TIME PASSAGES

Time is time, right? Then how come that last hour of work can crawl while, after fifteen hours at Disneyland, you feel like you just got there? I hear people talk about their forties whizzing by while a line at the airport is where someone can suddenly acquire a full head of grey hair, arthritis in the left hand and an urge to start wearing black knee socks with sandals.

Father Time plays tricks on us. Why not? He’s got plenty of—well, you know.

In my last blog post, I shared how it took eighteen years to finally go on a first date with Tim. That was nothing. A mere blip compared to the week of waiting for Date Number 2. Actually, it’s a week and a day. That explains comparisons to an eternity. So much more rational.

It’s like that old Heinz ketchup commercial—for those of you who go back in time as far as the mid-‘70s. Cue the Carly Simon song, Anticipation. Ah, it’s keeping me wa-a-aiting. And I am hoping for so much more than a dab of sugared tomato sauce.

Even a decade ago, the specifics about a next date would be firmed up through a phone conversation that followed a bit of phone tag which had the added benefit of allowing you to play back the recording to hear his voice and to feel something aflutter inside again. I remember having to towel off after nervous phone calls during which I fretted over every word. Now communication comes through text messages. Convenient, yes, and hygienically more pleasing, but perhaps too controlled. We can type, delete, type, delete, delete until any vulnerability and awkwardness are neatly expunged from the record.

Indeed, Tim and I exchanged a few texts Sunday night and Monday morning until a tentative plan was in place for Saturday. Not much spontaneity in the words. Still, I will admit to rereading Tim’s opening words—Hey, handsome. He really wrote that. I just went back and checked again. (Just for the sake of keeping this post authentic, I assure you.)

There is no further contact, at least until Friday afternoon or Saturday morning when one of us sends out a confirmation text. Just in case. So much can happen in the span of a week.

My inner voice implores me to think of other things.

Pretend that the World Cup matters. Yea to any team wearing green!

Watch another episode of an obnoxious celebrity chef berating fledgling restaurant owners and wonder why I cannot swear off the #$%*@ show once and for all.

Go outside and tame the blackberry bushes (but don’t get all scratched up before the big date).

Sudoku. Another chapter in a YA book I cannot relate to. Laundry. A valiant effort to rid the shower of any trace of mildew.

Anything to pass the time. Let another hour tick away. I am that much closer to Saturday. It is important not to spend much thought playing out the possibilities regarding the date. That is not constructive. There are some really wonderful What ifs, but given my track record, there are many more less hopeful ponderings. How will I blow this? What better-than-me guy did he meet on Wednesday? When will it dawn on him that I have a perma-pasty skin tone?

Ah, yes. If scrubbing the bathtub doesn’t temper the excitement, self-doubt will. It is there. Always is during the early stages. I’d say I’m not being too brutal with myself this time around. There is more confidence, a sense that I deserve a great guy and a real hope that Tim just might be that guy. But who knows?

Saturday still seems so far away.

TORTOISE DATING

             Even the photo downloads slowly!

Among foodies, slow is trendy. Slow cooking, slow eating. Let that soggy Cheerio dissolve on your tongue. Okay, foodies probably don’t consume boxed cereal. What do I know?

And, really, let’s go broader with that question. What. Do. I. Know?

Not much. At least with regard to food and that oversized mysterious element…dating.

Case in point: Tim.

I was smitten with him, I messaged him and on Friday we had our first date.

All good.

But let’s backtrack. Way, way back. My first smitten moment occurred eighteen years ago. Yes, same Tim. Yes, eighteen years.

I am the ultimate tortoise. S……L…….0…….W……..

No chance of whiplash.

Eighteen years ago, Tim and I played in the gay volleyball league, showing up on Friday nights for novice play. I noticed him and he, well,…maybe he noticed my errant bumps sending the ball flying onto his team’s court, interrupting play. That was before I became skilled at yelling, “Yours” during every point. My best volleyball maneuvers involved athletic minimalism.

Unfortunately, I carried that minimalist ethic over to my hopeless crushes. Over the years, I saw Tim at many volleyball events. He didn’t last long at the novice level. Most guys improve their skills and move up. As is constantly evident, I am not like most guys. Novice was my niche. But there were tournaments. He’d be there, a stunningly handsome distraction. I always felt that if a marketing executive from Crest or Colgate ever strolled into Vancouver, Tim would be scooped up to be their television spokesman. He has a million-dollar smile and then some.

So how does a tortoise actually land a date that is eighteen years in the making? Well, Tim’s profile has been on Plenty of Fish for a while. A rather long while. It proves how ridiculously obtuse Vancouver gay men are. Or maybe I am not the only tortoise.

