WALK ON THE WILD SIDE

A couple of weeks ago, there was a gay and lesbian potluck in my area.

I didn’t go.

For someone who feels isolated, it was a stupid (non)move. Brought me back to high school, with my mother coaxing me away from my MTV. Go on! Get out there and socialize! I’m sure they’re a very nice bunch. Futile words then and now.

Oh, I thought about it. Yes, I’ll go. No, I won’t.

There is an annual Pride Dance here each summer. This year’s got cancelled. Not enough people volunteered to plan the event. Based on postings on the gay and lesbian listserv, the summer potluck is the only other annual event. I went once. Five years ago. Trying to mix with people I don’t know is always a struggle, but I put on a snappy outfit, bought some sort of pre-made vegetarian munchies and, after moments of hesitation in my parked car, schlepped on in.

I may have lasted an hour. It was a strange scene. The women clustered in their staked out zones, the men flocked to other spaces. Everyone sat. I neglected to bring a lawn chair. I stood on the fringes. In time, I inched toward the safest looking male pack. Two, four, six, eight...I made nine. Odd man in so many ways. Everyone was partnered. They spoke in we’s. “Oh, we spend our winters in Florida.” “We moved here fifteen years ago.” “We take the ferry as little as possible.” As someone announced it was time to eat, people marched two-by-two toward the food tables. I made my exit.

In the years since, I have tried to get single friends to come over on the designated weekend. They politely decline.

It’s not just my single status that holds me back. Under any circumstance, I am not a potluck guy. I have a specific diet and I call unwanted attention to myself when the only food on my plate comes from my dish. In a restaurant, I have a quiet conversation with the waiter and, after a check with the kitchen, he returns to tell me what the chef can do for me. It attracts some attention, but I’m not turning my nose up at anyone else’s contribution.

Reading the online thank-yous after the potluck (from Josh and Kevin, Mary and Sara), I decided I needed to stop waiting for someone else to plan an event that suits me. I would rather hike, kayak, see the natural beauty of the area I have chosen to call home. The weather has been disappointing this summer so I waited until yesterday write an email to the listserv, inviting others to join me this Saturday on a forty-minute easy trail walk at a local park. One fellow emailed me, saying that he (and his partner) could not make it. He, however, liked the idea. There have been no other responses yet. I won’t take it personally. It’s short notice to walk with a stranger. And no bundt cake. Where’s the appeal?

I’ll do the walk regardless of whether anyone replies. With lots of shade, a few streams and a couple of waterfalls, it’s a favorite trail for my dog and me. He is my “we”. If nothing else, we’ll connect with nature. It’s all good.

LET'S CHAT

This post focuses more on the "rural" part of the blog name. (But in honor of Pride Week in Vancouver this week, I'll throw in a rainbow flag pic for the heck of it. There's the gay content.)

I do like my time to myself. Always have except perhaps during adolescence when we seem to be wired differently, when alone equals unpopular and triggers despondent "What's wrong with me?" entries in spiral-bound journals. I am on vacation now and this is an opportunity to use all my alone time to focus on writing. While jogging earlier this week on a highway infrequently traveled by a mill worker in a souped up Dodge Ram or a camper hauling a boat, I thought, Oh, this is great. I need this jog. Gives me time to think. And then I checked myself. HELLO?! You have all day at home with uninterrupted thinking time.

Peace and quiet? That's a big reason I was enticed to buy a house a ferry ride away from the city. But often there is too much peace and quiet. When I walk my dog through this neighborhood at 10 p.m., almost all the lights are out. Takes "bedroom community" to the extreme.

Too much thinking time, too much peace and quiet....not a good thing. Interaction is valuable; quells the hermit tendencies. I drive into town once or twice a day. I engage in counter conversation. Hello/How are you/I'd like a large of the dark blend/Thank you/Have a good day/Yes, nice to finally see the sun. It's autopilot talk. (Yesterday, when I bought a newspaper, the gas station attendant said, "Have a good weekend." It was Tuesday!) Often the pleasantries are with the same people. Despite being a small town where everyone is supposed to know your name, we don't. They may even be wearing company name tags. Never noticed.

These are only interactions on a technical, dictionary-definition level. I say more to my dog. (And I like to imagine he says more to me. Wonderfully communicative eyes.)

Praise be to the Internet.

That's a sentence I never thought I'd write. Sixteen months ago, I recall asking a former coworker about Twitter. Why was he on it? What was the point? Why did he keep checking his account? His answers, like all of his answers, rambled on. (How could this man communicate in 140-character chunks?!) He mentioned two groups he'd "befriended": one a swarm of golfing enthusiasts and another a keen pack of techies. He was meeting up with many of the golfers in North Carolina in a month. No, they'd never met. He didn't seem to get the point of why I'd asked.

