“What a week in Spain can do…”

“What a week in Spain can do…”

It was supposed to be a system reboot, a push of the reset button. However, I think my trip to Spain last month may have left me even more unsettled now that I am back home in Los Angeles. It is scary how quickly I fell back into what’s been ailing me this last year and a half. The jet lag may be gone, but that sluggish feeling persists. Don’t EVEN get me started on the election bullshit. I will probably bite your head off. Best to focus on why the journey back to my LA life that is renewing this spiritual “agita.”

I haven’t said much about the Brit (name withheld out of respect), but he’s someone that’s been the most welcome surprise of this challenging year. Our chance online meeting in August flowered into a real friendship, which is why I’ve been purposefully vague about him given the context of how we started out. I might reveal this some day, but not now. It isn’t shame that precludes me, rather, having to explain it to folks who aren’t savvy as to the Gay Way of Meeting and Greeting in 2016. Rest assured, it isn’t some Dateline episode waiting to happen. It’s legit and that’s all that matters.

The Brit is London-based and we’ve spent months doing the whole digital pen pal thing. In some ways, it felt like the plot to “The Shop Around the Corner.” We hadn’t met, but we shared a real kinship with each text that zapped across the globe. Scratch that, it felt like a real life version of “Gavin & Stacey.” (I am sure his eyes would roll with balletic precision over THAT one.)

When we hatched the plan of heading to Spain together, he had just experienced someone breaking his heart in Oslo. It was around the same time I was planning to hit Spain that summer. I surprised even myself when I said, “Join me! Forget about that fool and let’s just have some fun, tapas and whatever else tickles our fancy!” Well, Spain had other plans, interrupting my impending estancia with a rule of having at least 90 validity to my passport. I wasn’t able to board that night and I found myself on the Lyft back to my parents’ house to retrieve my trusty Element and then home with a scowl on my face.

The Brit and I kept talking and we looked for new dates for our Spanish affair, which would now happen in mid-October. As we counted down the days, it was hard not to build any expectations. At least for me. It was such a welcome relief, corresponding with someone who actually COULD communicate with color and guts. What a concept! When the fated day finally did arrive, I wasn’t in the least disappointed.

Having the Brit with me for those nine days in Valencia, Salamanca and Madrid was like a downpour of what I miss about being part of a couple. That constant attention. The great rapport. The banter. The laughter. The warmth that emanates from people who actually care about each other. The looks that say, “I see you, man.” I wasn’t lonely and all that’s troubled me for so many months was falling off in the background. It’s how we compose shots for the interviews I conduct on camera. The subject is sharp and clear while the background is a bit hazy and blurry. All that matters is what is in focus. And focus existed in Spain. Make that focus and inspiration. So, why do I feel so fucking lousy?

Mind you, the Brit and I started this entire venture with a much different agenda in August. When he admitted that he’d started casually dating someone in early October, the trip’s dynamic shifted without warning into the dreaded Friend Zone. He tried to give me an out, saying he’d understand if that changed things for me given the spicier early stages of our interactions. His very British self wasn’t going to allow for any extracurricular activities, even though he’d only been dating said bloke a few weeks. But, as I would discover, the Brit was an “All In” sort of gent. Meaning, his focus and heart were set. I said, “So what? We’ll manage!” I firmly believed the point of the trip was to get away from what ails us. Nothing more.

In a lot of ways, that was indeed the case. But, it was tough to reconcile a clear trajectory of intent. As much as I tried to keep certain feelings at bay, which was quite an effort, imagine my consternation in having the Brit join me in a round of “Why Can’t We Find Someone Who Will Love Us for Us” during one heart to heart we had one late night. That’s why by the end of that week together, I felt nothing but confusion. It stepped up when, by the end of the week, he was texting his new paramour with a fervor that made me feel like an intruder. And when you have had such a stellar time venturing throughout a foreign country without a single fight, imagine how that can complicate more than just your brain.

The rational me knows that my creating anything but a friendship with the Brit would be difficult since he’s in England and I’m in southern California. The whole “Amor de Lejos, Amor de Pendejos” truth of our situation has never been far away from the fantasy of it all. But fuck me. We sparked. At times, it felt so real, this connection. At one point in Valencia, he even said he needed to put blinders on. Why couldn’t this be something more than just two friends having a good time in Spain? I have not wanted to be close to someone like this is such a long time! Six years after I selfishly kicked my bespectacled Ex to the curb, it’s been a mixed bag of really poor choices, cheap sex and a lot of wondering when in the hell the universe is going to take some pity on me! Being with the Brit was so bloody effortless. Was I just being clueless or just deluding myself because of an ideal that has yet to be acheived?