I leave shortly for an extended vacation and I plan to delete or deactivate my online dating profiles. Still, I continued to see Tim’s profile pop up. I have had dozens and dozens of Fish Dates, but there seemed to be one piece of unfinished business.

Yeah, why not?

I messaged him. I went for broke. I mentioned the volleyball days and that dazzling smile. What’s the worst that could happen? A delete, a block, a restraining order. I don’t get over to Vancouver that much anyway.

He messaged back.

Let me repeat that: He messaged back!

It took weeks to finally meet for coffee and that almost never happened. Twice I sent messages that went unreturned. I waited a week, agonizing over the silence, and then dared to message again. He claims he texted but perhaps his words got lost in space. Sometimes I miss the days of plug-in phones and answering machines.

With any other guy, I would not have sent another message. But pride can be overvalued. And lonely.

It seems fitting that we finally officially met on yet another Friday night. He greeted me with that mesmerizing smile and a big hug at the café counter. Normally, I would be a jittery mess, but I immediately relaxed.

In the first five minutes, I’d revealed my inner geek with a reference about “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” when he mentioned Minneapolis. And he stayed. Within ten minutes, we were recommending various books. (How refreshing!) We chatted about our common experiences working in elementary schools and the fact that we recently worked in the same school district. We had plenty in common. More importantly, we engaged in real conversation, a true back-and-forth.

This is going well, I thought. But I have thought that before only to be messaged later about the lack of a spark. I tried to stay in the moment and block out any notion of a disappointing Day After brush-off message.

He suggested we go for a walk along the Stanley Park seawall. As I returned the coffee mugs, he scooped up my jacket and stowed it in his satchel. After half a block, he offered me his extra pair of sunglasses. Smooth,…and classy.

That’s when it became official:  he swept me off my feet.

Still, I kept grounded. The conversation continued to flow easily. We laughed frequently, nothing forced. Several times, he put his arm around my shoulder and somehow I did not literally melt.

As he walked me back to the car, Tim provided the closure. “I’ve enjoyed this.”

“Me too.”

“You’re very attractive, we have lots in common and I’d really like to see you again.” To be clear, those were Tim’s words. Tim’s!

We parted with a big, prolonged hug and, as soon as I drove away, I was overcome with the shakes. A good date. A great date! It really happened.

And to think it only took eighteen years.

KEEP REACHING FOR THE RADIO

Most every Casey Kasem tribute prominently features the American Top 40 host’s signature statement: Keep reaching for the stars. It’s a happy, generic sentiment. NASA must wish it had coined as effective a statement to engage the American public.

Maybe I am not such a lofty guy. For me, a truer expression to associate with Casey Kasem is “keeping reaching for the radio.”

I first discovered Kasem’s distinct voice in the fall of 1978 when I was a thirteen-year-old who had moved from an urban center in Ontario, Canada to a not-big-enough city in East Texas. I was entering tenth grade and overwhelmed by an amped up social reality: weekly high school dances, football games in large stadiums, daily updates on who was “going together”. I was too young, too confused and too gawky. I stumbled on “American Top 40” on an AM radio station out of Shreveport, Louisiana. For four hours each week, I had a date—at least, the kind I could handle. Things made sense, except for the inexplicable rise of a few tunes like Taco’s “Puttin’ on the Ritz” and, well, anything by Charlie Daniels. Casey faithfully chronicled the ups and downs, introduced new acts and filled me in on musical milestones. He even got a wee bit folksy, reading out weepy/sappy Long Distance Dedications. Through each broadcast, Casey always came off as earnest.

I needed comfort during my awkward youth and Casey’s distinct voice provided that. He did not demystify any of the perplexities of adolescence, but at least he offered a regular reprieve. I thoroughly enjoyed the weekend countdowns. Casey spoke with a calm authority. Without any histrionics, he made Donna Summer and Barbra Streisand each scoring her fourth Number One with a duet seem to be a landmark achievement. Heck, he even made it matter when a minor hit by Franke and the Knockouts moved up one notch to 38.

When other DJs took over AT 40, I stopped listening. They were imposters. And when Casey voiced other countdowns, it wasn’t the same. Casey Kasem and Billboard were the perfect combination. To this day, I still follow the Billboard charts, checking online every Thursday to track the latest musical movements.

