PEACE & QUIET...OH, NO!

Nelson, B.C. on a busier day.

For the past eight years, I have been urban-deprived. So when I came across the road sign that said, “CAUTION: Sheep on the road next 18 km”, it dawned on me that maybe I’d erred in my vacation planning.

I keep going for scenic, rustic, peaceful. I have learned nothing.

Day 1 of my travels and I felt so calm—at least after navigating through a ninety-minute snowy patch with my dog sitting and shaking riding shotgun, while enduring a panic attack. The mountain fog was a breeze after that. I also felt disconnected, but that’s status quo.

Nelson is a lovely little town in the Kootenays of British Columbia. It’s also mighty sleepy on a rainy Sunday in mid-March. After checking in to my hotel, the dog and I went for a walkie. He was thrilled to mark new territory. But then, he was just as excited piddling on a littered yogurt cup in a dirt parking lot during a quick road stop in seemingly abandoned Princeton, B.C. (While he did his thing, I kept my eye out for zombies. Freaky interaction averted. Maybe zombies just want a dairy fix.)

The streets of central Nelson are lined with beautiful old buildings. But at 4:40 on a Sunday afternoon, the sidewalks were empty. Well, there was an off-key busker, looking for a nuisance fee. (I’d rather encounter yogurt-deficient zombies.) To wholly avoid him, I jaywalked to the other side of the street. No risk of being struck by traffic. Unfortunately, stores closed at 4. Or even 3. Restaurants didn’t even bother opening, sticking to that Closed on Sundays norm from sixty years ago. I started to wonder if Nelson was the original homestead of Ozzie and Harriet.

Dinner ended up being a burrito from the co-op grocery store—open until 6 in the evening! The dog and I retreated to our hotel room for more quiet time. I almost welcomed the nonstop coughing wall. Interaction! I named it Wally. If Tom Hanks can name a volleyball, I can bond with a too-thin wall.

Sadly, as I pulled my pillow ear plugs away in the morning, Wally said nothing. A wall of silence. Time to say goodbye to Nelson.

Surely things will be bustling in Spokane.

THE OBVIOUS VACATION DESTINATION

Woo hoo! It’s Spring Break and I've got a week's vacation. Naturally, I am heading to Boise, Idaho.

Wait a minute. What did you just say? Boise is not a vacation destination?!

I'm going to have to have a word with my travel agent.

Seems I am as good at selecting my holiday spots as I am in picking men. Come to think of it, I’m not so good with avocados either.

In truth, I fully intended to go to Boise. A good friend of mine from when I used to live in L.A. moved to Boise. (He's Hawaiian. When it came time to abandon West Hollywood, why, oh why, didn't he choose Honolulu?!) Oh, well. I do like road trips. It's Nelson, BC, then Spokane, Boise and Seattle. And, yes, I am looking forward to it. Don't hold that against me.

CLEAR AS MUD

Coffee can be so confusing.

The uncertainty started with the last sentence of Daniel’s message, confirming the meeting time and place:  “Looking forward to this long anticipated intercourse.”

Okay,…what?

These are not words to drop on a sexually frustrated single guy. Yeah, I get that “intercourse” can refer to a conversation, but why not choose its less provocative cousin, discourse, or something plain and simple? Chat. Talk. Hell, how about “conversation”?

Intercourse?!

I had to go through the whole manscaping routine. Just in case.

Actually, I should rewind. There was some earlier confusion as well—just not as scintillating. When Daniel suggested we correspond off match.com and use our personal emails, I had his full name right there in the email address. How could I not Google him? By golly, he even came up in Google Images. His online dating images appeared but so did a photo of an older Daniel bearing a remarkable resemblance. Still, it was the kind of older image that indicated his best days were a generation ago. Instant disappointment. Why do people post dated photos of themselves? It creates a certain letdown upon actual meeting. Aren’t there enough in-person letdowns as it is?

I refused to look again at the Google evidence. Maybe, just maybe, these were entirely different people who coincidentally had the same name, eyes and nose. After so many go-nowhere dates, I deserved a solid maybe.

A solid maybe with a possible alternate definition of intercourse.