Trust me. I’ve done some work in processing all of this. It was big relief knowing I can be myself with the right sort of gent. He’s a fantastic person with whom to spar, a real intellectual with that classic British wit. Dry as a sherry, but fierce as Thatcher at her peak. More, I felt this incredible calm around him. It remains the one thing I will cherish most about my life with my Ex and it’s the one thing that’s been missing ever since.

As we got closer to the end of the trip, I felt unsteady and possessed by a grim outlook. He’d go home to someone who’d hold him tight. I’d go home to face a new round of the Dating Game. And that just pissed me off. I’d like to squeeze out as much of the Brit’s sincere and warm sentiment into a place that can validate why I am certain I wasn’t misreading the cues. The cold light of a warm LA day suggests otherwise. He was being kind and he needed something different from me. The Brit had been searching for a real friend, someone that understands him and doesn’t possess an ulterior motive that involved hurting him, his one biggest fear. Wouldn’t you know, it’s also a fear that share that with him, among other things.

Ironically, in the weeks since our return, the Brit has reached out in moments of real emotional turmoil as the paramour seems to be on a different page. I understand that very much, the overanalyzing of situations that are never as bad as you think. But it happens and I offer my own support while keeping my true feelings at bay.

I am aware that I keep setting myself up for this these types of situations, though. Prior to the trip, an endless drought of solitude had left me wondering whether I have much to offer anyone anymore. A week in Spain was living proof I did. I wish it was more of a consolation, knowing that I’m not entirely without the means of being with someone on “that” level. Perhaps it was just a practice run? Was it a reminder of what I’ve gained in terms of being an adult when it comes to establishing a healthy relationship? Maybe. But, caught between the lines of lucidity and maturity are slivers of jagged insecurity. I feel the presence of my old nemesis, the one that loves to reiterate: “You lack the total package for him, that’s why it didn’t catch fire.”

Bitch.

I should be content with being the friend, but when that single look caught my eye during our second night in Valencia, I couldn’t help but feel all buzzy inside. A dear friend even noticed it on that following rainy Saturday in Madrid. Her first words were, “How light you look! So handsome! And the beard!” She witnessed the version of me that I’d kept under wraps for the better part of a year. I did feel good as the rain fell over the Plaza del Callao. I felt better than good. I felt not sad.

My powers of imagination are truly reckless at times. In my mind, his time is going to be spent building up a life around his new job and new boundaries with his beau. I’ll be that crazy American who will help lighten the day when things get challenging, like all good friends do. But we’ll always have Spain, and possibly, a chance to storm another group of cities, too.

This is probably a good moment to insert a chorus of: “He lives in another country, dude! What the hell did you expect? Are you loco, ese? He ain’t into you because you live in ANOTHER country and doesn’t want to run the risk of being hurt or worse. It’s easier and safer to stay local for him. Wake the fuck up! Chingao, already.

I know!  I know! It isn’t going to do me any good to act like a Charlie Puth song. My reserve of “Better Luck Next Time” is just a wee bit low right now. Trust me, I am focusing on: “Does this mean that someone remains behind Door No. 1504?” It is saner to keep an open mind. But hells bells, I don’t relish the task of having to meet new gents and going through this process. Again. Me da hueva, caray! 

I do know that my friendship with the Brit is one I intend to nurture for as long as we both want to share in its possibilities. Truth be told, people like him are rare to find in a world determined to keep us everybody apart from each other. These feelings will abate with time. Of course, this makes it all so damn annoying!  To be so close to the prize. Yeah, I feel like I’m about to hold a torch again. At least I can see the upside to that, too. After six years, it is a relief to know that I can finally shift it to the other arm.

So, want to know what a week in Spain can do for anyone? I’ll tell you. It will make you feel so much alive and very much a part the world. Now, the task remains the same as it was during that summer in 2014 when I took that first huge step toward defining my true self in Salamanca. I still have to learn to make Spain happen wherever I go, especially at home. As for the rest? Universe, don’t let me down…but can he wear glasses and make me laugh while watching YouTube clips all night long?