I set up a Twitter account, a couple in fact, but I remained a skeptic. Then I attended the Society for Children's Book Writers and Illustrators' massive conference in Los Angeles last August. More Twitter talk. At one workshop, the Tweeters (Twits?) were rabid, every sentence beginning with "You must--". When I logged back on, I followed some of them and most followed in return.

I signed on to official chats, #kidlitchat and #yalitchat, at their weekly times. It was challenging to keep up with the stream of comments and to tweet a relevant reply before it became off topic three minutes later. At other points in the week, I tried to think in tweets. Ooh, that'll be clever. But then a driver would chirp something quite different when the light turned green and my witticism would be gone. Still, I think I started to get it.

A year later, I look forward to the chats. I recognize the names and tiny pics of many people Tweeters. Some of them stand out. I like what they say, I relate to them, we reply to one another during the conversation. Yes, conversation. Some of them even get when I'm trying to be funny. (I REFUSE to ever use that Internet laugh-track, LOL.)

This summer, I've also checked out #litchat and I belatedly stopped in at #bookmarket. The feel isn't the same though, likely because I'm still a guest. Last Sunday, I stopped by #TVwriterchat. Yes, I've been a closet sitcom writer, dating back to 1989. Never came out. Moving from L.A., it was hard to find anyone in Vancouver who would passionately dissect an episode of "Seinfeld" or discuss the quirky promise of the current "Raising Hope". In my rural environs, I can't even attempt to share my thoughts with the dog. He runs to another room if I laugh too loud when the TV is on. ("What is that noise breaking up our peace and quiet?!")

I had to get up and pace a couple of times during the chat. I was too excited to sit. I was outing myself as a TV writer wannabe. I found a connection. And I can't wait for next Sunday.

Things are moving beyond official chats. Early this morning, I tweeted that I was submitting something to a magazine today. (If I tweet it, I have to do it, right?) Three replies came back, wishing me luck. I recognized each of their profile names. Another person sent me a direct message, thanking me for acknowledging during last night's #kidlitchat that self-doubt is a normal part of the writing process. She felt she could slog on without abandoning her manuscript.

Yes, I am a Tweeter/Twit/Twitterer/Twirp.

Real time conversations about things I care about. I feel less isolated, less alone in the middle of nowhere. I feel inspired to write more. I'm not the only one spending his vacation in a home office, typing away, pondering, plotting, revising. It's exhilarating!

SMALL POND INDEED

Sometimes when fishing you reel in the unexpected. 

I had an interesting new message on Plenty of Fish this morning. Nothing about the words stood out. You have a great profile. Have a good weekend. But the photo caught my eye. No, it wasn’t because the face staring at me was particularly attractive or unattractive. It’s just that I knew him. 

Sure, it was fifteen years ago and the hair had receded, but it was still the same face. Ben was a fitness instructor at the first gym I belonged to in Vancouver. He was one of the most popular. You had to call to reserve your spot in the morning and still arrive early to stake your step spot. (Oh, he taught all kinds of aerobics, but step class moves were all I could handle.) 

As a revered instructor, he always had his groupies at the gym. But I would see him at the gay coffee haven of the time, Delany’s on Denman. He’d nod, smile, move on. Always moving. What fat did he have left to burn? 

 On weekends, I’d occasionally run into him at a club. The smile seemed different. Sexy. He’d give me a quick hug as he brushed by. Always toying with me, it seemed. There was something there and yet something not there at the same time. Never gave it much thought. Fitness instructors were so far above me. 

I glanced at the computer screen again. Maybe it was a Ben lookalike. I clicked on the profile. Interests: fitness, jogging, cycling, hiking. Definitely Ben. Awkward. 

This isn’t the first time I’ve stumbled upon someone I've previously known on Plenty of Fish. The site has a “Viewed Me” tab. Click on it and everyone who has clicked on your profile shows up. You look, they know. I have been mortified a few times when double clicking on a too-small-but-no-I-don’t-need-glasses thumbnail picture. Egad! It’s Michael, the lawyer who played a whole season on my gay volleyball team! Seriously not interested, but what would he think? And that’s Tad (or Ted?) whom I already met for coffee. Why did he change his photo to one with him in front of a fountain? Why get the whole fountain in the shot? Doesn’t he know how hard it is to identify him in that teeny-tiny thumbnail? He’ll think I’m a stalker. 

