OFF THE MARKET

Titles can be deceiving, can’t they? For those of you who check the blog from time to time, you might have glimpsed the heading and thought a miracle happened.

No, I’m still single. (Nine and a half years. It’s a streak I’d love to end.)

The title refers to my house. After three realtors and three years of putting up For Sale signs and taking them down when each listing became stale, I don’t expect to have the house on the market for the foreseeable future—five years, maybe more.

What changed? I gave up workday ferry rides and the five hours of daily commuting I endured just to collect a paycheck. With a week and a half remaining in the school year last June, I was offered a job at a new site. Get this—it’s four blocks from home.

Yes, that still makes me giggle. I smile the entire walk to work—not that I’ll add any smile lines to my face; commercial breaks last longer.

Five weeks in, all is wonderful at work. How could there be anything for my inner Eeyore to mope about? Ah, but there is. Sometimes enticing promises of immediate pleasure/relief come with lingering side effects—the apple in the garden of Eden, the one-night stand that begets an STD (or worse), the refreshing rise of Lindsay Lohan only to be followed with a decade of media burnout.

For now, I have gained free time and I have reinstated weekday workouts. I have even reduced the dark rings under my eyes. It all warrants a robust WOO HOO! But the reason I first listed the house wasn’t because of a job. At the time, I was on a writing sabbatical. The deadly quiet of my environment proved perfect for slogging through a couple of manuscripts, but my social needs went unfulfilled. As fresh-faced as I may be, I remain in a hamlet on the outskirts of a sleepy town, separated by mountains and water from the rest of civilization.

How dead are things? The big events today in town are Teatime in the Preschool, Okie Doki Karaoke and a workshop called Build a Willow Tunnel. This is why I lock my doors.

The lead story in the local weekly paper is about scaring sea gulls off the library roof. In next week’s issue, there will be a half dozen letters to the editor, passionately squawking on either side of this bird brouhaha. Shoot the birds. Feed the birds. This could be the talk of the town, stretching into November. I am not kidding.

A year ago, the town’s McDonald’s shut down. That’s no loss to me as a vegetarian, but it’s a sign of a stagnant economy and dormant social network. More telling, I drove to the single-screen cinema tonight, daring to appear solo at a movie on a Saturday night. Two months after its premiere in metropolitan areas, Woody Allen’s “Blue Jasmine” finally arrived for a weeklong run. I was the only one to show up so they cancelled the show. Folks around here love the woods. Woody? Not so much. We’re a long way from Manhattan.

It’s not just that I am the only single gay man in these parts; I have nothing in common with the locals. I would posit that Okie Doki Karaoke drew quite a crowd.

As gleeful as I was when I accepted my new job over the phone, I felt a rush of angst the moment I hung up. Oh, god, what have I done?

For the moment, I am content. I know, however, that the same question will haunt me more menacingly in the years to come. What have I done?!

BARRY PICKING

I’ve been trying online dating for the past four years.  When I began, I knew I had to do it. My ex and I had broken up years prior and, while the first year of being single and setting my own agenda proved blissful, I realized I might be missing something. Face-to-face connections and set-ups from friends were not going to happen. During my first few years living in this rural setting, I discovered that gay men did not make the hour long journey from Vancouver. (Okay, maybe ninety minutes,...two hours when your schedule does not mesh with ferry time.) Yes, online dating had to be the way to go, a long shot but my only shot.

I filled out my Plenty of Fish profile, putting more thought into it than most of internet desperados. In addition to photos, a quick checklist (Smoker? Drug user? Car owner?), I filled in my interests, a bio and my thoughts on what would constitute a first date. (Being past my twenties, I went with the standard “coffee and a walk” instead of skydiving. Relationships have to build, you know. And as the guy gets to know me, he will (hopefully) come to accept that jumping from planes will NEVER be an option.)

There was one last requirement before hordes of desirable single gay men could begin wooing me with online roses and dazzling me with artful usage of LOLs and ur cute. I had to type a title for my profile, something like “Smile with me”, “Men are from Mars and I am hunting Martians” or “Have a thing for nerds—glasses/freckles!!”, all real headings I pulled from a quick search just now. (Darn, I have the freckles, but no glasses. How ‘bout if I squint a lot and ask you to read the fine print on the menu for me?)

I chose “Ready to Take a Chance Again” as my heading. I felt it characterized who I was and where I was at. Enough time had lapsed from my abusive seven-year relationship that I believed once more that love might be possible. The dreamer in me had been restored, jadedness replaced by some of my standard naïvité and my conviction that people are good. And far more importantly, I felt no embarrassment in giving an open nod to the fact I still listened to Barry Manilow music. Let it be a small window to my mysterious, lingering connection to the smiley-faced ‘70s.

Years later, I have changed my heading a few times. One must appear to be fresh in the fish pond, even if starting to resemble one of those prehistoric looking bottom feeders. For awhile, I stole Michael Bublé’s “I Just Haven’t Met You Yet”. Currently, I’ve taken on some truth in advertising with “I should be on clearance by now.” Sure, it’s not exactly a prudent means of self-promotion, but I am a self-deprecating soul and, well, nothing else seemed to be working. Surprisingly, it triggered new interest from guys who say they can relate...which may or may not be a good thing.

After two months of hobbling around in a cast, on crutches and in a clunky gray air-cast boot after haplessly breaking my foot, I am ready to peek once more at the fishing hole, even if my sedentary body should steer clear of a pool party. It starts with a new heading, but what does one do after “CLEARANCE” isn’t enough of a lure? Should I throw in a Ronco spatula and a patented Slice-O-Matic apple corer? It’s something to think about, but I am leaning to my fallback guy, Mr. Manilow.