 

 

 

 

“No sex or love in this city …”

“No sex or love in this city …”

A week in the life of an aging singleton’s life in Los Angeles can go something like this:

Stood up.

Stood up.

He looked nothing like his picture.

“Are you interested in a houseboy?”

“I’m about to get my heart broken. I know it…”

“Sorry, I got dragged to a tiki bar in NoHo…”

“I can’t believe that’s both of them on that app grid? Are they in an open relationship, too?”

Ghosted.

Stood up.

Yeah, that all happened over the course of 10 days following my return from Spain. I was just trying to move on, a victim of bad timing (again).  It was tough to process that The Brit chose someone else and was satisfied with his choice, at least for now. Receiving a panicked text from him towards the end of that week didn’t help my mood much, though. He was certain — or like me — overthinking the outcome of his romantic situation was going to land in the negative column. All I could hear in my head was an extremely amplified chorus of “Why didn’t you choose me?” as performed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir featuring Patti LaBelle. But I did accept that my special brand of awesome advances were resolutely rejected. So, back to the bear caves of Growlr, Scruff and the newly minted Grr I went.

Oh, man. Make that, oh men.

This is a good time to ask that you forgive this narcissistic trespass after a week of REAL disappointment. We know, some men TRULY suck. (And, even then, not that all great.) But the mourning period over the rise of the orange colored false prophet is not going to be the end of us — or all things wonderful. Against this backdrop of indignation and disappointment in my fellow Americans, we need to get back to our regularly scheduled lives. We already know the road ahead is uncertain, which should motivate us to fight for what’s right in the eyes of civility and truth. However, I still walk that other path of uncertainty, the one that leads us to a companion worthy of calling a spouse. Nobody wants to go through life’s battles alone, which is why pairing up seems  more important to me more than ever.

I know we are supposed to love ourselves and be our own real source of strength, that we have friends and family to help us through all that dares to be an obstacle in life. Granted, my “self-avowed and don’t judge me, damn you” 1950s Stepford Wife mentality has rendered me an anomaly in an era that values the open relationship or the FWB (friends with benefits). I do think this remixed trope of the Hook-up is King is really just another vain ploy utilized by men to still be intimate as a means to protect themselves from falling into abyss of loneliness. Yet our over-dependence on technology has made room for something as dangerous as HIV and STDs. Depression and suicides amongst men are on the rise. People are falling into the abyss of loneliness in greater numbers and they are not reaching out for help because they only see futility. Worse, digital media seems to find new ways to make many of us feel more insecure with their deluge of click-bait stories masquerading as truth. We’ve been here before, though. It was a watershed moment, too. Perhaps some of you remember THIS legendary cover story:

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“They have a minuscule 2.6 percent probability of tying the knot.”

In 1986, an  infamous — initially unpublished — study was the topic of a major Newsweek cover story, one that declared that women had a better chance of being killed in a terrorist attack than getting married after 40. The concussive effect was instantaneous. More, its effects went beyond printed and broadcast media, rippling into films like “Sleeping in Seattle” and television series like “Designing Women.” Despite being widely debunked by demographers and sociologists, as well as other media sources, it still took 20 years for Newsweek to retract the piece. But the damage had been done. Women read it and felt first. Now, in this liberated age of gay marriage, it is safe to say that some gay men of a certain age feel its veracity, too.

The concept of marriage is going through yet another cycle evolution. After decades of divorce, endless trophy unions and an inability by many to even commit to a single idea, marriage seems like a dirty word to many. That’s not to say you won’t find as many people “for” marriage as there are against it. In my conversations with gentlemen over the last few years about marriage, imagine my surprise after this long haul fight to gain marriage equality, quite a few more think it wasn’t worth it.

I know this is probably a serious generalization, but it is amazing to see how the word “marriage” still sends men to run for the hills, gay or straight. How’s that for marriage equality! Mind you, I didn’t date much in 20 or 30s as I was more committed to a successful career. But once I realized that I enjoyed being someone’s partner, the idea of getting married took on a corporeal shape. My last major relationship ended six years ago. I was 43.  I’m turning 50 in eight months and I am scared that my chance to tie the knot may be an impossible task or even an illegal one again in this country.

