilson vetoed Bill 101 which would have banned workplace discrimination against gays and lesbians. Aside from school and work, my life was all gay all the time.

Naturally, when I moved to Vancouver, I settled in the gay ghetto, the fabulous West End. But I got tired of ironing my shorts before going to the gym and primping my hair before dashing out to the grocery store to buy another tub of frozen yogurt. Moving out of the West End helped me balance my life. I could be gay. And I could be more than that.

The pendulum is always swinging. Now living in a rural area, you might need an X-ray or blood test to detect the gay gene in me. The too-short shorts and tattered t-shirt I’m wearing at the moment don’t help matters. I haven’t even showered yet today. Gasp!

But am I proud? Do I feel a sense of self-respect? Do I feel a sense of accomplishment—without complacency—over accepting and embracing my gayness. Absolutely!

Happy Pride, Vancouver!

Second Date: A Sweaty Affair

I scanned a weather map of temperatures across North America yesterday. Boise, Phoenix, Miami,...all warmer. But here in coast British Columbia, temps surging above 30˚ Celsius make brain and body functions cease. For me, it means that I towel off every few minutes.

After a promising first date over coffee earlier in the week, I agreed to meet Hal after 6 p.m., thinking temperatures would be cooler (because 33 is so much better than 34, right?!). I drove on the ferry to avoid the sauna scene on the city bus and cranked the A/C for the first time this year. I had three shirts in the backseat, figuring I would do a last minute costume change before meeting at a coffeehouse in Vancouver's West End. I had it all worked out.

And then I walked in Melriches to get my (iced) coffee. No A/C in the place! I could feel the beads form on my brow and my (too?) snug shirt cling to my back. I peeked down the front and spotted the first water splotches. Not a pretty sight when trying to make a good second impression.

When Hal appeared, he said, "Where to?" and without hesitation I replied, "By the water."

It's a law of nature, right? It's always cooler by the water. Always! Well, Vancouver broke the law.

Call 911!

Waiting at a traffic light before reaching the seawall, I felt like I'd been crammed inside an oven...fully preheated on Broil.

For a city known for its gorgeous greenery, I expected to enjoy a shaded stroll beneath towering evergreens. Nothing doing! We started the walk on a stretch along the beach that would have made Paul Bunyan proud. The closest clump of trees was as out of reach as those six-pack abs that taunt me from the covers of men's fitness magazines.

(I no longer shell out the money to read the how-to plan inside. Science fiction has never been my thing.)

By the time we hit a shady patch, I was drenched. Glancing down at the front of my shirt, my sweat stain had formed its traditional Mickey Mouse head image. Used to amuse me. Not this time.

Hal was glistening with sweat, too. He, however, took it in stride and continued to converse about visiting the Philippines in monsoon season. Yeah, hotter than Vancouver. Not a comfort.

We found a bench high above the seawall, overlooking a beach and some swimmers--smart folks. Definitely envious. We stayed and chatted long enough for my shirt to dry. (Yes, it gets dark quite late in Vancouver in the summer. One advantage of being farther north.)

And it seems there will be another date. Things should cool down in the next few days. I'm looking forward to that as matters (possibly) heat up in other ways.