Trekking to Vancouver for the coffee encounter, I tried to repress the nagging thought that I’d be meeting Old Daniel. I refused to brainstorm possible excuses for an early exit. As well, I tempered any notion that the impressively articulate and handsome Younger Daniel would walk in the café and be instantly smitten by me—dark rings under the eyes and all. (FYI, none of those miracle eye creams work. Still, I keep slathering them on just like I continue to make my weekly donation to the provincial lottery. Sometimes I can be hopelessly hopeful.)

Just go and see. No expectations. Be in the moment.

I arrived early so I could stake out a table and shed all the wintery layers that make me look like a rejected defensive end for the B squad of a minor college team in Lichtenstein (which I am assuming is not a football hub). Nice to shed the appearance of fifty extra pounds with a few zipper pull-downs. I pulled out my iPhone and pretended I was socially connected to gazillions of people sending me texts and tweets. In truth, I checked the weather.

Daniel walked in after I’d surveyed the present conditions in Montreal, Honolulu and Boise. (Yeah, Boise. Why not?)

Younger Daniel! Whew. He charmed me in an instant with a “hello” that revealed his Scottish accent remained intact despite having moved to Vancouver twenty years ago. I wonder if my Canadian accent would be as alluring if I moved to the United Kingdom. I suppose it would be trying too hard if I moved there and packed four “eh”s into every sentence.

Over the next three hours—which included a walk along the Stanley Park seawall—we connected, at least from my perspective. Lots in common in terms of experiences and ways of viewing the world. Still, as I have learned from so many coffees that failed to lead to a second date, a lively chitchat means diddly squat if there is no physical connection. I found Daniel attractive with his slim build and enticing blue eyes, but what did he think of me?

I decided to be bold. Why sit around a day waiting for an email and blaming the lack of any message on what must surely be an overzealous spam filter? Why let confusion linger?

I put it out there. “I’ve enjoyed this afternoon. I find the physical attraction hard to come by, but I feel that with you. Do you have any interest in another date?”

Perhaps I caught him off guard. Daniel gave the desired response—or some semblance of it: “I’d like to get to know you more.” And then the conversation died. Suddenly, the wintery air felt even cooler. (Oh, to be in Honolulu!) Daniel walked me halfway to my car, then escaped up a side street.

End of intercourse.

What happened? In a flash, everything became clear as mud. Sure, it was sludge dredged up from a charming, wee loch, but mud is mud.

Boldness is overrated. As it turns out, being meek and left to check email forty times the day after isn’t such a bad thing after all.

While writing this, I received a text message from Daniel. While the last pre-date message referred to some “long anticipated intercourse” this one veered down a much different path, ending with “Hope your week goes well, my friend.”

Ouch.

No more mud. Add clarity to the overrated heap as well.

THROUGH THE "LOOKING" GLASS

Okay, that’s it. I need to become a TV character.

I just watched the first episode of HBO’s “Looking” on YouTube and it made me pine for fantasy over reality.


I was so interested in watching. They producers had me with the title: Looking. Hey, me too! The difference, however, is these gay men are Looking and Finding. Okay, more like Looking and Hooking Up, but still, they are passing Go. Something is actually happening.


What a concept.


The show has generated comparisons to “Girls” and “Sex in the City”. Rightly so. As far as I can tell, “Looking” focuses on three main characters, with Jonathan Groff taking on the Carrie Bradshaw role. This is San Francisco, not New York and he’s a videogame developer, not a writer. Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to. He’s supposedly the “straight” guy while his friends are the randier ones. Still, the series opens with Groff’s character getting an awkward hand job in a cruising area of a park. “Ooh! Cold hands!” Yeah, I’d probably blurt the same thing.


Not that I’d ever be in that situation. I am trying not to be judgmental. Just not my thing. Besides, I’d be willing to bet that I could promenade through the cruisiest area of the cruisiest gay park and still reemerge with nothing but a renewed appreciation for nature’s way of allowing fallen trees to decompose. Oh, and I’d bend over (unnoticed, of course) to rescue a few slugs that slithered onto a main pathway. Death by rubber sole averted.


I know it’s San Francisco, not my setting in gay oblivion, but the premiere episode showed that gay dating (or hookup) possibilities are endless. Cue The Weather Girls! Groff sends out a message on an online dating site and—BAM!—he’s set for drinks at a trendy bar later that day. His friend labors on an art installation and, by golly, the hired help happens to be gay and ready to play. The other friend cruises the new waiter at work—apparently every employee in San Fran is gay—and is momentarily rebuffed. Poor soul. It’s the first time he’s ever been turned down.