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Some of us golden gents have consumed that magazine-speak that 50 is the new 40. Nah, 50 is 50. And no amount of Sally O’Malley kicking and stretching is going to change that fact. What it is becoming a challenge is not living like a “spinster.” I love the irony of that term. I spin messages for a living as a producer/interviewer. I can’t spin the reality that LA dating is getting worse by the year. As we rely more and more on digital apps to meet and greet men, the quality of eligible bachelors is diminishing exponentially.

Now, I’ve written about this before and it seems awfully masochistic and selfish to harp on this further. So, I don’t have someone to cuddle up with at night on the regular? Big deal. You have every right to say: You’re not alone. You won’t be one of the many who become lost and then decide to erase themselves from their own narratives. So what the fuck am I getting at?

I don’t know.

I’ve stumbled around this week through a blizzard of emotion. Blind, cold and desperate to feel some sort of warmth. Once the dust settled, my eye went to this idea of being a party of one first. It seems so small a theme in the wake of the growing storm of change heading our way. I guess what continues to reverberate in my mind and heart is for someone to take my hand and tell me it is going to be alright…and believe it. I will think locally and globally, keeping my eye on the bigger fight ahead. But allow me this one digression.

Yeah, Charlotte York. I’m exhausted, too. But man, for just a moment, let’s just revel in the fairy tale of being saved by a handsome knight for one moment longer.

 

Knowing when to leave…

Knowing when to leave…

 

“All these memories, too much to lose

No one ever leaves you

I don’t need faith, I don’t need truth

No one ever leaves you…”

At times, I feel like my romantic past is some Spotify playlist I wish I could delete. Bad enough the good, the bad and the ugly of it all gets drudged up with the appropriate cues. Like the Lianne La Havas track, “Good Goodbye,” which I quoted above. It made a train ride last December to see my best college friend a wee bit melancholy, as if the encroaching grey skies weren’t enough proof of my fluctuating emotional state.

Getting over Him has been a less than a good goodbye. Actually, it’s been the longest. hitting its sixth anniversary and threatening to be held over for a seventh. And then I saw that Facebook photo around the time of that train ride south.

Social media is just a Pandora’s Box, really. It’s where memories, the wonderful and painful, fly about with ninja-like precision, triggered to pounce without warning. Hell, NASA should take interest. There they were. Looking so happy, their megawatt grins illuminating what I’ve tried and repeatedly fail to suppress: I’m single. He’s so moved on and I haven’t. That post-holiday tableau, where the Ex (and the Current) were surrounded by three adorable cher enfants, X’s nephews, did catch me off guard. Fuckin’ Facebook ninjas. And without hesitation, they sliced through an already compromised heart.

Every holiday season, I find it too easy to get into this fragile state. I joke that the only thing holding my heart together during Christmas is chewing gum and a prayer. God, it drives me crazy. The rational part of me knows that I’m idealizing the past; that it’s not so much about Him as it is missing being consciously coupled. Instead, I let these moments, like seeing this picture, dictate how this once happy and important part of my past looks so much happier without me.

Sensory elements surrounded that train ride down memory lane, from the music I was listening to the smell of warmed up leftover Chinese food and the cheap scents of fragrance gift sets worn by the passengers. Yet it was all overwhelmed by the stench of morose, self-pity. All I thought then was how it couldn’t it have been me in that pic? Just like the one where we went with his sister and brother in-law on a weekend trip to Napa. It was before that couple grew into a family of five. I was part of their narrative, not the short story titled “The Crazy Ex-Boyfriend Who Refused to Be Satisfied.”

It wasn’t such a short story. It was a five-year chronicle. But I wasn’t satisfied. I’m never satisfied. Something is always lacking. Someone is always disappointing me. It’s never enough. It has to be better. He has to be better.

Tomorrow has always been a big word for me. It’s the catch-all to validate all of my bad behaviors; the extended mixes of all my bad tracks. It’s an archive filled with mantras of wellness and awareness. Tomorrow always arrives, yet I still choose to take another plunge into the deep end of stagnation. In reality, being an Adele song works better for Adele. At least she gets paid for her pain. But, dammit, right on cue, I am thinking, “It’s true. Never mind, I’ll find someone like you.”

Someone like “Him.”

 

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In an era where we are able to register an instant “like” for every post we see, why is it that we can’t seem to hit that button for ourselves? All these years of wanting to court a positive state of perception, of being liked, have yet to wane thanks to social media sites. It’s this perfect storm of shit for people like me. Inflating insecurities as you seek the adoring adulation of your “followers.” And through it all, we obfuscate our self-worth. It’s relentless and dangerous. Yet, what’s the solution? Hide your profiles? Take the news feed of your life into real time by being with the people who don’t enable this precarious state of existence?

