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.
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.
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