HOLOGRAMS, SNEERS & DEAD FISH

The city just ran out of men.

That’s right,...Vancouver.

The whole “raining men” thing was just a strange phenomenon from the ‘80s. The eighties, for god’s sake. And here I’d spent all but the last four months of that decade in the closet with my tossed-on-the-floor acid-washed jean shorts, collar-less Girbaud shirts and pleated baggy pants.

Doesn’t matter now. The men are gone. I’ve stepped into some Wonder Woman land. She may be fierce but frankly she doesn’t do a thing for me.

I should be like that guy who married a hologram. 

Of course, then I’d have to decide between Fred Jones from “Scooby Doo” and Hermey the Elf. Longstanding crushes. I used to be partial to blonds. I guess I’d pick Hermey. He’s got to be a dentist by now, right? My mom would be so happy. “Oh, son, you picked such a sweet, well-mannered hologram groom. And successful, too.”

Seriously, how did thirty-nine people show up to a hologram wedding? Did they miss Barbie and Ken’s big event? Did they actually buy gifts from the registry? Yeah, I should definitely marry Hermey the Elf. But first I’d have to propose and, well, he’d likely say no. He’s probably more the Big Daddy type, all that time spent around Yukon Cornelius.

Fred would turn me down, too. Nothing personal. I just don’t get the sense he’d want to share his cravat drawer.

Dammit. I can’t even get myself a decent hologram.

There’s some urban legend going around about some gay man meeting some other gay man by happenstance, out in public, in person, a random encounter in a rom-com come-to-life. I don’t see that happening for real. I sit and write in cafes and in libraries, looking up every now and then in case someone wants to make eye contact. Nothing. Just some guy one floor below me at the central library, constantly clipping his toenails. (Eye contact?! How could I compete with foot care? And I’m not the foot fetish type. Nothing romantic about what goes in a sweaty sock.)

I go to the grocery store. Not a look there. I have to decide if the avocados are ripe on my own. (By the way, here’s how.) Even when I try to cruise the Mr. Clean bottle. Worst kind of gay. He’d go home with anybody.

I go to the gym, too. There is ZERO eye contact there. Everyone wears earbuds and stares down at their phone screen during the long (LONG!) delay between sets. I’m not my best self at the gym. If anyone glanced my way, I’d make a bad impression. Part of it is the gym t-shirt and shorts which show off, well...nothing, but it’s mostly the cranky face that would put people off. I get impatient waiting to use the leg press machine. Not that it does anything for me. But it’s part of my routine and it stands between me and going home. Can’t you step aside while you scroll Facebook, check out a Kardashian Instagram account or text Aunt Rue?

So, yeah, that notion about meeting a real guy in a regular setting has been put to rest. Pure myth. That then leaves online dating options. I say that as if any are truly viable. Plenty of Fish is dead water. Same tiny pool, exact same profile photos I saw ten years ago. As if we’re all ageless wonders. OKCupid is an even smaller collection and Match.com isn’t even a blip in the Vancouver market. That leaves the penis and ass pic sites. Call me old-fashioned, but I just don’t feel comfortable messaging a penis. I can’t imagine a relationship growing from “Nice scrotum.”

So that brings me back to holograms, Wonder Woman and cruising that floozy stud, Mr. Clean. Please say yes, Hermey.

MR. CLEAN

I’ve known people who drooled over the guy on the Mr. Clean bottle. That bald head, the earring, the tight white tee, the muscles,...yeah, I can see the appeal. As far as household product spokesmen, Mr. Clean easily trumps Mr. Whipple and the Maytag repair guy. Still, I have no interest in a man whose cologne emits a fresh pine scent. (And, just to nitpick, the thick white eyebrows look like a mutation from nuclear accident. Do they glow?)

My “Mr. Clean” is a television actor who enticed me to watch “Wings” despite the regularity of writing mediocrity. I was a Tim Daly fan. Hard to believe this slim, pretty man was the brother of Cagney. Or Lacey. On "Wings", Daly played the perennial good guy, the flip side of TV brother Steven Weber's slightly dirty, creepy persona. Daly is the pilot I picture when I hear someone croon "Come Fly with Me." If only he asked!

I was truly taken with Tim. "Wings" was a fluff show sandwiched between two genuinely funny sitcoms and, sometimes on Thursday nights, I'd mute the volume, go about doing other things and feel an "Aah" moment every time I glimpsed the dashing Joe Hackett on screen. He was always worth watching.

Thomas Gibson of “Dharma and Greg” would have been Daly’s kissing cousin—also pretty with the high cheekbones, wavy, parted hair and air of wholesomeness, but somehow less sexy. (Maybe it was just too much screen time with Jenna Elfman.) Interestingly, both Daly and Gibson have starred in a major sitcom and in medical dramas (“Private Practice” and “Chicago Hope”, respectively). I think that speaks to both men carrying a hot, intellectual vibe.

Since departing “Private Practice”, my Mr. Clean has been largely unseen. I’m ready once more for my Daly dose.