While many people are tuning off the radio, opting for Sirius broadcasts, programmed iPods and YouTube videos, I still find that a DJ—they go by “radio personality” now, don’t they?—matters. Sometimes. I typically despise having the airwaves filled with blabber. I don’t need the rundown on the latest misstep of Justin Bieber or a Kardashian. And I don’t want to hear a five-minute back-and-forth about an RP’s (sorry, “DJ” still sounds better) shocking experience last night whereby two people failed to wash their hands after using a public bathroom. Too much talk before I’ve had enough caffeine. I usually change the station. Music, please. It is rare to come across an authoritative, interesting voice on radio. But it has happened a handful of times. And it started with Casey Kasem.

MOTION SICKNESS

I have tried online dating for ages. I have no success stories. Oh, but don’t call me a quitter. (Yet.)

In truth, I am in no mood to date. I have more pressing issues than worrying about whether some guy notices the dark rings under my eyes and exchanging meaningless replies to “How was ur day?” Sometimes I’d just rather sit back and follow the drivel about JLo’s dating troubles and triumphs. And there is “The Bachelorette”, too. I can find solace in knowing that hunky young men with ripped abs also get tearful while wondering if they will ever find love. Vicarious rejection is safe non-sex.

Still, every so often some poor sap sends me a new message online. Yes, with my mindset, I should retire the profile. But Prince Charming is still out there, isn’t he? I must keep hope alive. Even if it is on a resuscitator, taking up space in ICU.

Usually, it is easy to give the message a pass. Thanks but no thanks. Best wishes.

But sometimes a guy with a cute photo and a profile that lists a few interests beyond Going to the Gym and Napping sends out a quick hello. He even refrains from any mention of hunting. Suddenly, a quick goodbye seems questionable. I message back. Things progress rapidly. In a week, by golly, we are meeting for coffee.

That’s the way it is supposed to go. I go through the motions. I play along.

Even when, deep down, I am sick of it.

It is not fair to the other guy. But I liken it to exercise. There are many times I’d love to skip the bicep curls, the monotonous minutes on the treadmill and lap after lap in the local pool where unknown objects float into view. But exercise is supposed to be good for you. One of these days, I just might see the difference. And if I stop, will I ever start again?

If I step away from dating, I just might get a cat. Then another. Then a few dozen.

And I don’t even like cats.

So, really, I have no choice but to keep going, to keep trying, even through the darkest, driest moments months millennia.

This is why I went for coffee today with Dharmesh. Decent photos—smiling even! Maybe an interest or two to chat about. He said he’d traveled the world. (Hey! I just went to Boise!) And he claimed he worked for fun; finances were not an issue. (Too soon to stop playing the lottery, but I passed by two vending machines this week without checking for quarters.)

In person, he was more handsome than his photos. Hairier, too. To be honest, it was a little distracting. But he was clearly happy to see me. It is nice to show up and not feel immediate disappointment from a coffee mate. Still, I never felt invested in the conversation. Dharmesh is a realtor and he worked too aggressively in selling himself. He kept referring to his “global” perspective and his astonishing success. After the first five minutes, he neglected to ask anything of my interests and experiences. I didn’t push it. I sat, sipped my coffee and nodded a lot.

Yep. Going through the motions. But I couldn’t help thinking I’d rather be doing the breaststroke in a pool with submerged hairballs and Band-Aids.

God, that sounds awful. I should delete that statement, but it is spot-on.

Stet.

At least I didn’t lead him on. I was a dead fish. Just not as smelly.

And then, hours later, a new message appeared in my inbox. That was great fun. Let’s have dinner at my place sometime if you like?

Good thing he added the question mark. Poor Dharmesh.

Thanks but no thanks. Best wishes. The motion sickness only feels worse.

GAYS AND THEIR DOGS

Even with its middling reviews, I had to see “Must Love Dogs” when it premiered in theaters. I’ve always been a fan of the underused Elizabeth Perkins, Diane Lane does adorable effortlessly and John Cusack’s acting typically fascinates, but this movie about dating had me at the title. Must Love Dogs, indeed. My kind of flick.

Really, any guy who wants to connect with me—there is a hypothetical such guy isn’t there?!—has to have an affection for canines. Must love dogs is right up there with non-smoker and single as the non-negotiables.

Or so I thought.

But these are desperate times. I haven’t had a second date in two years. The last (semi-)passionate kiss came six years ago. And sex? I blogged that once. I shan’t repeat that embarrassing disclosure. Go back and search my prior posts if you must. (Okay, I know you won’t. You’ve got better things to do. Like vacuuming behind the sofa. But this ought to make you feel better about your own sex life. Always know, it could be worse.)

And so as my recent brunch date wound down, the guy sitting across from me threw caution to the wind, bemoaning the lack of appealing single men our age. Yes, yes, I thought. I can relate. “Almost all of them are out of shape,” he said. True. And I had just lost ten pounds I didn’t need to lose. Surely, I came across as fit. Yippee.