It helps to put this down on paper. It helps to see what lurks in my brain on this page. I go back and re-read, changing things every so slightly. Yes, sometimes it does last in love and sometimes it hurts. That happens to all of us. Still, I can’t help but scream to myself, “Where is that someone like You?!”

What will You/he think of all this heavy emoting? You’re/He’s gonna notice a pattern of sameness here. If You’re/he’s not going to be the final chapter, will he instead become another entry in this log of self-reproach?

If I could tell Him anything today it would be to say, “I wish I didn’t lose You somewhere between love and death. And I’m sorry I threw you away, because I did do just that. Sucks. I did like You. I loved You, in fact.”

You’d think after holding this fucking torch so long, I’d have better strength to hold it all together when it comes to Him.

“You’d say this is all there is

And every time you’d blink

You’d miss another piece of this wondrous world

All I’d ask is why you’d leave so soon

Everybody seems to

I don’t need faith I just want you

No one ever leaves you…”

No, I just do the leaving. That’s my jam.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday night. 

Sunday night. 

“Where are the windows? Where are the doors?

I haven’t the key to your heart anymore.

No one belongs where they’re not wanted.

You’re just a ghost.

And my heart is haunted…”

This is another Sunday night.

Quote: Mary Chapin Carpenter.

 

“Going to the river and pray…” — #ghost

“Going to the river and pray…” — #ghost

Boy you never told me
True love was going to hurt
True pain I don’t deserve
Truth is that I never learn

I keep going to the river to pray
‘Cause I need something that can wash all the pain
And at most I’m sleeping all these demons away
But your ghost, the ghost of you
It keeps me awake

Give up the ghost…

 

Is it because we don’t know any better that we allow the past to define us? We can either choose to live in the present and contemplate a better future. Or, we can remain shackled to the ghosts that we have allowed to haunt us.

We are doomed to live in a haunted house of our own making until we gather the courage to bury the rage and fear — and let in the light.

I wonder if there are ghostbusters of the soul….

 

 

 

 

“The Tale of My City” — #istand

“The Tale of My City” — #istand

“You’re not going to lose him this time. He’s a part of you forever,” said Mrs. Madrigal to a heartbroken Michael Tolliver in Armistead Maupin’s “Babycakes.”

How I loved the Tales of the City books. In some way, Maupin’s chronicle of 1970s to late 80s San Francisco and the denizens of Barbary Lane felt like a primer to the gay life I was trying to nurture in the 1990s. I identified at first with Mary Ann Singleton, that ambitious career gal from Cleveland who was so intent on reinventing herself. It made sense to me, a 20-something from Pico Rivera making inroads as a publicist and future MediaJor. But now I see myself as early Michael Tolliver, the one who wanted love so hard it hurt. Yet, he always got right back out into the dating fray. After all, tomorrow was another day! But so much was to change.

In the years since the start of the AIDS wars, HIV is no longer an immediate death sentence and being gay is no longer just a poignant coming out story told once a year. Gay is part of our national dialogue, a new frontier of the civil rights movement. Marriage and parenting stand right and center with acceptance and tolerance. We see progress, backlash and an uncertain future as gay will not live behind a stone wall anymore. It’s an extraordinary time for many of us. Yet, I fear we are no closer to finding happiness within ourselves. I think we punish ourselves in so many ways. I sometimes think we are our own worst enemy, taking on so many negative isms, particularly in how we look, who we fuck, who we love.

Sigh.

It doesn’t matter. Because I can’t stay in this place anymore. Like Michael Tolliver, I fumbled some nice attempts at being in a nurturing and caring relationship. Mouse, as he is referred to by his best pals in the books, never stayed down for long. Well, once, after his cherished Jon Fielding is claimed in the early part of the AIDS crisis. But Mouse finds his direction again and learns to not let the scars of the past paralyze him. I admire his strength so much.  And I admire the power of Maupin’s own romantically charged realism. What I have forgotten was one of the essential lessons of his books: Being gay doesn’t mean being a victim.

