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.)

A QUESTION WITHOUT AN ACCEPTABLE ANSWER

When I say Boise is a once in a lifetime destination, I mean it. I just don’t mean it in a good way. Not in a bad way either. I don’t have friends or colleagues dying to know about my trip. Boise doesn’t register.

Imagine being the poor soul responsible for Tourism Boise. He must have plenty of time to keep his desk clean. Moves his name plate and Disney snow globe every half hour. Poor Mickey has viewed that frickin’ office from every possible vantage point.

“Why Boise?”

I got that question repeatedly before I set out on my Spring Break road trip. Usually the questioner would try unsuccessfully to repress a frown. When the customs officer at the U.S. border asked, I responded with, “Good question.” I thought I was being funny. Be warned. Bad humor will get your car trunk searched, your whole suitcase rummaged through.

Of course, Boise was never the draw. I hadn’t seen my friend Robert in seven years. We met as volunteers for AIDS Project Los Angeles twenty three years ago when I was still in law school. He proved a refreshing change from the academic set who could kill an evening by going on and on and on about the top law firms in Los Angeles. (They didn’t appreciate my comments about McKenzie, Brackman, Chaney and Kuzak, my first choice in an “L.A. Law” firm, mostly because the men wore stylish ties, but also because I really wanted to work with Susan Dey and Michele Greene. The fact that it was a fictional firm didn’t faze me. There was plenty of fiction in law, wasn’t there? Alas, it was a sure sign that my interest in a future legal career had already waned.)

Robert left L.A. for the same reason I did back in ’94: he’d grown to hate it. Too sprawling, too artificial, just too much. He’d also become an alcoholic and decided a change of venue would help ensure he wouldn’t resume old habits. Some people might say Boise will drive you to drink as well, albeit for a different reason: too little. Fortunately, he has settled well—five years of sobriety and strong connections with local family and friends. Just seeing that made the trip worth it. Sometimes travel is not about sunshine, shopping and searching for a long distance Mr. Right.

It's true that I may have been a little concerned about my
vacation choice when I dropped off my dog to be groomed
at a place beside a SMOKES shop and a gun store. At
least there was a church right behind the gun place. God
would make sure people would do right with them guns.

But that’s still hard to explain to most people. I was reminded of this as I dutifully answered questions at the Canadian border. As if to prove that I am a suspicious middle-aged man on an international level, the border guard one-upped his American counterpart. He ordered me to pull over and await further instructions from his colleague. I was directed into the Canadian compound where I was further questioned. I’d set off a silent alarm. Apparently, I’d failed to give a convincing, plausible response to one key question: “Why did you go to Boise?” I didn’t feel the need to elaborate on its variant: “How do you know someone in Idaho?” The obvious, highly prejudicial subtext: Idahoans stick to their gun-totin’, potato-plantin’ selves. How could I have truthfully declared that I wasn’t bringing back firearms or edible contraband in the form of sacks of spuds?!

Naturally, an official told me to remove my fierce miniature schnauzer from the car and kennel him. Then I had to hand over my keys and wait inside while they searched for guns, potatoes and whatever else they thought a potential criminal like me might be smuggling. Half an hour later, I was cleared which, as I’d feared, led to a chain of events that made me get home four hours later than had I been waved through like all the other motorists. (Don’t ask.)

It all reinforces my feeling that, yes, indeed, Boise is a once in a lifetime experience.

Maybe the next time Robert and I connect, it will be in Omaha. Or Moose Jaw. Let him deal with overzealous border officials.

And maybe next spring break I’ll do the sensible thing and book a gay cruise. But then again, maybe not. Hot gay guys stick to their six-pack-barin’, carbs-averse selves. So what was the true purpose of your trip?

Maybe staying home is best.

POSSIBLE GAY SIGHTING IN SPOKANE!

In posting about my big adventure in America's Third Gayest City, I got a little carried away. In fact, I may have shown my bias. So intent on noting that there is nothing particularly gay about Spokane, I withheld evidence to the contrary. And so it's full disclosure time.

I managed to snap this shot of a gay couple outside a Spokane grocery store. (Naturally, they wanted nothing to do with me.)

THE ULTIMATE GAYCATION

Tonight I am in the Third Gayest City in the United States!

And I am definitely alone.

I spent the afternoon driving around and then walking in the downtown core. Not a rainbow flag to be found. Not a club. Not even a little multi-colored sticker on a shop window.

Third. Gayest. City.

Yeah, forget San Francisco, New York, Miami, L.A. and Chicago. This place outranked dem wannabes. Only Tacoma (#1—natch!) and Springfield, Massachusetts (#2—duh!) are gayer.

There really shouldn’t be any suspense. I’m in Spokane, of course.

I’ll repeat:

Third. Gayest. City.

Spokane!

No doubt, The Advocate got an awful lot of publicity when it published its list. It also lost a chunk of its credibility as a magazine with its pulse on the gay community.

If that community exists in Spokane, its pulse just stopped. I’ll take the blame. I killed it. As soon as a hit city limits—POOF!—the gay factor cleared out.

I did not spot a single gay man. Or a married one. I am used to them passing me with that West Hollywood walk of indifference or crossing to the other side of the street when they see me coming, but there wasn’t even any of that. Just nothing.

The free weekly news rag contained nothing gay. Not in the articles, not in the ads, not in the events listings. But it did have a story on the “dead” art of taxidermy.

The local grocery had no gay magazines. Heck, it didn’t even carry GQ. Instead, it had a large collection of gun rags—Shotgun News, Handguns, Shooting Times & Country. Maybe I didn’t run the gays out of town after all.

This gaycation is a bust.

Shoulda hit Tacoma.

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.