He didn’t stop there. You know where this is going. “And some men are way too attached to their dogs.” Hmm. I forced a smile. Surely, he’d seen that older photo on my profile with me and my two schnauzers. He qualified things: “All they talk about is their dogs.” Okay, nice back-pedaling. I had not made a canine comment during the entire meal. I was safe. I still had a shot. But why would I want one?

Well, this guy was unquestionably attractive. Another wannabe writer. Like me. And, yeah, fit. As you read this, you’re thinking I am a fool. What next? Would I light up a cigar if he offered one?! May I remind you of that embarrassing blog post about my sex life? If you are still judging me, perhaps you should give the link a click. It’s the entry with nuns as the main photo. ‘Nuff said?

Truth is I am dog obsessive. I remember a line the wonderful Janeane Garofalo spouts in another must-see dating movie, “The Truth about Cats and Dogs”: “You can love your dog. Just don’t love your dog.” Not a problem. It’s not like I am single and have seventeen cats. Keepin’ things normal.  

When I drove to Boise in March, I chose not to fly because of my dog. He had to be with me. We were off on a road adventure, like Thelma and Louise. (Hey, “normal” has a huge spectrum. It’s not like I’m that guy on Dr. Phil.) Once there, my friend Robert and I booked grooming appointments for my dog Hoover and his bitch, Lisa Marie. (Yep. His previous dog was Elvis. Before Hoover, I had Lincoln. Maybe this is what happens when gays don’t have kids. Standard dog names like Rex and Max won’t do.) Robert and I had a great time exploring Downtown Boise, but everything stopped when the call came that the dogs were done. I’m just glad Boise doesn’t have major traffic issues.

Gays and their dogs.

After my date, with Mr. Anti-Dog, I messaged the guy and indicated that I’d be interested in seeing him again. Gasp! It is true. I should be ashamed. Oh, what the desperate will do! If you read that post, you know he declined. “No sparks.” He’d done everything to shoo me away. Clearly, he didn’t give a damn or he wouldn’t have said, “Hey, I like animals. I just don’t think they should be in someone’s home.”

I really should learn to read the signs. But then I’d never get to the point on a date where we ordered food.

Hello, goodbye.

 

I’d spend life eating alone. Or alongside a dog.

Let me refill your water bowl. Does my wittle doggy want three or four ice cubes?

It’s okay. I’ve come to the conclusion there are a lot more good dogs than good men. I should follow a few simple commands: Roll over. Sit. Stay. And now it’s treat time. I’m craving an oversized bowl of ice cream. What’s so great about being in shape anyway?

GAY ARTIST APOCALYPSE?

I try to look on bright side. Really, I do. But sometimes there’s a lot of evidence to the contrary.

Last Saturday, I ventured out to an artsy community a mere twenty minutes from home. A ferry-less destination. There, that’s a positive. This community was having a weekend-long arts festival, a big bash with multiple locations hosting artists, musicians and several pop-up food stands. I figured I needed a boost in creativity. Get out. Connect. Feel inspired.

I also figured it would be a great people-watching experience. This is the perfect event to drive the gays out. How nice to feel less isolated. If my life were a movie, this would be the time for me to chance upon a date. Maybe we’d be oohing over the same abstract painting of a pack of hyenas enjoying a Serengeti sunset (or perhaps that’s a bed of marigolds in someone’s garden—that’s the beauty of abstract; describe it how you’d like). Perhaps Mr. Eligible and I would catch a glimpse of one another as we each suppress a laugh as a performance artist tries to blow bubbles in sync with the banjo player. You just never know.

Sure, such an encounter is remote, especially in a rural environment, but this seemed to be my best local shot of the past six months. Go. See. Be seen. Wish for a little Meg Ryan/Mindy Kaling karma.

I explored five venues. I purchased pottery. Sadly, a cute guy didn’t vie for the same lovely bowls. I strolled about, gazing at some really awful splatter painting. (Jackson Pollock’s legacy remains intact.) I heard a lame rendition of “Blowin’ in the Wind”. The cuisine was limited to craft beer and perogies. The local lesbian contingent was well represented among artists, altos and amblers. But I was the sole gay representative.

There were a couple of false sightings. I ogled one artist, a talented furniture maker with broad shoulders, a deep tan and salt-and-pepper hair that glimmered. (There’s a fine line between glimmering and greasy; undisputedly, he glimmered—and there was plenty of grease to which to compare. I’m talkin’ about you, Mr. Bob Dylan Wannabe.) And then I saw the occupied ring finger. And the wife. And the two adorable children. Oh, yes. I’d seen the family profiled a few years ago in a local magazine. He was eye candy as much then as now. At least I am consistent.