For too many months now, I’ve been allowing myself to exhibit the worst of victim mentality. I gave up so fast once I got back from Spain. I’ve returned to wallowing in that same swamp of depression, building a new fortress around myself again. The weight of this misdirected emotion is starting to drag me under all over again. The heaviness of this mindset is like wearing concrete shoes. It’s the Eeyore Syndrome all over.

At some point, we have to acknowledge the sensation of hitting the bottom of the abyss. It is an all too familiar place for me. I’ve made this trip before, man. So many times now, I can use my miles and still have enough left over to return a few more times. With upgrades, too.

My heart can’t take much more of this. My brain is constantly screaming at me to man up, that it is time to simply not give a fuck. John advised me that since he turned 50, he wakes up each morning making a list of things he simply won’t give a fuck about that day.

Well, John. That day has arrived. My list is my own, of course. However, I offer these lyrics to one of my favorite tracks recorded by Idina Menzel, which speak so much about the frame of mind I am in right now.

My ex Tucker and I always debated about what mattered most about a song. He said the music revealed more than the words. I countered that the music’s emotionality didn’t exist without the lyrics to guide the way. We were the embodiment of that debate. He saved his best self for his music and I continue to write down what I feel needs to be said at the peak of emotion. I often wonder what we would have sounded like if we dared to collaborate on a song. If we ever did let that happen, I would hope that it would sound like “I Stand.”

Because, after all these years of carrying around this guilt and disappointment, I can’t believe I haven’t allowed myself the freedom to believe that I can stand on my own two feet. So much has been lost this year, reminding me of how fleeting life can be. We will be up. We will be down. But we are never out.

I know he won’t save me. I have to save me. And no, moving on doesn’t mean I’ve “lost” him. He’s always going to be a part of me.

Whoever comes my way next, like Menzel and Ballard write, I, too, will live for that perfect day. And I am going to keep loving until it hurts like crazy. I have to recognize that the past is just that, the past. The present is not so bad. The future? Well, ask me tomorrow.

But I know I will be standing.

Tuesday, November 11. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor in South Pasadena, CA.


“I Stand” by Idina Menzel & Glen Ballard

“When you asked me, who I am
What is my vision? Do I have a plan?
Where is my strength? Have I nothing to say?
I hear the words in my head but I push them away

As I stand for the power to change
I live for the perfect day
I love till it hurts like crazy
I hope for a hero to save me

I stand for the strange and lonely
I believe theres a better place
I dont know if the sky is heaven
But I pray anyway

And I don’t know what tomorrow brings
A road less traveled, will it set us free?
‘Cause we’re taking it slow, these tiny legacies
I dont try and change the world
But what will you make of me?

As I stand for the power to change
I live for the perfect day
I love till it hurts like crazy
I hope for a hero to save me

I stand for the strange and lonely
I believe there’s a better place
I dont know if the sky is heaven
But I pray anyway

With the slightest of breezes
We fall just like leaves
As the rain washes us from the ground

We forget who we are
We can’t see in the dark
And we quickly get lost in the crowd, oh, oh

I stand for the power to change
I live for the perfect day
I love till it hurts like crazy
I hope for a hero to save me

I stand for the power to change
I live for the perfect day
I love till it hurts like crazy
I hope for a hero to save me

I stand for the strange and lonely
I believe there’s a better place
I don’t know if the sky is heaven
But I pray anyway, oh

I stand for the power to change
I live for the perfect day
I love till it hurts like crazy
I hope for a hero to save me

I stand for the strange and lonely
I believe there’s a better place
I don’t know if the sky is heaven
But I pray anyway.”

How You (Don’t) Get the Boy — #themanthatgotaway

How You (Don’t) Get the Boy — #themanthatgotaway

Man, I hate when the end of the year starts manifesting itself. The holidays always seem to trigger a certain sense of loss in my heart. It’s a nagging sensation, on par with your Mom berating you for not cleaning your room before company is about to visit. But, in this case, it is just me still grappling with  “The One Who Got Away,” even though that event happened more than four years ago.

Right about now, my own group of friends is rolling its collective eyes over this admission, followed by this utterance: “Ayyyyyyy! Get over it already!”

Yeah, I know.

But my own Charlotte York mentality is at play here. I do believe you only get one real love. The rest are variations of that indelible experience. Some men are better, some are worse. Then, you click with someone enough to recognize your heart is still in working order. Still, I don’t think you ever forget the first moment you realize the person sleeping next to you makes you feel like the luckiest guy on Earth. And for a good part of four years, he did make me feel that way.