Viewing is one thing; messaging is another. There was that time Allen went that step further and sent me a message. Really?! I hadn’t realized he’d returned from England. Six months goes so quickly. And apparently he’d brought the London fog back with him. How else to explain that he’d contacted me on a dating site? We’d played tennis together once or twice a week for almost a year. And his ex was a friend of mine! Oops. Sorry, came the reply after I wrote him back and set him straight. The dolt. 

Back to Ben. Why was he sending me a message? Perhaps fitness instructors approaching fifty aren’t so far above me. I hesitated before I messaged back. Went for a lap around the dining room table. Jogged my memory if not my body. (Yes, my fitness status has changed, too.) But then I typed away. I filled him in. I playfully cursed him for upping the degree of difficulty in his step classes after I’d finally mastered the not-so-complex L-steps and U-turns, even the silly Grapevines. When I started taking water breaks to avoid the more intricate moves, I realized my fitness routine wasn’t getting me any fitter. Dammit, I had to abandon step classes and jog the seawall which I’d been trying to avoid from the outset. 

No doubt Ben will be embarrassed. Or worse, he’ll read my message, look at my photos and say, “Still not ringing any bells.” Whatever. The message had the unintended effect of reminding me of my first years in Vancouver and the close group of friends I had, four of us traveling to the East Coast one summer. (No, Ben wasn’t one of them. Fitness instructor, remember?) John, Kim, Takeshi. Alas, we’ve lost touch. Hadn’t expected to feel nostalgic after logging in on Plenty of Fish. Amused, yet a tinge melancholy. And that’s not bad at all. Thanks, Ben.

EXPANDING THE ONLINE NET

As mentioned in a post last week, I've decided to look beyond the online world of Plenty of Fish. I am stretching my horizons, surfing with a Patti LaBelle-inspired new attitude. Eyes open, smile genuine, mind positive... I opened a FREE account with the more popular, more lurid Gay.com. I left the profile blank since I didn't have a picture to run. Then, I browsed the listings for forty-something Vancouverites, felt the positivity waning and decided to logout. Give it a fresh look in a week. 

Logging back in today, lo and behold I had a message. Remember, I am the guy with the shell profile. Who would respond to nothing? The subject heading offered a clue: "Wassup. I'm just a simple guy..." (Honestly. I am not making this up.) Guess I didn't overwhelm him with heady profile reading. Whew. I knew this was an instant delete message but, for research sake once again, I opened it: "Hello cutie, damn horny here! I want to know some one who understand me. I am a person who is online most of the time and expects everyone to be friendly with him. If you want details, please feel free to ask." 

And I didn't. I could not bear to open the profile. Not even for research. Delete. 

Still positive. SPAM is everywhere. I haven't terminated my Yahoo email account just because I keep being asked to help a Nigerian diplomat with a confidential investment opportunity. (I mean, really,...what would I do with all that money?) I went to my profile and added a headshot after cropping out family members from a photo emailed to me during the winter. How narcissistic. How callous to blot out Aunt V and her bejewelled sweatshirt. To download the picture, I had to click a box that read, "I agree this photo is of me, or I have Permission to use it." (Italics added.) What?! I could have called up Brad Pitt and got permission to use that ab-fabulous snippet from "Thelma and Louise"?! Damn. 

Okay, somewhat guarded, but still in the positive realm of conciousness. I began to whip together a blah-blah-blah about myself, only to be distracted by a gay.com ad in the right margin with a photo of a studly man gripping a tennis ball in his hand while posing in the kind of tight shorts McEnroe used to wear on court in the '70s. The pic deserved a fashion citation and a McEnroesque diatribe, beginning with "Are you serious?!" 

But it was still hot. 

It dawned on me that on this site I'd have not only to compete with photos of hundreds of other Vancouver men (or photos they had Permission to use (capitalized in accordance with gay.com's style manual)), but there would also be these comely male models popping up on every page. Egad, how dismal! 

Oops, ventured out of the positive zone. Let me rephrase that. Oh, hurrah, what a challenge! 

Wooers who message me must be truly crazy for me (or just simple guys). I focused on writing my profile, submitted it and was aghast that my paragraph spacings were ignored. Horrors! One hodgepodge block of text! Hard to recover from that troublesome glitch. I'll hold off and peruse profiles another day.