Clearly, “Mandy” and “Oh Julie” are out. “Could It Be Magic” might work but it has always bothered me that the song title lacks a question mark. (Yes, all you texters and tweeters, punctuation matters!) “It’s a Miracle” clearly oversells myself and I have no idea how to create a segue for the beloved “Weekend in New England”. That leaves the truest title of them all to reflect where I am at: “Tryin’ to Get the Feeling Again”.

No, the lyrics still aren’t a perfect match. (I am so beyond seeking such a thing.) My woman is not “comin’ back home late today”, thank goodness. Seems I’ve done something right. (I suspect poor Barry could fully relate to the lyric.) Still, the song fits.

'Cause the feeling is gone and I must get it back right away
Before (s)he sees that

I've been up, down, tryin' to get the feeling again
All around, tryin' to get the feeling again
The one that made me shiver
Made my knees start to quiver
Every time (s)he walked in

And I've looked high (high), low (low)
Everywhere I possibly can (high)
But there's no (no) tryin' to get the feelin' again
It seemed to disappear as fast as it came.

Something is missing in me. As I spent the last month blogging about crushes, a sense of melancholy seeped in. As silly as it was to long for Antonio Sabato, Jr. or a guy at the gym who was too sweet to tell me to stop staring, the infatuations arose from hope. Misplaced hope, for sure, but still hope is a good thing.

I haven’t blogged as much about my online coffee dates over the past year. They may be infrequent, but they do happen, one as recently as last week. I muster up my optimism, smile a lot, listen, chat engagingly and I feel nothing.

I recall once being infuriated after a daytime coffee date when the guy said the fireworks weren’t there. I don’t expect that. (Even oohs and aahs can feel forced.) All I want is to hope for a Next Time. Sure, there is disappointment when I email a guy after what I think is a promising first meeting and he never responds or gives the “It’s not you, it’s me” brush-off. But how wonderful to email a guy, hoping he too thinks something just might be worth building on!

Even when a second date is likely (as seems imminent after last week’s date), I am wholly ambivalent. I say yes, thinking maybe something can be stirred up, but I know the date is D.O.A.

And so I limp along—in a week, hopefully without the stupid boot—waiting for a reawakening within. It takes effort to fight off a feeling of resignation that I will remain alone in this world, that this is what really is my Meant to Be. I keep smiling—it’s genuine—, I continue to laugh over every little reaction of my dog and I stop to appreciate the natural beauty of my once-chosen rural setting. But hope takes kindling to stoke it. No fireworks, just the tiniest of sparks will do, thank you very much.

Here’s hoping for hope. And, if all else fails, I might have to call a travel agent to book a Weekend in New England. I can’t rule out anything.

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!

TORCH SONG THRILL-OGY

So many times, I get the feeling that where I live isn’t on the map. It’s certainly not on the gaydar. But, thankfully, life isn’t all about being gay and every so often my little community stands out. Today, the Olympic torch comes to town.

In British Columbia, complaining about the Olympics has hit new heights as lifelong Half Empties have been in a fog since this wacky winter has knocked weather from the top of the complaint agenda. (I lost a glove about a month ago—it’s no doubt hiding out with a few odd socks—but there has been no urgency in purchasing a new pair.) I understand the critics, but I do hope the Olympics are a resounding success. And one thing that warrants commendation is the effort VANOC has made to permit as many people as possible to have the opportunity to see the torch firsthand. It’s the only “live” event most of was will experience.

To be sure, the torch didn’t need to get sidetracked coming to my area. But on this balmy day when the sun is shining and snow dusts the mountains across the water, it makes for an idyllic setting. Sitting in the local library, I can view the marina and the main stretch of town where the torch will journey. The arrival is an hour and a half away, but the excitement builds as musicians set up and people stroll through the park, many decked in red, a public fashion choice that usually makes me want to gag on bad Valentine’s chocolate. People mingle in the library as well, putting in time, having nabbed a prime parking space in advance of the big event.

In this moment, pride is inescapable. Not gay pride, not national pride, but a sense of connectedness to a charming little town that at other times has made me feel so isolated. Yes, the torch is but a symbol or perhaps a tool, allowing me to see my environment in a sunny light. That, in itself, is an Olympian achievement.

THROWING IN THE TOWEL

Four years, two months, ten days. That’s how long I’ve lived in the boonies. And hopefully I won’t have to count the days much longer. I met with a realtor today to list the house. Rural life hasn’t worked out. I need to get back to the city.

I suppose things might have been different if I didn’t have a ferry to govern my trips to the city (and my friends’ visits to see me). I don’t mind driving distances, but I like to have control in when I travel. Being dependent of the ferry schedule broke me.

Of course, it was more than that. I’m simply not a country boy. Folks I met here avoid going to Vancouver at all costs; I, on the other hand, yearn for any excuse to get there. Dairy Queen Blizzard? Road trip! (That is a head scratcher. How could this area not even have a DQ? If anyone cares, it’s a goldmine of a franchise for these parts.)

I tried Internet dating, but guys were quick to press Delete (and maybe a blocking mechanism) when I explained where I lived. I even went to a couple of gay/lesbian events here. Typically, I was the only single guy amongst a horde of women and a handful of coupled senior men. People were nice, but I couldn’t find a connection.

Moving is always stressful. I’ve moved eighteen times since university so it shouldn’t be such a big deal, but it is. The angst heightens in the middle of the night, leaving me with raccoon eyes that are becoming more and more dramatic. What if the house doesn’t sell? What will I ever be able to afford in the Vancouver market? Should I rent? Who will rent a place to a guy with two dogs? What if I forget what traffic lights are for?

Breathe. One step at a time. The sign goes up Monday. Fingers crossed for a quick sale.