Ah, fantasy. I can’t even relate to the guy having no sex.


Groff’s bar date doesn’t go well, but no need to despair. As soon as he’s seated on the subway, another guy is at the ready to aggressively cruise him.

Call it “Queer As Folk 2”—or “3” if you want to count the American QAF as a separate entity. (I hated that version due to some awful acting.) To be sure, the show feels more real than recent network misfires like “Sean Saves the World”, “Partners” and “The New Normal”. I would even continue to watch if I could access HBO. But, as someone who has been floundering at gay dating for a huge chunk of my adulthood, it amazes me that “Looking” could look nothing like my own experiences. Then again, a show that strives to represent my take on dating would be called “Napping” or “Looking…and Watching Paint Dry.” Viewer count: 0.


Perhaps we all need a little diversion from reality.

LOOK WHO'S TALKING

His profile stood out. Here was an artsy guy who wrote, produced and directed short films and posed a range of intriguing discussion topics for a first coffee date. Finally, a man of substance!

Still, I didn’t want to have another butt-glued-to-the-chair first date. I suggested we check out some Vancouver galleries. Why not experience something together and exchange opinions of what we see and feel?  In firming up the starting point, however, he suggested a vegetarian restaurant for brunch. The place is one I’ve been wanting to try so I agreed.

I arrived on time and he’d already staked out a table. From the start, I knew I was not physically attracted to him—in person, he was a wonky funhouse version of his profile photo. Even so, I looked forward to an engaging, edgy chat.

He conveyed a nervous energy, immediately blathering apologetically about a geographical error he’d made online about where I lived. It was not an issue, but he’d apparently obsessed about it, having shared his supposed faux pas with friends. He’d also consulted friends about where to take a vegetarian; as proof—not that I needed any—he pulled out his phone with texts about suggestions he received. Apparently, this meeting was an Event.

As we scanned the menu, he pointed out an item with beets and shared a comment about the vegetable’s effect on human feces. Egad.  Could we not just stick to one of the discussion topics from his profile?

But things got worse.

When he finished talking shit, he went on and on and on and on about how he had conquered the local film industry and how every short film he created had won major awards at every Canadian film festival he entered. He smugly expressed his superiority to the apparently clueless wannabes who coughed up megabucks to film schools.

I sipped my coffee and gazed at other diners, longingly observing the clear back-and-forth in their table talk.  My distracted glances became more obvious, but he remained oblivious. There was too much hot air to release.

I became irked as I waited to see how long it would be until he’d take a breath and perhaps pose a question.  It finally came. “So what do you write?” Unfortunately, I needed a second to finish chewing a mouthful of pancake. Amazingly, he continued on with his monologue.

I’d missed my moment.

In vain, I tried to get the attention of our server. Check, please. PLEASE. When I finally had a chance to talk, I didn’t care anymore. I simply posed a question, and let him ramble on again.  

Check or not, I’d checked out.

It took ninety minutes before I got out of there. I’d had plenty of time to figure out what to say to get out of a gallery walk. “I’m sorry. I’ve got errands to do before I catch an early ferry home.”

He insisted on walking me to my car. The fresh air seemed to do some good. He became more subdued. Perhaps there was some self-reflection:  I blew that. One can only hope. I certainly don’t wish that blabbering mess on any other poor online sucker.

So, yes, another dreadful first date. Another toad that will never become a prince.  Another stinky clam with no pearl.

Some of us have forgotten the inherent mutuality in conversation. I have had too many coffee dates like this. I am convinced this is not my doing. On the ferry into Vancouver, I ran into a friend, a coworker and some acquaintances. We each talked. And we each listened. We built off of one another’s comments. We laughed. We enjoyed the interplay. Yes, it is true: I can be part of a dialogue with an able social companion. Why are so many single, middle-aged gay men so lacking?

This dating world is full of needles and no hay. So many annoying pokes, so many bad reactions. Are the good ones really all gone? Or have the few remaining good men gone into hiding? I keep trying to be hopeful, but I walk away from every experience shaking my head or wanting to scream.

Make it stop.

Please, enough already.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM

Okay. I’ve got it. Animal magnetism. Just not the kind I want.

I spent the day doing errands and then set out on my jog just before dusk. There was enough daylight for me to maneuver around blackberry vines along the side of the road as I headed into town. On the return run, the skies darkened and I had to zigzag from side to side on the road since there are only a few streetlights on my rural route and I didn’t want to have an unfortunate encounter with a car.


