NO GAYS AT THE GALLERY

Damn you, Nora Ephron. You and all the other romantic comedy writers have led me to believe you can stumble upon the love of your life in a bookstore, in a sleepy airport bar or at a busy intersection on a rainy day when you forgot the umbrella in the car. As maddening and improbable as the scenarios are, I keep renting the movies or catching them on TV. Most recently, I got to see Julia Roberts meet Javier Bardem when she rode her bike and he ran her off the road. No helmet protecting her beautiful mane. In the movies, the damsel lands in a soft bed of grass, her leg wounded, but the face unscathed.

Yesterday, I was headed to the Vancouver Art Gallery to activate some thinking for a new writing project. As I took the ferry in, I had enough time to think about maybe. Maybe my Ryan Reynolds would chat me up as we quizzically stared at old newspaper ads taped to a wall. Maybe my Ryan Gosling would look as embarrassed as I while attempting to be ponderous over the black-and-white nude female fondling her finger on a small-screen TV. Maybe my Seth Rogen and I would share a laugh, trying to get the docent/guard in the corner to crack a smile or even make eye contact. (Yeah, Seth Rogen. Even a fantasy should be tinged with a little reality.)

It turned out to be a slow day at the gallery. I don’t know how it is even possible, but I did not spot a single gay man. There was a German couple, a few moms with remarkably restrained children who didn’t try to change the TV channel (they probably don’t know how without the remote) and a hopeless middle-aged man looking to jump into a rom-com. Yeah, me.

No romance. No comedy.

I did get my work done. A lack of distractions can prove conducive to something at least.

So Mr. Right, next time I’m in the city, I’m sure the rain will be back. Look for me at that street corner. I never have an umbrella.