I’ve moved away from the Judy Garland-scored sense of loss that I’ve fostered with great care these last few years. Although, just to hear the first few bars of “The Man That Got Away” does encourage me to reach for a mental martini. The reasons for our break up have evolved over time. I see it today with a much calmer perspective than during the first year after I walked out his door. While I’ve been able to process it without the melodrama reserved for a cliffhanger episode of a Shonda Rhimes show, it may forever resonate strongly in my own life’s narrative.

I’ve gone into therapy over him. I’ve thought of how I will feel when I discover he has since married the gent that followed me. Sometimes, I am bothered over how we really don’t share much of a friendship. Sometimes, I smile over the good fortune of having him enter my life when he did. Sometimes, I wish I never met him at all.

These are the moments where I turn into a teenage girl, writing my heartbreak into a diary. I wonder if I ever reboot my own heart, does this mean all that data will disappear? At times, that feels like losing him again and it scares the shit out of me. Then, I remind myself that he moved on so completely, I’m a fool for still wanting to hold on to this info at all.

I’ve met quite a few gents since him, two even became boyfriends. Neither stayed. The self-sabotage I implemented made sure of that. I wanted to have the ability to think, “See? If they’re not him, they don’t stand a chance.” I have opted to stay out of the dating fray for longer periods. But, if there is one constant in this world, I can always count on a specific track from a Taylor Swift album to make me feel “this thing” all over again. And the recent release of her monster smash “1989” did not disappoint.

Taylor is certainly peppier than Judy, although I wonder how many other gay men out there are starting to recognize just how we can channel our own pathos through Swift’s music. With “Red” it was the title track that moved to me feel the many shades of emotion connected with losing him in the first place. With “1989” it’s “How You Get the Girl.”

Damn you, Taylor!

The simplicity of this track is insidious, a sentiment so unadorned and straightforward, you are conquered before the first chorus.

I have scripted so many reunion moments in my head. It’s either his choice or mine, a dramatic moment like his wedding or some random party. I’ve envisioned hospital scenes for both of us. I’ve worked out what would happen if he opted to stay with the other guy, complete with telenovela variations where I catch them in our bed. But mostly, I think about finally getting the boy, that love of my life, in the classic sense. It’s when I channel Nora Ephron, George Cukor and Woody Allen. And, these scenes are best underscored by that perfect Swiftian touch, that unabashed blast of earnestness that makes me surrender my rational self.

I’m not ashamed for any of this, but I recognize its limitations. Loss is something we all must learn to process and understand. It’s probably a good thing La Swift pulled her music from Spotify. Maybe now I’ll stand a fighting chance.

Nah.

But, as I was schooled one afternoon by a friend: ‘You’ll never get what you truly deserve…if you remain attached to what you’re supposed to let go of in this life.”

Taylor, if you’re reading, how’s that for a lyric?

Tuesday, November 5. Written and posted from Wayne Avenue Manor.

“How You Get the Girl” by Taylor Swift

Stand there like a ghost
Shaking from the rain, rain
She’ll open up the door
And say, are you insane?
Say it’s been a long six months
And you were too afraid to tell her what you want
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl
And then you say

I want you for worse or for better
I would wait for ever and ever
Broke your heart, I’ll put it back together
I would wait for ever and ever

And that’s how it works
That’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
That’s how you get the girl, girl

Remind her how it used to be, be
Yeah, yeah
With pictures in frames, of kisses on cheeks,
Tell her how you must’ve lost your mind
When you left her all alone
And never told her why
And that’s how it works
That’s how you lost the girl
And now you say

I want you for worse or for better
I would wait for ever and ever
Broke your heart, I’ll put it back together
I would wait for ever and ever

And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl
Yeah yeah

And you-ou kno-ow
That I don’t want you to go
Remind me how it used to be
Pictures in frames of kisses on cheeks
And say you want me, yeah, yeah

And then you say
I want you for worse or for better
I would wait for ever and ever
Broke your heart, I’ll put it back together
I would wait for ever and ever

And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl, oh
And that’s how it works
It’s how you get the girl, girl

And that’s how it works
That’s how you got the girl

Here’s Taylor Swift talking about the inspiration behind the track, one of many stand out moments of her new album, “1989.”

http://youtu.be/jFT1tdGmuqA