There has been talk of recent cougar sightings in the area, but I didn’t think about that. I have come across coyotes while jogging at night, but we leave one another well enough alone. I never thought that I would be attacked from above.


But that’s exactly what happened. Something battered the back of my head. It felt like a hundred wasps honing in on the same spot. Pressure. Pain. A thwacking sound and a muffled, high-pitched murmur. I screamed and the assault stopped. I covered the back of my head with my arm as a car with its lights on slowly passed. Gawking at the awkward jogger with the odd arm motion, I presumed. But he pulled over and he and his son got out.


“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said. True enough, my jogging form sucks. That’s another reason I’m prone to night jogging—less visibility. (Once while in university, I jogged down a back road at night and my leg fell in an uncovered manhole. I really should stick to the treadmill.)

The Barred Owl has reportedly attacked
other unfortunate humans.

He went on: “Did that owl actually get you?”


“Yes.”


Father and son wisely repressed their first thought: “Cool!” I’ll assume they didn’t ask if I was okay simply because they were as stunned as I was. (Well, stunned, but it would be impossible for them to be as stunned.)


I jogged the rest of the way home with my eyes to the sky, my head trying to do a one-eighty to scope out what might lurk behind me. No more owl. Once was enough. (Just like my dates.)


My head continues to feel buzzy. There’s a bump but no blood. I Googled “human owl attack” and came across several reports of “o-bombings” in Washington state in 2012 and 2013. It’s not particularly uncommon. Still, who has that kind of luck? Owls can mistake tufts of hair for small animals. (So what am I,…Rathead?) They can also be territorial. Looks like I’ll have to find a new jogging route.


For now I’m going to take a couple more Tylenol and stay in for the rest of the night. Concussion by owl. Who—er, “Hoo”—knew?!

DOMINO DANCING

I am three for three this month.

I’ve read it in articles, seen it on TV and heard it on the radio: there is a surge of people joining online dating sites after Christmas. Furthermore, more people break up in January than any other month. (Maybe Johhny shouldn’t haven’t joined the online site on Boxing Day while still attached to Frank.)
So call me an opportunist. Someone’s pain could be my gain. I rejoined one dating site and tried to view my ol’ standby, Plenty of Fish, with new eyes. Perhaps a cute little fishy has been lurking amongst all that algae.
Thus far, match.com is a complete dud—just like last time I shelled out money to join. Despite being a top site for heterosexuals, very few Vancouver gays have profiles on it. I have received two very nice expressions of interest from men whose photos suggest there could be a physical attraction. Great,…if I lived anywhere near Edmonton, Alberta or Baton Rouge, Louisiana. (Why taunt me? Why make me regret my foolishly chosen home even more?!)
There are more guys on POF and, lo and behold, it seems some new fishies have joined. And, yes, as my opening sentence suggests, I took the lead and messaged three guys whose photos/profiles piqued my interest.
Not all at once, of course. In my mind, that either seems slutty or defeatist. Slutty in that juggling multiple guys goes against my dating intentions—a relationship, not hookups. Defeatist in that mass-messaging would show that I am not particularly hopeful of hearing back from at least two out of three of them.
Having shared my online approach, you might surmise that, if I messaged three guys, at least the first two messages went nowhere. And, yes, you’d be absolutely correct. You’d be even more correct if you guessed that all three messages went nowhere. Shame on you, logical defeatist!
Three for three. Three messages, three periods of painstaking virtual silence.
Nothing,…

Nothing,…

Nothing.
Except I did receive messages the day after I sent each of my charming, witty notes. It’s just that the incoming messages did not match the outgoing messages.
Welcome to mismatch.com.
I wonder if the three guys who received my messages lapsed into a hyperventilating fit of despondency as did I when I opened my mail. Is every middle-aged single guy delusional in thinking he can attract men beyond his reach? Are we all seeking to reel in that prized catch that spawns a truly unbelievable fish story? This pathetic dating game is more reminiscent of knocking down dominoes than playing Go Fish. Why do I keep playing?
It is still January. These newly thrown-back fish have yet to adjust to the pond. We’re not the same and neither is the pool.

Maybe they’ll come out with a news story on what time of year people are the most desperate. I can hold off on the opportunism ‘til then.