GUILTY PLEASURE: THE BACHELORETTE

How is it that the American public broke up with reality show "Joe Millionaire", but "The Bachelor/Bachelorette" keeps cranking out seasons and hot tub spinoffs? The concept: a man or woman shops from a pool of twenty-five attractive, "successful" single candidates in search of someone who will propose or be proposed to after three or four one-on-one dates. Weird? Sure. But then there are the group dates. Creepy. The host gets paid something in the bygone-Joe range to say little more than "Ladies/Gentlemen,...the final rose" and "Minnie/Mickey, take a moment to say your goodbyes." And then there are the icky handwritten invitations from the host, encouraging the Bachelor(ette) and his/her final three to spend the night in the Fantasy Suite. Not all at once, but over consecutive nights. Still mighty sleazy.

I should hate this show. It's drivel. It's beneath me. Heck, it's beneath my dog.

And yet I love it. Well, maybe "love" is too strong. Sticking with the show's lingo, I'm starting to really have feelings for it.

Oh, how can I justify the time wastage? To be fair, I multitask to reality shows, especially during the frequent commercials and all the "Coming up..." clips that precede these commercials, the creation of producers who fear that viewers' attention spans will drift elsewhere. (Guess they've got a good take on the target audience.) As the show airs on Monday nights, I have the easiest-of-the-week versions of Sudoku and the The New York Times Crossword to trick my mind into thinking I'm a brainiac. I also sort through piles of papers that have mysteriously taken up floor space since the last "Bachelorette". And, if I am really restless, there's always dusting. (After they cure cancer and the common cold, I hope they get to work on extinguishing dust. By golly, give them a decade's worth of Nobel Prizes.)

Whoa. "The Bachelorette" and the Nobel Prize in the same post. Seems I've strayed.

The multitasking argument doesn't hold up. Why not clean while watching more highbrow fare such as--let me check the TV schedule--"Gossip Girl" or four consecutive episodes of "Cake Boss"?

The truth is I can relate to "The Bachelorette". There, I said it.

Years ago, I had plenty of single friends, gay or female. We would go for dinner, grab a coffee, walk the seawall and talk about our dating dilemmas. Or non-dating dilemmas. Each encounter, each brush-off had entertainment value, but the talks also allowed us to comfort and commiserate. And, to prevent each of us from hitting rock bottom, the other would add a timely, "What about so and so?" to keep hope alive.

Yep, good times.

But the single friends have gotten married or they live in far off exotic places like Boise or they've taken dating off the conversation menu. Now I go it alone.

And that explains my loyalty to "The Bachelor(ette)". People can speculate all they want about how real the show is. What I see is people getting excited about possibilities. This could be the one. Casting aside the over the top gimmicks (Anyone want to buy a mask on eBay?), there are relatable awkward dates and promising encounters between the dating world's walking wounded. And after each inane rose ceremony, there's the castoff's painful limo ride where an eager producer sits off camera with a box of Kleenex.

Watching any Reject Ride, I feel I am not alone in being alone. Turns out others feel the same--not just the unrequited wooer, but many a viewer. As I clicked over to ABC's website, I discovered you can watch past episodes or simply the ouster segments, entitled "The Diaries of the Departed".

There's Lucas, the cool, reserved Texan: "Rejection's never fun but...you always look for that better day."

And Ryan, the excitable, optimistic water heater expert: "I'm shocked. Um, uh,...hey, you know,...sometimes I guess people don't feel it. Now I want someone more than you have any i-- (choking up) I want to find that person....Someday."

Last night it was preppy, wordsmith Ames: (Covers eyes, hands shaking; recovers) "I feel pretty numb. I've fallen in love with somebody who clearly didn't fall in love with me back. And...I just wonder, you know, what it was. I was really excited to see what was gonna happen between the two of us next. And that's something I'm never going to get to know. I was just hoping to share a lifetime of adventures with this beautiful woman. Now I'm back to sharing a lifetime of adventures with myself...which is, uh...less enticing."

Oh, boys, I can relate. Ames, I'm choking up myself. Less enticing indeed.

There, I've done it. I think. I've justified my addiction to "The Bachelor(ette)".

Haven't I?

HAPPY SIXTH ANNIVERSARY TO GAY MARRIAGE IN CANADA

To Canadian gays and lesbians who walked down the aisle after gay marriage became law six years ago, the gift is candy. I am two days ahead of the gay marriage anniversary, but I've been told there are some partners who need some not so subtle reminders. Make reservations for the chocoholic buffet, share a Twizzler, Lady and the Tramp style, or just pop a handful of tic tacs before a celebratory smooch.

As the ugly rhetoric against gay marriage continues in the United States (and elsewhere) and reaches reprehensible status amongt some anonymous online comment posters, there remain sizable pockets of Canadians opposed to gay marriage and, well, gay anything. Still, marriage is an established right. Those against can refuse to buy the gravy boat and stay home from the ceremony (assuming they got an invite).