Then there was a guy shucking heirloom tomato plants. (Is that art? Never mind.) Our eyes met for a moment. I tried to lock looks once more but to no avail. He seemed to stare a little too much to the left. And then I had the sense to gaze over my shoulder. Ah, yes. Silly me. The object of his affection was someone else—a lovely woman with long, flowing purple-streaked hair and a collection of nose rings. I felt only a moment of disappointment. Yes, she seemed a much better fit for the tomato grower. Every such plant I’ve nursed has succumbed to blight.

And so I headed home, with a gurgling stomach, feeling no more socially connected. I felt no vindication in having my isolation affirmed. It’s a good thing I gave it a go. That’s something, right? But, really, how is it possible to have a sizable artsy event with no other gays present? Gays have to be at an artsy event. Bring back my stereotypes! My gosh, as good as it gets, is even more depressing than I’d thought.

This is why I trek onto the ferry again and again. Clearly, this is not where the boys are.

NOT FEELING IT

Haven’t written here in a while. That’s a story that I’m not ready to tell. It may go forever untold. (You’re welcome.)

For better or for worse, things are back to normal. Why not kick things off with another coffee date? Actually, in this case, I went out on a limb and suggested brunch. How bad could it get? Eggs benny to go?!

This date arose from match.com instead of that dried-up pond known as Plenty of Fish. Despite being one of the top dating sites for straight folks, match.com shares my track record with the gays: we just haven’t attracted them. Since joining at the beginning of January, three interesting men have messaged me. Sadly, one lives in Edmonton, Alberta. Another lives in Baton Rouge, Louisiana and the third lives outside Denver. Apparently match.com gays are unfamiliar with Google Maps. Needless to say, I passed on this trio. Thanks for the interest. Unfortunately, we’re a ways off from perfecting teleporting. Oh, what could have been!

The bright side of all this is that it makes a ninety-minute trek into Vancouver seem like a mere blip for a brunch date. Messaging Kevin seemed perfectly reasonable while I await an email from some guy in Cleveland. Admittedly, Kevin’s main profile pic was the original enticement. What’s not to like about a fit fifty-year-old whose body and smiling face belong in a Land’s End catalogue? His profile expressed an interest in meeting a similarly aged man who keeps in shape and enjoys an active life. And then there was mention of his passion for writing. Hey, match.com, maybe this could actually be a match. Anything is possible, at least until the waiter announces the breakfast specials.

And so I hopped on the ferry this morning, full of anticipation, moderated by a track record that contains a glaring absence of second dates. Somebody’s got to break the losing streak. Why not Kevin?

Brunch passed nicely enough. Interesting conversation easily digested with some particularly tasty pancakes. Hmm, what’s that added ingredient? Butter?! Oh, to think I’ve banished that from my fridge at home. I may have to do some rethinking.

In the meantime, I am left to rethink the date itself. It seems that I have failed miserably in accurately gauging these first dates. Seems I’ve become less picky and blinded with an optimism that a second date shall come to pass. And, as I’ve already noted, my feelings have been all wrong or at least entirely one-sided.

In replaying parts of the encounter, I can’t recall Kevin flashing that smile that had originally dazzled me in his photos. Was I too serious? Did I fail to convey a sense of humor? Gosh golly, what are the chances that he was just nervous?

As we parted outside his condo building, shielding the rain with our umbrellas, there was no kiss, no hug. Such a gesture is plain awkward with our parasols, is it not? I should not read anything more into the lack of affection, right?

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. Not a lot to go on. Still, it’s a tad more promising than “See ya” or the monosyllabic “Bye.”

There’s a glimmer of hope isn’t there? Or should I start to look at real estate in Baton Rouge?

I just don’t have a clue anymore.

 

UPDATE: It’s early evening and I am waiting to board the ferry to head home. I texted Kevin to see if he wanted to get together again. Kevin replied by saying, “I enjoyed our conversation. I like you and think we have a lot in common. But, to be honest, I’m really looking for that spark of chemistry. I did not get that.”

So there you go. Mrs. Redmond, my high school Chemistry teacher, has come back to haunt me. Of course, this is all code for a lack of physical attraction. Makes me wonder what the point is in swearing off butter. Think I’ll make a trip to the grocery store as soon as I get home!

And then I’ll go online again. Maybe someone’s hiring in some part of Louisiana.

Drat, drat, drat. (And that’s putting it kindly.)