I moved here from California, that once hippy-infested, granola haven that bred left-leaning politicians like rock-star-dating Jerry Brown. (Hey! Jerry's back?! Alas, his "When Will I Be Loved" muse moved on.) I have gay friends who married there, pre-Prop 8, odd asterisks to the "man and a woman" state of marriage there today. They are a minority within a minority. Time will change--hello, New York!--but it baffles me that sunny California is shrouded in a veil of darkness.

I don't hear much from the LGBTs in Canada about gay marriage now. The naysayers from outside rant unchecked for the most part and the naysayers from within, who pooh-poohed the desire for recognition through a traditionally heterosexual instituation, have moved on to...what? Seems there's a complacency.

Anniversaries remind us to appreciate something substantial, something that took a common focus and partnership to achieve and sustain. Yes, happy anniversary to the sweet-toothed bride-bride, husband-husband, spouse-spouse couples. The aisles may remain clear for me, but I'm off to get a box of Smarties just for me to celebrate the occasion. Why not? Gay marriage is possible, even when only a hypothetical. This is Canada.

SOMETHING OFF ABOUT ONLINE DATING

Am I too picky or is it a case of slim pickings? 

 

After almost two and a half years on Plenty of Fish, the well has run dry. Seems there really is a fish shortage. 

 

Maybe the site name was a bad omen for me. As a vegetarian, I can't even cope with catch-and-release. 

 

I'd say I've gone for coffee with about thirty guys. It's a good thing I like coffee and even better that I have my own environmentally friendly mug. Otherwise, what a waste. 

 

Any shot of dating is pretty much out for the summer. I'm back to living a ferry ride away from Vancouver and, while I have no qualms about zipping back and forth--a date is so much more (potentially) exciting than a trip to work--it seems my location is an instant turnoff. Right up there with bad breath, Crocs and an Ann Coulter Fan Club membership, a residence outside the West End or beyond walking distance to Commercial is an excuse to immediately move on. Other photos, other possibilities. 

 

Even I have my location limits. Last week I received a new message in my inbox. Oh, hooray. The fellah didn't even have a photo. Yes, faceless man, let your words dazzle me. I clicked on the message, a quick, complimentary note about my looks and my profile. Gee, thanks, Cyrano. Still, I'd call it a woeful woo. The guy lived in Fredericton. For those of you with Canadian geography challenges, that's 5,343 kilometers away. I'm afraid the coffee would be cold by the time I got there. I did, however, follow perfect etiquette, replying with a thank you and wishing him the best of luck finding someone on his side of the Great Lakes. Yep, the fish are that scarce these days. 

 

Plenty of Fish, your name deceives. Why not be honest with your moniker. Like Martin Short. Or Snooki. (Okay, I have no idea how to define a "snooki" but it fits, doesn't it?) 

 

Purely for the sake of research, I just logged back in to POF and conducted my standard search: image only, within fifty miles of Vancouver, 40-49...Aside here: oh, how I hate the 46 year olds who indicate they are seeking someone from 18-35. (I'm talking to you, mister "Looking for the Guy Next Door".) My search came up with 343 guys. Jackpot, right? 343 sure beats the zero in my community. For a newbie, that might result in a lot of clicking on profiles with safe titles like "It's in the chemistry" and "Excited for Life". (Poor "HARD-ON Friendly" seems to be on the wrong site.) 

 

I hadn't done a search in a month so, again, purely for the sake of research, I perused the search results. Reminded me of trading hockey cards when I was a kid: seen him, seen him, seen him. It's a rapid browse. I stopped at 250 since the remaining guys hadn't been on the site in the past month. Either they had the wisdom to give up or they're too consumed with the latest iPhone app. 

 

By my count, I came across a dozen guys I'd previously messaged and either never received a response from or blew me off before any talk of coffee. Three past coffee companions popped up. I clicked on three new-to-me profiles and, as a research endeavor, went ahead an messaged two. 

 

I'm not holding my breath. And I'm not deleting my account. Heck, no. The desperate must keep all options open! 

 

But maybe it's time to have a wandering eye on the World Wide Web. Where to next? 

 

Next week, I'll share my first impressions in signing up again on one of the other dating sites, one that surely has a few guys like me but, from past recollection, is more populated with the likes of HARD-ON Friendly. It's difficult to keep an open mind when I'm already cringing. Gotta try. The alternative is static whining into the blogosphere. (Oh, yeah, sorry 'bout that.)